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miruac · 4 months ago

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meeting mama miya

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synopsis: osamu brings you to hyogo to meet mama miya

warnings: not proofread, fem reader imagined, self indulgent, i may as well use myself instead of y/n

a/n: that woman cooks good. GOOD i tell you. also i feel like she'd be the sweetest little lady ever. also why do we all agree the twins were raised by a single mom i fw it heavy #women #iluvumamamiya. mama miya sounds like mamma mia. listen to mamma mia by abba if u want. also making samus accent heavy bc i LOVE his yeehaw ass

"you sure your mom's gonna like me?"

"yeah. i can tell. ma always speaks 'er mind if she doesn't."

...how did we get here?

;;

it was alast friday evening, and you and osamu were winding down on the couch. his head was in your lap and you were mindlessly playing with his hair, your fingers tressing through his short dark brown strands. the t.v was playing some sort of sitcom, slowly becoming background noise as you two relished in each other's presence.

"ma's asking me to visit."

osamu said, staring at the t.v.

"you gonna go?"

you replied, voice piquing with curiosity. he rolled over in your lap, facing you. he hummed as he nuzzled his face into your stomach.

" 'wanna bring ya along. it's about time ya met 'er, right?"

;;

you sat in the passenger seat of your shared van with osamu, mentally preparing yourself to meet his mother. in the 3 years you've been dating osamu, you've never met his mother properly. it was always indirect, like her calling osamu and pestering him about when he'll come home with his pretty little girlfriend. he always shrugged it off, saying something along the lines of 'too busy right now ma, i'll come by sum' time soon.'

soon became right now. you inhaled a breath, mentally preparing yourself. what if she didn't like you? what if she didn't approve of you and is just faking it? what if she's an overbearing mother? what if-

"sweet-cheeks?"

osamu said, reaching over the console to cup your cheek. you turned your head to him, eyes wide.

"...yeah?"

"ya ready?"

you slowly shook your head, letting out a shaky breath.

"is that a rhetorical question?"

you mumbled, fiddling with the gift box of fruits you held. osamu frowned, getting out of the car. he scurried over to your side, opening the door. he peeked his head in, resting his forehead against yours.

"there's no way she won't like ya. pinkie swear."

he stuck out his fist, pinky outstretched. you slowly linked your pinky with his, shuffling out of the car. he gave you a quick peck on your temple, locking and closing the car door behind him. you nibbled your lip out of anxiety, eyes darting all over the place. the house was a narrow 2-story house, nothing too special. there was a little doormat at the door, which was pink and had little flowers littered on it. the two of you walked to the door, osamu's hand on your waist while his other hand took the fruit box from you. before knocking on the door he gave you one last peck on the cheek.

"just a heads up, ma is...affectionate. take a breath, 'kay? I've got'cha back."

he muttered into your ear, eyebrows tilted down in worry. he looked over you before giving you one of his boyish smirks.

"yer so pretty. okay. ready?"

"just do it already."

he shrugged, pressing the doorbell. after a couple seconds, the intercom lit up.

"hello?"

"hi, ma."

"....OSAMU-KUN!"

you heard a raspy female voice, her kansai accent being a bit lighter. after a minute, the door swung open revealing a 5'4 woman, who seemed like she was barely 40. she scurried outside in her slippers, wrapping her arms around osamu. she squeezed him so hard you could see your boyfriends face wince. she grabbed his cheeks, pulling him down to her eye-level. she scanned his face, before placing a slobbery kiss on his cheek. he cringed before pecking her cheek back.

"finally, yer home! i made shabu-shabu and oden, come in!"

she looked behind him, her eyes lighting up as she saw you.

"ma-be gentle with her-"

"oh, shaddup. go inside and wash up, will ya?"

she turned back to her son, clicking her toungue as she playfully slapped his back while he entered the house. she stepped towards you, arms outstretched for a hug.

"you must be the girl who samu's been yappin' about! it's so nice to finally meet you. i hope you like oden and shabu-shabu..."

she squeezed you in her arms, her hand coming up to gently hold your cheek. she moved so fast, you didn't know how to react. you slightly bowed your head, offering her a kind smile.

"thank you for having me over, miya-san."

she smiled, patting your cheek.

"i should be thankin' you for treating my boy so well."

she leaned in closer.

"he's a little shit, but not as bad as tsumu. one time, i found atsumu playin' with my makeup when they were 5 and-"

"ma, leave 'er alone!"

this was going to be a fun night.

;;

"miya-san, thank you for having us over. dinner was lovely, may i help you do the dishes?"

you asked. mama miya cooked up a whole feast, consisting of warm, soupy brothy foods which was perfect considering the harsh, cold weather outside. over dinner, she had chatted about the hardships of raising twins, jokingly slandering osamu. so far, she had been nothing but nice to you. osamu didn't even bare the courage to argue back with his mother, as he sulked over his bowl of meat and veggies.

"nah, don't worry 'bout it! now that osamu's home, he can do the dishes for us! let the girls catch a break, hm?"

"ma, what-"

her head snapped to him, as she glared at him. he slowly turned back to his bowl, finishing the rest of his food.

"y/n, care to join me on the couch?"

she patted her mouth with her napkin, smiling at you. you nodded, smiling back.

"of course, miya-san."

you followed her to the couch, sitting down next to her. she maintained a warm smile on her face, as she brought over two cups of tea. osamu was tidying up the table, an unreadable expression on his face. you shuffled around, trying to get comfy to escape the heavy atmosphere.

"y/n."

mama miya started.

"has osamu ever been a pain in yer' ass?"

you blinked, slightly taken aback by her sudden profanity. you nibbled at the inside of your cheek, trying to remember.

"....no ma'am. we've had arguments over very little things, but we always resolve them."

she nodded, resting her head on her hand.

"is he treatin' ya right? nothin i gotta be too worried about?"

she questioned, brow cocking. you shook your head, smiling fondly.

"no. he treats me very well, it's actually really sweet of him."

she nodded again, taking a sip of her tea.

"listen, y/n. you seem like a sweet kid. hell, sweet enough to tolerate my pain in the ass son. i just worry for him sometimes. he was always compared to atsumu as a kid, and sometimes i wonder if it messed with him."

she hummed, glancing into the kitchen. osamu was scrubbing away at the dishes. her lips curled into a fond smile as she watched his every move.

"watch over 'im, yeah?"

"watch over who?"

your conversation with mama miya was interrupted by osamu placing a plate of sliced fruit on the coffee table. he sat between you two, squeezing her hand and yours.

"i'm humiliatin' ya."

"ma..."

;;

"that wasn't so bad."

you were now back home with osamu, staring at your ceiling as you lay in your shared bed. osamu slumped down next to you, hair still damp from the shower.

"told ya she likes ya."

you rolled over, facing your boyfriend. maybe it was the night taking over, but he had never looked this good. his eyes were sleepy, his hair was tousled messily, and he was shirtless. all his muscle had gained a slight layer of fat, which made him even softer and more delectable. you scooted closer, pulling him in for a kiss.

when you pulled away, his eyes sparkled with affection.and his cheeks were slightly flushed. his mouth curled into a loving smile.

"i love ya."

"love you too. samu."

-------------------------------------------------

i hate this the end was so rushed

#osamu miya #miruac #haikyuu #miya osamu #osamu x reader #miya osamu x reader #osamu miya x reader #inarizaki

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iwaszumi · 18 days ago

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TIDES ׂׂૢ་༘࿐

cw: fem reader, hate fucking, toxic relationship, lots of dirty talk, pussy slapping, spit, biting/marking, multiple creampies.

It’s been 8 months since the breakup, and yet the second you lay eyes on him again, you forget why it even happened.

He’s standing at the edge of the room, back to you, drink in hand — like the universe is testing your self-control one last time.

Miya Atsumu.

The reason you can’t date. Can’t sleep. Can’t breathe right.

You should walk away. You should pretend you didn’t see him. But no, your body moves on its own — just like it always fucking does with him.

When he turns around, the glass pauses at his lips. His eyes narrow just a little, and then he smirks.

“Didn’t think ya’d show up.” His voice hasn’t changed — still thick with Kansai drawl, still smooth like sin.

“Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come back here,” you shoot back.

He laughs, deep and guttural. “Missed me that bad, huh?”

You scoff, arms crossed, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Only missed how quiet life got without your ego in the way.”

He steps closer, slow. Deliberate. The kind of stride that says I remember exactly how to fuck you stupid. His scent hits you — cologne and a memory you never managed to erase.

“You lie like you don’t still dream about me.”

You’re about to fire something back, but he closes the space between you in one breath.

“I ain’t here to play games,” he murmurs, voice low in your ear. “You feel it too, don’t ya? This heat. This fuckin’ ache.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I still taste you in my fuckin’ dreams,” he growls. “Still wake up hard and pissed off ‘cause it ain’t real. You know what that does to a man?”

