faerielotus

[faerielotus]

So so so so so amazing. Rehashing Kuroo’s and Daishou’s rivalry is genius. Also just the way it was written in general?? I love it when you go into others’ perspectives it’s so interesting. AND KUROO WAS SO HOT OMG 😭 Honestly I haven’t thought about him in so long but there’s always something about your writing that just awakens my love for him. I feel so bad for Daishou though. He really went through all those accusations, the fear that the reader might have actually been dead or left him, and now he’s gonna die :( I feel worse for the reader though. I just know that all she wants is to know that Daishou is okay but like Kuroo said, they’re never gonna see each other again so 🤷🏻‍♀️

Wither and Bleed

sorry for the wait y'all <33 Daishou Suguru x female reader, Kuroo Tetsurou x female reader w.c 4.6k tw: dubcon, yandere themes, kidnapping, nsfw, stockholm syndrome, mentions of blood, alcoholism, mild smut

Daishou eyes the bottom of his glass dispassionately, watching the amber dregs of whiskey roll as he slowly tilts it – pointedly ignoring the sound of footsteps approaching, the low, mocking whistle that follows.

“I’d say it’s good to see you, Daishou, but I gotta be honest, this place is a dump and you look like shit.”

There’s a flush high on his cheekbones, his eyes are glazed, bloodshot. Despite the heaviness in his head, the liquor fuelled haze and exhaustion that makes pulling a coherent train of thought… somewhat difficult, he’s not so far gone that he can’t recognise the grating voice and accompanying laugh. 

One more. One more, and maybe then he’ll stumble off home to continue drinking in peace. That, or he’ll pass out the second he hits the couch. At this point, he’s not picky. 

“Another,” he rasps at the bartender, whose only response, aside from the surly look he sends Daishou’s way, is to unscrew the cap of the bottle of cheap whiskey and tilt it back over his glass. Glaring, all the while. 

Once upon a time, Daishou might’ve said something to that. Made some snarky remark, goaded him ‘til he got a rise – or got his ass thrown out.

(You’d chide him for it, too, in that exasperated tone of yours. He’d be tempted to think you were serious, but you’d sigh, call him hopeless and your hand would snake in his on the walk home anyway.)

Disdainful sneers, the staring, the whispers and pointing, baldie behind the bar wouldn’t be the first stranger to recognise him. Daishou can’t even blame the guy, really. A woman goes missing, all eyes turn to the husband. The boyfriend. The ex. He might be a piece of work, depending on who you asked –an asshole, arrogant, a conniving son of a bitch – but hell would freeze over before he’d ever lay a hand on his girl. On any girl. 

So, yeah, he gets why the guy’s staring at him like he’s the scum of the earth. Doesn’t make it any less of a bitter pill to swallow. 

“You planning on ignoring me, then?” 

“Trying to,” he mutters, accepting the drink with a short dip of his chin. The whiskey burns on the way down, warming his chest through. Bottom shelf liquor’s too cheap to enjoy for much else. Daishou closes his eyes, “Leave me alone.”

And that stupid, suit-wearing, smug asshole laughs, and pulls out the seat next to him. 

Fucking terrific.

Kuroo tuts, motioning at the bartender for a drink of his own, “Aw, c’mon. That’s no way to greet an old friend, is it?” He waits a beat for the reaction that doesn’t come, the mirth in his eyes fading somewhat, then sighs. In a more sober voice, he says, “I heard Yotsuya Motors dropped you. I’m sorry, man.”

The muscle in his jaw tightens, his knuckles turning white. Dropped was a good way of putting it. Closer to the truth than the bullshit story they’d peddled online and to the fans, the one wherein Daishou and the Yotsuya Motor Spirits had amicably reached the decision to part ways before the beginning of the new season. 

‘This isn’t a position any of us want to be in, Suguru. You’re a good player, you’ve done well this past season, but you have to consider how this looks for both the team and the V League as a whole. We’re not saying you’ve done anything wrong – of course not – only that the public perception holds weight these days.’

And so it went. He’d sat there, numb, and listened for fifteen minutes while the head coach and upper management explained that him ‘voluntarily’ stepping down was in his best interest. Pretending, all the while, that they were on his side. That they for one second actually believed in his innocence. 

The cowards couldn’t even look him in the eye. 

None of which makes enduring his old rival’s fake fucking sympathy any easier. 

“For what it’s worth,” Kuroo continues, “while you’ve always been a cheating rat bastard, you don’t strike me as the girlfriend murdering kind–”

One minute, his drink is in his hand, the next, he’s hurled it against the wall behind Kuroo’s head, the glass shattering on impact, cheap whiskey sliding down the paint, and Daishou’s on his feet, chest heaving, muscles taut. Hands shaking as they flex and curl around nothing. 

