The Thing That Many Writers, Including Myself, Forget About First Drafts Is That They're The Author's

Letterman Jacket 🏐

Hey so I really like your writing. Your fics are so inspiring...! Can I pretty please request a fic about Kita catching Reader off guard with a blunt love confession?? 🙏 I'd love to see what you come up with!

Aw inspiring?!! That is so sweet!! I love that I am what people were for me when I started writing (about 5 years ago!) so never give up and be proud of any work you make!! I hope you enjoy <333

--

Confessions: Kita

The thing about Kita Shinsuke is that he never does anything without purpose.

He speaks with intention, moves with care, and rarely—if ever—lets emotion get the better of him. He is dependable to a fault, calm even in the most chaotic situations, and as predictable as a rising sun. Which is why, when he turns to you one spring afternoon and says, "I’m in love with you," you nearly choke on your drink.

The two of you are sitting beneath the shade of a wide camphor tree near the back of the school, where the grass grows a little taller and the breeze feels like a secret only you two share. The breeze is soft, the air warm and sweet with the scent of new blossoms. You’d come out here to eat lunch together—something that had become a quiet ritual between you and Kita. No crowds, no noise. Just the two of you, sharing space, swapping stories, occasionally falling into long stretches of silence that never felt awkward. He always brings homemade bento boxes, neatly packed, and you bring snacks or something small to share.

You blink at him, unsure if you heard right. "Sorry—what?"

Kita is still looking at you, expression as steady and unreadable as ever. He’s holding a rice ball in one hand, his bento sitting neatly in his lap. "I said I’m in love with you."

There’s no hesitation. No blush. Just the plain delivery of truth—as if he’s pointing out the weather, or commenting on the quality of the rice today.

You nearly drop the bottle of tea in your hand. "Kita," you breathe, searching his face for a trace of humor or a tell that he’s messing with you. But he’s not. Of course he’s not.

Your heart stutters. "You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere, you know."

He tilts his head slightly. "Why not?"

"Because—" You flail for a second, grasping for something clever to say, something to make sense of the heat rising to your cheeks. "Because it’s—surprising."

Kita hums, thoughtfully chewing. "I didn’t think it would be. We spend time together. You bring me pickled plums even when I don’t ask. You save the last piece of tamagoyaki for me, even though it’s your favorite. You walk me to the gate every day, even when you’re running late. I thought maybe you felt the same."

You sputter, caught between the instinct to deny and the overwhelming realization that he’s right. You do all those things, and more. You always look for him in a crowded room. You always listen when he speaks, no matter how quiet his voice. You think about him in between classes, after practice, before bed. He’s right.

He continues, voice soft but sure. "You don’t have to say anything right now. I just thought it was time I told you."

And with that, he turns his gaze back to the tree branches swaying above you, like he didn’t just tilt your entire world on its axis. He takes another bite of his rice ball, completely composed, like he hadn’t just carved a confession into the air and left it hanging between you.

You sit in stunned silence for a moment longer, the breeze tugging gently at your sleeves. Everything feels quieter now. The breeze, the rustling branches, the distant sound of other students laughing in the courtyard—it all fades into a soft, blurred background. Your fingers tighten slightly around the tea bottle in your lap.

You steal a glance at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s perfectly calm, patient, and somehow that makes your chest ache more than if he’d confessed with nervous laughter or flushed cheeks. There’s no doubt, no need for reassurance. He meant it.

You reach over, plucking a stray leaf from his shoulder. You don’t know why—it just gives your hands something to do.

"You’re unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head.

He glances at you, eyes curious but unbothered. "Is that a good thing?"

You let out a soft laugh, one that feels lighter than it should considering your heart is still racing in your chest. "I don’t even know. You really just said that like you were telling me we had PE next period."

He shrugs. "I meant it. I don’t think it needs to be complicated."

And you know he’s right again. Kita doesn’t dress things up. He doesn’t make things harder than they need to be. He doesn’t hide behind games or fear or doubt. He just is.

You look down at your lunch, your appetite forgotten. You can’t stop thinking about the things he said. The way he noticed your little habits. The way he didn’t need you to answer right away. The way he didn’t waver.

When you finally meet his eyes again, there’s a warmth blooming in your chest—slow and full, like sunlight rising through clouds.

"I’m in love with you too, you idiot," you say, and your voice is so quiet, so soft, that you almost expect him to miss it.

But he doesn’t.

Kita Shinsuke turns to you fully then, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiles.

Really, truly smiles.

And just like everything else he does, it’s quiet, intentional, and completely disarming.

He reaches for your hand—not suddenly, not dramatically, but gently, deliberately—and your fingers lace together like they were always meant to. You sit that way for a long time, the afternoon stretching endlessly before you, the breeze curling around your ankles, the scent of spring growing thicker with each passing minute.

Neither of you says much after that. You don’t need to.

Some things are better left to the quiet.

And Kita, as always, knows exactly what silence means.

Broken Telephone Pt.1

You talk too much and have no shame. You later find out Kugisaki can’t keep a secret.

Chaos ensues.

It was a normal day.

Well, as normal as it could be at a school for sorcerers.

You’d just finished a long, obscene amount of useless classes that in no way would help you in the future as you sat on the steps of the school’s entrance, feeling the sun hit your face. The spring weather was nice, sun shining and heat settling in, with cool breezes of wind to neutralize it. The sound of the wind through the trees was calming.

Even though you couldn’t hear any of it due to Kugisaki’s talking.

You didn’t mind it though. In a school with a shockingly small amount of students, and an even smaller first-year class, you liked the empty spaces to be filled with noise. Kugisaki and Itadori did that well.

The silence was boring anyway.

“-I swear he’s so childish, there’s a reason why girls don’t like him you know.” You zone in on her irritated voice, taking a sip from the drink you bought from the vending machine.

Ah right. She was complaining about Itadori. What about him, though, you couldn’t remember. Maybe it was about the sudden revival from the dead, but honestly, it’s a toss-up at this point.

