Favourite Positions: Kita

Rivalry: Suna

This was supposed to be a career-maker.

You’d been selected to shoot the promotional campaign for the Japan National Volleyball Team’s off-season fundraiser—portraits, motion stills, and digital spreads for press releases. High-profile. High-pressure. This was the kind of assignment that could land you on the map, get your name known, secure you work for the next five years. You’d planned meticulously: shot schedules, lighting plans, subject rosters, backup batteries labeled by time stamp.

And still, you were already behind schedule because some players couldn’t grasp the concept of being on time.

Most were manageable. Bokuto was loud but sweet, Hinata actually listened, even Sakusa—grumpy and allergic to public attention—cooperated if you kept things sterile enough. You had to work around quirks, sure, but it was doable.

The only real problem?

Rintarō Suna.

Tall, smug, unbothered—he made disinterest an art form. It wasn’t just the tardiness (though that was frequent and infuriating). It was the casual disregard, the deliberate poking. Like he enjoyed watching you unravel, one eye-roll and bored shrug at a time. Like he thrived on getting under your skin.

You were halfway through setting up for his shoot—adjusting the overhead lights for the third time, irritation clawing at your spine—when the door creaked open.

12:17. Seventeen minutes late.

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

A pause. Then, his voice—dry, bored, and tinged with something close to amusement.

“Traffic.”

You glanced at him, eyes cold. “You live five minutes away.”

Rintarō Suna leaned against the doorframe like he’d just wandered in off the beach. Hoodie loose, hair messy, sweatpants slung far too low to be appropriate for professional media. His duffel bag hung lazily off one shoulder, and he was sipping a drink from a vending machine cup like he had all the time in the world.

“And yet,” he said, taking another slow sip, “I’m here. Aren’t you glad?”

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” you snapped, already adjusting your camera settings, fingers tight on the dial.

He blinked, exaggeratedly. “That’s aggressive.”

“No. You’re aggressive to my time.”

He didn’t move. Just gave you that flat look, the one that made your blood itch. “So bossy. Did no one ever teach you how to ask nicely?”

You dropped your hand from the camera, straightened to your full height, and glared. “Did no one ever teach you how to respect someone’s job?”

That actually made him smirk—low and slow, like he was settling into a familiar game. You watched his gaze flicker across the studio, land on your lighting setup, the gear cases lined up against the wall, the stool you’d carefully marked with tape for positioning. He took in every detail like none of it mattered.

You crossed your arms. “Shirt. Off. Or I’m switching you out with Komori and sending you to the end of the rotation.”

He gave a soft whistle. “Cold.”

“And still warmer than your sense of professionalism.”

Suna sighed like this was the hardest thing anyone had ever asked of him, but peeled off the hoodie in one slow pull. Then the shirt followed—revealing lean, cut muscle, smooth planes and sharp lines that even you had to admit photographed well. Unfortunately.

“Happy now?” he asked flatly, chest rising and falling with deliberate boredom.

You lifted your camera. “Hardly.”

Flash.

He winced, and you didn’t hide the satisfied smirk that flickered over your face.

“Consider that payback for last week,” you said, angling for another shot. “You were thirty-five minutes late and came in with an iced matcha.”

“Should’ve brought you one,” he muttered, half to himself.

“You wouldn’t survive the fallout.”

“I’d go down smiling.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “God, you’re infuriating.”

“I get that a lot.”

He settled into the chair you’d positioned, slouching immediately, arms dangling over the sides like a ragdoll. You hissed under your breath and gestured for him to sit up.

He stared at you. “You’re fun when you’re mad.”

“And you’re only photogenic when you shut up.”

You lifted the lens again. Behind it, you scowled.

I hate him. The thought pulsed with every snap of the shutter.

And of course—of course—he looked like a goddamn magazine cover. But in the same fashion, he rarely made it easy for you to capture it.

Because here you were, staring down the barrel of a nightmare: the man himself, draped across the chair like it was a hammock, posture all wrong, arms sprawled like he didn’t have a single working bone in his body. Slouched so far down he could have been auditioning for the role of human puddle.

"Back straight," you barked from behind the camera, adjusting your focus ring with a little more aggression than necessary. "Stop slouching."

He didn’t budge. If anything, he leaned further into the chair, eyelids heavy with boredom, like your orders were more of a gentle breeze than direct instruction.

"Suna."

He tilted his head at a lazy angle, all dry amusement and half-lidded interest. "I am straight."

You set the camera down. Firmly. The slap of the base against the table echoed far louder than it needed to.

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. He just watched you approach like you were the most interesting thing to happen all day, which you knew damn well wasn’t a compliment. His gaze slid over your body with that practiced, bored sort of curiosity, like he was cataloguing all the ways you might explode.

You stepped into his space, squatted slightly behind the chair, and shoved a hand between his shoulder blades. He didn’t react. Didn’t resist. Just let you press into the muscle there and guide him upright like he was a mannequin.

"There," you muttered, voice tight. "Like that. Hold it."

A beat of silence. Then: "You touch all your clients like this?"

Your hand dropped instantly. "Only the ones who act like toddlers."

He chuckled, low in his throat, and the sound crawled over your skin like static. "That explains a lot."

You turned on your heel, ready to toss something back, but froze mid-pivot when you saw his eyes.

They weren’t where they were supposed to be. Not on the lights, or the set, or even your face.

They were on your hands.

Lingering.

He blinked slowly, like he wasn’t even pretending to hide it. And when his eyes flicked up to meet yours, there was something in them that hadn’t been there before. Something molten. Heavy. A heat that made your stomach pitch and your spine go stiff.

"You done staring?" you snapped, jaw clenched.

He shrugged, as if the motion took effort. "Didn’t say it was a bad view."

You turned so fast you nearly tripped over a light stand, heart thundering in your ears. The temperature in the studio was suddenly unbearable.

You didn’t want this heat.

"Hands on your thighs," you bit out. "Chin down. Eyes here."

He obeyed—not quickly, but without any more smartass comments. For once, the air between you felt still. But it wasn’t calm. No, it was charged. Like the moment before a summer storm—hushed, tense, humming with something about to break.

You snapped three photos. Then five. Then a dozen more. Through the viewfinder, he was a dream. The kind of subject you could build an entire portfolio around. Not because he was cooperative—God no. But because he was magnetic in a way that made you want to curse.

Every line of his body, every tilt of his head, the lazy sprawl that shouldn’t have worked on camera but did? It translated into something raw. Compelling. Something that sold.

You adjusted the lens. Moved closer. Framed his face in the shot. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight through the camera like he knew it would rattle you.

And then he smiled.

Not a real one. Not the wide, winning kind the sponsors loved. Just the faintest pull of one corner of his mouth. Just enough to sharpen his cheekbone and twist his mouth into something between a smirk and a secret.

Click.

The flash snapped.

You dropped the camera from your face, brow furrowed.

"You smiled."

"You looked like you needed the win."

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you checked the preview screen. And sure enough, it was perfect. Lighting. Angles. Expression.

Damn him.

You turned the screen toward him like it was a slap.

"You’re welcome," he said, not even looking.

"You’re not that charming."

"But I am photogenic."

Your teeth ground together so hard your jaw ached.

You hated that he was right.

And you hated even more that he knew it.