For once, Kuroo’s stunned into absolute silence. 

The whole bar stills, a deathly quiet falling over the room. The other patrons gawk at him, wide eyed and horrified – a violent unravelling they’re eager to glut themselves on – no noise but the forgotten hum of 80’s rock drifting through the speakers. 

No one breathes.

No one moves.

Daishou, shaking, trembling in the cold wake of his own dissipating rage, shudders out a strangled breath. “She’s not–” the words stick in his throat; tight, painful. He forces them out through gritted teeth, “She’s not dead.”

Kuroo, staring back at him with some inscrutable expression, says nothing. Does nothing, aside from slowly lowering his drink – still untouched – down to the bar, as though Daishou hadn’t just pitched a glass tumbler right past his head. At his head, technically. 

“Out,” the bartender snaps after a tense beat, jabbing one thick finger towards the door. “Get the fuck out!”

Daishou can barely hear him over the ringing in his ears. 

“She’s not dead,” he repeats, his voice hoarse. 

Through all of this, it’s the one thought he won’t entertain. No matter how many times he’s hauled back into the police station, or someone recognises him from the news and the dirty looks and whispers start. No matter how much hatred and vitriol and accusations are thrown his way, that thought alone is constant. 

You can’t be dead.

“Out!” 

Daishou doesn’t need to be told a third time. He spares the raven haired bastard one last look on his way out, sneering, and lets the door sweep shut behind him. 

The place was a shithole anyway.

And he can pretend, for a minute or two, that the churning, sick feeling eating away at his insides is the liquor, that the sheen in his eyes is purely due to the icy bite of the wind as he stumbles off in the direction of home.

Too much alcohol flooding his veins, too screwed up to register the prickling on the nape of his neck, or the footsteps that follow after him, down the narrow laneway – a shortcut he’s taken a thousand times.

When the blow comes, striking hard and fast at the back of his head, Daishou drops like a stone.

—

When Daishou was seven years old, he fell out of the tree in his backyard and broke his arm. He also managed to knock himself out – for all of about five seconds.

Long enough to scare the hell out of his parents, anyway. When he woke up, bleary and dazed, his parents hovering over him, Daishou didn’t feel any pain, not immediately. That’d come later, trying not to blubber and wail in the back seat of his dad’s car on the way to the E.R. At first, though, it was just… sort of like being shaken from a deep, deep sleep. Disorientating, more than anything else. 

This isn’t like that at all.

Coming to, all Daishou can focus on is the pain in the back of his skull. His eyes are too heavy to lift, his limbs sluggish and sore. From a dry, cotton mouth, a low groan escapes him.  

At first, he assumes he’s at home – lying sprawled on the bathroom floor, having hurled up his guts through the night. Wouldn’t be the first time, and considering his sorry state, he’d hazard a guess that it wouldn’t be the last, either. 

“Suguru.”

Warmth. A loosening in his chest. Despite the discomfort, the sound of your voice never fails to soothe. In the weeks that you’ve been missing, Daishou’s dreamed of waking up beside you. Of rolling over and cracking an eye open to find you right there, fast asleep and curled up beside him, where you’ve always been. 

Where you’ve always belonged. 

You stir when his fingertips trace along your jaw, smile in that sleepy way of yours, catching his hand, keeping him there. And even in his dream, when there’s no reason for his chest to tighten, a lump to settle in his throat at the sight of you, it does. 

“Suguru, listen to me!” your voice pleads.

There are other dreams, ones where you’re lying on the living room floor surrounded by a pool of blood. There’s a kitchen knife sticking out of your chest, and he’s the one holding it. 

Daishou prefers the ones where you’re alive. Safe. Home with him. 

“You have to wake up.”

Why? He wakes up and you disappear again. Cheek pressed to the cold bathroom tiles, sick to his stomach and head throbbing.

And you still won’t be there.

“Please.” Your voice sounds… different. Not soft and loving, not the sleep tinged murmur he usually hears. “Please, Suguru, you’ve gotta wake up! Open your eyes for me.”

Daishou doesn’t want to. Pounding head or not, he’d stay in the dark with you – your voice, strained as it is – as long as his subconscious would allow. But that’s not a choice he gets to make, leaden lids slowly prying open, squinting under the influx of light.

The first day or two after you disappeared, Daishou convinced himself that despite all the evidence to the contrary, you weren’t gone gone. An accident, a miscommunication, dead phone, fuck, a fight he didn’t remember picking; he clung to any excuse, any explanation that left room for you walking through the door, sheepishly abashed over all the fuss caused. 

He would’ve forgiven you – for anything. 