“Girls don’t like him? I mean he’s childish sure, but they’re are plenty of girls who like that.” Despite the fiery personality of Kugisaki, you, on the other hand, were much the calmer side, more cool-headed you could say. Of course, there are moments where you lose said cool, but for the most part, you’d consider yourself a pacifist.

This is ironic considering your livelihood at the moment is killing curses.

Maybe that’s why you and Kugisaki got along so well. Well, that and the fact that you two were the only girls in first-year, and like she said, ‘Us girls gotta stay together. Can’t have the boys running the show’ which you do agree with. In the jujutsu world there aren’t many respected female sorcerers, and Kugisaki intends to change that. Along with Maki-senpai.

You found it admirable. But you personally wouldn’t go through the trouble. Fame and demanded respect from others you didn’t care about wasn’t something you were exactly interested in.

“Hah? Really? Well, would you date him?” You go to respond, but pause. She had a good point. Now, you didn’t have any problems with Itadori, even though he swallowed a special-grade cursed object, that was a little weird.

Okay, a lot weird.

But for the most part, he was just a friend. You did care a lot for him surprisingly when he ‘died’ you were sadder than you expected yourself to be, and a lot angrier when he was found alive, but honestly…

He simply didn’t do it for you.

“Nah, he isn’t my type.” You say causally, taking another sip of your drink. Kugisaki quirks her brow.

“What is your type then?” She asks, slyly studying you, probably trying to make sure that you don’t lie. Your form stays relaxed as you think about it. A person immediately pops in your head and without thinking you blurt it out.

“Someone like Fushiguro. How about you?” The sentence makes the chill atmosphere, or as chill as it could be with someone like Kugisaki, break in an instant.

“What?! You can’t just drop a bomb like that and try to pass it off!” Your eyes widen as she gets inches away from your face. The flame in her eyes was so close you could practically feel the heat coming off them.

“Fushiguro?! You like him?!” You start to sweat a little at the accusing tone in her voice, the pressure making your heart suddenly beat ten times faster. You could imagine this is how criminals feel when being interrogated.

“Uh… Yeah? I mean, what’s not the like? He’s attractive, smart, and puts himself before others.” You start to list off, stopping when you hear a ‘tch’ of disapproval. Honestly, you could’ve listed dozens of other reasons. Though you’ve only known him for a couple of months, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t fallen hard, probably more than you’re letting on right now. You blush slightly at your thoughts, but Kugisaki doesn’t seem to notice.

“And I here I thought you had good taste. You’re into guys who act all high mighty, and who probably likes to light oil slicks on fire or kick stray cats when no ones watching. I can’t trust anyone these days.” Her voice turns dramatically sad, and you snort at the strangely detailed insult.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with Fushiguro, I’m just saying that he’s not bad to look at. That’s all.” Also wanting to be around him constantly, and get to look at him whenever I want.

Now, you don’t know whether this was a good trait or a bad trait, honestly, it was a gamble at times, but you’re comfortable, you’re absolutely shameless. And while it can be good in some situations, you’ll realize soon enough that this would be your downfall.

Kugisaki starts to make a lot of choked sounds, and before she dies of a heart attack, you decide to take the conversation off you. “Ok then, if I have shitty taste and you’re the queen in choosing partners, what’s you’re type?” Like a cartoon, her mood flips in an instant, and you listen to her ramble about her standards and how most people probably aren’t good enough for her. It was entertaining, to say the least, but when the sun started the set and the cooling breeze got uncomfortable, you both decided to call it night.

You didn’t think much of your confession, for lack of a better word. But little did you know that this ‘confession’ was going to bite you in the ass.

Colour practice with gojo :D

Pregnancy: Yaku

It was supposed to be one of your favorites.

Yaku stood proudly in front of the stove, dishing up a steaming plate of oyakodon—fluffy egg, juicy chicken, perfectly seasoned rice. You’d been craving something warm and comforting, and he’d been more than happy to oblige. He even made miso soup on the side, garnished just the way you liked it, with the little tofu cubes floating lazily in the bowl. The apartment smelled like soy sauce and dashi, rich and nostalgic.

You waddled into the kitchen with one hand on your lower back, the other absentmindedly tracing the edge of your growing bump, already smiling at the scent you knew so well.

But then—

It hit you.

The smell.

Hard.

You stopped short. The smile slipped from your face. Your nose crinkled, your eyes went wide, and your stomach lurched.

You gagged once, loud and sudden.

Yaku turned from the stove instantly, eyes narrowing with alarm. “Hey—are you okay?”

You waved him off, trying to speak, trying to play it off like you could power through it.

“Yeah, I just—” You gagged again, louder this time, one hand flying to your mouth. “It’s fine, I think I just need a second—”

Then your stomach gave up entirely.

The rich scent of simmered egg and soy sauce suddenly turned rancid in your senses, and before you could say a word, both hands flew to your mouth. You staggered toward the sink, breathing hard through your nose.

Yaku turned just in time to watch you sprint the rest of the way.

You barely made it. Gripping the edges of the basin, you gagged violently, doubling over as your body heaved with no warning. Your knees buckled slightly from the effort, and tears sprang to your eyes as you fought to keep control.

“Oh—oh my god,” Yaku choked out, dropping the plate onto the counter with a sharp clatter. His hand hovered midair, frozen, like he wasn’t sure if he should run toward you or flee entirely.

He chose you.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” he said, voice slightly high-pitched, his mouth tugging awkwardly to one side as he fought against his visible discomfort. His nose wrinkled despite himself, but he pressed a hand to your back, rubbing slow, shaky circles. “It’s okay. Just breathe. You got it.”

You were sobbing before you even lifted your head.

“I loved that dish,” you wailed, tears streaming freely now. “You made it perfectly and I—I threw up in front of you, and I can’t even eat it now, and I’m so sorry—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said quickly, helping you upright and handing you a cool cloth from the fridge. “None of that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You wiped your mouth, sniffling. “But I ruined dinner.”

He glanced warily at the plate, now abandoned and beginning to cool. “Yeah, well, it’s not my best memory of oyakodon anymore, but that’s fine. It’ll survive.”