Favourite Positions: Bokuto

Of all the ways Bokuto loved to fuck you, having your hips dangling off the edge of the bed while he pounded into you from above was by far his favorite.

There was just something about it—how it let him watch you, take in the way your body stretched out beneath him, the way your tits bounced with every hard thrust. How your legs, struggling to stay wrapped around his waist, trembled from the sheer force of him. But more than anything?

It was the way you looked up at him.

Eyes wide, dazed—needy.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so—” Bokuto cut himself off with a groan, grip tightening on your thighs as he slammed into you, his cock driving deep, deeper, until you were arching, gasping, fingers clawing at the sheets.

The angle was almost too much. He could tell by the way you squeezed him, the way you trembled every time he bottomed out, hitting that spot inside you that made your whole body jolt.

“You feel it?” he panted, his abs flexing with every thrust. “Yeah, you do. Fuck—you’re so tight.”

You could barely respond, words lost in broken moans as he set the pace brutal. Skin meeting skin, the slick sounds of your bodies tangling together—his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

His hands left your thighs, one gripping your hip to hold you still, the other sliding down, fingertips ghosting over your stomach before pressing firmly right where he could feel himself inside you.

“Shit,” he groaned, head tilting back, muscles tensing. “I’m so deep in you, baby. Fuck, you take me so well.”

Your back arched at the pressure, the sensation overwhelming, white-hot pleasure spreading through every nerve.

Then, his hand moved lower.

The second his fingers found your clit—rubbing messy, frantic circles—you snapped.

Your whole body locked up, pleasure crashing into you so hard you let out a cry, a high, desperate sound as your walls clenched tight around him. The feeling had Bokuto gritting his teeth, his thrusts turning erratic, chasing his own release as you milked him for everything he had.

One, two, three more thrusts—

Then he was spilling inside you, groaning your name like it was the only thing he knew, hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

For a long moment, the only sound was heavy breathing, the heat of your bodies pressed together, sweat slick and satisfied.

Then, Bokuto let out a breathless, giddy laugh, leaning down to press a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss against your parted lips.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, voice still wrecked. “We’re so doing that again.”

Tensions (Pt. 1)

The sun had been beating down rays of heat all day, but with it now being noon, the heat was at its strongest.

Being that it was the thick of summer, it was a dry day; with the wind that usually downplayed the rising temperature to be nowhere in sight. The rays hit Fushiguro hard, only amplified by the dark jumper he decided to wear that day. Why he had chosen to wear it now of all days is currently lost on him.

He feels beads of sweat roll down the side of his face. Fushiguro swipes his hair out of his field of view, doing his best to ignore the tiring weather conditions, and keep his eye on his opponent.

Him and Itadori had yet to move. They were in a stare down, waiting to see who would make the first attack. And in the three years they’ve been sparing, they both knew that Itadori would move first; Fushiguro was simply waiting.

The wisps that he swiped away had re-entered his view. Fushiguro quickly moves them away, eyes lasering on focus as Itadori decides to start the spar, making quicks strides to him. Itadori goes for a right hook, Fushiguro blocks it easily. Like clockwork he grabs Itadori’s arm and tries to flip him over. Itadori easily breaks free with an attempted kick to his shin, causing Fushiguro to jump back, putting space between them again. Fushiguro goes to a strike his jaw, for Itadori to dodge and attempt to hit him back.

It goes on for some time, with them going back and forth. To be completely honest, the black- hair sorcerer knew that in hand-to-hand combat, Itadori had the upper hand. However, in the time that had passed going from 15 to now 18 years of age, he could say with some confidence he could hold his ground against him.

After a failed punch, Fushiguro had Itadori in a vulnerable position. He could basically see the victory.

“You boys having fun?”

Her light, playful, teasing voice breaks through the cicadas, the heat and more importantly, Fushiguro’s focus. His head whips to see her causally leaning against one of the many trees, one of her legs bent, using the base as leverage. He drinks in her entire form. Arms crossed pushing up her breasts, extenuating the curves and contours of the rest of her body. His eyes trail to how her skirt had slid up the tiniest bit, legs bare since tights were now a hinderance instead of a benefit.

Then just like that, he’s on the dirt trying to breath in the air that suddenly had escaped him, all the while cursing his unconscious ogling.

He just couldn’t help himself. And that’s what frustrated him.

“Ha! I win!” Itadori’s voice is gleeful, before turning to the absolute bane of Fushiguro’s existence.

Kuramoto Sumiko.

He watches the two exchange greetings, causal conversation flowing as though Fushiguro wasn’t on the floor basically cooking in the sun. He sits up and grits his teeth, his annoyance in himself projecting onto her.

“Could you not interrupt us when we’re sparing? You made me lose focus.” He spits, glaring at her. He watches in agitation as Kuramoto’s smile grows condescending. It causes his blood to boil.

“So cold, Fushiguro-kun,” He knew she only used the honorific to piss him off. And God did it work.

“Just because you’re frustrated that you lost, yet again might I add, doesn’t mean you need to take it out on me.” He tsks, ignoring her words. Itadori ignores Kuramoto’s passive aggressive statement, offering a hand to help Fushiguro up. He begrudgingly takes it, before unwillingly moving his focus back to her.

In the end it always goes back to her. Whether he liked it or not. (Though it was usually not)

“What are you doing here anyways?” Kuramoto pouts, mocking a sad expression. Fushiguro stops himself from looking at her lips. He refocuses when he hears her dramatic huff.

“You make it seem as though you don’t want to be around me.” Kuramoto’s voice is overly babyish, turning her body to the side and looking away as if what he said actually hurt her. Fushiguro knows better than that though.

It’s because I don’t. The sorcerer thinks bitterly.

You drive me insane. With almost everything you do.

He cuts off his thoughts, almost shaking his head in real time as he watches with pure distaste when her mock sadness turns extremely dramatic with the flip of a switch. Kuramotos’ slightly manic behaviour wasn’t surprising to neither Fushiguro nor Itadori. She’d always been like this; in fact, he’d predicted her personality in the beginning moments of meeting her. Prideful, selfish, loud and a little bit crazy. All perfect traits for a life in sorcery.

Everything Fushiguro wasn’t.

He could say with full confidence that they two were total foils of each other. Like water and oil, the two just didn’t mix.

He thought about it more then he cared to admit.

She places her hand on her heart, making a pained expression. “Oh, how you wound me.” Kuramoto’s closed eyes peek open to view the two boys who were clearly not amused. Well, Itadori was a little; He had always found her antics a little funny.

The had two always got along better than her and Fushiguro for sure. He would be lying if he said he’s never gotten slightly jealous.

Fushiguro sighs tiredly, waiting for the real reason she had come and interrupted their spar. One look at his expression and she smiles.

“Tough crowd.” He only rolls his eyes. “Gojo sent me to get Yuuji. Something about a mission, I think.” Itadori makes a noise of recollection, then one of stress. Kuramoto and Fushiguro, well her more openly, watch in amusement as Itadori’s face shifts through the levels of stress.

“Ah, I completely forgot! ‘Kay, I gotta go! I’ll you see guys later!” He runs off instantly, not even waiting for goodbyes, and she laughs a little. There’s a beat of silence as they watch Itadori become smaller and smaller. It goes once, twice, until they both reach the same thought.

They were left alone with each other.

It doesn’t take long before Kuramoto gets that teasing look in her eye. The look he absolutely despised.