You do. Because you’ve been living the same hell.

And when his fingers graze your wrist, you don’t stop him. You never did.

“You wanna pretend we’re done? Fine. Lie to yourself all night. But you came here wantin’ somethin’. Just like I did.”

You look up at him. That same gold gaze. That same stupid cocky smirk. You want to slap him and fuck him at the same time.

So you say the only thing you can:

“Prove it.”

He doesn’t wait for a second invitation.

Atsumu grabs your wrist, hard enough to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with, and tugs you out of the crowded room like he owns you. Maybe he always did.

Neither of you say a word. No need. The silence crackles.

Down the street to his car. Speeding in a heated silence to his hotel room. The door slamming shut as soon as you enter. Back hitting the wall. And then his mouth is on you.

Hot. Bruising. Angry.

His hands find your waist, then your jaw, then your thigh, everywhere, like he can’t decide what to touch first. Like he’s starving. Like he’s mad you’re still the best thing he’s ever had.

“You really went there wearin’ this?” he pants between kisses, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, hands grabbing at the dress that fit you just a little bit too snug. “Just beggin’ me to ruin it, huh?”

You claw at his shirt, yank it up and over his head — that stupid perfect torso still as unfair as you remember. You rake your nails down his chest hard enough to leave lines, and he groans like it’s the only language he understands.

“Shut up and fuck me.”

That does it.

He grabs you by the thighs, lifts you like it’s nothing, and drops you onto the bed with zero finesse. The air punches out of your lungs — and he’s on you before you recover.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t touched yourself thinkin’ about this,” he growls, dragging your clothes off piece by piece, rough hands everywhere. “Bet you came with my name on your fuckin’ lips.”

You glare up at him, breathless, wrecked already. “I hate you.”

He presses his forehead to yours, cock twitching against your thigh, eyes dark and wild.

“Yeah? Hate me this much?” He shoves two fingers between your legs without warning — you gasp. Already soaked. He chuckles darkly. “Thought so.”

He spreads you open, and the look on his face? Possessive. Rabid. Worship and war all wrapped in one.

Then he spits — right on your heat— and rubs it in slow, smug as hell. “Gonna take you raw. Stretch you out all over again. Remind you what you fuckin’ gave up.”

You moan, hating how good it feels. Hating him.

“I should’ve never let you go,” he mutters, lining himself up, cock heavy and hard and leaking against your entrance. “But you’re mine tonight. Ain’t no one else makin’ you scream like I do.”

Then he thrusts in — deep — and your back arches off the bed. You claw at his shoulders, nails sinking in. “F-fuck—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “Take it, baby. Fuckin’ take it. You wanted this.”

His name falls from your lips like prayer and poison. He fucks you like he’s trying to wipe out every other man’s existence. Like you still belong to him.

And maybe you do.

“Look at you,” Atsumu hisses, voice wrecked with obsession. “Drippin’ all over me, takin’ this cock like you fuckin’ missed it.”

He’s buried deep — hips slamming into yours, rhythm brutal, unforgiving. You’re soaked, thighs shaking, hands clawing at his back like you’re trying to keep yourself tethered to something real.

And he’s losing it. Sweat dripping down his temple, mouth half-open, chest heaving.

“This pussy’s fuckin’ mine, baby. Still remembers me, don’t it?”

“Y-you think I forgot?” you gasp, head tipping back when he grinds into you just right, making you see stars. “You think I wanted anyone else after you?!”

He laughs — dark, sharp, breathless. “You didn’t want me. You just hated that I ruined you for anyone else.”

Then he grabs your face, fingers squeezing your cheeks, forcing you to look at him.

“Say it. Say who fuckin’ owns you.”

You glare through tears, trembling on the edge. “F-fuck you.”

His hips snap — deep, mean thrusts that make your walls clamp down on him, harder, tighter — and you can’t help it. You break.

“You! Fuck, it’s you, Atsumu!”

“That’s right,” he growls, crashing his mouth to yours. “You’re mine. Always fuckin’ were.”

He keeps going, grinding you into the mattress until your body starts locking up, until your orgasm rips through you like wildfire — moaning his name like you swore you never would again.

And he follows — slamming in one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, groaning like it’s the only relief he’s ever known.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you,” he pants, still grinding into your overstimulated pussy. “Mark you so deep you’ll feel me for days.”

You’re twitching, still sensitive, still spread wide and full of him — and you should push him off, but he’s not done.

Not even close.

He pulls out slow, watching your cum-slick hole clench around nothing.

Then he slaps it.

Hard.

You yelp, thighs jumping, and he shoves two fingers right back in — pushing his cum deeper with a lazy grin.

“Don’t waste a drop,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “Still got more for you.”

Before you can even breathe, he’s flipped you over, dragging your hips up with no patience. You’re boneless, panting, already wrecked — but he lines up again, cock thick and twitching.

“Atsumu—”

He slams back in.

No warning. No mercy. Just raw fucking need.

“Gonna fuck you through every emotion I’ve ever had,” he hisses. “All the love, all the fuckin’ rage—every bit of it, deep inside you.”

This round’s dirtier. Angrier. He’s moaning now, whispering filth between curses and gritted teeth.

“You think that boy you flirted with at the bar could ever fuck you like this?”

“Bet you thought I’d beg for you back. Nah, sweetheart — I’m just here to ruin you.”

“Feels too good to let go. Gonna keep you like this all fuckin’ night.”

You’re a mess. Screaming into the sheets. Drooling, crying, gasping his name like a plea and a threat.

And when he cums again — still inside, still raw — he pulls your hips back into him, deep and slow, letting every drop leak into you again.

“Still mine,” he mutters, breath ragged. “And you fuckin’ love it.”

Your legs are weak. Your body’s trembling. But after he fills you up for what feels like the nth time that night, Atsumu slumps back on the mattress with that cocky, fucked-out look on his face, something in you snaps.

You crawl up his chest slowly, deliberately. He’s still inside you — half-hard, flushed, twitching. You plant your hands on his chest, nails digging in, and grind down.

His whole body jolts.

“The fuck—?” he gasps, voice cracking.

“Shut up.” Your voice is dark, raspy, drenched in vengeance. “You think you get to ruin me again and walk away smirking?”

He tries to grab your hips, but you slap his hands away. “No. Hands off. You sit there and take it.”

And he does — because one look at your face, sweaty and smeared with tears and lust and war, and he knows he’s in deep.

You roll your hips again, slow and filthy, using him like a toy. He groans, cock hardening again under your heat, stretching you wide all over.

“Look at you,” you whisper, grinding faster, thighs clenching. “So full of yourself — but you always came back to this, didn’t you? Always needed me.”

He’s panting now, hands fisting the sheets, trying not to buck up and ruin your rhythm.

“Baby,” he moans, desperate, wrecked. “You’re so fuckin’ tight—shit—please—”

“Oh, now you’re begging?”

You lean forward, teeth at his throat, breath hot on his skin.

“You liked marking me up?” you growl. “Your turn.”

You bite his collarbone — hard — enough to bruise, enough to make him hiss through his teeth. Then you do it again. And again. Bite after bite, leaving hickeys as well. Claiming him like territory.

“Gonna walk out of here with scratches down your back and my scent all over your dick.”

He chokes on a laugh and a moan, hands twitching, whole body trembling under you.

“F-fuck—gonna cum—can’t hold it—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you growl. “You cum when I say so.”

You pick up the pace — bouncing now, ass slapping against his thighs, wet sounds obscene in the room. He’s babbling, moaning, desperate.

You reach down and rub your clit with quick, tight circles, the pressure building like lightning. Eyes locked on his. Dominance burning in your stare.

“Look at me,” you pant. “I’m gonna cum on your cock and you’re gonna thank me.”

And when you do — legs locking, head thrown back, pussy squeezing the life out of him — he cums right after, swearing and groaning and filling you up again.

This time, it’s you that doesn’t stop.

You grind through it, letting him feel every wave of your orgasm as his overstimulated cock twitches inside you.

“Still think you’re the one who wins?” you whisper, collapsing forward, lips brushing his.

He’s breathless, broken, sweat-slick and shaking.

“You’re a fuckin’ menace,” he groans, smiling like he loves it.

“You’re damn right I am.”

You haven’t even climbed off him when his hands snap back to your waist — bruising grip, lust in overdrive — and he flips you over again like he’s got something to prove.

“Think you can take control, ride me like that, and not pay the fuckin’ price?” he growls, voice gravel now. “Cute.”

He doesn’t give you a second to breathe. Doesn’t care if you’re still trembling. His cock’s already hard again, still coated in both your cum, and he slams back into you from behind with a snarl.

You cry out, arching, legs barely holding you up — but fuck if it doesn’t drive you wild all over again.

“You act like you don’t want this,” he hisses into your neck, biting down hard enough to bruise. “But your body’s beggin’ me to break it.”