You hiccupped a wet laugh. “You’re grossed out.”

“I’m... challenged,” he admitted with a strained smile. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll gag quietly in the corner if I have to.”

You buried your face in his shoulder. “I hate that my body’s doing this. I hate that I wanted something so badly and then just—rejected it like that.”

He stroked your back, gentler now. “It’s not rejection. It’s just... a rebranding.”

You pulled back slightly, puffy-eyed. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said, tipping your chin up, “that we’re finding new favorites now. So tell me what you can stomach, and I’ll make it happen.”

You hesitated.

“…You’re not gonna like it.”

“I just watched you throw up mid-step and I stayed. Try me.”

“…Pickles.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

“With peanut butter.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And crushed ice.”

He blinked. “Separate or…?”

“Side dish.”

“Of course.”

“And I want a plain bagel. But I want to dip it in cream cheese and ketchup.”

He exhaled. “Naturally.”

“And maybe some frozen corn niblets? Not cooked. Just... straight from the freezer.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Making a list.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupted, already walking to the counter. “Because you’re growing a whole human, and apparently that human is very specific.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Even if I hate this list.”

And with that, he kissed your temple, grabbed his keys, and set off to hunt down every absurd craving you’d dreamed up—with only a faint grimace and a stomach made of steel.

--

It took him two corner stores and a specialty deli, but Yaku returned triumphant, arms full of grocery bags and a look of determination on his face. He laid everything out on the coffee table like it was a five-star buffet: pickles, peanut butter, crushed ice in a big bowl, a plain bagel, cream cheese, ketchup, and a bag of frozen corn.

You were already curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, and your face lit up like the sun when you saw it all. “Oh my god,” you gasped, reaching for the pickles first and dipping one straight into the peanut butter without hesitation. “This is perfect.”

Yaku sat on the edge of the couch, watching with a blend of horror and awe as you crunched down on your Frankenstein meal with pure, genuine joy.

You munched happily, cheeks puffed out, eyes dreamy as you chewed. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”

He smiled, soft and full of affection. “I love you too.”

Then, quieter, barely a mumble as he stared at the bagel going into the ketchup-cream cheese dip: “This kid is gonna be weird.”

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 6 (NSFW)

The last thing you needed was to entertain whatever ridiculous emotions Hana had planted in your head. This was nothing—casual, meaningless, irrelevant. So what if Ayumi had her sights set on him? That wasn’t your problem. That wasn’t supposed to be your problem.

You tightened your grip on your bag as you pushed through the thick crowd flooding the hallways after the final bell. Students jostled past in waves, the air thick with chatter and the slamming of lockers, and you kept your head down, determined to get outside, to breathe fresh air, to put as much distance as possible between yourself and whatever stupid feelings were currently threatening your sanity.

You almost succeeded.

Until you caught sight of him.

There, just a few lockers down, leaning lazily against the wall like he didn’t have a care in the damn world—Miya Atsumu.

Your feet slowed before your brain could tell them not to. And when you lifted your gaze, your stomach dropped.

Of course she was there.

Ayumi Tanaka.

Standing far too close, laughing far too brightly, her hand reaching out to graze his forearm like she had every right to touch him.

You should have looked away. You wanted to look away. But your gaze locked onto the scene like a car crash—horrifying and impossible to tear your eyes from.

Atsumu, for his part, didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked downright amused, his trademark smirk tugging at his lips, golden eyes glinting with some private joke as he leaned in just slightly, replying with something you couldn’t hear but Ayumi clearly found hilarious.

Your jaw clenched.

It was nothing. You told yourself that firmly. You had no claim, no right, no reason to feel anything other than mild, passing irritation.

And yet—your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag, knuckles whitening.

Because he didn’t move away when she touched him. He didn’t look annoyed or uncomfortable. He looked entertained.

And that hot, bitter feeling you refused to name burned a little brighter.

You stood frozen for a moment longer than you should have—long enough that Ayumi’s laugh floated through the hallway and Atsumu’s eyes, lazy and unbothered, drifted up—

And met yours.

The second your gazes collided, it was like being struck.

His smirk faltered. Just slightly. But enough.

Your breath caught.

You whipped your head away, face burning, shoving your way through the crowd with sudden, frantic urgency.

God. What the hell was wrong with you?

You ducked your head and walked faster, heart pounding in your ears, as if you could outrun the flush creeping up your neck. As if you could outrun the way your chest was tight, painfully so, with something ugly and irrational you refused to name.

You weren’t jealous. That would be stupid. Ridiculous. Absolutely insane.

And yet, you could feel the slight prickle of irritation rising beneath your skin, your jaw tightening as you watched their all-too-pleasant exchange. It was short—nothing more than a few words, a soft laugh from her, an amused smirk from him—but it was enough.

Your feet carried you toward the gym building, the familiar path offering some sense of normalcy. Volleyball practice was soon, and you just needed to focus on that, not whatever unnecessary emotions had latched onto you.

But just as you stepped onto the school grounds, a voice cut through the air.

"Hey!"

You barely had a second to react before Atsumu jogged up to you, his usual smirk in place, golden eyes flickering with something far too amused for your liking. His easy stride barely looked like he had exerted any effort catching up to you, as if he knew you wouldn’t be able to outrun him even if you tried.

"Damn, ya bolted outta there fast," he said, tilting his head, watching you closely. "Didn’t even wait for me."

You barely glanced at him, keeping your face carefully neutral. "Didn’t think you’d notice."

His smirk widened, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "I notice a lotta things about ya."

You rolled your eyes, fighting the sudden prickle of heat rising up your spine. "Don’t start."

Atsumu ignored you completely, falling into step beside you, rocking back slightly on his heels as if he were debating something in his head. Then, with an air of mock innocence, he said:

"So, I’m free tonight. If ya wanna hang out."

Your jaw clenched before you could stop it.

"Maybe not tonight, I'm a little busy," you bit out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could think them through. Then, before your brain could stop your mouth from making an absolutely catastrophic mistake, you added, "Why don't you ask if Ayumi Tanaka is free?"

