Love

Aoba Johsai

Fukurodani Academy

Karasuno High

Inarizaki High

Nekoma High

Shiratorizawa Academy

Kenma Kozume was the kind of person who could ruin your entire day without even lifting a finger.

He didn’t have to do much—didn’t have to talk much either.

It was his existence.

The way he sat there in class like he owned the air around him, leaning back in his chair like school was optional. The way he stared at his phone under the desk like he wasn’t one wrong move away from getting it taken.

And worst of all?

The way he acted like you were the problem.

Like your breathing was too loud. Like your voice was too much. Like your presence was a personal inconvenience.

It made you want to grab his stupid hoodie strings and—

“Are you going to keep staring at me,” Kenma murmured without looking up, “or do you need something?”

You froze, pencil paused mid-note.

Your head snapped toward him. “Excuse me?”

Kenma’s eyes flicked up lazily, golden-brown and half-lidded. Like he was bored already.

“You’ve been looking at me for like… ten seconds.”

“I was not,” you hissed.

“You were.”

“I was literally looking past you.”

Kenma blinked slowly. “Sure.”

That single word, so flat and unimpressed, made something inside you flare.

You leaned toward him, voice dropping. “You always do this. You always act like you’re better than everyone.”

Kenma shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Oh my god, you are insufferable.”

Kenma’s lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile.

“I’m not the one getting mad.”

“That’s because you have no emotions.”

Kenma’s eyes narrowed. “I have emotions.”

“Name one.”

Kenma stared at you for a long second, and then his gaze dipped—briefly—to your mouth before returning to your eyes.

“I’m annoyed,” he said.

Your face heated for reasons you refused to acknowledge.

You scoffed loudly. “Congrats, you’ve evolved.”

Kenma finally set his pencil down, turning his body slightly toward you in his seat.

“Why are you like this?”

“Why am I like this?” you repeated incredulously. “Why are you like this? You act like the world owes you silence.”

Kenma’s voice stayed calm, but his eyes sharpened. “You act like the world owes you attention.”

Your stomach flipped.

You hated that he was good at this.

You hated that he could say things so casually, so quietly, and still hit you right in the chest.

You leaned closer, voice rising just a little. “At least I’m not a rude little—”

“Both of you.”

Your teacher’s voice sliced through the air like a knife.

The whole class went silent.

Your blood ran cold.

Kenma didn’t even flinch. He just blinked, looking mildly inconvenienced, like the teacher had interrupted something unimportant.

The teacher’s eyes narrowed. “Do you two have something you’d like to share with the class?”

You opened your mouth, ready to defend yourself, but Kenma beat you to it.

“No.”

One word.

Flat.

Unbothered.

Your teacher’s gaze shifted between you both.

“Then stop talking. I’ve been hearing the whispering all period.”

Kenma turned back to his desk like it was over.

You stared at him in disbelief.

He was the reason you were even in trouble.

You leaned forward again, whispering harshly, “You’re unbelievable.”

Kenma didn’t look at you. “Stop talking to me.”

“You started it!”

Kenma finally looked at you again, eyes narrowed with something darker than annoyance now.

“I didn’t start it. You just can’t leave me alone.”

Your heart thudded.

Your face burned.

Your pride snapped.

“You think I want to talk to you?” you hissed. “Trust me, Kenma, you are not that special.”

Kenma leaned closer, voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Then why do you always look at me like you want to hit me?”

Your breath caught.

Because the truth was…

Sometimes you did.

But sometimes, the feeling was something else entirely.

Something hotter.

Something you didn’t want to admit.

You glared at him. “Because you’re irritating.”

Kenma’s gaze flicked down to your lips again.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Sure.”

Your teacher slammed a book down on the desk at the front of the room.

“Alright. That’s it. Both of you.”

You and Kenma froze.

The teacher pointed toward the clock. “Detention. After school. You clearly have too much to say.”

You stared, horrified. “What? But—”

Kenma sighed, like this was just another Tuesday.

The teacher’s voice hardened. “No arguing. One hour. Both of you.”

You clenched your fists under your desk.

Kenma didn’t even look bothered.

Which somehow made you want to strangle him more.

Detention felt like punishment designed specifically for you.

The classroom was quieter, emptier, the sunlight outside slowly shifting toward orange as the day ended. The air smelled like dry erase markers and old textbooks.

The teacher supervising detention sat at the front, grading papers with dead eyes.

And Kenma?