“You think I’m impressed?” you spit, even as your hips rock back into his. “You’re pathetic. Always have been.”

He laughs. Low. Mean. The sound of a man who’s two seconds from tearing you apart.

“Yeah? Keep sayin’ that while I fuck the attitude outta you.”

His pace turns brutal — hands locked on your throat and your hip, fucking you like he wants to leave you ruined, shaking, and remembering.

Every thrust punches a moan out of you. Every slap of his hips echoes with spite and need.

“You gonna let someone else put a baby in you someday?” he growls suddenly, biting your shoulder. “Gonna let some soft little loser claim what’s mine?”

You clench around him. Hate it. Love it.

“No one ever had me,” you pant. “I just let you pretend.”

That sets him off.

He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, and leans in until his mouth is at your ear, voice shaking from restraint.

“Don’t care what you say. I already fucking did.”

Then he drags you up onto your knees, pulls you flush to his chest, and starts fucking up into you, both of you in a sweaty, furious mess of tangled limbs and unspoken addiction.

“Fuckin’ say my name,” he growls, one hand between your legs again, rubbing your clit like he’s punishing you.

“N-no—!”

“Say it. Or I stop.”

You break. Again.

“Atsumu—fuck—please—!”

“That’s it,” he pants, fucking you through it. “That’s all I wanted. Just your fuckin’ voice when I wreck you.”

You cum hard, twitching around him, barely able to think.

He cums inside you for the fourth time — loud, gasping, swearing — and slumps against your back, forehead to your shoulder, cock still twitching inside you.

Both of you are covered in sweat. Bite marks. Bruises. Spit. Sex.

And you still don’t let go of the anger.

Not yet.

You’re both sprawled on the bed, wrecked in every sense — sweaty, trembling, breathless.

The room smells like sex and sweat and something bitter beneath it. His cum is still dripping out of you, slicking the inside of your thighs, but neither of you moves to clean up.

Your back’s to him. You can hear him breathing heavy, his chest still heaving against your spine.

Then—

He calls your name. His voice is different. Raw. Quiet. No venom left.

You don’t answer. Just lie there, staring at the wall, eyes blurry.

He curls around you from behind. Arms slow. Hesitant.

You want to pull away. You don’t.

“I didn’t mean to fuck it up so bad,” he whispers. His breath ghosts over your shoulder. “I know I did. I just—fuck, I still dream about you.”

You shut your eyes. “Stop.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t,” you say, voice shaking. “You mean it right now, because your dick’s still wet and your head’s fucked. But tomorrow, you’ll go right back to forgetting me.”

He flinches. Silence.

“I tried to forget you.”

You twist to look at him — eyes red, lips swollen, mascara smeared. He looks just as ruined. Just as lost.

“You think I didn’t?” you snap, voice cracking. “You think I wanted to keep wanting you?”

He swallows. His hand finds your waist, then slides to your cheek.

“You’re the only one that ever meant anything,” he murmurs.

You know it’s a lie. He probably told someone else the same thing once.

But it still splits something open inside you.

Your lip trembles. “Why now?”

“‘Cause I’m scared I’m never gonna find this again,” he says. “Even if it’s fucked. Even if it hurts. I’d rather be bleeding next to you than whole with anyone else.”

Tears spill down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away.

You grab his face. Pull him in. Kiss him — deep and soft, but shaking, messy.

And when you roll on top of him again, guiding him back into you slow and gentle this time, it’s not hate anymore.

It’s pain. Longing. A thousand “I’m sorry”s in every grind of your hips. He moves with you. Strokes your waist. Whispers your name like a prayer.

You both cry. You both pretend it means something. You both know it won’t fix anything.

But in this moment — this quiet, broken moment — it’s enough.

Just for tonight.

a/n: this is one of the filthiest things i've ever written lmao. live laugh sexual frustration.

#fanfic #haikyuu #anime #haikyuu scenarios #haikyu x reader #haikyū!!#miya atsumu #atsumu x reader #atsumu smut #haikyuu atsumu #atsumu x you #hq atsumu #atsumu miya #atsumu scenarios #miya atsumu smut #atsumu miya smut

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chimielie · 1 year ago

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“I really like this place,” Yachi says brightly, “the owner is really nice, and he doesn’t mind when I take ten minutes to decide what I want. Once I took twenty minutes and he actually just brought me food, like, decided for me, and at first I thought that was so nice! Then I got worried that maybe I should be upset that he didn’t let me choose, but then I remembered that I could just come here again so I wasn’t missing out on anything. The food was really good, anyway.”

You hover between the cool interior of the restaurant and the summer daylight as she speaks, unwilling to walk away even though she’s holding the door open and probably letting all the cold air out. With a short yelp, she realizes how long the two of you have been standing there and crosses inside. You stand behind her in the line behind the counter, shuffling forward as you read the posted menu.

“I think I’m gonna get the salmon,” you decide. “Hey, so how are things with that girl you’ve been seeing?”

“They’ve been good!” You’re about three people away from the counter, but the first one is line is like, a really huge guy with a booming voice who has been talking forever. Maybe he knows the cashier? “She’s really pretty, and she doesn’t mind or get impatient when I’m anxious. She also gets anxious!”

“That’s great?” You pat her on the shoulder. “I’m really happy for you, Yachi.”

“Me too,” she beams at you. “What about you? Have you met anyone?”

“No,” you snort. “I’m on the apps. So dating is basically a cesspool.” The giant guy who was ordering seems to be done now, but he’s still talking, being slowly dragged away by the elbow by a guy in a cardigan and glasses. You slide your phone out of your pocket and open your dating profile. “See?”

At that moment, your phone pings with a new notification.

Atsumu liked you!

He’s not… bad looking. If you saw him in real life, you’d probably hide behind a bench or something and stalk him with your eyes just so you could look at him as long as you wanted, actually.

He’s your age, a pro volleyball player, his hair dark where it’s been shaved short on the sides but dyed blond up top. He has a kind of sardonic, dead-eyed expression in all of his photos that you think is really funny.

My love language is… arguing in missionary.

You smother a laugh.

“He’s kind of cute!” Yachi peers at your phone. “Kind of scary…”

“Please, I could beat him up,” you laugh. “I don’t know, he’s fine, I guess.”

You swipe left. He’s hot, but definitely a fuckboy. You’ve reached the counter, anyway, and a pro athlete on the apps is like, so many red flags.

You look up at the cashier.

You look down at your phone and click undo. The profile reappears.

You look up at the cashier.

“Fine, you guess?” Scowls Atsumu, 23, (volley)baller. Or maybe not, considering his Onigiri Miya apron. “Welcome to Onigiri Miya, what can I get for ya. Geez.”

He talks in Kansai dialect, you note, which you’ve always thought is melodic. Pretty.

In real life, Atsumu is very pretty. His eyes have midtones of honey and amber that don’t show up on photo and give him a sparkling dimension that sort of detracts from his aura of evil. Even though he’s scowling at you, you want to ruffle his hair and bite his cheek.

“Um, I’ll have the salmon ball,” you say. “And, yeah. I guess.”

He scribbles so hard he breaks the tip of his pencil. With a grunt of disgust, he tosses both notepad and pencil over his shoulder.

“What, pro athlete not good enough for ya?” He points at Yachi, who squeaks. “And for ya?”

“What?” She says, looking terrified. You put a bracing hand on her shoulder.

“Your order,” he drawls.

“Oh! I don’t know.”

“Two salmon balls!” He yells to the back. “‘S on the house.”

“What?” Yachi gasps. “We couldn’t possibly—”

“You’re clearly not a professional athlete,” you say. “You’re a cashier.”

“This is charity work!” He snaps. “My teammate is right over there if ya need proof. I’m Miya Atsumu—this is my brother’s shop. I help him out on my off days.” He emphasizes his family name, underlining it on his apron with a finger.

That’s really sweet. You swoon a little inside, then shake yourself.

“You’re off every time this time this week?”

“Yeah, about,” he turns and bends over to grab his hastily discarded notepad. You do not make a secret of checking out his ass and quirk your lips into a smile when he turns back around, one he matches with reckless abandon. He has nice teeth, not perfectly straight, that imply that maybe he didn’t need braces growing up.

“Let me repay you for the meal,” you put a hand on the counter and lean across it, biting your lip, stomach singing with nerves. “Eight, next week?”

“Nah,” he shrugs you off, gestures for you to move along so he can get to the next customer in line. Your stomach drops, and so must your face. “Too far away. I’ll see ya this Friday for dinner.”

#shorts!#atsumu x reader #miya atsumu x reader #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq!! x reader #inspired by a comment nova left on one of my personal posts #and the horrors of online dating (in which i will NEVER partake)#miya atsumu x reader fluff #atsumu x reader fluff #meet-combative-cute?#haikyuu x reader fluff #haikyuu x reader drabble #atsumu x reader drabble #miya atsumu x reader drabble

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shiongenkai · 6 months ago

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Jabberwock's B's-Log Pages!