“And then there were two.” He raised his brow, ignoring the feeling of his blood pressure rising and incoming headache.

If he had any say about it, he wouldn’t be staying too long.

“I have to train, so I can’t stay. Excuse me.” Fushiguro starts to walk away when her laugh stops him.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The question makes him pause. Mostly because he already knew the answer.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He came off more aggressive and irritated then he wanted to, but to be fair, it was her.

He just couldn’t control himself.

Kuramoto hums, walking towards him, her steps light and bouncy as she circles around him. Fushiguro’s eyes never leave hers; Just like hers never leave his.

“Well, its just that you’d think after three years, you’d tolerate being around me more.” Fushiguro knew what she were referring to. Over the years he could count the times he’d been alone with her on one hand, and even then, it wasn’t very long.

He didn’t know what’d he’d do if he was given the chance.

Fushiguro doesn’t respond, trying to ignore the growing tension that came from his silence.

The tension that they both knew were there but refused to acknowledge.

Kuramoto laughs lowly, cutting the silence in half as she begin to walk away. His eyes trail her form. “Just some food for thought, Megumi-kun.” His name rolls off her tongue so smoothly, it sends shivers down his spine. He glares at her hard, keeping silent.

“Also, maybe a haircut would improve your chances at sparing. But don’t expect any miracles, okay?” She yells over her shoulder as she exits, and Fushiguro clenches his fists. He doesn’t respond; Then again, he never does.

Because he’s too busy willing his body to not chase after her.

~~~

“She drives me insane.” Fushiguro rants, pacing back and forth the floors of Itadori’s dorm, while the aforementioned watches in concealed amusement.

“C’mon man, she’s not that bad,” Itadori reasons. Fushiguro stops to look at him. “Of course, you would say that; She doesn’t put all her energy into tormenting you.” The pink-haired sorcerer sighs a little.

“Or maybe, you just give her too much to play off of.” Itadori mumbles, and Fushiguro stops.

“What?”

“I’m just saying, you do act a little strongly with her. Downplay it, and she might lay off.” Fushiguro scoffs. As if he hasn’t thought of that before.

He didn’t have the nerve to say he had no control of his emotions around her.

“What part of ‘she drives me insane’ do you not understand?” He watches Itadori sigh again, rubbing the back of his neck as he sets his drink down on the floor.

“Look dude I get it; Having that kind of tension with someone would drive anyone nuts-” Fushiguro almost chokes, effectively cutting off his best friend. That struck a nerve.

“I’m sorry, ‘that kind of tension’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Fushiguro asks, immediately on the offensive. Itadori looks at his best friend blankly. “Uh… The sexual tension you guys have? It’s so thick you could cut it with a knife.” The simple manner in which he says it, causes Fushiguro to spiral even more.

“What?! That’s not even close to what’s going on! She drives me insane because she’s rash, selfish, crazy, annoyingly-”

“Fuckable?” The boys both turn to the source of the crass comment. Kugisaki leaning against the doorframe, her face completely serious. Fushiguro grits his teeth, his ears burning in embarrassment and anger knowing that there was no escape from the subject now.

“Couldn’t help but overhear. Honestly, Fushiguro, you want to screw her so bad it makes you look stupid.” He watches his other best friend, debatable at the moment however, walk into the room and open the mini fridge to get herself a drink. Fushiguro tsks at the comment, looking away from his friends prying eyes.

“Again, the concept of me and her is ridiculous. Never once have I ever thought of her that way.” He hears Kugisaki snort loudly.

“Please. There’s a thin line between love and hate, and you’ve been ready fuck over it since the day you met. You guys should just get it over with. Three years is long enough.” He watches his two friends, clearly amused with his suffering, infuriated. He can’t stop the irritated sound that comes from his throat. Itadori, perhaps feeling pity, gives Fushiguro a sympathetic smile.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Get your mind off things?” Itadori suggests. Fushiguro sighs, but doesn’t disagree. He had been working hard enough as it is, and a day off didn’t sound too bad…

“And there’s my entrance.” The three third years freeze to sound of Kuramoto’s voice. Fushiguro’s heart suddenly began to pound so hard he could feel it in his ears. If she had heard anything, he would never hear the end of it. And if that happened, he truly believed he would snap.

“Kuramoto! Were you outside long?” Itadori asks, standing up to greet you, clearly trying to gage how much you heard the previous conversation. The three anxiously awaited your answer.

“Just got here. I overheard that Megumi-kun,” She makes a point of using his first name in an overly smug but light voice to irritate him. Fushiguro glares but doesn’t say anything.

“Was thinking of a day off?” Itadori and Kugisaki go silent as they watch Fushiguro’s face form a deeper frown then once thought imaginable.

“I fail to see how that involves you in any way.” He says sharply. She only gives a light shrug, smile still plastered on her face. “It’s just that it really messes up my schedule.” Fushiguro’s eyebrows burrow deeper in confusion.

“What?”

“With the mission Gojo-sensei gave us. We leave tonight.” The information bounces around Fushiguro’s head and he still doesn’t process it completely.

“Huh? Gojo never said anything about a mission, though.” Kugisaki finally speaks, and Itadori agrees with a couple nods of his head. Kuramotos’ smile widens.

“It was assigned to just me and Megumi-kun. Something about our styles aligning.” She hums in thought, and all words dry up in Fushiguro’s mouth.

A solo mission… with her…

“Anyways! Make sure to pack the essentials Megumi-kun! It’s supposed to be a few days at the least!” Kuramoto laughs before saying a childish* ‘bye-bye’ *and leaving. It took several minutes and hand waving to get Fushiguro up to speed.

This. This was his own worst nightmare.

~~~

“Do you want to explain yourself?” Fushiguro barges into his office, catching Gojo mid tea sip. He could see his teacher’s smile widening, as he continues drinking his tea, purposefully not sensing Fushiguro’s tone of urgency and anger.

“About what, Megumi? I do a lot of things that need explaining. Depending on what it is, I might give you an answer.” Gojo sets his tea down gently, looking at his student with a grin so wide it was extremely difficult for Fushiguro to not punch him.

Still, he remained calm. Well, enough at least.

“The mission you apparently assigned me and Kuramoto. Why the two of us? You have lots of different sorcerers at your disposal.” Gojo made a sound of surprise.

“Am I hearing tones of resentment? I never thought I’d see the day where the team player doesn’t want to cooperate with someone. Scary.” Fushiguro grits his teeth.

“I- We just don’t work well together.”

“You guys do well enough in group settings. What’s the difference?” The answer dies in Fushiguro’s throat.

The difference is less time actually spent alone. He couldn’t imagine the possibilities of what could happen if there were alone for long periods of time. It was practically unheard of.

And Fushiguro wasn’t keen on experimenting.

“Plus, your techniques compliment each other. You guys theoretically would make a great team, so I put you together. Now you can drop out if you’d like, but I’ve already told the higher ups and the principal you guys were going. That’s not gonna look good for you.” Fushiguro rubs the bridge of his nose.

Why did you tell them I’d go without asking me first? Is the only question on his mind before holding his head up, swallowing his pent-up frustrations with an easy breath. Just like so many times before in his life.

“Where are we going?”

“A small town on the outskirts of Tokyo bordering Kanagawa.” He nods, before taking his leave and going to his dorm to pack his stuff. He fails to see Gojo’s mischievous grin as he takes another sip of his tea.