Atsumu blinked, his smirk momentarily faltering. "Why on earth…?" His brows furrowed in genuine confusion—until something in his expression shifted.

And then, his smirk stretched into something completely insufferable.

"Are you jealous?"

Your spine stiffened. "What is there to be jealous of?" you scoffed, but you could already feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

Atsumu wasn’t buying it. "Oh, I dunno," he mused, tilting his head, watching you like a predator playing with its food. "Maybe ‘cause ya got a front-row seat to Ayumi flirtin’ with me and now ya can’t stand the thought of someone else takin’ your place?"

Your teeth ground together, a sharp flash of irritation lancing through your chest. "You're absolutely delusional if you think I’d ever feel threatened by some 2nd-year girl batting her eyelashes at you."

Atsumu let out a short laugh, full of nothing but mockery. "Right, ‘cause ya definitely didn’t look ready to rip her head off earlier."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, turning your gaze forward like you could force this conversation to be over. "Believe whatever lets you sleep at night, Miya. I don’t care."

"Oh yeah?" His voice was taunting, relentless, as he stepped in closer, his shoulder nearly brushing against yours. "Then why’re ya actin’ so weird? Feels like someone’s a little… bothered."

You whirled to face him, scowling. "The only thing that’s bothering me is you and your incessant need to make everything about yourself. Not everything is about you, Atsumu."

"Nah, see, that’s where yer wrong," he shot back, his smirk widening, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. "When it comes to you, sweetheart, I think everything’s about me."

Your hands curled into tight fists, your nails digging into your palms, irritation crawling beneath your skin. He was impossible.

Just as you opened your mouth to snap back, another voice interrupted the moment.

"Oi! What are you two doin’ over there?"

Aran’s voice cut through the air, sharp and expectant.

Your heart lurched as you immediately shoved Atsumu back, blurting, "Nothing!"

Atsumu barely stumbled, laughing as he shot you a look that screamed this isn’t over before turning toward Aran. You, on the other hand, were left standing there, pulse thrumming, trying desperately to ignore the heat still buzzing beneath your skin.

Aran’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his brows furrowing slightly before he shook his head. "Well, practice is startin’. Get a move on."

"Yeah, yeah," Atsumu muttered, still too damn smug as he turned back toward you, the teasing look in his eyes shining.

You glared at him, lips pressed into a thin line, before storming ahead, putting as much distance as possible between you and the walking migraine that was Miya Atsumu.

__

Practice went on as usual, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished gym floor, the rhythmic thuds of volleyballs being set and spiked filling the air. Yet, beneath it all, something felt off.

Atsumu, despite his best efforts, was being completely ignored.

And that was entirely intentional.

You were still fuming from earlier, his words grating against your skull like nails on a chalkboard. When it comes to you, sweetheart, I think everything’s about me.

Fine.

If he thought it was all about him, you’d make it impossible for him to think that.

You knew exactly how to get under Atsumu’s skin, how to piss him off in the most excruciating way possible. It wasn’t yelling, it wasn’t fighting—it was silence. He thrived on your reactions, fed off your irritation like it was oxygen. And you were going to starve him of it.

He tried everything. A few jabs at your form when you walked past, some pointed remarks meant to get a reaction, even purposefully setting the ball too high and glancing your way to see if you’d scowl at him.

Nothing.

You didn’t so much as spare him a glance.

The rest of the team noticed. It was impossible not to.

"Since when was she too high and mighty to bite back?" one of the first-years muttered, watching the scene unfold like it was some strange phenomenon.

"Are you honestly complaining?" Hitoshi responded flatly, shaking his head as he bent down to pick up a stray volleyball. "If anything, this is the quietest practice we’ve had in months."

Suna watched with mild amusement, his sharp eyes darting between the two of you. Atsumu, visibly simmering, and you, acting as if he didn’t exist. Fascinating.

By the time practice ended, Atsumu was pissed—more so than usual. The tension rolled off him in waves, his usual post-practice confidence completely overshadowed by the frustration bubbling beneath his skin.

Osamu, ever the observant twin, didn’t miss it.

As they left the gym, Osamu glanced over, catching the permanent scowl etched onto Atsumu. "What’s with your face?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, expecting the usual smart-ass response.

But Atsumu wasn’t even looking at him.

His gaze was locked ahead, fixated on you, watching as you took the keys from Kita, nodding as you prepared to lock up the gym. His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his bag strap.

"Don’t wait for me," he muttered, voice clipped.

Osamu blinked, looking between him and you—you, walking away, completely unbothered. And Atsumu? Absolutely bothered.

Osamu exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something vaguely amused before he shrugged. "Alright…?" he said, but his voice held a knowing edge.

He didn’t need to say it out loud.

He had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen.

Atsumu stormed after you the moment Osamu walked away, his footsteps heavy, purposeful, his irritation practically radiating off him. You had just slipped into the supply closet, stacking away the last of the gear, when his gritted voice reached your ears from outside the gym.

"Are ya fuckin’ kidding me?!"

You couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at your lips. Oh, he was livid.

Taking your time, you walked out of the closet, not bothering to acknowledge him right away. He stood at the entrance of the gym, chest rising and falling, his golden eyes sharp with anger, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was barely holding himself back.

"I’m talkin’ to you," he bit out as you stepped past him toward the doors.

Still, you said nothing.

You pulled the doors shut with a slow deliberation, the sound echoing through the empty gym, and locked them behind you. Then, finally, you turned, meeting his gaze.

Atsumu’s face was furious, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to rein in everything he wanted to say. His hair was tousled from practice, damp at the edges, his skin flushed from exertion. The way his arms tensed, his stance rigid, the way his breathing came a little too sharp—all of it sent something thrumming hot in your stomach.

The heat only grew when you noticed the way his jaw ticked, his fingers flexing at his sides, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to shake you or pin you to the nearest wall.

You smiled. Sweet. Taunting. "Night. See you tomorrow."