Sorry for the horrifically blurry text. It's the best I can do, but feel free to ask for something zoomed in. I can easily provide!

Rough TL of what I considered important text under the cut.

Disclaimer: I am not a professional TLer, and this hasn't been proofread by another. I prioritized speed and therefore may have made mistakes. If you see them, please let me know. This is meant to be a very quick TL so people can have a rough idea of what to expect! TL notes are included on certain lines.

EDIT: I totally forgot to add like, a full two sentences. Those are there now. Im so sorry.

Main Story Summary: The members of Jabberwock, struggling to stay out of the red, head to a mission at the 'Father Farm' in order to make some cash! The farm has a labour shortage following each of its staff members quitting in succession. Furthermore, every retiree mentions the existence of a strange 'cat'. Even Ren, who usually hates troublesome work, agrees to go along, assuming it'll be easier than taking care of the anomalous animals. However... 'Father Farm' is a parody of a real life amusement park thing called 'Mother Park'. You get to do fun farm things like sheep shearing, racing pigs, a duckling procession, etc.

- Little Haru Image: "The heck happened to you guys?! When did you get so gigantic?!" Haru is so hard to translate I am Not up to date on my kansai…

Outfit Blurb: The Jabberwock members go on an undercover investigation! Here's a sneak peek at their super cute and colourful outfits! The actual outfit notes aren't that interesting, so I didn't translate them

Haru Sheep Blurb: The bright and cheerful voice of the announcer echos across the park, attracting visitors towards it. The MC is in charge of the capybara, Towa in charge of the sheep, and Ren in charge of the ducks! But their peaceful time quickly disappears as the fence containing the ducks breaks, leading to them escape....?!

Image Dialogue: "Welcome in, don't be shy! C'mon, everybody! Come on in, see the bang for your buck!"

Haru On Knees Blurb: At the farm, the temporary staff's main tasks obviously include taking care of the animals, but they also include helping to organise the events and shows! Due to that, the uniforms are cute work clothes that take after various animals. I honestly can't tell if their animal characteristics are fake or not… maybe they're anomalous? Shrugs.

Image Dialogue: "What the hell are these outfits…" (Ren, probably)

"R-Ren and Towa too huh? You look great in those matching outfits!" (Haru) I split this into two sentences because I think he's doing two thoughts… otherwise, it's 'Y-You guys look great in those matching outfits!' or something like that

"～～、～～……." (Towa)

- Towa Image: "Hehe~. Since Dandelion looks pretty, I'll protect her~."

#EseTL #eset td #tokyo debunker #haru sagara #towa otonashi #ren shiranami #jabberwock #tkdb #tokyo debunker spoilers

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magical-magyars · 8 months ago

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関西本線加太越え　大築堤　貨物列車には後補機が付いていました。　　加太駅～中在家信号場

#steam locomotive #landscape #japan #railway #photography #関西本線 #加太越え #後補機 #D51 #Kansai Line

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thelingodingo · 1 year ago

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Inarizaki's Kansai Dialect

Japanese Dialects are split into Eastern and Western, with the Standard Japanese dialect being Eastern (Kanto region) and Kansai region dialect being Western (eg. cities of Osaka and Kyoto, and of course Hyogo prefecture- where Inarizaki is from). The pitch, tone, and stressing of the sounds is different from standard Tokyo Japanese so you should be able to hear the difference in how the Inarizaki members speak even if you don't know any Japanese.

just in case yall didn't know, Suna is the only member on the team that does not use Kansai dialect as he was scouted from Aichi prefecture, so he basically just speaks in the standard dialect

Some linguistics of the dialect that may or may not be heard in the show:

"ya" ending vs the standard "da" ending.

Kore kirai ya. vs Kore kirai da. (I hate this.)

the use of the "h" sound instead of "s"

Han vs standard san (honorific suffix, not really used anymore)

Negation suffix "-hen" instead of the standard "-nai".

Taichou kanri dekitehen koto, homen na. vs Taichou kanri dekitenai koto, homen na. (Don't compliment him when he's obviously not taking care of himself.)

verb "oru" vs the standard "iru".

Dareka ga mitoru yo, Shin-chan. vs Dareka ga miteiru yo, Shin-chan. (Someone's always watching, Shin-chan.)

verb "temau" vs standard "teshimau"

Naitemau yaro! vs Naiteshimau darou! (You're gonna make me cry!)

Negation "suru" verb becomes "sen" instead of "shinai".

Ki ni sen dee. vs Ki ni shinai yo. (Don't worry about it.)

Some words that are different in Kansai dialect:

Honto becomes Honma (really)

Sodane becomes Seyade (thats right)

Nande becomes Nandeyanen (why)

Totemo becomes Meccha (very)

ii becomes ee (good)

"aho" means stupid in Japanese, but apparently in the Kansai dialect calling someone an "aho" is actually a compliment?! (even though it has the same definition)

Overall, I could watch the Karasuno vs Inarizaki episodes a hundred times just to listen to Inarizaki's dialect and how different it sounds to the rest of the characters in the entire show.

Although Karasuno speaks in the standard dialect (which isn't very strange since Miyagi is a suburb close enough to the Kanto region), theres a few lines here and there where one of them says something using the Tohoku dialect (the dialect that would be used often in the rest of Tohoku, such as Aomori).

(I especially like Kita's voice, thank you Nojima Kenji.)

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narumi-gens · 2 years ago

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Traditional Values

yakuza!Kita Shinsuke x f!Reader

summary: You’ve never known a yakuza to be boring. But what else could they mean when they say that Kita Shinsuke, the head of the most powerful yakuza group in Kansai, is traditional?

warnings: 18+, smut, yakuza au, arranged marriage, inherent sexism and misogyny, smoking, mentioned drug and alcohol use, violence (sorry to the oc in this fic lol), blood, spit, oral (f receiving & mentioned m receiving), mild exhibitionism, orgasm control, possessive!kita, hinted yandere-ish behavior, implied dom!kita, fingers crossed he's not too out of character 🤞🏽, reader is a spoiled little yakuza princess, idk if reader is all that likable but I like her and that's all that matters

notes: I feel like I'm starting to specialize in chaos characters bc while Kita is not one in this fic, the reader certainly is. but a different kind of chaos.

words: 5.9k

minors, ageless, and blank blogs do not interact

The one word you hear over and over again when people talk about Kita Shinsuke, the head of the Inarizaki, the largest and most powerful yakuza group in Kansai, is traditional.

Despite his current position, he comes from a long line of traditional rice farmers. Once he took power over the Inarizaki, he put in place a stricter, more traditional code of conduct that all members were expected to adhere to. Instead of partying away his nights in Kobe’s clubs and brothels, he spends his evenings in a traditional house in the Hyogo countryside.

And he has traditional family values, with traditional expectations of what he wants in a wife.

But you know that traditional really just means boring.

Unfortunately, a traditional and boring life seems like all you're destined for because your father, the head of Kanto's largest yakuza syndicate, the Fukurodani, has decided to seal an alliance with the Inarizaki through marriage.

Specifically, your marriage to Kita.

After all, you're a woman and a woman can't lead the yakuza. Your only value comes from how useful you can be as a tool to build alliances and cement power. You had at least just hoped that your father would have chosen someone more exciting for you to spend the rest of your life with.

While he would never stomach seeing you at the head of the organization, he could easily have married you off to his right-hand man and hand-picked heir, the Fukurodani's young and wild wakagashira, Bokuto Koutarou. After all, nothing would ensure an eventual smooth succession better than a marriage to his only child.

And even if he decided you were more useful as a means of building his power rather than ensuring his legacy, there were still other options.

There were plenty of crazy yakuza out there who would have kept your interest piqued if only your father had chosen to further consolidate his power in Tokyo or to look for an alliance up north rather than out west.

But your father has made his choice and Kita has agreed and you have no say in the matter. It's not long before the young yakuza kumicho, along with his most trusted men in the Inarizaki, arrives in Tokyo to negotiate the finer details in person.

And when you finally meet him at dinner with your parents, you can't say that you're impressed.

He's polite. He's soft-spoken. He's respectful. He's so. utterly. boring.

As you sit next to him in a private room at one of Tokyo's finest restaurants, listening to him as he genially answers your mother's questions about his own upbringing and tells her about his close relationship with his grandmother, all you can think is, 'what a waste.'

Regardless of how handsome he is and how much his men seem to respect him and how powerful his position is, he's missing that wildness inherent to every true yakuza.

By the time the plates are cleared and the manager of the restaurant is falling over himself to thank your father for his patronage, you’ve made your assessment of your new fiancé.

Kita is dull.

It’s all you can think as he cordially thanks your father at the end of the evening.

‘You’re so boring.’

It’s all you can think as he humbly accepts your mother’s compliments and adoration.