The days passed, the cops came by, dragged him in for questioning, and Daishou started to realise that you weren’t staying with your parents, or a friend. You weren’t pissed at him for something stupid he did or said. You weren’t coming home on your own. 

Which left the alternative. 

People who disappear like you did; out of the blue, no warning, no trace – they don’t come back unscathed. 

If they come back. 

Daishou’s had weeks now to sit with that – while he drowns himself in bottom shelf whiskey and cheap beer, wallowing in his own fucking misery, you’re going through an unimaginable hell. 

Blinking against the brightness, the room slowly comes into focus, his eyes adjusting, and Daishou’s heart leaps into his throat. He forgets the pain. Forgets that he’s spent weeks – months, now – thinking over every awful eventuality and drinking himself stupid in the process. All he sees is you; sitting up in bed, hair tousled, wearing an old, faded tee two sizes too big, looking the way you do in the dreams he has where you never disappeared. 

“Suguru,” you gasp, the noise choked, halfway to a sob, your wobbling smile mired by the sheen of tears brimming behind your lashes. 

But Daishou doesn’t see that. Doesn’t register it, not as he scrambles forward, his desperation to touch you, feel you, make sure you’re here and you’re real overriding every other sense–

Only for the cold, metal handcuffs hooked from his wrist to the broken radiator to pull taut, jerking him to a stop. 

“… The fuck?” he mutters, eyebrows pinching together in confusion. Experimentally, he tugs on it again. 

It doesn’t budge. 

Daishou swallows, mouth dry, blood running cold, and as this new, unsettling reality takes root, slowly drags his gaze from his cuffed hand back to the bed. To you, watching him with a devastation that has his heart clenching. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong, his subconscious sings, the warning bells tolling, and for the first time since he opened his eyes in this unfamiliar room, Daishou sees you.

The mottled marks of red and purple, fading yellow littered across your exposed collarbone, trailing along your neck. The shadows under bloodshot eyes, the pallor of your skin. 

And Daishou remembers.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him through tears, the words spilling out as though you’re confessing some great, unforgivable sin. “It’s my fault, Suguru. It’s all my fault.”

His mouth opens – all that comes out is a strangled rasp of your name, which only serves to make you cry harder, shoulders shaking and a hand clamped over your lips to stifle them. 

Daishou’s never wanted to wake up from a nightmare so badly. He’s never wanted so desperately to pinch himself and prove he’s not dreaming.

But at the sound of footsteps approaching, a change sweeps over you. You stiffen, freezing for the briefest of moments before you hastily set about wiping away the evidence of tears, shooting him a pleading, desperate look he doesn’t really understand.

Not until the deadbolt clicks and the door swings open, and Daishou’s confronted with the man who took everything from him.

One by one, the pieces fall into place with horrifying clarity. 

The bar, their ‘chance’ meeting, all that goading– ‘For what it’s worth, while you’ve always been a cheating rat bastard, you don’t strike me as the girlfriend murdering kind.’ 

A small, insane part of him wants to laugh hysterically.

He settles for a baser instinct. Strains against the chain at his wrist, face twisted into a feral snarl, and hisses, “You fucking asshole.”

Kuroo’s eyes crinkle with a grin, but his attention doesn’t remain on Daishou for long. On cue, you shuffle to the edge of the bed, shoulders low and eyes glistening. “I-I’m sorry, Tetsurou,” you murmur, meek and demure.  

The fucker laps it right up. Coos as he makes his way over, disregarding his other captive entirely. Two long fingers curl beneath your chin, tilting it upwards. He holds you there, lets his thumb brush along your lower lip. You shiver, and that too he greedily drinks in. 

He doubts very much that Kuroo’s forgotten about him, yet the way he stares at you – insatiable, a craving that goes too deep, a yearning too consuming – and you back at him, Daishou may as well have been invisible 

A wave of disgust seeps through his bones, tainting his blood, curdling in his stomach – but he doesn’t look away. He can’t bear that, either. 

When Kuroo finally decides to close that gap and kiss you, you don’t offer a shred of hesitation. You surrender to it, breath hitching when he catches your lip between his teeth and nips at it– 

(The way you used to when he’d do the same.)

–and when he breaks away, a strand of his spit still connecting you, and moves to cup your tear stained cheek, you nuzzle into him, peppering soft little kisses to his palm.

“I know, sweetheart,” he drawls, his voice a touch deeper, clearly affected by how sweetly you’re trying to pacify him. “But actions gotta have consequences. I warned you what’d happen if you brought him up again,” he pauses, and chuckles a little, “and you know I’m too much of a jealous bastard to let that kinda stuff slide.”

Hooded, hazel eyes flicker back to him, pinning him in place. The amusement in Kuroo’s face fades, leaving behind a blistering cold contempt as he regards his old high school rival. 

Daishou sneers back. 