You barely took two steps before his hand caught your wrist, yanking you back toward him. The movement sent you stumbling slightly, your body colliding with his, the force of it stealing the breath from your lungs.

His voice was low, rough, his breath hot against your cheek. "You think I don't know your game?"

You arched a brow, playing it off as coolly as possible, though instinctively, your spine straightened, your back arching slightly, pushing your chest forward. You hated how your body reacted to him, the heat swirling deep in your stomach, and for a split second, the thought flickered through your mind—why am I so turned on by this?

"What game?" you said, your voice smooth, controlled. "I told you I wasn’t free tonight."

Atsumu let out a sharp scoff, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make you hyperaware of how strong his hands were. "Bullshit. You’re pissed at me for flirtin’ with that girl."

Your jaw locked, your teeth clenching. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting, so instead, you blinked up at him, expression unreadable, and said, "Are you going to let me go?"

Atsumu didn’t flinch. If anything, his hold shifted, his other hand coming to rest against your waist, fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him.

"Do you want me to?" His voice dropped, dark and teasing, and before you could snap back, you felt it—the hard press of his arousal against your stomach.

You gasped, a sharp inhale betraying the last shred of control you had. Fuck.

Atsumu smirked, catching the way your lashes fluttered, the way your body momentarily tensed before you steadied yourself, fighting the reaction. But it was too late—he felt the shift.

Without another word, you glanced around, ensuring the coast was clear before grabbing his wrist and dragging him toward the back of the building.

"Take your pants off," you ordered, voice tight, breathless, already unraveling.

Atsumu didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers worked quickly at his belt, the sharp clink of metal and the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet night. You turned, pressing your palms flat against the rough brick wall, heart hammering against your ribs. Your breath came in uneven bursts, every inhale feeling too shallow, too hot. His body heat was suddenly right there, an overwhelming presence against your back, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

His hands found your hips, large and possessive, squeezing once before slipping beneath the hem of your skirt, his fingers grazing the soft skin of your thighs. With one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and dragged them down, the night air rushing against your exposed skin, sending a sharp shiver up your spine. The contrast between the cold air and the heat pooling between your legs made you suck in a sharp breath, pressing your forehead against the brick, trying to steady yourself.

"You thought I was gonna fuck that other girl?" His voice was a low growl against your ear, hot, dangerous, all-consuming. "This pussy is mine. Mine alone. You're mine."

Your breath hitched. A spark of indignation flared in your chest, instinct demanding you push back, to scoff, to tell him to fuck off—

But then he was pushing inside.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body jolting forward, hands splaying against the wall as he filled you slowly, deeply, completely. Your nails scraped against the brick, legs trembling as you adjusted to the overwhelming stretch. The sensation was too much, his cock pulsing inside you, pushing against that perfect spot that sent white-hot pleasure sparking through your veins.

Fuck.

Atsumu let out a low, guttural groan, one hand wrapping tightly around your waist while the other braced against the wall beside your head. He was breathing hard, his forehead nearly pressing against your shoulder, like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers flexed against your waist before gripping tighter, his hips pulling back only to slam forward again, forcing another cry from your lips.

"You feel that?" he rasped, his voice rough, unsteady, his pace already picking up. "Ain't nobody gonna fuck you like this. Ain't nobody gonna make you feel this good."

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out except a strangled moan. His hands were everywhere—gripping, branding, making sure you felt him in every possible way. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed into the night, mingling with your breathless gasps and his sharp groans.

He set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a desperation that left no room for thought. Every thrust sent you higher, pleasure knotting too quickly, your body already struggling to hold itself together. His fingers dug into your hips, dragging you back against him, making you take all of him, forcing you to feel just how much he was losing himself in this.

"Shit—" he groaned, his voice nearly breaking. "You fuckin' love this, don’t ya?"

His hand slid down, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing tight, punishing circles that had you whimpering, your body jerking forward from the intensity. Your hands clawed at the brick wall, nails scraping against the rough surface as heat coiled in your core, winding impossibly tight.

"There—right there—fuck, don’t stop," you gasped, voice ragged and desperate, each word punctuated by his relentless pace. Your legs trembled beneath you, your entire body taut with anticipation, every nerve on fire.

Atsumu groaned, low and guttural, his hips snapping forward harder, sharper. "Yeah? That’s the spot?" His grip on your hip tightened, holding you in place, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure. "Feels so fuckin’ good takin’ me like this."

Your head dropped forward, eyes squeezing shut as your body burned under his touch. Every thrust, every flick of his fingers, sent you spiraling closer to the edge. The pressure in your stomach coiled tighter, tighter, until you were gasping, eyes rolling back.

"Tsumu—I’m—" You barely got the words out before your body seized up, pleasure detonating inside you, shattering through every nerve. A sharp cry ripped from your throat, your walls clenching tight around him, milking every inch as your climax ripped through you.

Atsumu cursed sharply, his thrusts stuttering, becoming frantic and sloppy as he chased his own high. His grip on you tightened, his pace desperate, his breath coming in uneven groans until finally—

He buried himself to the hilt, his entire body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, muffling the wrecked moan that ripped from his throat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies pressed together, trembling, still trying to come down from the high. Your own breathing was ragged, your forehead pressed to the wall, your legs barely holding you up. His grip on your hips slackened slightly, but he didn’t pull away—instead, he leaned into you, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his lips brushing the back of your neck as if he was too lost in the aftershocks to fully regain himself.

And then—

Reality hit.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath still ragged, heart still hammering in your chest. But something was wrong.

A sudden wave of realization crashed over you as you felt the sticky warmth between your legs. Your stomach dropped.

"You came inside me, asshole!" you blurted, twisting your head to glare at him over your shoulder.

Atsumu was still holding onto you, his forehead resting lazily against your back, his grip loose but unwilling to let you go. His chest rose and fell in heavy, sated breaths, completely lost in his own bliss.

It took him a second to even register your words. When he finally did, all he managed was a dazed, "Huh?"

You groaned, your forehead knocking lightly against the brick. "I swear to god—" You sucked in a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. "You're buying me Plan B."