Jealousy: Kyotani (Mad Dog)

The bar was crowded—not uncomfortably, but just enough that the air pulsed with low music and the warm scent of whiskey and fryer oil. The lights were low, warm and golden, casting soft shadows over tables cluttered with drinks and peeling coaster edges. Glass clinked softly in the background, a lazy rhythm to the Friday night energy building in waves.

You were leaning against the bar, waiting for your drinks, while Kyōtani had ducked away to use the bathroom. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, but you ignored it, eyes on the bartender shaking cocktails two seats down.

Which was, in hindsight, the exact moment the universe decided to test your patience.

“Hey there,” came a voice to your left—slurred, low, and too close. You caught the sour tang of beer on his breath before you saw his face.

You didn’t turn immediately. You’d felt it coming—like a storm you could smell in the air.

“I been watchin’ you from across the bar,” the man said, a lazy, drunken confidence in his voice. “You look like you could use some company.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “I’m good, thanks.”

He chuckled. “C’mon. Don’t be like that. I’ll buy you a drink, sweetheart.”

You turned your head, offering a cool, unimpressed stare. His eyes were glassy, cheeks blotched red from too much alcohol, and his grin was the kind of smarmy that made your skin crawl.

“You don’t wanna do that,” you said flatly.

The guy blinked. “What? Buy a pretty girl a drink?”

“No.” You shifted your weight, voice firm. “Hit on someone who’s taken.”

He raised a brow, like he thought you were bluffing. “Taken? Don’t see anyone here. You ditched him already?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You need to back off.”

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Men like that never did.

Instead, he laughed—loudly, like he’d just heard the best joke of the night. “Relax, baby. You’re hot. I’m just tryin’ to show some appreciation.”

You turned back toward the bar, trying to signal the bartender, but the guy didn’t take the hint. You felt him step closer, invading your space. Then his hand brushed your arm—too familiar, too bold.

That was when you felt it.

The air shifted. Like the pressure dropped.

A presence behind you—heavy, hot, and unmistakable.

Kyōtani.

A shadow passed over the drunk guy’s face, but he didn’t turn fast enough.

Kyōtani didn’t speak. He didn’t posture. He didn’t warn.

He just swung.

A blur of movement exploded at your side—a crack, loud and sharp, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. The guy lay sprawled across the scuffed floorboards, groaning, his hand cupping his jaw as shocked silence rippled through the nearby tables.

Kyōtani stood over him, jaw clenched, one hand still curled into a tight fist, his broad chest rising and falling as he stared down at the guy like he was debating whether to throw another punch for good measure.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

You just looked down at the groaning man and said, with a shrug and a sip of your half-warm drink, “Told you so.”

Kyōtani turned to you, golden eyes burning with residual fury, scanning your face and arms like he needed confirmation you were untouched. “He touch you?”

“Barely,” you muttered. “He tried.”

Kyōtani grunted low in his throat, gaze snapping back to the guy on the ground. “You’re lucky I stopped at one.”

The bartender said nothing. No one did.

You grabbed your second drink off the bar, rolling your eyes. “Guess I need a new gin and tonic now.”

Kyōtani huffed, throwing a protective arm around your shoulder, steering you away from the scene. “Let’s go. I hate this place anyway.”

“You hate every place.”

“Not true,” he muttered, hand tightening at your waist. “I like the ones where people don’t talk to you.”

You laughed under your breath as the two of you disappeared into the cooler night air, Kyōtani’s hand never leaving you for a second.

And as you walked, he leaned in, voice low and unrepentant.

“Next guy that touches you,” he growled, “I’m breakin’ his ribs.”

You smirked, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I know.”

Smash, next question

I made this for Twitter btw 😌

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 3

The morning sunlight streamed through the cracked window, golden rays spilling over the tangled mess of sheets and the scattered remnants of the night before. Outside, birds chirped in the early quiet, their songs a stark contrast to the utter wreckage inside the room.

You groaned as consciousness pulled you from the depths of exhaustion, a dull, persistent ache spreading through your body. Every muscle protested as you attempted to move, soreness radiating from the very core of you. Fucking hell.

Shifting slightly, you became aware of the steady rise and fall of someone else's breathing beside you. Your gaze flickered to your left, and sure enough—Atsumu Miya, sprawled out, snoring like a chainsaw, one arm flung over his head, the other lazily draped across your waist.

That smug bastard.

You blinked, your brain still foggy, your limbs still heavy with exhaustion, and then—

Oh. Right.

Your eyes darted around your bedroom, the aftermath of last night coming into focus. Condom wrappers littered the floor, some torn open in haste, others carelessly discarded. Tied-off condoms rested in evidence of just how many times you had let him ruin you. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat, sex, and something undeniably Atsumu.

You clenched your jaw. You let this happen. Multiple times.

Your body throbbed in agreement. Yeah. No shit.

Gritting your teeth, you slowly pushed his arm off of you and began the excruciating process of getting up. The second you sat up, white-hot soreness shot through your thighs, your stomach tightening from the sheer ache of overuse. A hiss escaped you as you gingerly swung your legs over the bed, muscles screaming in protest.

"Goddamn it, Miya," you muttered under your breath, wincing as you stood. Your legs wobbled dangerously, knees threatening to buckle before you caught yourself on the edge of your desk.

That cocky asshole fucked you stupid.

You cursed him again, more viciously this time, before dragging yourself toward the bathroom, muttering a string of colorful profanities as you went. A hot shower was the only thing that might save you now.

The sight in the bathroom mirror was humiliating.

Your hair was a tangled disaster, barely clinging to the remnants of the ponytail you had thrown it into at some point last night, stray strands sticking to your forehead and neck. Tugging the elastic free, you ran your fingers through the knots, hissing slightly as you tried to tame the mess. And then your gaze caught the deep, bruise-like hickey from your very first encounter, still staining the side of your neck, dark and undeniable.

Fucking fantastic.

Rolling your eyes, you reached for the shower handle, twisting it until steam began to rise. The second the warm water hit your skin, your muscles sighed in relief. You let out a breath, resting your forehead against the cool tile as last night replayed in your head.

How the hell had this happened?

More importantly—why the fuck had it been so good? It had been so long since you’d had genuinely good sex, since someone had touched you like that, made you come apart so completely. And it just had to be him. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Atsumu Miya.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. He had been too good—an irritatingly smug bastard with a filthy mouth and a body that knew exactly how to work yours. He had torn you apart, left you in shambles, ruined you, and the worst part? You wanted more.

Shaking your head, you rinsed the suds from your hair, trying to push the thought away as you finished up. When you stepped out, fresh and clean, you felt marginally better—until you walked back into your room.

He was still there. Still sprawled out, still snoring, dead to the world like he had no intention of moving anytime soon.

You scowled.

The audacity of this man.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped up to his side, glaring down at him. With a sharp flick to his forehead, you muttered, "Hey, this isn’t a bed and breakfast. Go home."

Atsumu groaned, shifting slightly but refusing to open his eyes. His golden hair was an absolute mess, strands sticking up in chaotic tufts, evidence of how thoroughly you had pulled at it throughout the night. His broad shoulders flexed lazily as he rolled onto his stomach, the curve of his back leading down to the sheets pooling dangerously low at his waist. The way his muscles shifted with the movement sent an unwanted spark of heat through you—fucking unfair.