‘You’re so boring.’

It’s all you can think as he politely bids you goodnight with a bow, telling you softly how nice it was to meet you.

‘You’re so boring.’

You have to bite back the urge to say the words aloud, directly to his face, just to see what he would do. Would he drop his courteous smile? Would he clench his fists? Would he slap you?

‘You’re so boring.’

He would probably just look slightly taken aback before doing his best to laugh off any offense.

“It was nice to meet you too, Kita-san,” you finally reply, your tone suggesting anything but. You feel the disapproval rolling off of your parents in waves and can already hear the lecture that awaits you once you’re alone with them.

Your father will chastise you for the disrespect that you’ve shown to a new ally, and by extension him. He’ll sternly remind you that this is your duty as his daughter. If he’s really feeling irritable then he’ll light up a cigarette and grumble about how he’s spoiled you for too long and hopes that Kita has a firm hand.

Your mother, however, will almost certainly turn so shrill in her anger that you’ll want to cover your ears. She’ll berate you for insulting your husband-to-be. She’ll scold you for your clear disinterest and boredom through every course of dinner. She’ll then blame your father for being too lenient with you over the years, to which your father will respond by simply taking a long drag of his cigarette.

But in the present, Kita simply gives you a polite smile in return and the chorus continues in your head.

‘You’re so boring.’

Just because you’re now technically engaged doesn’t mean that you need to change how you live your life. If anything, you need to savor all the fun you can before you’re shipped off to Hyogo to spend the rest of your days popping out kids and taking care of some big, empty, country house with a man who’s less interesting than the rice his family grows.

It’s not even an hour after you get home from dinner before you’re leaving once again. Only this time, you’re wearing something far more revealing and decisively less conservative than the formal kimono that your mother forced you into for your meeting with Kita — something meant to appeal to his traditional taste.

Your current outfit is one that’s perfectly suited to the high-end clubs of Roppongi. Not that it really matters considering you’re tucked away in a private VIP room, away from the large crowds and deafening music and prying eyes.

Normally, you would be surrounded by a group of your friends. But after being confronted with the man that you’ve been sentenced to marry and seeing the unending boredom in your near future, you've recognized that it also applies to your sex life.

You’ve only spent a couple of hours with Kita, but it was more than enough to know that he probably prefers fucking in missionary with the lights off. The only orgasms that you can expect as a married woman will probably come from your vibrator — unless he decides that a vibrator isn’t traditional enough, in which case you’ll have to rely on your fingers exclusively.

So, instead of the VIP room being filled with your friends, it’s just you and the man whose face is buried between your thighs, Ito Tatsuya. While your feelings towards Tatsuya tend to lie closer to ambivalence than anything else, his skilled tongue is more than enough to make up for it.

With the way his lips are wrapped around your clit, it’s easy to ignore how he acts tougher than he truly is. He talks a big game but has refrained from acting on all of his talk and joining a yakuza group. Ultimately it works in your favor as no yakuza would dare lay a finger on the beloved daughter of the Fukurodani’s feared kumicho, knowing that doing so would bring the wrath of the entire criminal organization down on their heads.

Tatsuya is the closest that you’ll get as he’s only tangentially affiliated with one of the few other powerful yakuza groups in Tokyo, the Nekoma organization. Although their power will never come close to the strength of the Fukurodani, your father has a good relationship with their kumicho, Nekomata Yasufumi. The two yakuza groups have had a strong alliance for decades.

Likewise, Bokuto has his own sense of camaraderie and friendship with Nekomata’s wakagashira, Kuroo Tetsuro, whom you’ve had the pleasure of meeting on multiple occasions as you run in the same circles. Unfortunately, it’s never turned into anything more, despite your best efforts.

Kuroo Tetsuro. That’s a man. That’s a real yakuza.

If your luck was better and if relations with the Nekoma group were worse, you probably would have been married off to him rather than the snoozefest that you’ve ended up with.

It’s easy to slip into the fantasy that it’s Kuroo whose grip feels scorching on your thigh, whose fingers are pumping in and out of your dripping cunt, whose tongue is lapping at your needy clit. The image in your head pushes you closer to the edge as your hips buck in time with his fingers.

But just as you can see your orgasm within reach, your attention is yanked away from your pleasure when the door to the VIP room opens with a BANG! as it’s kicked in. You protest with a whine as Tatsuya lifts his head from between your thighs, pure murder written across his face at having been disturbed.

Unaffected by the interruption, you use your grip on his hair to try and tug him back to his original task, but it’s of no use. He’s already removing his arm from around your thigh to reach back and pull out the gun that’s been tucked in the waistband of his pants.

You're momentarily impressed that he would flaunt the country’s severe firearm restrictions. Although the effect is lost a few moments later when he sits up only to freeze, his features going slack.

When you finally turn your head to see who’s behind the disruption, you frown unhappily.

“Kita-san,” you greet with an irritated sigh. And even you know that you’ll never get Tatsuya’s mouth back on your pussy at this point and you release your hold on his hair with a resigned huff.

Tatsuya scrambles to remove himself entirely from between your legs, carelessly dropping his gun onto the low table before the couch that you’re sprawled out across. He lifts his hands to show that they’re now empty and he’s not a threat, as if anyone would ever believe he was one.

You wonder if his panic stems from knowing exactly who it is that’s found you both in such a compromising position or if it’s solely due to how intimidating Kita and the two men on either side of him look.

For as boring as he is, you’ll give him credit. The sight of him standing in the doorway, the black jacket of the same suit he wore to dinner draped across broad shoulders, his arms crossed casually over his chest, his expression giving nothing away, is impressive. Even if he didn’t have two of his underlings with him — one with grey hair and one with dark hair, both of them wearing similar looks of apathy — it would be more than enough to put the average person on edge.

However, you’ve spent your whole life surrounded by dangerous men, with dangerous men at your beck and call.

So, as Tatsuya begins to babble, making excuses and insisting that he doesn’t want any trouble, you simply roll your eyes and push down your skirt just enough so that your pussy is no longer on display. But even in the low light of the VIP room, the insides of your thighs — and how they shine with the evidence of your rapidly-cooling arousal — are clearly visible.

“Suna,” Kita says, his gaze fixed on you. The dark-haired man needs no further instruction before he’s moving past his oyabun towards Tatsuya.

He easily grabs the cowering man from the couch by the front of his shirt and roughly shoves him to his knees on the floor, keeping him in place with one hand fisted tightly in his hair, just as yours had been only a few minutes earlier.

Kita slips his jacket from his shoulders and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of the blood-red lining on the inside. He passes it to the man still at his side, who carefully folds it over his arm in a way that won’t leave any creases. He then methodically begins to unbutton and roll up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing his forearms and the large swaths of tattooed skin that extend almost to his wrists.

Part of you is surprised. Kita seems too dull to have even the smallest tattoo, let alone full tattooed sleeves. But another part of you knows how much significance tattoos have historically held to the yakuza and he’s nothing if not traditional. Your thighs unconsciously squeeze together as you imagine how far they spread over the rest of his body.

The action doesn’t seem to escape his notice because he raises an eyebrow at you but makes no further comment before he turns to Tatsuya, who continues to plead for mercy.

“Enough.”

Kita doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t put any force behind the single word. Other than ensuring his sleeves are snugly held in place just below his elbows, he doesn’t even move. But there’s a danger to him that Tatsuya is quick to pick up on and his blubbering comes to an immediate halt.

He fearfully waits for the silver-haired yakuza to go on and when he does, it’s probably not in the way he was expecting. Because rather than explaining who he is or why he’s there — which Tatsuya has probably figured out on his own by this point — Kita places a hand on the back of the kneeling man’s head. The other man, Suna, releases Tatsuya altogether, wordlessly deferring to his oyabun and taking a step back to give his boss space.

The tension in the room is thick as Kita looks down at the trembling man on his knees, his face still as blank as it’s been since his sudden arrival. It snaps in an instant when he sharply yanks Tatsuya’s head down and his nose meets Kita’s raised knee with a sickening crunch! that would leave a less seasoned group of onlookers feeling queasy.

As it stands, both Suna and the other Inarizaki man appear to be amused, entertained even. You get the sense that displays of this nature from the yakuza boss aren’t common.

But as you see the blood pouring from Tatsuya’s nose and hear his howling and watch as your fiancé’s fist repeatedly makes contact with the man’s face, you feel none of that same amusement. You also don’t feel afraid or disgusted or concerned.

You’ve long grown desensitized to the violence associated with the yakuza. If anything, you can feel the boredom setting in once again.

You reach out to the table in front of you for the ashtray where your cigarette rests, having set it down when Tatsuya buried his face in your pussy. However, as soon as you pick it up, a long column of ash falls from the end and you realize with a pout that it’s already burned down to the filter.