“You said you loved him.”

“I don’t,” comes the immediate response. Too quick. 

Kuroo scoffs. “You still mumble his damn name in your sleep. He the one you’re imagining when I’m buried inside of you, making you cum, sweetheart?”

You’re fucking right it is, you piece of shit, Daishou thinks viciously. The words themselves sit on the tip of his tongue, prideful and sharp, itching to be inflicted. Damn the consequences, he might’ve said it just to see the look on that bastard’s face – except Kuroo isn’t even looking his way. Isn’t paying him the slightest bit of attention, idly toying with a lock of your hair as if you aren’t clutching at him, eyes betraying your panic like a deer in headlights, and Daishou feels sick all over again. 

What the fuck is wrong with him?

“N-no, of course not!”

“No?” Kuroo’s brow arches upwards. “You sure ‘bout that?”

There’s no answer you can give that’ll convince him, yet silence proves equally damning. You seem to realise as much, mouth opening and closing as you try and fail to conjure up the right words to diffuse the situation. Kuroo offers you no out, letting you dig your own grave with the shovel he’s given you, taking some kind of sick satisfaction in your distress. 

Unable to summon anything more than a choked squeak, you stretch upwards again, a delicate hand on his jaw, and kiss him. The action is desperate and clumsy, borne from panic over passion or affection. Kuroo accepts it eagerly all the same, one arm snaking around your waist to draw you closer – or rather, to keep you from slipping away ‘til he’s had his fill of your lips. “I love you,” you murmur against him. “Only you.”

Though they’re shaky, the words stand stronger than those that came before. 

His nose nudges against your own, a look of contentment gracing his features. “Not yet, but we’ll get you there. On your knees, pretty girl.”

Your face crumples in dismay, lips parting only to fall shut with an audible click. As Kuroo’s grip on you loosens, you obediently slide off the bed and onto your knees.

“Arms up.”

Trembling like a leaf and looking faintly ill, you obey, letting him tug your shirt – his shirt, from the looks of it – up and over your head, carelessly tossing it aside. And though you flinch, biting down on your bottom lip, eyes glossy, burning with shame and humiliation, you don’t make a move to cover yourself.

You must know better.

His blood roars, heart thundering violently against his ribs. There’s no pretending he doesn’t see the love bites and bruises spanning your chest, nor the smug, triumphant look in that fucker’s eyes when he notices Daishou looking, his body tensed, shaking with barely contained fury. 

Kuroo strokes your cheek, “Keep your eyes on me. Just you ‘n me, yeah?”

You nod. Without prompting you reach for his belt, the clinking of metal and the hiss of Kuroo’s zipper rattling in his skull, the deep, husky groan that slips from his lips when your fingers slide into his pants and curl around his cock, pulling it out.

“Good girl,” he purrs.

Daishou doesn’t want to watch you kiss a trail from Kuroo’s navel down to his cock. He doesn’t want to see the way your thumb swirls along the head of his dick, smearing his pre only for your tongue to follow its path, lapping it right up.

He doesn’t wanna watch you lick your lips, lean in and suck Kuroo’s cock like a well trained slut while he palms at your tits, but between the rage and disgust and the nausea crawling up the back of his throat, Daishou’s frozen in place.

Guided by the not-so-gentle grip he has on the back of your hair, you take more of him into your mouth with every bob of your head, your other hand diligently working away at what doesn’t fit. He allows it for a minute or two, watching you try your best to take all of him with a hiss of pleasure.

Eventually, though, greed wins out. Kuroo’s hips cant forward, bucking past your lips to force his cock deeper, grazing the back of your throat. Eyes widening, you make a surprised noise and try to pull back, allow yourself a little breathing room to set a pace you're comfortable with, but Kuroo’s having none of it. He growls once in warning, grip tightening around your hair, holding you in place, and begins to fuck your face in earnest.

“That’s my good – little – whore,” he grunts, each word punched out with another cruel thrust of his hips. 

The sounds of you gagging on the dick in your mouth, your choked little whines and whimpers burn through Daishou like wildfire, igniting something deep. A faint stirring in his gut he wishes, more than anything, he could smother entirely. 

He doesn’t look away. 

It’s only when the lack of oxygen becomes too much and you claw at Kuroo’s thighs, tears streaming down your face that he finally relents, letting you pop off his dick with a heaving gasp. With nothing else to tether you, you collapse against his legs, boneless and panting, your eyes fluttering shut. 

They crack open, however, looking up when his hand comes to a rest on the crown of your head, “Say it again. I want to hear it.” 

The demand takes a moment to process, but you swallow and tell him what he wants to hear. “I love you, Tetsu. More than anyone.”