Atsumu, still catching his breath, let out a low, breathy chuckle, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Babe, I'll buy ya anything ya want if ya let me do that again."

You sighed, exasperated, exhausted, and somehow still too weak in the knees to shove him off you properly. His hands lingered on your hips for a moment longer before finally releasing you, but even as you adjusted your skirt and tried to gather yourself, you could feel his gaze burning into your back.

You refused to acknowledge the way your body still thrummed with heat, the way your legs still trembled, the way your pulse still jumped every time he spoke. Instead, you turned, fixing him with a glare.

"You’re taking me to the pharmacy.”

Atsumu grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever ya say, sweetheart."

Favourite Positions: Kita

Kita Shinsuke was a man of routine.

He liked quiet mornings. Crisp sheets. Things folded neatly, put away properly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t lose his temper. Everything he did was thoughtful, measured, deliberate.

And that translated in the bedroom, too.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble. And he wasn’t the type to lose control.

Which is why his favorite position was one that allowed him to stay in control, to keep you close, to feel every single way your body responded to his.

Prone bone.

Your body beneath his. Face turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, your back arching automatically as his hips rutted into you slowly, deeply, at a rhythm that felt maddening. The cotton of the sheets felt cool against your flushed skin, the quiet rustle of the fabric beneath you the only sound aside from your shallow breaths and the soft slap of skin meeting skin.

He didn’t let you move. Didn’t let you squirm or shift or hide your face.

He held you there.

One arm caged around your waist, the other braced at the mattress near your head, his palm anchoring your shoulder blade as he rolled his hips with the kind of practiced precision that only came from a man who paid attention to detail. Every shift of his body was intentional, every breath exhaled against your neck deliberate.

And you never realized how overwhelming that kind of stillness could be until he made you stay in it.

“Shinsuke—” your voice broke, trembling with effort. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, trying to ground yourself as your thighs twitched, as the pressure in your belly coiled tighter and tighter.

His hand was firm between your shoulder blades, his chest flush to your back, the heat of his skin blanketing you, his lips brushing your ear.

“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low, calm, but final.

You gasped as he pressed deeper, the drag of his cock against your walls drawing a cry from your throat. The stretch felt unbearable and addictive all at once. He was slow, precise. Like he was memorizing you. Like your body was a prayer and he intended to recite every line by heart.

“Feel it,” he whispered. "Don’t run from it."

Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut. You tried to hold still. You really did. But the pleasure built too fast, too hot, and your hips jerked again before you could stop yourself.

His hand moved instantly, gripping your hip, holding you in place. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control.

His body pressed more firmly into yours. You felt every inch of him, every beat of his heart in the center of your back, every deep thrust echoing inside your ribs.

You whined into the pillow, your body shaking. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

His voice was soft, but unrelenting. “You want to come?”

You nodded, barely able to form words.

“Then be good. Take what I give you.”

And you tried. You let him take over. Let him keep the pace, keep the rhythm, keep you pressed down while he fucked you slow, deep, steady. The sound of your breathing filled the room—wet, broken gasps punctuated by the muted creak of the bed and the soft drag of his hips grinding into yours.

Your toes curled. Your hands twisted in the sheets. Every thrust pressed you deeper into the mattress, made your body shudder under him, made your moans fall apart into messy, breathless cries.

You were a mess by the time he let you fall apart. Crying out into the sheets, your fingers curling, your body seizing around him as your orgasm crashed through you hard. Your thighs trembled violently. You felt your body clamp down on him, spasming in wave after wave of white-hot release.

He didn’t stop.

Not until your body gave out entirely beneath him, trembling and slack and soaked with sweat. Your mind was blank, every nerve in your body thrumming. Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth parted, completely undone.

Only then did he ease out, brushing his hand along your spine, lips pressing softly to your shoulder. His hand lingered there, fingertips trailing in slow, soothing patterns that made your breath even out bit by bit.

“You did so well,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pulling your boneless body into his chest. “Just like I knew you would.”

You hummed weakly, too wrung out to reply, eyes slipping closed as you melted into the heat of him.

Stillness. Not because he demanded it—

But because after him, you couldn't move even if you wanted to.

hi i LOVE ur writing sm!! i look forward to pretty much every single one of ur posts, ur super talented :)

do you think you could do an akaashi x insomniac!reader? akaashi is known for overthinking and stuff so tbh i think his anxiety might make him stay awake sometimes, but prob not full blown insomnia. i js think a oneshot of him helping reader or maybe just the two of them hanging out super late one night because neither of them can get any sleep (maybe college!au where he’s stressing about his classes? or could be just volleyball related. whatever works for you!).

maybe it could be pre-relationship too. like they might be friends then reader sees him active on some social media and decides to text him to hang out and they get super close after this night. again, whatever works for u!!

omgg my heart thank you 😩❤️ Your words mean so much to me 🥹

I think I hit all the boxes, I hope you enjoy <333

--

Anon Ask: Akaashi

The clock blinked 2:47AM in soft digital blue, casting a dim glow that painted the walls of your dorm room in slow, pulsing light. You stared at it from where you lay on your back, eyes wide open, blanket pulled up to your chin like it would somehow coax sleep into settling over your body. It didn’t.

It never did.

Insomnia was a loyal companion. Even on nights when your limbs were heavy and your mind felt worn thin, your thoughts refused to settle. They danced along the edge of reason, hyper-fixating on things that didn’t matter: words you said three days ago, the shape of clouds you saw that afternoon, the persistent question of whether you locked the door. A quiet ache had formed behind your eyes from sheer exhaustion, but sleep wouldn’t come.

You turned over, grabbed your phone off the nightstand. No new messages. Just a faint glow from the charging screen illuminating your tired face.

Then, a notification.

akaashi_keiji posted to his story

You tapped it open without thinking. A dim photo of a laptop lit up against a pile of books and a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. The caption read: 2AM is a perfectly reasonable hour to still be working, right?

You stared at it. Your fingers hovered.

Then you sent a message.

you: you up up?