The little noise of irritation you let out can’t be heard over Tatsuya’s pained cries or the brutal sound of fist meeting flesh again and again. You pull a new cigarette from the open pack on the table and perch it between your lips before grabbing your cheap lighter.

Once it’s lit, you take a deep, contented inhale of smoke before exhaling a large cloud that sits atop the room before dispersing. You glance back to Kita and Tatsuya to find that the scene looks exactly the same as when you looked away — except for Tatsuya’s face is completely bloodied and already swelling, and he seems on the verge of passing out.

“Really, Kita-san?” you finally ask with a yawn as you roll onto your side, your head pillowed by your bicep.

He pauses, his fist raised mid-air, and looks over at you, his eyes roving over your lackadaisical sprawl across the couch. He wordlessly releases the front of Tatsuya’s shirt from his grasp, who then drops to the floor in a bloody mess.

Suna immediately steps in to harshly kick the man over onto his stomach and places a heavy, threatening foot right on his spine. Not that it matters considering Tatsuya seems to be in and out of consciousness by this point.

But your attention isn’t on Tatsuya; it’s on Kita as he approaches you, his pace unhurried. You’re slightly impressed that he’s barely out of breath from the beating he just delivered. He picks up the discarded gun from the table and in one smooth motion, pulls back the slide to look at the chamber before releasing the magazine to check it as well.

“It’s empty,” he notes before tossing it to the man holding his jacket, who easily catches it and claims it for his own. A loud bubble of laughter escapes you at Tatsuya’s expense, finding it hilarious that the only marginally cool thing that you’ve ever seen him do was all for show.

You slip your cigarette to rest between your smiling lips as your gaze flits between the other Inarizaki men and find that they too appear to think it’s funny. Suna even presses his foot harder into Tatsuya’s back with a smirk that only grows wider when he receives a groan in response.

However, the yakuza boss doesn’t seem to share the humor that you and his men are feeling. He grabs the edge of the table and lifts it up just enough to tilt it and send everything on top of it to the floor with a dull crash. You frown at the waste of a barely touched bottle of champagne, a top-shelf bottle of whiskey, and Tatsuya’s small, unopened bag of cocaine.

Kita pays none of the mess any mind as he takes a seat on the edge of the table’s now cleared surface, directly in front of you. With you still laid out on the couch, you’re eye level with his knees.

You look up at him and raise a challenging eyebrow, daring him to make his next move, daring him to keep you interested. You’re sorely disappointed when the first thing that he does is tug down your skirt to protect your modesty, something you find truly pointless considering the three men walked in on you in the middle of having your pussy eaten.

The sensation of the backs of his fingers running along the skin of your thigh as he pulls on the fabric sends a small shiver down your spine and reminds you that you were interrupted before you could cum. You shift your leg to expose your inner thigh to him in a tempting invitation for him to finish what Tatsuya started, but he simply ignores your provocation and gives your skirt one final tug to ensure it’s in place.

With a displeased roll of your eyes, you take another deep drag of your cigarette. But before you’ve finished, Kita plucks it from your lips and holds it aloft. He ignores your cry of protest as he waits half a moment for Suna to take it from him. You sit up in an effort to try and grab it back, but Kita’s fingers suddenly grip your chin hard enough that you think you’ll still feel them tomorrow.

He’s grasping you with the same hand that he used to pummel Tatsuya and you can feel how his fingers are warm and sticky with the man’s blood. It only takes a quick glance down to see that his knuckles are drenched in it.

With his hold keeping you in place, you’re unable to see what Suna does with your cigarette. However, you soon hear Tatsuya let out a low moan of pain and you have an idea.

“That’s a filthy habit,” he says. His tone is rather benign but you’re certain that you’re being scolded. “I won’t have ya keepin’ it up as my wife.”

You let out an unattractive snort and hope your expression conveys just how unimpressed you are.

“They’re my lungs. If I wanna turn them black, that’s my right.” If he didn’t have your chin held so firmly, you would probably have stuck out your tongue and pulled down on your lower eyelid to taunt him.

“Yer rights extend only to the ones that I allow ya to have,” he comments and from any other man, there would be a threatening weight to his words. Kita, however, speaks them so casually that it sounds like he’s making nothing more than an absent observation of an indisputable fact.

You can only pout in return and he releases his grip to give your cheek a gentle, condescending pat. He then lifts his unbloodied hand out at his side with his palm facing up.

“Osamu.”

The Inarizaki man with the grey hair is quick to come forward, his hand slipping inside the jacket that he’s still carrying to pull out something from the inner pocket and place it into Kita’s patiently waiting palm. He then returns to his previous spot near the door, ensuring that there’s a respectful distance between himself and Kita and you once more.

The small, carefully polished wooden box that he’s been given piques your interest. When he opens the lid, your eyes widen at the ring sitting inside of it. It’s elegant and beautiful — a traditional round diamond set atop a thin, pavé diamond band. It manages to avoid being ostentatious while still leaving no doubt about its expensive price tag, and therefore the status of the man who gave it to you.

For such a boring man, he apparently has good taste.

Your left hand moves on its own as you lift it for him expectantly. There’s the briefest flash of amusement in his eyes — the first real emotion that you’ve seen from him. But he wordlessly takes the ring from the box and slips it onto your third finger.

The first instinct you have as soon as you feel the cool metal on your skin is to bring it to your face so that you can examine your new engagement ring more closely. But he grabs your hand so suddenly to keep it in place that it startles you.

You raise your gaze to see that his own is glued to the ring that you’re now wearing. His thumb gently sweeps across the band and the gesture is a sharp contrast to how tightly his fingers are clasped around yours.

“See this?” He nods towards the ring, as if there were anything else that he could be referring to. “It’s not just a beautiful ring on yer pretty finger. It's a symbol of our commitment — yer commitment to me.”

It’s slight, barely even noticeable, but there’s an edge to his tone that’s been missing all night. You can suddenly imagine how it is this young, unassuming man with his calm and collected temperament worked his way to the top of the most powerful yakuza syndicate in Japan.

He takes a long moment to pause thoughtfully and it seems so natural that you wonder if this is a common occurrence when he speaks. You suppose you’ll have the rest of your life to figure it out.

“I have a lot of respect for yer father,” he breaks the silence, confusing you with the direction that he’s chosen to take your conversation. “He’s built one of the most sophisticated operations in the country. He’s a smart man who’s surrounded himself with people he can trust, who would take a bullet or a prison sentence for him without question. I won’t hesitate to say that he’s earned his reputation.”

He sounds sincere, but you still have no idea where he’s going with this. If this were anyone else, in any other situation, you would ask if he was more interested in marrying your father than interested in marrying you. You have enough self-awareness to know that doing so with Kita wouldn’t go well — but only just.

“He’s a man of honor and I don’t mean to insult him.” He pauses again, this one shorter than the previous one. However, something about it feels heavier and when he finally looks back up at you, his eyes are much colder.

“The Fukurodani may be the most powerful syndicate in Kanto, but when it comes down to it, no one can match the power and numbers of the Inarizaki,” he states.

Maybe it’s the matter-of-fact way he says it, maybe it’s how composed his expression is despite the events of that evening, but you’re suddenly incredibly aware of how his grip on your fingers has slowly tightened over the last few minutes, almost bordering on painful.

“I already own everythin’ from Kansai to Kyushu. If I wanted Tokyo, I could come and take it.” You believe him. While your father won’t let you in on his operations, you’re far from clueless about the politics of the criminal underworld, including who has power and how much.

And Kita is right. The Fukurodani are the most powerful group in Kanto, one of the most powerful groups in all of Japan — second only to the Inarizaki. If a war broke out between the two over control of the country’s capital, it would be a hard and bloody conflict but the Inarizaki would undoubtedly be the victors.

This marriage benefits your father more than it does Kita.

“Maybe one day I will. The alliance doesn’t really matter,” he tells you. But while he looks slightly pensive as he speaks, the corners of your lips begin to slowly turn upwards.

“Then what is it you want, Kiiiiitaaa-saaaan?” you ask, playfully stretching out his family name — what will soon be your family name.

The coldness in his demeanor seems to melt, although not into anything that could ever be considered close to warm. If you had to describe it, you would probably call it patronizing.

“Y’know they call ya Tokyo’s yakuza princess?” he replies and your smirk widens. It takes some effort with how tight his grip is, but you manage to wiggle your fingers just loose enough to intertwine them with his.

“Do they?” you ask innocently, as if you haven’t proudly worn the title over the years. You look at him knowingly through your lashes. “Even in the Hyogo countryside?”

“Even in the Hyogo countryside,” he answers mildly, briefly humoring you and you reward him with a pleased grin.

“Oh really?” you muse, bringing your joined hands up to your lips to lightly skim them along his bloody and torn knuckles.

His tolerance seems to have hit its limit because he quickly yanks his hand from yours to grab your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks so roughly that you give a small wince. His hand is large enough that it covers your mouth almost entirely.