He grins, lazily stroking your hair, “I know, sweetheart. Now c’mon, up on the bed. I’ve been been dreaming of your perfect little pussy all day, wanna fuck you properly.”

—

Hours pass. Half a day, a day. Maybe longer. There’s no light down here, no windows to track the path of the sun, the shadows creeping across the floor, but he can feel the endless drag of seconds and minutes ticking like a slow suffocation. 

After fucking you to the edge of exhaustion, Kuroo had carried you out, cradled to his chest like something precious, and left him alone in the dark. 

Left Daishou to scream and rage and cry like a fucking baby. It doesn’t help any. His bones and muscles ache, the skin of his wrist rubbed raw trying to move to a position that doesn’t scream with discomfort, the cold, unforgiving floor beneath him offering no relief. Mere feet away lies the bed Kuroo fucked you on, with its pillows and blankets, soft, plush mattress.

With his eyes adjusting to the complete lack of light, Daishou can only make out a vague shape in the darkness. In some kind of fucked up way, he decides it’s a blessing in disguise.

Being able to see the bed’s another cruelty, the promise of comfort and warmth when he’s shivering and cold and lying in his own filth, placed just out of reach. And while the thought of lying in the sheets he’d fucked you in (raped you in, a voice reminds him) makes his stomach turn, he’s not so sure that given the chance, he wouldn’t shove those thoughts aside for a soft reprieve and a few hours of rest.

Some messed up part of him wonders if the pillows and sheets still smell like you.

So no, it’s a good thing he can’t really see the bed, or the door, or much of anything, really.

Besides, it isn’t the hunger pangs or the lack of sleep or the dull, throbbing pain from his joints that bother him the most, it’s the feeling of inhaling razor blades doused in fire he’s subjected to with every shallow, rattling breath. The last taste of water he’d had… would’ve been before the bar, however long ago that was. Too long. More than a warm bed, more than food or freedom from the cuff around his wrist, Daishou thinks he’d just about kill for a single sip of water to wet his throat. 

More than likely, that’s the whole fucking point. 

Left to rot in the darkness, Daishou has plenty of time on his hands to think, musing over the bed in this little windowless room, and the other door he suspects must lead to a bathroom. That asshole went to some effort in getting him here, he’ll admit, but he doubts all this was solely for his benefit.

You were here when he came to; obviously he’d kept you down here, the question was for how long? Did he keep you chained up and hungry in the dark when you wouldn’t play nice? The way you’d melted for him, the affection, the goddamn look in your eyes when you’d said that bastard’s fucking name–

The fear that’d shone there when you’d said his. 

Daishou knows from the depths of whatever’s left of him, that he could never, ever hate you. If he starves to death alone down here, if you’re the one to plunge a dagger into his heart yourself, if you forget all about him and buy into the delusional fucking nightmare that psychotic prick keeps peddling, he’d love you. That much is immutable.

But hatred’s too soft a word for the thorn riddled vines that sprout and twist inside of him, ripping away at muscle and flesh, choking his organs, his veins, everything that he is – because of Kuroo. 

When he hears those footsteps again, the clicking of the altogether unnecessary locks, Daishou can’t help the wide grin that cracks at his face. “Was wonderin’ when you’d come back down to gloat,” he croaks, manages a laugh too, though it feels like dragging his vocal cords over sandpaper.

Having flicked the light switch on (half blinding Daishou in the process) Kuroo fixes him with a sardonic smirk. “Missing me already?”

“Hate waiting around.”

“Ah well, what can I say? I had better things to do.” His smirk broadens, a cruel glint under too bright fluorescent light as he plops himself down on the bed Daishou’s been doing his utmost to ignore and stretches out, rolling his shoulder and neck. “Prettier things.”

A stab of something dark and ugly wrenches between his ribs. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he spits through cracked, dry lips, and before he can think better of it, adds, “Mommy didn’t love you enough, Kuroo? That what this is?”

Kuroo doesn’t snap the way he expects him to. He doesn’t lash out like he would’ve when they were hot headed teenagers desperate to grind the other into the dirt and lord it over them. The muscle in his jaw jumps and his eyes narrow, sharpen – but his expression is quick to smooth over. Water off a duck’s back. He lets out an amused snort, rising from the bed. 

“Y’know, as entertaining as it was watching you self-destruct, losing your volleyball career, your fans, friends, all those nights you spent searching for her at the bottom of a bottle – and it was entertaining, believe me – I think I like this better.” 

A short, sharp burst of pain. Warm copper spills over his tongue. 

“You’re not gonna survive this. Even you’re smart enough to have realised that much.” He crouches down low, at eye-level, just out of reach, appraising him with a tilted head – as though Daishou’s some whimpering puppy at the pound. 

Daishou’s not a fucking puppy. 