His voice, thick with sleep and laced with satisfaction, rumbled through the room. "God, for how well I fucked you, you’d think you’d be less of a bitch," he mumbled, barely lifting his head before burying his face into your pillow, exhaling deeply like he had all the time in the world.

Your nostrils flared. Oh, hell no.

With zero hesitation, you ripped the blanket off of him, exposing his very naked form to the cool morning air. He let out a disgruntled noise, blindly reaching for the covers, but you had already thrown his underwear at his face.

"Get dressed and get out before your brother starts wondering where the hell you’ve been."

Atsumu groaned into the mattress, arms tucked under his head like he didn’t have a single care in the world. "S’too early for this," he grumbled.

Your glare intensified. "Miya. Get. Up."

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, that lazy smirk creeping onto his face like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Y’know, sweetheart, ya didn’t seem too eager for me to leave last night. If I remember correctly, ya were beggin’ me to stay inside ya."

You saw red.

Lunging forward, you smacked him upside the head with a pillow, sending him coughing into the sheets. "Shut the fuck up and put your pants on!"

Atsumu wheezed out a laugh, rubbing his head as he sat up, his toned body stretching with a satisfied groan. "Aight, aight, I’m goin’—no need to get violent."

You rolled your eyes as he slid into his clothes, his stupid smirk never leaving his face. As soon as his shirt was on, he strolled up to you, eyes raking over you in nothing but your towel.

"Y’know," he mused, cocking his head, "I could just stay. Help ya recover."

Your eye twitched. This man had no shame.

Grabbing his hoodie from the floor, you shoved it into his chest. "Out."

He chuckled, stepping through the doorway before pausing, glancing over his shoulder.

"See ya at practice, sweetheart. Try not to miss me too much."

You crossed your arms. "Oh, suck my dick."

Atsumu’s smirk widened instantly. "I’ll do that next time."

Your face flamed as his words registered, but before you could react, he was already laughing, dodging your attempt to shove him as he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there, breathless, flustered, and ready to launch something at his retreating figure. That bastard.

~~

The morning sun had risen higher by the time Atsumu finally dragged himself out of your house, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket as he walked back home. The crisp morning air did little to clear his head. His body ached—not in a bad way, but in that thoroughly-used, completely-spent kind of way, muscles sore from hours of exertion. Every step sent a reminder of exactly what he had been doing all night, and with whom.

And his mind?

It was a fucking mess.

He wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly what this was. You hated his guts, and he gave you just as much shit in return. That wasn’t changing anytime soon. You were bossy, relentless, always looking for a way to put him in his place—and goddammit, it infuriated him.

But last night?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as flashes of you—your legs tangled with his, the way your breath had hitched every time he pushed deeper, how you had fought him for control—flooded his mind.

Fuck.

He could still feel you, phantom traces of your nails scraping down his back, the warmth of your body, the way your thighs had locked around him like you were daring him to stop. And that look on your face when you finally gave in? Yeah, that shit was burned into his memory.

And damn it all, it was the best sex he’d ever had.

Atsumu wasn’t naive—he’d been with girls before, and sure, he liked to think he was good in bed. No one had ever complained. But with you?

It was different.

Not just the sex—though, fuck, it was phenomenal—but the build-up. The tension, the aggression, the way you had fought him every step of the way, and still melted under him just the same. It made his blood run hotter, his instincts sharper, like every second with you was some kind of battle he was dying to win.

And now? Now he had fucked you senseless, and instead of feeling satisfied like he normally would, his body was already itching to do it again.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as his house came into view. His entire body felt heavy, spent, and the only thing on his mind now was crashing into his bed and sleeping for the next eight hours. Maybe then he could stop thinking about the way your breathy moans had completely wrecked him.

"Shit."

The front door creaked open as he stepped inside, toeing off his shoes. The kitchen was quiet, but a note caught his attention, stuck to the fridge with a volleyball magnet.

Went to grab groceries. Be back later. Try not to destroy the house.

Atsumu huffed a small, tired laugh and crumpled the note in his fist before heading down the hall, desperate for the sleep he hadn’t gotten. His bed was calling him, and he could already feel the exhaustion creeping up his limbs, finally ready to crash.

But the second he stepped into his bedroom, a familiar voice made him pause.

"I covered for you last night, you know."

Atsumu barely spared his twin a glance, too tired to argue. "Uh huh. Thanks."

Osamu was sitting up on his own bed, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "So, you’re just not gonna tell me where you were last night?"

Atsumu groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair before flopping face-first onto his mattress. "Samu, I swear to god, I’m too tired for this."

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the headboard, watching his twin like he could see through his bullshit already. "That so? ‘Cause ya look like ya got hit by a truck."

Atsumu grunted into his pillow. Yeah. A truck named you.

Osamu let the silence stretch between them before sighing. "Was it a girl?"

Atsumu tensed for half a second before he forced his body to relax, rolling onto his side, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"It does when yer actin’ all weird about it." Osamu's tone was far too knowing for Atsumu's liking. His twin wasn’t one to pry, but he was also damn observant, and Atsumu had no doubt that if he wasn’t careful, Osamu would piece everything together before the day was over.

Atsumu exhaled heavily. "Can ya just let me sleep?"

Osamu narrowed his eyes, something clicking into place behind them. "Wait a second... You were actin’ weird as hell yesterday, and the manager didn’t even show up to practice in the afternoon..."

Atsumu forced his expression to stay neutral, shoving down the immediate impulse to react. "What? You think I was with her?" He scoffed, shaking his head as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Relax, Samu. It was just some girl from class—Airi Sakamoto."

Osamu didn’t say anything for a second, but Atsumu felt him still watching. Weighing his words. Judging his reaction.

"Huh." Osamu finally leaned back against the headboard. "Didn’t think ya liked Airi."

Atsumu shrugged, doing his best to sound unaffected. "Nothin’ serious. Just some fun."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

The way Osamu said it made Atsumu’s skin itch. Like he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he also wasn’t going to push—yet. His twin was perceptive as hell, but thankfully, he wasn’t nosy unless something really bugged him.

Atsumu exhaled slowly, trying to let his body relax. Good. This’ll blow over.

Osamu didn’t push any further, but Atsumu knew better than to assume this was over. His twin had that look, the one that said he wasn’t entirely buying it but was willing to let it sit for now. Atsumu could only hope that was enough to keep him from digging further.

But as he finally closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, the image of you still wouldn’t leave his head.

This was gonna be a problem.

~~

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, the weight of the weekend still lingering in your muscles, your thoughts, your everything. The cold air bit at your skin as you made your way toward the gym, your feet dragging slightly despite your best efforts to act normal. You had spent the entire weekend trying—desperately trying—to push everything that had happened with Atsumu to the back of your mind. But now, with practice looming ahead, it felt like all of it was crawling right back up your throat.

How the hell were you supposed to pretend like nothing had happened?

It had been two days. Forty-eight hours since you had let Atsumu ruin you, and now you had to walk into practice and act like you hadn’t spent half the weekend moaning his name. Like he hadn’t touched you in ways you could still feel.

Fucking fantastic.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you took a deep breath. It was fine. You just had to do what you always did—be civil enough to get through practice without anyone suspecting a damn thing. You could ignore him. You could pretend that nothing was different.