If anyone else were in your position, they would most likely be trembling in fear. You can only smile into his palm, the mischief mirrored in your eyes.

Kita doesn’t come across as a man who often — if ever — gives into temptation. But although his patience with you has grown thin, he seems willing to allow himself just one small indulgence.

His hand shifts so that he can slowly run his thumb across your lips, leaving behind a sticky smear of blood in its wake. As his touch reaches your cupid’s bow, you slightly part your lips to press a soft kiss to the pad of his thumb before opening your mouth and catching it between your teeth.

You use just enough pressure so that he can’t simply slip it free. The metallic tang of blood is strong on your tongue as you brush it teasingly against the tip, your gaze meeting his coyly. You close your lips around his thumb and give it a light suck that would have a lesser man on his knees, begging for you to let him between your thighs.

Kita reacts with a thoughtful hum and nothing else, not even the most minute muscle twitch.

“Tokyo’s spoiled little yakuza princess whose father lets her get away with whatever she wants,” he remarks, entirely unbothered even as you continue to suckle on his thumb while he speaks. “I won’t be anywhere near as lenient with ya. And I won’t have ya makin’ a fool outta me just because we’re not married yet.”

Although the danger is there, completely unmistakable, his voice lacks the menacing tone that should accompany his words. Instead, they’re low and soft, caressing your ears like a lover’s would, luring you in seductively.

Impulse control has never been something that you’ve practiced; it’s never been something that you’ve needed to practice. In an act of utter shamelessness, you take his free hand, the one casually hanging from his knee, and place it high on your bare thigh.

When you try to slide it further under the hem of your skirt, which has already begun to ride up since he tugged it down, you find that his hand is immovable. His fingers dig into the fat of your thigh, sinking into your soft skin with the weight of both his grip and his possessiveness.

“Yer mine now,” he tells you, his voice still gentle and entirely at odds with his burning touch and the taste of blood in your mouth. “I don’t need to wait for paperwork or a ceremony to make it official.”

His heavy gaze drops down to look pointedly at how you’re thighs are squeezing together, even as he keeps one of them firmly in place. He then slowly drags it back up to meet yours, leaving a scorching trail in its wake.

“I’m not just gonna give ya whatever it is ya ask for.” The words are a threat, even if he speaks them like a promise. “If ya want somethin’ from me, yer gonna have to earn it.”

Right now, there’s only one thing that you want from him and it's at the forefront of your mind.

“But I didn’t get to cum,” you whine around his thumb, your pitiful complaint slightly muffled.

Osamu and Suna’s matching looks of disbelief go unnoticed by you and Kita, neither man ever having imagined that someone would dare to say something so brazen to their fearsome oyabun.

There’s a flash in Kita’s eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches upwards for a fraction of a second. Both happen so quickly that you only notice because he has your rapt attention and it slowly dawns on you.

He likes it. He likes your audacity. He likes your impertinence. He likes how you sound like the spoiled brat that you are. He likes that he has Tokyo’s spoiled little yakuza princess squeezing his hand between her thighs and sucking on his thumb as she pathetically pleads with him to make her cum.

His thumb is slick with your saliva as he slips it from your mouth despite your efforts to keep it where it is by trying to sink your teeth deeper into it. He leaves a quickly-cooling trail of spit on your skin as he readjusts his hold on your jaw, once again digging his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks. The action only exaggerates the pout that you’re already giving him.

“And ya won’t again ‘til we’re married. I don’t care if it’s with someone else. I don’t care if it’s with yerself. The next time ya do will be on our wedding night.” He pauses, letting the silence hang over the room so that the impact of his next words is truly felt. “If yer good.”

You let out a displeased noise in protest but it goes ignored as he uses his grasp on your jaw to move your head a bit to the side so that you’re looking over his shoulder and directly at the grey-haired Inarizaki man behind him.

“This is Osamu. He’s gonna be stayin’ in Tokyo for a bit.” He gives you a single wave in acknowledgment from where he stands. “Yer father’s already agreed to it.”

The implication is clear: Osamu is to be Kita’s eyes and ears in Tokyo. If you act in any way that’s unbefitting of your new status as the woman set to marry the Inarizaki’s kumicho, he’ll certainly know.

“You’ll be seein’ a lot of him,” he tells you as he returns your focus back to him. He then leans forward, closing the gap between you to tenderly press a light kiss to your forehead, his lips moving against your skin with his next words. “So, be good for me.”

He sits back and meets your gaze expectantly and it’s clear that he wants your assurance that you’ll do as told. You give a childish roll of your eyes and his grip tightens in warning.

“I’ll be good,” you reply, the words feeling foreign on your tongue but they seem to appease him.

However, his eyes soon land on your lips and then narrow. It’s a small movement, but the temperature of the room seems to drop with it. His next question is spoken as softly as everything else he’s said that night, but there’s a new kind of gravity to it, one that promises danger should he receive an answer that he doesn’t like.

“Did ya use yer mouth on him?”

It’s clear that Tatsuya’s life depends on your response. Luckily for him, there’s only one answer that you can give.

“I don’t suck cock,” you say and it’s only because Kita is grasping so tightly onto your jaw that you don’t physically turn your nose up at the suggestion of you getting on your knees.

But then something unexpected happens. The calm and carefully controlled expression on Kita’s face softens into something finally approaching fondness, a faint smile forming on the straight line of his lips.

“You will for me,” he promises and you raise a challenging eyebrow, even as your own grin begins to grow.

“I will?” you ask playfully and he nods.

“You will if ya wanna be good,” he’s kind enough to remind you and there’s a strange fluttering in your stomach that you’ve never experienced before.

“Yes, Shin-kun,” you smile, and despite barely having had any of the champagne that’s now spilled across the floor, you feel drunk.

You hardly wait for Kita to order his men to leave with a firm but impassive, “out,” before sliding from the couch and sinking to the floor between his parted legs. Your knees already ache from the unfamiliar sensation of resting against such a hard surface.

The weight of his hand on the back of your neck burns as you rub your cheek against the expensive fabric of the slacks covering his muscled thigh. As you reach for the buckle of his belt, you look up at him to find him watching you ravenously.

It absently occurs to you that throughout the entire evening, you never once heard him raise his voice. Even when he was brutally assaulting Tatsuya, he never seemed angry or bothered. No matter the situation, he remained unfazed.

But as you slide a hand inside of his pants to grip his half-hard cock through the soft material of his boxers, you can see it. Underneath his composed visage and mild temperament, burning bright in his shining and hungry eyes, is a dangerous flame — one that threatens to consume you and every inch of Tokyo in a devastating and all-consuming blaze.

Maybe Kita Shinsuke isn’t as boring as you thought.

#kita shinsuke #kita shinsuke x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #kita x reader #kita shinsuke fanfic #kita shinsuke fic #kita fic #kita fanfic #haikyuu fanfic #haikyuu fic #mel writes #traditional values

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xmintpiex · 3 months ago

Text

Angelfish - nsfw, 18+, Yo Hiori x f!reader wc: 2043

Your Yo-kun was like an angelfish. Beautiful. Cute. A little aggressive.

content: blind date, strangers to lovers, told in snippets, inexperienced!Hiori, blood mention, fingers in mouth, reader calls him 'Yo-kun' mainly, mentions of: dry humping, making out, oral (reader receiving), vaginal fingering, overstimulation, cosplay, vibrator usage in public

note: (click after reading for a fun surprise😆) inspired by this post from @kongkhoi (ty hiel!!🥰🥰🥰)

You were glad you decided to go on this date with Yo Hiori. You hadn't really known anything about him aside from what your friend had told you ("he's a professional footballer, he's a really good guy, give him a chance!"), but it seemed like your friend was right this time.

Hiori's gentle smile, his pale blue eyes and fluffy hair so lovely in the dim lighting of the restaurant, politely taking a bite of his food every now and then as the two of you conversed. Conversation came surprisingly easy despite his seemingly more quiet nature, he cared about what you had to say and held obvious interest, making an effort. So cute.

He reminded you of a sweet little kitten, curious and friendly but also with a bit of clear independence. You wanted to see past that gentle politeness, see how fondness looked on his face.

Would he be the clingy type? Wanting your attention and touch whenever he pleased, like a precious kitten? Arms wrapped around your waist, cheeks warm, sweet, needy words on his lips? Being the only one to get to see him like that?

It wouldn't be so bad to date a man like that..

You could feel your smile widen, push against your already flushed cheeks as you take another bite of the delicious meal. Eyes meeting his yet again. Dazzling in the candlelight. Captivating.

"I had a great time, I'd love to see you again."

Hiori's words soft and clear as he walked you out of the restaurant, insisting on walking you to the train station. He kept his pace slow to match up with yours, your arms occasionally bumping as you navigated the bustling city streets. (With every bump, you could feel the firm muscle that lay beneath that soft, loose sweater he wore. Could almost picture the thickness of his thighs, the solid lines of his abs.) He was too sweet, keeping close yet giving you distance. A small smile on his face every time the two of you made eye contact. He almost reminded you of a puppy. Did he want you that much?