“Most likely it’ll be the dehydration that kills you first,” Kuroo continues. “That only takes a few days, but with water, you could probably make it two, three weeks before your body starves itself to death – plenty of time for your muscles to begin to atrophy, which’ll be painful as hell, not to mention how bad the isolation’s gonna fuck you up. And who knows, maybe I’ll be nice and bring you something to drink every now and then, throw you some scraps from dinner. I might even let you out of those cuffs for an hour or two, so you can walk around down here, stretch those legs of yours before they completely shrivel up… But you won’t see her again, ever.”

Scowling and hateful, Daishou spits at Kuroo and bares bloody teeth. 

Kuroo wants to treat him like a dog, fine – but wolves gnaw through flesh and bone to free themselves from hunting traps, and he ain’t about to just keel over with a whimper and make this easy for him.

“Go fuck yourself.”

Tension crackles through the air like an oncoming storm. 

Daishou falls back against the radiator, breathing heavy and Kuroo wipes at his cheek with the pad of his thumb and huffs out a dry laugh, eyeing the bloody digit. Looking back at Daishou, he stands. “You look thirsty, I’ll go get you some water. Can’t have you croaking on us just yet.”

He’ll bite his fucking throat out if he has to. 

#seijorhi #yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo x reader #repost #rec #so good #mwah

[faerielotus]

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙ FRESH ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

KYOUTANI x READER

tw : murder, violence, blood, gore, smut

You’re not surprised when he slides into bed without a word. Being talkative isn’t something that you’d associate with Kentaro, especially with it being so late. What’s surprising is the distance between the two of you. He’s close, but not close enough for you to turn over and face him, to hold him. It’s a strange new practice for him. A pattern you’ve seen repeating the last couple of days.

Nonetheless it still confuses you. You know he likes to touch you, feel that you’re there; the same as you. You enjoy the way he hooks his arm over your waist, holding you tight to his chest. The sound of him slightly out of breath when he first joins you in bed, most likely from shuffling up the stairs of your rickety apartment building. But most of all you enjoy the way he smells. He always manages to smell fresh, even when he was covered in sweat from moving in the sofa that was way too big for your living room, but that you insisted on buying; or another time when he came back home, holding a hoodie covered in red splotches. Even the metallic smell was overpowered by the smell of him ingrained into your apartment.

You love everything about the man beside you. That’s why it’s so strange to you. How you know he feels the same way, but is still so far away from you. His distance continues to plague your mind. That is until he sighs, not irritated but not relaxed. Yes, you find the whole predicament strange until he sighs, scoots closer to you and holds you tight, resting his head on your neck. That’s when you forget how strange it is, and start to think about him, how he feels, how he sounds, and how he smells.

You’ve been laughing for what feels like ten minutes. One joke from Matsuwaka growing into his own personal comedy show. You can’t hear anything else anybody’s saying. Not even the music from the back of the club thrumming through your body is truly reaching you. Your drink has almost fallen out of your hands more than once, quickly being saved by the brunette sitting besides you.

You finally calm down, taking a swig from your drink and inhaling a big breathe of air. You look over to Matsuwaka, readying yourself for his next barrage of wisecracks when you notice that he’s looking over you.

You turn around and see three tall men all maneuvering through the crowds of people towards the two of you. Their attire matches the clothes that Matsuwaka is wearing, a fancy, if not slightly disheveled suit. You take brief notice of the fact that their eyes are on you, or at least shifting between you and the man you were having a conversation with. Your eyes, however, are focused on only one of those men. With a buzzcut that’s been bleached blonde and a mean look on his face you feel like shying away. His tanned skin absorbs the colors of the club lights. Over his suit he’s wearing a clashing leather jacket and overall looks a bit mean.

You realize how long you’ve been staring when they get closer, and the blonde cocks his eyebrow at you. You turn back towards Matsuwaka and nurse your drink.

“Issei.” The brunette in the middle of the three men speaks up when they reach the bar.

“Oikawa.” Matsuwaka says in a drawn out fashion, almost teasing the man in front of him. “I was coming back, I just needed something to drink”

“We can see that!” A strawberry blonde on the side of Oikawa pipes up. He yells over the loud noises of the crowd while staring at you. “My names Hanamaki, but my pals call me Makki!” He’s leaning over now and holding out his hand for you to shake.

You take his hand and introduce yourself. He slowly drops his hand from yours and looks at Matsuwaka with a sly smirk on his face.

The atmosphere is laid back, but you can’t help but feel awkward stuck between these men in suits.

“I’m sorry if I stole him,” you start, looking up to Oikawa. “The both of us were waiting for our drinks when I started a conversation.” You brush a stray hair back, one that you missed with your bobby pin when rushing out the house to meet your friends.