You had to.

But it wasn’t just about ignoring him. No, that would have been too easy. Because the thing with Atsumu was that he wasn’t the type to just let things go. He was an asshole, a relentless one at that, and you had no doubt that the second he saw you, he was going to say something. He was going to look at you with that stupid fucking smirk, that self-satisfied, cocky-ass grin, and you were going to have to find a way not to strangle him in front of everyone.

Up ahead, you spotted Kita unlocking the gym doors, his usual composed demeanor unchanged. He glanced up as you approached, his sharp eyes immediately settling on you as he gave a small nod in greeting.

"Mornin'. Feelin' better?" he asked casually.

You froze mid-step. What?

Your brain went completely blank for a solid second before the realization slammed into you.

Oh. Right.

You had told Kita you were sick to get out of afternoon practice on Friday. Shit.

You forced your face into neutrality, schooling your features as quickly as you could. "Uh—" you blinked, then cleared your throat. "Yeah. Head cold."

Kita gave a small, approving nod, his expression unreadable. "Good. Glad you’re back."

You exhaled, relieved that he didn’t press further, though the reminder of your flimsy excuse only added to the pile of things to stress about today.

The real problem wasn’t Kita.

It was stepping into that gym and seeing Atsumu again.

You could already feel it, the weight of his presence, the way the air would shift the second you walked in. You knew him too well. You had been fighting with him for years. And now? Now you had to pretend like his hands hadn’t been all over you, like you hadn’t spent the weekend letting him fuck you in every way imaginable.

And the worst part? You had no idea how to handle it.

With one last deep breath, you squared your shoulders, plastering the most neutral expression you could manage onto your face, and followed Kita inside.

The gym was empty, still wrapped in the early morning quiet, save for the distant hum of the overhead lights flickering to life as Kita stepped ahead, checking the locks and switches with his usual efficiency. You made a beeline for the storage room, the familiar echo of your footsteps bouncing off the polished floors, each step grounding you in the routine—a routine you needed now more than ever.

Pulling out the cart of volleyballs, you set about your usual tasks, rolling out the net, setting up the poles, unfolding the mats in the corner of the gym—all movements embedded in your muscle memory, allowing your mind to drift even as your body worked.

But your thoughts weren’t cooperating.

Each small motion felt heavier today, like every act of normalcy was forcing your mind to ignore the very obvious elephant in the room: Atsumu fucking Miya.

The past weekend had unraveled something you weren’t ready to confront. The sharp, burning pull of hatred, desire, competition, frustration—it was still there, coiling beneath your skin like a live wire. How were you supposed to erase the feeling of his body against yours? The way he had looked at you in the dim light of your bedroom, golden eyes dark with something you refused to name? The way he had made you come undone over and over until you had lost track of time?

Your fingers curled around the net, gripping it too tightly.

You had to get a grip.

You gave your head a sharp shake, forcing the thoughts down, deep, deep down where they wouldn’t interfere with practice. Because that was all it was—practice. A normal morning, a normal routine. You just had to act normal.

And more importantly, you had to act like Atsumu didn’t still linger in the ache between your thighs, in the phantom press of his fingers along your waist, in the way your pulse picked up just thinking about him.

You scowled at yourself. Pathetic.

Straightening, you grabbed a volleyball from the cart, tossing it idly from one hand to the other, trying to reset your mind. The doors would open soon. The team would pile in. Atsumu would walk through that door.

And you needed to be ready.

It wasn’t long before the distant echo of voices signaled the arrival of the team, the usual mix of early morning grumbles and lighthearted banter filling the space as the gym doors swung open. You kept your focus on the net, adjusting its tension with a practiced ease, but it was impossible to ignore the way their presence shifted the atmosphere—the way his presence shifted the atmosphere.

A few of the guys greeted you as they passed, their voices casual, unaware of the storm inside your head.

"Hey, you feeling better?" one of them asked, pausing briefly near the cart of volleyballs.

You nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Yeah. Just a head cold."

"Glad you're back. Kita was worried."

That surprised you. Kita worried? You glanced toward the captain, who was already overseeing warm-ups with his usual composed expression. He must have noticed your hesitation because he gave a small nod of acknowledgment, as if to confirm the statement. Huh.

But then, you made a mistake.

Your gaze drifted across the gym, landing on him.

Atsumu had just stepped inside, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled as if he hadn’t bothered fixing it properly before rolling out of bed. The second your eyes met, he smirked.

Not just any smirk.

That smirk. The one that sent heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, the one that made you clench your fists just to stop yourself from reacting. It was lazy, self-satisfied, and undeniably knowing—like he could still feel you on him, like he could still hear the way you moaned his name in the quiet of your room.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

A rush of heat, a sudden tightening in your core, a traitorous pulse between your legs that sent panic flaring through your mind. No. No, no, no.

You locked up, fingers tightening around the net’s frame, every ounce of rational thought crumbling beneath the weight of that goddamn smirk.

"Uh—earth to manager?"

You jolted slightly, blinking rapidly as Suna waved a hand in front of your face, his sharp eyes flickering with mild amusement. Shit.

"You good? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I—" You cleared your throat, willing yourself to snap back to reality. "Yeah. Just—distracted."

Suna’s gaze lingered for a second too long before he shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "If you say so."

You exhaled sharply, heart still hammering against your ribs as you forced yourself to focus.

Practice was starting. You needed to get it together.

The drills started off as routine as ever, the rhythmic sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, volleyballs slamming against the net, and voices calling out sets filling the gym. You went about your usual duties, keeping water bottles filled, retrieving stray balls, observing. Everything was exactly as it should be. Almost.

Because you were noticing things you had never noticed before.

Atsumu had always been an impressive player. You knew that. His skill was the reason he was the starting setter of Inarizaki, the reason scouts were always eyeing him for future prospects. But you had never let yourself notice him like this before.

The way his muscles flexed every time he set the ball, the way his strong arms held complete control over the game, the sheer power behind every calculated move—it all felt too familiar. His body was built for this sport, lean but strong, his movements fluid and commanding, just like that night.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze to shift anywhere else. No. Absolutely not.

And yet, your thoughts kept circling back to him, back to the way he had moved over you, with the same precision, the same power. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to snap yourself out of it. This was insane. This was Atsumu. The same Atsumu who had spent years annoying the shit out of you, pushing your buttons, picking fights just to rile you up.

You needed to leave. Now.

The second practice ended, you grabbed your things and bolted, moving toward the exit before anyone could stop you. The last thing you needed was more time around him. You just had to make it to class, shake off whatever the hell was happening in your head, and forget—

A hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into the shadow of the gym just as the rest of the team filtered out. Warm, calloused fingers wrapped around your skin, familiar and firm.

Atsumu.

You barely had time to register his presence before he was speaking, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"My place'll be empty tonight," he said, his tone so damn casual you could have punched him. "Samu's got a project."

You scowled, immediately tugging your wrist from his grasp. "And why should I care?"

Atsumu didn’t answer right away, just raised a brow like he knew something you didn’t. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your head. And then, with that insufferable smirk, he said, "Come over after practice."

And then he walked away, leaving you pissed—because you knew in your heart that you were going.

Pregnancy: Kuroo (NSFW)

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe sometime last week, maybe even before that—but the switch flipped quietly, without warning. One minute you were just a little tired, a little bloated, trying to get comfortable with the weird limbo that is second trimester pregnancy. And the next?