You couldn't help but reach out to carefully hold his large hand, his fingers much longer compared to yours. Your heart beating faster as his own face brightened so beautifully, his hand shifting to properly hold yours. Palm against palm, his grip a little too tight before slightly loosening. He must be nervous. Adorable.

You wanted to see more.

"I'd love that too."

Maybe Hiori was more like a rabbit.

You couldn't help but giggle as you watched him maneuver through the crowded coffee shop, his face impassive aside from the slight furrow of his brows, the little scrunch of his nose. The drinks the two of you ordered kept carefully in his hands, his movements swift and quick-witted. Was this how he looked like while on the field? An energetic, quick rabbit? You couldn't wait to see at his game next Friday, he had already got you a ticket.

"Sorry 'bout the wait."

Your lips twitch upwards at the subtle lilt of his kansai accent. Over the past few weeks you had gotten to know Hiori, you had noticed it more and more. He has said it had weakened over the years since he rarely went back to Kyoto, but you could hear it come out in certain moments. Like when he talked about the latest video game he played. Or when he was a bit frazzled by something, like when that rude guy had bumped into you without apologizing. It always came out so easily when you visited him at his apartment, that fast, melodic cadence paired with the slight flush of his cheeks, that warm glow of his pale blue eyes, his knee slightly bumping yours as you watched another movie on his sofa.

Yo-kun truly was like his name. A sweet, innocent sheep. Just for you.

His breath hot and heavy against your wet lips, a string of saliva keeping you tethered to him. His eyes dark and lidded, chest rising against your hands. His thighs so solid and ridged against your ass, every little squeeze of his muscle felt despite the fabric between you. His baggy sweatpants doing very little to hide the massive bulge that presses achingly against your damp shorts, your soaked pussy, your stomach. His large hands trembling yet firm on your hips. Keeping you in place too easily.

"I..I don't wanna move too fast…I've never felt this way 'bout anyone before.."

A soft, needy pant against your lips, the next kiss so tender. He pulls back a bit, head lolling back against the sofa, his blue eyes glossy and mesmerizing. Mesmerizing like the fast thrum of his beating heart beneath your palm. Your heart no doubt the same. Aching butterflies in your tummy, that delicious warm heat that fills you from your head to your toes. Dizzying. Addicting.

Had you ever felt this way with anyone else before? You couldn't remember. Didn't need to remember.

"Then we'll take it slow, Yo-kun…"

You murmur breathily against his cheek, your shaky, hot hand gently caressing his now messy blue hair. Oh how your heart leapt as he slowly nuzzled against your palm. Affection nearly dripping from his eyes, the gentle curve of his smile widening.

Your cute, lovely sheep. You would take good care of him.

Well.

Maybe a sheep wasn't quite right either.

Your eyes watching him as he moved across the soccer field. You had managed to be able to make it to one of his practices and didn't want to miss the opportunity to see your Yo-kun in his element.

How he darted effortlessly across the field, synced up well with his teammates. Sure, some of the others were louder, more flamboyant in their efforts, but there was something about the quiet, precise movements of your Yo-kun that had you captivated. He was not to be underestimated.

Hmm.

"Ow!"

Stinging pain as you accidently bite your tongue, setting your chopsticks down to hold your mouth.

"What happened?"

Worry palpable in his voice as he quickly comes to your side, brows furrowed and lips slightly downturned.

"Ah, nothing, I just bit my tongue.."

You can't help but murmur, a little shy under the intensity of his light blue eyes.

"Let me see."

His long fingers gently prodding at your pouty lips, your mouth easily opening for him. His firm fingertips a little too heavy on your bleeding tongue, you can't help but wince.

"Hold still for me."

A gentle coo. Though it does little to soothe the firmness of his rub. But you wouldn't complain when your Yo-kun was looking at you so tenderly. He was just trying to help. It was nice.

Angelfish.

The pretty fish you spotted on that aquarium date with him. The vibrant sheen of the little fish darting in the tank so captivating. Beautiful. Cute. A little aggressive.

His sweet laugh as you pointed the little fish out. Your head against his arm, hand in hand. His eyes so perfect in the blue light of the aquarium. Luminescent like the scales of the angelfish.

That perfectly described your Yo-kun.

The way his eyes lit up at the first taste of your pussy. His glazed eyes unrelenting and dark as his grip tightens, chin tipping up to press his rosy lips more against your slick folds. His large hands easily tilting you hips to more effectively suckle at your clit. Dart into your tight little hole. Adding a finger. And then another. Another. Not letting up until you were boneless and babbling, your grip on his light blue hair so weak. A gentle chuckle as he caressed your messy, drenched pussy. Sweet little coos at your whines.

His eyes sparkling as he licks his slick covered fingers. The sheen of his damp chin, his wet, pearly smile your beacon in the dim light of his bedroom.

Your angelfish.

His birthday, You wanted to do something a little special. Dress up as that one character he liked. The outfit a little more revealing than needed. The way his eyes widened, his smile bright and cheeks so red, you couldn't help but beam under his clear adoration, your heart fluttering.

"You did this for me? I..wow.."

"It's your birthday, Yo-kun. Today we'll do whatever you want!"

You flutter your lashes sweetly, make that seductive little pout that always makes his blush reach the tips of his ears. Causes that little twitch of his knee.

"Whatever I want?" His eyes crinkle adoringly, sparkling, his smile blooming. Full and toothy. Boyish and unrestrained. He looked so wonderful like this. So dazzling. You wanted to make him smile like that always.

It takes him but a moment to decide what he wants.

His hand trailing up the soft flesh of your thigh, parting between the flimsy fabric of your costume, eliciting delicious goosebumps as he gently thumbs at your panties, so easily finding your clit. Looking up at you with those pale, bewitching eyes. His thumb pressing down a little bit firmer.

"Sit on my lap."

How could you ever say no to him? You wanted to give your Yo-kun everything he wanted. He deserved it.

Your angelfish.

The cheers loud around you in the packed stadium. The VIP seat that Hiori picked out for you was more empty, giving you space away from the rowdy crowd. Thank goodness..

An important game for the season, to determine who would proceed to the championship. Of course you would be there to cheer on your boyfriend.

Your precious angelfish.

Ah..

Wait..

That wasn't quite right.

Your eyes lidded and glossy as you tried your hardest to keep your concentration on him. Quivering lips hidden behind the soft, bulky fabric of the scarf Hiori had gifted you.

Your heavy eyes on his figure, calm and precise as he moved across the field. That long strand of blue hair bobbing in the wind. Reminiscent of something. A fuzzy blur in the back of your mind, easily lost to all the other sensations that frazzled your brain.

You could barely think. But you promised Yo-kun you would count all his goals, cheer the loudest for him. You had to be a good girl for your Hiori…

Another cool breeze through stadium going right up your coat. Your seat too cold against your bare thighs, your hands shaking as you attempted to pull your long, puffy coat down more to cover them. Yo-kun liked it when you wore his coat to his games, so oversized and baggy on you. It felt a little frumpy. But it was better this way.

Another string of drool dripping down your bottom lip as the crowd erupts into cheers. Ah. A goal. Your Yo-kun scored a goal.

Legs like jelly, thighs hot and damp as you stand up. You needed to cheer your Yo-kun on.

The little vibrator shifting as you stand, the once dull vibrations now pressing too perfectly against your already mushy, weeping clit. That familiar, tight, aching sensation of your lower stomach. A little whine on your tongue, your trembling hands gripping your coat. The tingling rub of your pointy, bare nipples against your coat. Toes squirming against the inside your shoes. Slick little droplets running down your thighs. Again. Again.

"A-Ahh…G-go oh! Mmm..Go Y-Yo-kun!"

Your debauched cry luckily lost in the endless sea of cheers, but never lost to Hiori's ears.

His head swiveling to your location in the stands. A bead of sweat down his cheek, eyes still narrowed from the effort of his play. His pale blue eyes glinting with that familiar intensity as they meet your fluttering gaze. Something dark and wicked lurking behind the soft pale blue of his eyes.

A reminder for what awaited you after this game. Your body writhing against his sheets, his favorite prize. Drowning to his hot touch, to cold metal and smooth silicone. Your tears, your never ending slick his most favorite dessert.

His smile-no, a grin. A sneer. Teeth pearly and sharp, jagged. Shiny. Tongue slightly peeking out between. Hungry. Counting down the minutes until he got to have you to himself.

Oh. That's right.

That's what Yo Hiori was.

Anglerfish.

#hiori yo x reader #hiori yo x y/n #yo hiori x reader #yo hiori x you #bluelock smut #xmintpiex work #let me know if i missed anything in the content warning<3

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