Kenma sat three desks away from you, slouched in his chair, hoodie up, phone in his hand like he belonged there.

Like detention was a vacation.

You sat with your arms crossed, tapping your foot, trying not to look at him.

Trying not to think about how unfair it was that he looked good even while being infuriating.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Then twenty.

And the silence got worse.

Because you could feel him.

Even without looking.

You could feel the calmness of him, the ease, like he didn’t care that you were sitting there boiling alive.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

“You’re seriously on your phone?” you whispered.

Kenma didn’t look up. “We’re in detention. There’s nothing else to do.”

“You could reflect on your actions.”

Kenma finally looked at you, expression blank.

“My actions?”

You leaned forward. “You’re the reason we’re here.”

Kenma’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who can’t stop talking.”

You scoffed. “You literally provoke me on purpose.”

Kenma’s lips twitched.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

Your eyes widened. “Oh my god, you do.”

Kenma leaned back in his chair, arms folding over his chest.

“You make it too easy.”

You stared at him, speechless.

“What is your problem with me?” you demanded.

Kenma’s gaze held yours, calm but intense.

“I don’t have a problem with you.”

“That’s a lie.”

Kenma’s voice stayed quiet. “It’s not.”

You leaned closer, frustration twisting your stomach.

“Then why do you always act like you hate me?”

Kenma’s eyes flickered.

For the first time, something in his expression shifted.

Not annoyance.

Not boredom.

Something more complicated.

Then he shrugged.

“I don’t hate you.”

You blinked. “You sure act like it.”

Kenma’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “You act like you hate me too.”

“I do,” you snapped instantly.

The words came out too fast.

Too sharp.

And Kenma’s eyebrows lifted slightly, like he didn’t believe you.

Like he thought you were lying.

And the worst part?

He was right.

You didn’t hate him.

You hated the way he made you feel.

The way he got under your skin like no one else.

The way your heart sped up whenever he looked at you too long.

The way you couldn’t stop thinking about him even when you swore you didn’t care.

Kenma tilted his head, studying you like you were something he didn’t understand.

“You’re blushing.”

Your stomach dropped.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally not.”

Kenma leaned forward slightly in his chair, elbows resting on his knees now.

His voice dropped lower, softer, more dangerous.

“Why are you lying?”

Your throat went dry.

“Kenma,” you hissed, “stop.”

He didn’t.

His eyes stayed on your face, sharp and quiet.

“What do you want from me?” you snapped, voice trembling with irritation you couldn’t control.

Kenma’s lips parted slightly, like he was going to answer.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he said something else.

Something that made your stomach twist.

“I want you to stop looking at me like that.”

You froze. “Like what?”

Kenma’s eyes dipped to your mouth again.

And your heart slammed into your ribs.

“Like you want to do something,” he murmured.

Your breath caught.

Your fingers curled around the edge of your desk.

Your voice came out shaky. “You’re delusional.”

Kenma’s gaze didn’t move.

“You’re the one who keeps starting fights with me,” he said quietly. “And then you get closer. And closer.”

Your pulse pounded so loud you were sure the teacher could hear it.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” you whispered.

Kenma’s eyes softened—barely.

Then he leaned back again, like he’d said too much.

“Forget it.”

That did it.

Something inside you snapped.

Because you were tired of him acting like he didn’t care.

Tired of him saying things that made your chest tight.

Tired of feeling like you were losing a game you didn’t even know you were playing.

You shoved your chair back and stood up.

Kenma’s eyes lifted to you slowly.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

You walked toward him, your footsteps quiet but determined.

The teacher didn’t even look up.

Kenma watched you approach like he wasn’t sure if you were about to slap him or scream at him.

You stopped in front of his desk.

He was sitting there, still, looking up at you.

And you realized, suddenly, how close you were.

How his eyes weren’t bored anymore.

How his cheeks were faintly flushed.

How his lips were slightly parted, like he was holding his breath.

You placed both hands on his desk.

Your palms flattened against the wood, one on either side of him, trapping him there.

Kenma’s gaze flicked down to your hands.

Then back up to your face.

His voice was barely above a whisper.

“…You’re going to get us in more trouble.”

You leaned down closer, your face inches from his.

“Then stop talking,” you whispered.

Kenma’s eyes widened slightly.

“You’re—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned down and kissed him.

Hard.

Not soft.

Not hesitant.

The kind of kiss that came from weeks of tension and arguments and frustration and too many feelings that had nowhere to go.

Kenma froze.