You were staring at your husband like he was carved from marble. Like every movement of his arms under that damn fitted black t-shirt was offensive. Like the way his voice dipped when he answered a work call should be punishable by law.

You hadn’t touched him in days—partly because you were tired, partly because the two of you were still adjusting to the wave of appointments and vitamins and new routines. But now, now your skin feels too tight for your body. You can’t stop thinking about his hands. His stupid smirk. The stretch of muscle across his stomach when he reaches for the top shelf. You keep shifting in your chair at the kitchen table, thighs pressed together as you half-watch him move around the apartment, trying not to combust every time he bends to grab something or stretches his arms over his head like a personal attack.

You're four months pregnant, and your hormones are holding you hostage.

But how the hell are you supposed to say that? Hey honey, I want you so bad it’s making me delusional? You’re turning me on just by walking?

You'd rather burst into flames.

So instead, you sit quietly, pretending to scroll through your phone while your eyes flicker up to him every ten seconds like a heat-seeking missile. You’re trying to be subtle. You really are.

Unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou has known you long enough to spot a mood shift from fifty paces away—and he’s been watching. Smugly. Patiently. Waiting.

The first hint that you’ve been caught comes when he strolls by with a bowl of chopped strawberries, casually plucks one from the bowl, and leans over to offer it to you without a word. You’re caught off guard, lips parting automatically as he feeds it to you. Your teeth graze the tip of his fingers, just barely, and his lips twitch.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you chew. Slow. Calm.

Then, in a voice dipped in dry amusement: “You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes.”

You blink, swallow. “I haven’t.”

“Mm,” he hums, straightening up. “Sure you haven’t.”

You grit your teeth. Heat burns your cheeks. You can already feel the spiral beginning.

He doesn’t press. Just walks around the kitchen like he didn’t just call you out for mentally undressing him on the spot. His movements are so casual it’s infuriating. He grabs a dish towel, wipes down the counter, opens the fridge, all while your brain is on fire.

You stare down at your phone, eyes unfocused, and will yourself to get it together. You just need to act normal. You’re not gonna combust. It’s fine. It’s just hormones.

“You okay?” he asks, voice far too neutral. You glance up. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over that broad chest, eyebrow lifted in feigned innocence.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re flushed.” His head tilts. “You hot?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You shift in your seat, pressing your knees together. “Yes.”

Another pause. Then:

“You hungry?”

Your eyes shoot to him instinctively—and that’s when you realize he knows. Not just suspects. Not maybe. Knows.

And worse: he’s enjoying it.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look away again, hands gripping your phone like it might save you from yourself.

When he crosses the room, you don’t even notice until he’s crouching beside your chair, resting one arm on the armrest, the other hand brushing lightly over your thigh. You freeze.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in syrup, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to climb me.”

You blink rapidly. “That’s not—”

“You sigh every time I stretch.” His fingers trace up to your knee. “You squirm when I talk. You’ve eaten, slept, and had your iron supplements. So unless there’s a sudden new strawberry emergency—”

“Tetsuro.”

“—I think,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “there’s something you’re not saying.”

You bury your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “This is so embarrassing.”

He laughs softly, warm breath fanning over your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s adorable.”

“It’s feral, Tetsu. I feel like a monster.”

“Monsters don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low against your skin. “They don’t whimper every time I bend over.”

You groan louder, but your body leans into him on instinct.

“Say it,” he teases. “C’mon. Say you want me.”

“I hate you.”

“You want me.”

“I’m four months pregnant and deranged, don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, baby,” he grins, pulling you gently into his lap, “you’re carrying my kid and horny for me? I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”

Mortified beyond recovery, you squirm your way out of his lap, muttering something unintelligible as you bolt from the kitchen. It’s half an attempt to escape, half a desperate grab for your dignity. You make it three steps into the hallway before you hear him laugh—low and knowing—and then feel his hands at your hips.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your ear as he tugs you back against him. “You’re not getting away from me after saying all that.”

You fumble for a response, but it vanishes the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin with unbearable slowness. You tilt your head back without thinking, breath catching.

“Tetsurou—”

“Yeah?” he answers, already kissing down your neck, voice infuriatingly calm. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”

You don’t. You can’t.

Instead, your hands find his wrists and guide them higher. You melt into him like wax to flame.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your jaw. “That’s more like it.”

Before you can catch your breath, he has you gently turned, your back pressing against the hallway wall. His hands settle firmly on your hips, then slide lower, fingers working with a confidence that has your knees buckling. You gasp when he pops the button of your pants, the sound deafening in the quiet space between your bodies.

“Tetsurou—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your collarbone with the lightest graze, voice so low and deliberate it sends a pulse through your spine. His hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear with a languid slowness, his knuckles dragging along your skin like he wants you to feel everything.

“Let me take care of you, yeah? You’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”

You inhale sharply as his fingers slide deeper, seeking out the ache you’ve been trying to ignore for days. When he finds it—you—it’s like your body short-circuits. Your breath stutters, hips jolting forward as if your body’s been waiting for this exact moment, this exact touch.

His fingers move with maddening precision—expert and unhurried—stroking you in a rhythm that melts the strength from your knees. He presses you harder into the wall, not with force but weight, anchoring you there while your body twists and trembles under his control. His mouth trails along your neck, slow kisses blooming across your pulse point as you gasp, the sound catching in your throat.

"Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "Let me make it better."

Your hands cling to his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as your body arches into him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, strung high by weeks of restrained want, the heat of your own embarrassment fueling the need. He murmurs low praise into your skin—good girl, so soft, so perfect, so fucking sweet like this—and the words alone nearly undo you.

And when you do come, it’s a quiet, raw thing—your body trembling in his hold, face tucked against his shoulder, a muffled cry of Tetsurou slipping from your lips like confession. He holds you steady through it, one arm around your waist, the other still curled low, fingers easing you through every last tremor.

When your breathing slows, when the fog begins to lift, his hand gently slips free and he cradles your face, brushing back damp strands of hair with the same fingers that just unraveled you.

“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “My gorgeous, needy wife. All mine.”

Your breath comes out in short, shaky bursts, still reeling, still trembling in his hands. “I can’t believe I—” you start, but the words collapse in your throat, too breathless, too flustered to finish.

Tetsurou chuckles softly, and before you can even think about collecting yourself, he’s hooking one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with effortless strength.

You yelp, arms flying around his neck as he princess carries you down the hallway, your face burning hot against his shoulder. “Tetsu—! What are you doing?!”

He glances down at you, grin smug, eyes molten. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he murmurs, already walking with you in his arms toward the bedroom. His voice is velvet and heat, wrapped around every word, promising more. “I’ve got you all night, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”

Hii!!

First of all, I wanna say that I really really love your writing, I literally check ur page multiple times daily to see if you posted - your writing is just that good.

I wanted to ask if it was possible to maybe have a "fav positions" w Aone? 👀 He's honestly such a gentle guy, I love him smm

Or if that's not rlly smth for you, maybe smth for the manager duty section? I'd love to see smth w Shiratorizawa !!