The reply was almost instant.

akaashi: Unfortunately.

you: Wanna hang? Can’t sleep and you look like you need a break.

A beat passed. The dots wavered, stopped. Then—

akaashi: Give me 5.

--

Akaashi showed up at your door at exactly 3:03AM. Hoodie pulled over his head, dark sweats clinging to the chill of the night, his hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes were tired but alert, flickering with that same sharpness he always carried—like he was cataloging everything, even now.

You stepped aside without saying a word. He entered just as quietly, slipping off his shoes and placing his bag beside your desk with a soft thud. He dropped to the floor beside your bed with a sigh that seemed to deflate the weight on his shoulders.

“Rough night?” you asked gently, perching on the edge of your mattress.

“I have a presentation next week, three deadlines, and Bokuto keeps texting me motivational memes like it’s going to fix my GPA.”

You laughed under your breath. “It won’t.”

“Exactly.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. The hum of your mini fridge and the occasional creak of pipes running through the dorm added to the low ambience of sleeplessness. You looked down at him, his knees pulled up slightly, arms draped over them, like he didn’t know how to get comfortable in his own skin.

“Wanna watch something?”

He shook his head. “Too much noise.”

“Read?”

“Already tried. Can’t focus.”

“Lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until we disassociate?”

He glanced up at you with deadpan humor. “Honestly, that sounds ideal.”

You grabbed a second pillow and tossed it to the floor beside him. He didn’t hesitate. His body uncurled, long and lean as he stretched out beside your bed, head cradled in the fluff of borrowed comfort.

You joined him moments later, lying back so the ceiling filled your view. Pale shadows danced above you, shapes warped by passing cars and the swaying leaves outside the window. The ceiling fan ticked rhythmically above.

“You get this often?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah,” you replied, your voice matching his. “Like... more nights than not. It just doesn’t stop. My brain, I mean."

Akaashi sighed, breath feathering the space between you. “Mine too. It’s like it waits until I have to sleep to start racing.”

You turned your head, studying the outline of his profile in the glow from your desk lamp. The slope of his nose, the delicate curve of his lashes, the soft press of his lips.

“So why’d you come?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Because you asked. And I figured... maybe it’d be better to not be alone with it.”

You nodded, the pillow rustling beneath your cheek. “Yeah.”

Minutes passed in silence. He turned to face you, and you mirrored the movement. The two of you laying side by side, not quite touching, breaths moving in rhythm.

“We could do this again,” you whispered. “If you ever can’t sleep. You could just... come over.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “I think I’d like that.”

At 3:57AM, you both fell asleep.

Shoulders brushing. Minds quiet. The night finally letting you rest.

Confessions: Oikawa

(This is connected to another drabble I made in my series 'Unreq Love' so here is context if you'd like the full experience: Oikawa & Bonus)

--

The gym is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles like dust in the corners—heavy, still, waiting. The lights are off, but the late afternoon sun filters through the high windows, painting the floor in long strokes of gold. The volleyball net hangs limply between its poles, no longer taut with purpose. There are scuff marks everywhere, like memories burned into the wood—ghosts of spikes, dives, the relentless rhythm of ambition. The echoes of laughter, shouting, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers still seem to hum beneath the silence, like the gym itself refuses to forget.

You spot him immediately.

Oikawa stands near the back wall, his figure backlit by sunlight, facing the net with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders are drawn tight, his posture still and unreadable. He doesn’t move when you step in, but he knows it’s you. No one walks into a gym like you do—especially not after hours. Especially not him.

You take your time crossing the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little, but he doesn’t flinch. The air smells like dust and floor polish, and something sharper underneath—like endings. Like goodbye.

“I figured I’d find you here,” you say, coming to a stop beside him.

He huffs, a soft, humorless sound. “You always do.”

“Well,” you shrug, “someone’s gotta make sure you’re not brooding yourself into an existential crisis.”

Finally, he glances at you. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, something far quieter than the version of him everyone else sees. You know it well. You’ve seen it before, behind locker room doors, in the quiet of bus rides home, in the way his voice would sometimes crack when no one was supposed to hear. He looks like someone who's been chasing a shadow for too long and just realized it was always out of reach.

“I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, it’d feel different,” he murmurs, gaze shifting back to the net. “But it still hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” you reply, arms crossing over your chest. “You gave everything to this place. You bled for it. You obsessed over every drill, every stat sheet, every match. Losing was never going to be painless.”

He chuckles, and it’s low and bitter. “We didn’t even make it to nationals. What was the point of all of it?”

You frown, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Tooru, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”

That earns you a sidelong glance, the barest glimmer of amusement.

You soften. “You weren’t just chasing wins. You built something here. A team that trusted you. A legacy. People are going to remember you—not because of a scoreboard, but because you made them better. You made them believe. You pushed them to be more.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tics. He always does that when he’s trying not to feel something. The weight of three years rests on his shoulders like armor that no longer serves him.

“And what about you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you more fully. “You stuck by me through everything. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You scoff, leaning back on your heels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Tooru.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You think I followed you around like a lost puppy for three years because I enjoyed your tantrums and diva moments?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a little?”

“God, you’re insufferable.” You shake your head, but your voice loses its edge. “I stayed because you were worth it. Because you’re more than volleyball. You always have been. Even when you were too busy being dramatic to see it.”

The silence that falls between you is thick with years of shared glances, missed chances, and words left unspoken. The light shifts across the floor, turning everything gold like the last flicker of a day that tried its best.

You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not when he’s already unraveling.

You glance at him again, then down at your hands. Your voice comes out low, more to yourself than to him. “God, I can’t avoid this, can I?”

But it’s been sitting in your chest for too long, and something about the way the light hits his face—the rawness there, the quiet ache—makes it impossible to keep in.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “...What?”

You inhale slowly, like that’ll steady the thundering in your chest. “I said I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met. Since you made that dumb joke during orientation and somehow managed to trip over your own feet.”