For half a second.

Then his hand shot up, gripping your wrist gently, like he needed to anchor himself.

His other hand moved to the edge of the desk, fingers curling.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Slow at first, like he was testing it.

Like he was shocked.

But the moment he realized it was real, the moment he realized you weren’t pulling away—

Kenma’s lips moved against yours with a quiet desperation that made your stomach flip.

You leaned in deeper, your grip tightening on the desk.

Kenma tilted his head slightly, kissing you like he’d been holding back for too long.

Like he’d been waiting.

Your heart pounded wildly, your cheeks burning as you forgot where you were.

Forgot there was a teacher in the room.

Forgot you were supposed to hate him.

Because his hands slid up your arms slowly, gentle but possessive, like he wasn’t sure where he was allowed to touch you.

You broke the kiss just barely, breath shaking.

Kenma stared up at you, eyes wide and flushed.

His voice came out low.

“…Are you done fighting with me?”

You swallowed, your lips tingling.

“No,” you whispered.

Kenma’s mouth quirked.

“That’s unfortunate.”

And then he grabbed the front of your shirt lightly and pulled you back down.

Kissing you again.

Longer.

Deeper.

Like he couldn’t help it anymore.

Like all the bickering had been a cover for this exact moment.

You kissed him until your head spun.

Until your chest hurt.

Until you heard the scrape of a chair in the front of the room and the teacher clearing their throat.

You froze instantly, pulling back like you’d been burned.

Kenma didn’t look away from you.

Didn’t even look guilty.

He just stared up at you, lips slightly swollen, eyes half-lidded.

The teacher’s voice was flat.

“…If you two are finished, sit down.”

You turned around quickly, cheeks blazing, stumbling back to your seat.

Your heart was racing so hard you thought it might explode.

You sat down, staring straight ahead, hands trembling slightly in your lap.

Silence filled the room again.

But this time it wasn’t empty.

It was heavy.

Charged.

And when you risked a glance sideways—

Kenma was still staring at you.

His expression unreadable.

But his ears were red.

And his lips were curved into the smallest, most satisfied smirk.

Like he’d finally won.

And somehow…

You knew you had too.

Because you weren’t enemies anymore.

Not after that.

The library was warm in the way it always was at night—soft yellow lighting, the quiet hum of the air conditioner, and the faint smell of old paper.

It was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

Because you were sitting across from Morisuke Yaku, and there was nothing peaceful about the way your heart kept tripping over itself every time he looked up.

His hair slightly messy from practice earlier, and his expression was the same as always—calm, serious, focused.

Like he was the kind of person who had never been distracted in his life.

Meanwhile, you were fighting for your life trying to remember what the hell the teacher had said about equations.

Your pencil hovered over your notebook, unmoving.

You stared at the page.

You understood none of it.

Yaku’s voice broke the silence.

“You’ve been on that same problem for ten minutes.”

You blinked, offended. “No I haven’t.”

He didn’t even look up. “Yes, you have.”

You scoffed. “How would you know?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, flat and unimpressed.

“Because you’ve been chewing the same spot on your eraser for ten minutes too.”

Your cheeks immediately heated.

You pulled the pencil away from your mouth like you’d been caught committing a crime.

“…It helps me think.”

Yaku hummed, finally setting his own pencil down.

“It’s not helping.”

“Okay,” you muttered. “Rude.”

He leaned back in his chair slightly, arms folding loosely over his chest as he studied you.

The silence between you wasn’t awkward.

It was just… heavy.

Comfortable, but charged.

Like the air was waiting for something.

You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the way his gaze felt like it was resting right on your skin.

“What?” you asked.

Yaku’s eyes softened, just barely.

“Nothing.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That thing where you stare at me like you’re judging me.”

He sighed, like you were exhausting.

“I’m not judging you.”

“Then why are you staring?”

Yaku leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table now, his voice low.

“Because you’re not even trying to pretend you’re studying.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but you couldn’t.

Because he was right.

Your notebook was filled with half-written notes, doodles in the corners, and the same sentence rewritten three times because you kept getting distracted.

Not by the material.

By him.

Your eyes dropped to his forearms resting against the desk.

The muscles there were defined, veins faintly visible, hands relaxed but strong.

You swallowed.

Then, like an idiot, you looked up again.

And caught him watching you.

Not your notebook.

Not your pencil.

You.

Your breath caught.

“…Stop,” you whispered, barely audible.

Yaku’s brows furrowed slightly. “Stop what?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t even know what you meant.