Again, I absolutely adore your writing, keep it up!! 💕

Hii!! 🥺💕

First of all—your message seriously made my entire day. I can’t even express how much it means to hear that you check my page like that!! Thank you so, so much for all the love and support, truly. 🫶

Also... your request?? Immaculate taste. Aone is such a soft, gentle giant—he absolutely deserves all the love and intimacy. I actually just posted the fav positions drabble for him, so it’s up now if you’d like to check it out!! 😌💕

As for the Shiratorizawa manager drabble—YES, 1000x yes. I’ve been wanting to write something for them, and your message gave me the perfect excuse to start brainstorming. They’ll definitely be getting their moment in the Manager Duties series soon 💜

Thank you again for being the sweetest ever!! Sending you the biggest hugs—ily 🫶💌

Rivals: Tsukishima

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, that infuriating smirk curling on his lips as he glanced your way. “You know, for someone who talks so much, you don’t actually do much worth noticing.”

You let out a sharp snort, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real reaction. “Says the guy whose biggest skill is standing there and pretending he’s better than everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly, the smirk deepening like he was enjoying every second of this. “Pretending? That’s cute. I didn’t realize you thought I had to try.”

You crossed your arms and stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Wow, you're exhausting to be around. Is it lonely being this much of an asshole?”

His chuckle was dry, almost condescending, as he leaned in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Oh, don’t worry about me. It’s nice having peace and quiet—something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

Your glare sharpened, but you refused to back down. “Yeah, because your personality screams ‘quiet and peaceful.’ You’re just bitter because I don’t let you get away with your holier-than-thou act.”

Tsukishima’s lips twitched, his amusement barely contained. “Bitter? Please. If I cared what you thought, I’d have to actually take you seriously first.”

You met his gaze, your smirk finally matching his. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. We both know I live rent-free in that big head of yours.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, his smirk faltered before coming back sharper than ever. He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Living there? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re more like an annoying commercial I can’t skip.”

You stepped even closer, now toe-to-toe with him, your voice just as low and taunting. “Funny, because for someone who doesn’t care, you sure love watching.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you practically crackling with tension. His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, his smirk wavering in a way that almost looked—what, unsure? No way. This was Tsukishima, the king of snark. But the silence was heavy, loaded with something neither of you seemed willing to name.

“Uh… Am I interrupting something?”

Both of you jumped, heads snapping to the side where Yamaguchi stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a volleyball and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His wide eyes darted between the two of you, a light pink dusting his cheeks.

“What are you—” Tsukishima started, his usual dry tone already creeping in, but Yamaguchi cut him off, holding up a hand like he was afraid to hear more.

“Don’t even explain. I’m good. I just… Daichi’s looking for you two, so, uh… maybe deal with that? Whenever you’re done… whatever this is.” He disappeared around the corner so fast it was like he was never there.

You blinked, heat creeping up your neck as you realized just how close you and Tsukishima were standing. He stepped back first, casually adjusting his glasses like the moment had never happened. You, on the other hand, couldn’t resist.

“Guess that’s your cue to stop glaring at me like I ruined your life, Tsukishima,” you quipped, raising a brow as you crossed your arms.

Tsukishima shot you a sidelong glance, his usual smirk and condescension firmly in place. “I only look like that when someone’s wasting my time.”

You scoffed, turning on your heel with a grin. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.” You headed down the hall, leaving him to follow, still glaring at your back.

Rivalry: Terushima

The club room door slammed open, rattling on its hinges.

“WHERE IS HE?!”

The team froze.

A half-eaten rice ball hit the floor. Water was choked on. Someone knocked over a sports bag in their rush to get out of the way.

Higashiyama whispered, “Oh, shit.”

Futamata grabbed Bobata’s arm. “Is it too late to run?”

Bobata just stared, resigned. “We’re already in the splash zone.”

But the one person who should have been afraid? He wasn’t.

Terushima barely had time to lift his head before you snatched him by the collar and slammed him against the wall, forearm pressing hard against his chest, pinning him in place.

A sharp oof left his lips, but even as you glared daggers at him, even as your breath came in sharp, furious exhales—

He grinned.

“Oh, wow,” he murmured, eyes flickering with something dangerous—something excited. “Didn’t realize you liked it rough.”

Your grip tightened. “Would you care to explain to me why I was just called into the principal’s office to be chastised for my so-called proposal for the volleyball team to offer shirtless pictures as a way to increase funding?”

The entire team collectively inhaled.

Futamata wheezed. “Oh my god.”

Higashiyama muttered, “That’s gotta be a new record for dumbassery.”

Bobata just covered his face with his hands.

Meanwhile, Terushima blinked at you, head tilting back against the wall as he let out a slow, amused exhale. “Damn. They really thought you—?” He laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually incredible.”

“You absolute menace,” you snapped, shoving against his chest slightly before pressing him back down again. “You submitted that under my name.”

Terushima’s hands lifted lazily, like he was some innocent bystander in all this. “Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions—”

“Jump to conclusions?” Your voice rose, incredulous. “You’re really about to stand here, pinned to a wall, and try to tell me I did this to myself?”

“Well—”

Futamata cut in, laughing in disbelief. “He’s gonna try it. He’s really gonna try it.”

And then, the real nail in the coffin—

Bobata scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s just trying to get Yoko Nakamura to date him.”

Silence.

Terushima’s expression dropped. “EXCUSE ME?”

Higashiyama immediately nodded. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t Yoko say she liked guys who were ‘confident but not too cocky’?”

Futamata grinned. “And someone said, ‘Hey, I know a way to prove I’m the perfect mix of both.’”

Your jaw dropped. “So you mean to tell me—” You exhaled sharply, shoving against Terushima’s chest one last time. “You pulled me into this mess because of a crush?!”

“Okay, first of all, I wouldn’t call it a crush—”

You leaned in, voice low and sharp as a knife. “Listen to me, very carefully, Terushima.”

For the first time, his smirk faltered.

“If you ever pull something like this again—if you ever use my name for one of your dumbass ideas, if you ever make me sit through another awkward meeting where the principal is looking at me like I’m about to pull out a portfolio of thirst traps—”

Futamata audibly snorted, but you didn’t even acknowledge it. Your glare burned into Terushima.

“I will make your life a living nightmare.”

The air in the room shifted.

You saw it—that flicker in his eyes.

Not fear. No, that wasn’t what you were going for.

It was something else.

A slow, sharp, assessing look. The slight way his jaw tightened, the way his smirk wasn’t quite as smug as before.

It was the realization that you were dead serious.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, finally, finally, you let him go.

The second you stepped back, Terushima rolled his shoulders, exhaling deeply like he had to shake off whatever had just happened.

You, on the other hand, turned on your heel with a huff and stormed out, calling over your shoulder, “Get your act together, Terushima. Or don’t—I don’t care. Just stay the hell out of my way.”

The door slammed shut behind you.

Silence.

All eyes turned to Terushima.

He glared back. “What?”

Bobata shook his head, exasperated. “Honestly? Pulling her pigtails in the schoolyard would be more subtle than this.”

Terushima scowled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re all full of shit.”

Higashiyama shrugged. “Dude. She literally had you pinned.”

Futamata snickered. “I dunno, man. She got the last word and left you looking stupid. You sure you’re not into that?”

Terushima threw his head back with an exaggerated groan. “I hate all of you.”

But even as he muttered under his breath, even as he grumbled about his entire team being traitors, his eyes flickered toward the door.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t entirely sure who had won that exchange.