He looks over to you with a smile. “You’re all fine sweetheart. This one right here is responsible for himself.” That got a laugh out of you, and the angry man standing by his side focused his eyes on you. “He’s still got some work to do though, so we’re gonna have to steal him back.”

“Come on, Oikawa, I can’t leave a girl like her on her own here.” Matsuwaka said, feigning a pout and grabbing your hand.

Oikawa dramatically sucked air through his teeth and sighed. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” Oikawa shifted on his foot and turned towards the cross blonde next to him. “Well, Kyoutani already did his job for the night,” he faced forward again and smiled “Why don’t you keep the pretty girl some company Kyo-kun.”

Kyoutani stared at you with a glare and you stared back, looking at him more closely. His scowl didn’t make him any less handsome. His face was strong and his skin was glowing underneath the light. He was lean, but you could tell that underneath his suit he was toned. You looked back over to Matsuwaka who had an incredulous look on his face.

“‘Kawa, you know that’s not what I meant man.”

Oikawa’s grin widened even more. “Kyo-kun take Matsuwaka’s seat for me.” On the side of Oikawa, Makki snickered and hid his face in his elbow.

Matsuwaka grumbled as he shifted out of his seat. Kyoutani dropped himself onto it and motioned for the bartender.

“We’ll see you later Kyo-kun.” Oikawa said as he and the rest of the men walked off, arm draped over Matsuwaka’s shoulder.

You turned your body towards the bar, but kept your head facing the man beside you. Ignoring his rough look you were somewhat entranced by him. Everything from his appearance to his smell was strangely attractive to you. He started to order a drink when he looked to you.

“Do you want another?” He motioned to your drink, still with a glare on his face. You nodded with a smile and he finished ordering.

You asked him a couple of questions, mainly about Matsuwaka, how they met, their friend group, but also about him. That seemed to loosen him up enough for his brows to relax.

“And you?” He asked as the bartender set your drinks in front of you both.

“What questions are you asking me?” You said with a dopey smile.

“Anything.” He responded after taking a second to gulp his drink. His short answers made you realize how little interest he has. No, not that, how little he likes to talk. He seemed engaged even with his limited amount of interactions. That, like so many of his other qualities attracted you.

“Well,” you started, leaning your elbow on the bartop. “I think you’re hot.” You tilted your head, resting your hand on his knee.

You saw him take a small gulp and you laughed at that. He stared at his drink until he picked it up and downed the rest. He swallowed and turned to look at you again.

“Yeah?” That was the first time you saw him smile.

You wonder if you really got everything you needed. You didn’t want to head back to the store for something small. Thinking about calling Kentaro to check the kitchen, you decided to brush the idea off, remembering he left earlier that morning.

You sighed, shifting and moving your grocery bags around in your arms. You felt like you haven’t talked to him in so long, the last form of contact between you too being a kiss on your forehead as he slid out of bed. You made your way into the lobby of your apartment and up the stairs. You couldn’t tell why he was acting the way he was. You just knew that something was wrong.

Just like how you knew something was wrong when you opened the door to your shared apartment to see clothes caked in blood on the floor. You couldn’t feel your bags dropping from your hold. All you felt was fear. It doesn’t take much time for you to run into your bedroom at all.

What takes time is your realization. The realization that Kentaro’s completely fine. Wearing black joggers with his shirt stripped off, a towel hanging off his shoulder, he turns to look at you. He has a cut on his lip, but his face has no emotion. He just keeps staring at you, not a single word passing between you too.

You look down. “What happened Ken.” You look back towards the living room, motioning towards his discarded pile of clothes, already seeping into the carpet. “What happened to you.” You turned back to him taking a couple steps forward.

“Nothing.” He says turning back around, back facing you. “Some asshole had too much to say at a meeting.”

You weren’t sure what type of work Kentaro and his friends were in, but the past couple of years gave you some insight as to how violent it could be. “Kentaro,” you said demandingly. “Your clothes are soaked in blood.” You finally got close enough to him to turn him around and you noted how tense he was.

He stared down at you, this time you could see something in his face. “Are you scared of me?” He whispered.

You were taken aback, but kept your hand on his shoulder and the other on his face. “No,” you turned your head at him and frowned. “Why would you think that.”

He takes a breath, whether it’s relief or him trying to compose himself you can’t tell. He pulls your hands from him and pulls you into an embrace, inhaling your scent.

“Not important,” he finally says, toying with the bottom of your shirt. “Just help me real quick.” He kisses you, beginning to lift the bottom of your shirt, you’re distracted from the look on his face.

You can’t think about how scared he looked when he’s fumbling with your bra, grunting into your neck when you reach down to pull his sweats off.