Your voice wavers slightly, but you push through. “I thought it was just a crush. Something stupid. But it never went away. Through every win, every loss, every time you walked into a room and lit it up like you didn’t even know—through all of it, I kept falling. I knew every version of you—the charming captain, the insecure overthinker, the friend who stayed behind after practice to help pick up stray balls—and I still fell.”

You swallow hard, heart aching in your chest. “And I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think I had the right to. I thought I’d be a distraction, or worse—just another person you’d feel responsible for. But standing here with you, watching you look at that net like it still owes you something... I couldn’t walk away without telling you. Because it’s not just about volleyball. Not for me. Not when it comes to you.”

You take a step back, the burn of embarrassment creeping up your neck, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get it out of my system.”

You turn, ready to bolt before you make a bigger fool of yourself—but before your foot even hits the line, his hand wraps around your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip isn’t desperate, but it’s firm—anchoring. When you look back, he’s already there—closer than you thought, close enough that you can see the flicker of emotion dancing in his eyes. His breath is uneven. So is yours.

His gaze lingers on your face, moving from your eyes to your mouth, then back again, as if trying to piece together something he should’ve realized long ago. You see it hit him all at once—the memories, the missed moments, the way you’ve always been right there. His shoulders loosen like something inside him’s finally cracking open.

His hand moves slowly to your face, tentative but gentle, and his thumb brushes against your cheek like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers tremble just slightly, and the warmth of his palm grounds you in place.

“How did I never see you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question meant for you. It’s a confession all on its own, shaped by regret and wonder.

Then he kisses you.

Soft at first, hesitant—like he’s asking permission.

Then again—deeper, fuller, with the kind of reverence that comes from finally seeing someone who’s been standing in the light all along. His hand curves behind your neck, the other still holding your wrist like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for once, Oikawa doesn’t say a single word.

He just pulls you closer, holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and lets the silence speak for itself.

In that quiet, there is no loss. No disappointment. No game that slipped through trembling fingers.

There’s just you.

And it’s enough.

Husbandry: Tsukishima

Tsukishima Kei had always been a man of quiet focus. He wasn’t one for unnecessary emotions on the court, and even in a high-stakes match, his expression rarely changed from that of mild indifference. It drove some of his teammates crazy, especially during moments like this—tied score, final set, the pressure mounting like a heavy storm cloud over the court.

The crowd roared around them, the energy in the gym palpable, but Kei remained as impassive as ever as he stepped up to serve. The ball rested in his hand, his fingers flexing over the synthetic leather, calculating the perfect trajectory. He took a breath, tuned out the noise—

And then he heard you.

“LET’S GO, KEI! YOU GOT THIS, BABY!”

Your voice cut through the chaos like a knife, loud and unwavering, filled with pure, unfiltered enthusiasm. It was the kind of cheer that had heads turning—not just in the stands, but on the court as well. The sideline players of the Sendai Frogs exchanged looks, one of them letting out an amused snort.

On the bench, the sideline players of the Sendai Frogs nudged each other, exchanging grins.

"Man, they're such opposites," one of them chuckled.

"Seriously," another added, shaking his head. "I bet he just tunes it out entirely."

Kei, however, did not react. Not outwardly, at least. He merely exhaled, tossing the ball into the air, bringing his arm back, and striking it with precision. The ball sailed over the net, untouched, an ace. A perfect point.

You erupted from your seat. “WOOHOO! THAT’S MY HUSBAND!”

Your cheers drowned out the announcer’s call, your hands clapping wildly as you beamed at the court. The energy was infectious, even drawing a smirk from one of Kei’s teammates.

“He really doesn’t deserve someone as fun as her,” a player on the bench teased.

Kei, who hadn't actually heard the comment, still felt like he was being talked about. His gaze shifted toward the teammate in question, sharp and unreadable. The player stiffened slightly under the weight of the look, laughing nervously. "Uh—never mind."

Though his expression remained neutral as they reset for the next point, you didn’t miss the slight twitch at the corner of his lips—a flicker of something, almost imperceptible, but you knew better. You knew he heard you. And you knew, despite his attitude, he didn’t mind.

The match pressed on, the tension thick in the air. Every point was fought for, the score inching closer and closer to victory. You kept cheering, never once faltering, your voice the constant, unwavering backdrop to Kei’s unshakable calm. Each time he stepped up to block or assist, you felt your heart race, willing him to succeed. Even when he wasn’t actively playing, your eyes remained glued to him, catching the subtle movements—his sharp gaze, the way his fingers curled into his palms, the way he subtly adjusted his position to anticipate the next play.

One of the opposing players served a near-perfect ball, fast and aggressive, but Kei anticipated it. His block was perfectly timed, and the ball slammed to the floor on the other side of the net. The referee signaled the point, and the crowd went wild.

“YES! THAT’S MY MAN!” you shrieked, standing up so fast that the people next to you startled.

“Hey, sit down, you’re blocking the view!” someone called playfully, but you barely heard them. Your entire world was on the court, watching Kei as he straightened, not even celebrating the way his teammates were.

And then, the final point.

A perfectly executed play sealed the win, and before you could process it, the Sendai Frogs were celebrating. The crowd erupted in cheers, but none were as loud as yours.

“YES! WOOOO!”

The players exchanged congratulations, the team huddling together in exhausted relief. Kei, as always, stayed a step behind the others, rolling his shoulders as he walked toward the sidelines. But his eyes flickered to the stands, just once, just enough for you to catch it before he looked away.

Your grin stretched even wider. He didn’t need to say it. That glance alone told you everything.

Tsukishima Kei was not a man of grand gestures or loud emotions. But you were, and that was okay.

Because when the dust settled, when the match was won, and the crowd began to disperse, Kei walked straight toward you. And in that split second before he passed by, his fingers brushed against yours—a silent acknowledgment, a fleeting moment of appreciation just for you.

You didn’t need anything more than that.

But you still made sure to yell one last time as he walked past, just to see his ears go a little red.

“I LOVE YOU, KEI!”

His teammates howled with laughter as he groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

“…I regret everything.”

And yet, as he walked toward the locker rooms, his fingers lingered just slightly against the edge of yours, as if to say he didn't regret it at all.