You can’t think of anything else except the way he’s touching you, and the fresh scent coming off of him from washing off the grime and blood of a tough day.

You didn’t think you were going to go

home with the indifferent man who sat beside you for half a night, but you couldn’t deny the strong feeling of euphoria from between your legs as Kentaro slammed his hips against yours.

He grunted as he lifted your legs over his and lowered himself closer to your face, hands intertwined with yours. He moved his lips against yours and you moaned. He cursed and pulled away, biting your lip in the process.

He moved his hand down your body and you mewled, thrusting against him.

“Fuck!” He shouted, touching you, and dipping his head. You grabbed his shoulder with your free hand, trying to urge him closer. “You want me, baby?” you nodded, squinting your eyes closed and moaning. “Yeah, you want me.”

He moved his hand from you, up your body, resting on your breast for a moment, before he harshly gripped your throat. “Kyo-” you tried to say, but were overpowered by his strength and the urge to moan.

You arched your back, still trying to get closer to him. He finally caught on to the way you were flexing, and kissed you hard. He continued to pump himself in and out of you, taking time to grind into you causing you to release cut-off moans and gasps.

“Come on, baby, cum for me.” He tightened his grip on your throat, dragging his face along your neck and thrusting harder. He pushes you closer and you squeezed his hand, shaking and squeezing his cock.

“Kyo…tani” you croak, but he’s not listening, he’s pounding into you harder, holding you tighter, and now kissing you rougher.

He was close to losing control, almost crushing you with his strength, but he held back. He held back until he came, cumming inside of you and growling into your ear.

You both were out of breath but he continued thrusting into you. It took a moment for him to settle down, releasing his tight grip on you and collapsing on top of you. He rolled to the side and held you, tucking his face into your neck, taking big breaths.

You were tired and still catching your breath when you thanked yourself for going out tonight.

He gripped you tighter, kissing your neck.

He murmured. “You smell good.”

You sat still, tears slowly running down your face as the recent events of the day replayed through your mind.

Kyoutani stood in front of the counter, in between your legs, drying your washed face with a towel, and trying his best to avoid your blooming bruises and aching cuts.

You know he’s thinking the same thing as you. Probably thinking about how he bashed in the head of the man who cornered you during an afternoon outing with his friends. He was probably thinking about how scared you looked when he saw the dickhead from earlier that week groping you. You know he was thinking about if you were okay when the asshole started getting rough when you tried brushing past him.

Kyoutani set the towel down and sighed. He reached for you and you shied away. He ignored it and held your face in his hands.

“I killed for you.” He said. Staring you in the eyes and assessing the damage done to your face. You didn’t say anything and more tears rolled down your face. He tilted his head and took a moment to really look at you.

You thought about his question from a couple days ago. The fear in his eyes when he asked it. His bloodied clothes, now tossed away, probably living in some dump. Your assailant, and his bandaged body and furious face.

“He had it coming for a long time. He kept messing with me and my boys.” You couldn’t tell what he was trying to say to you. Was he trying to explain his actions, soothe you? Was he trying to convince you that his murderous rage was an outcome of the dead man’s actions and not his own violent tendencies? You didn’t care.

All that you knew was that you were scared. You were scared of your boyfriend. You loved him, but he terrified you. You started to sob. Wails escaping you as you replayed the moment when he repeatedly threw the head of the random man against a brick wall, not stopping until his skull was shattered, spilling out his most vital organ onto the pavement you both stood on.

Kyoutani didn’t try to hug you. He didn’t try to comfort you. Not even in that traumatic moment. He just picked you up and walked away, leaving his friends to clean the mess.

Kyoutani was never good at talking. Not even now. He just kept staring at you. “Are you scared of me?” He said, reaching for your face.

He didn’t look afraid this time. He looked tired, and serious. He looked like he already knew the answer and was just asking to ask.

You still didn’t say anything. Your hiccuping cries were enough of an answer for him.

He sighed and picked you up, carrying you to your shared bedroom. He laid you down onto the bed and after taking a moment to undress joined you. He hovered over you as you continued crying.

“I can still smell that dickhead’s cologne on you.” You didn’t know what to say to that either, you just kept still underneath him. He reached for the buttons on your dress and you stayed still.

You realized he was trying to get the smell off of you. He was almost scared of it.

The same way you were scared of the way he smelled. Not the fresh scent that you adored, but the metallic and almost deathly smell of blood.

This was my first fic!! I originally posted it on my other account, but I made that my personal blog. I also posted it on AO3 under Faerie_Lotus. Please please please!! Tell me what you guys think 「(°ヘ°)

#kyoutani kentarou #kyoutani kentaro x reader #mad dog x reader #Yandere!Kyoutani Kentaro #Yandere #fanfic #read the trigger warnings #first fic #haikyuu