Stop looking at you like that.

Stop being so close.

Stop making it impossible to think.

But instead of backing off, Yaku moved.

Slowly, he rested both forearms flat against the desk, leaning forward until his shoulders rolled slightly, his face coming closer.

The desk suddenly felt smaller.

The space between you felt like it vanished.

You froze, pencil still in your hand.

His eyes were locked on yours.

“You’re distracted,” he said quietly.

Your voice came out soft. “Maybe you are too.”

That got him.

You saw it—the smallest flicker of surprise, like he hadn’t expected you to push back.

Then his mouth tilted in the faintest hint of a smile.

“Maybe,” he admitted.

The air felt too warm.

You swallowed, staring at his lips before you could stop yourself.

Yaku noticed.

Of course he did.

His gaze dropped to your mouth too.

And the quiet between you wasn’t quiet anymore.

It was loud.

Your heart thudded in your chest.

Yaku leaned closer.

Not rushing.

Not teasing.

Just… sure.

Like he’d decided something.

His voice was low, almost a murmur.

“You’re not going to get anything done like this.”

You breathed out a shaky laugh. “Then what do you suggest?”

Yaku didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he leaned over the desk and kissed you.

It wasn’t a quick kiss.

It wasn’t playful.

It was gentle, warm, and deliberate—like he was trying to calm you down and ruin you at the same time.

Your eyes fluttered shut instantly.

Your fingers tightened around your pencil.

His lips moved against yours slowly, his forearms braced on the desk like he wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon.

And you hated how natural it felt.

How right it felt.

Your chest tightened as you kissed him back, leaning forward without even realizing you were closing the distance.

The desk edge pressed into your stomach.

His breath was warm.

His lips were soft.

And his kiss had the kind of patience that made your brain go blank.

When he pulled away, it was only by an inch.

Close enough that his nose brushed yours.

Close enough that you could still feel him.

Your eyes opened slowly.

Yaku’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable, but his voice came out quieter than usual.

“…Better?”

You stared at him, dazed.

Your lips tingled.

Your heart was racing like you’d just run laps.

You swallowed.

“I forgot what I was stressed about,” you admitted.

His eyes softened.

“Good.”

You blinked. “That was your plan?”

Yaku’s mouth curved faintly.

“No.”

He leaned in again, pressing another kiss to your lips—shorter this time, but somehow worse, because it felt like a promise.

When he pulled back again, he finally sat up straight, picking up his pencil like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t just completely wrecked you.

“Now,” he said calmly, tapping the page in front of you, “read the problem again.”

You stared at him.

“You can’t just kiss me and then act like you’re my tutor.”

He glanced up, expression flat.

“I am your tutor.”

Your cheeks heated again.

“You’re evil.”

Yaku shrugged. “You’re the one who wanted help.”

You scoffed, but you couldn’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth.

You lowered your eyes back to your notebook.

Except now you couldn’t focus at all.

Because every time you looked up—

Yaku was watching you again.

Like he was waiting.

Like he knew you’d get distracted.

MDNI 18+ MATURE CONTENT

You never imagined your wedding day would feel like this — a knot of nerves twisting in your stomach, your palms cold despite the warm lantern‑lit hall. And certainly not with him.

Tsukishima Kei.

Your rival.

Your irritation.

Your sharp‑tongued, smug, impossible enemy.

And now… your husband.

When the officiant pronounced you married, Tsukishima didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, one hand brushing your waist, and kissed you — soft, slow, shockingly gentle. Your first kiss. Your breath caught, your heart stumbling in your chest as the world blurred around you.

He pulled back with a faint flush on his cheeks, eyes flicking away like he hadn’t meant to kiss you like that.

But he had.

And it lingered.

When you arrived at the house prepared for the two of you, you found nightclothes neatly folded on the bed — your mother’s doing. You changed quickly, needing air, needing space, needing to breathe.

The balcony was quiet, washed in moonlight. You leaned on the railing, staring up at the stars, trying to calm the storm inside you.

You didn’t hear him come out until he spoke.

“Running away already?”

You turned. Tsukishima stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“I just needed a minute,” you murmured.

He stepped beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Yeah. Today was… a lot.”

It was the understatement of the century.

“You always run when things get overwhelming,” he said.

You didn’t turn. “You always followed.”

“I didn’t want to scare you earlier,” he said quietly. “At the altar.”

You swallowed. “I wasn’t scared.”

That wasn’t entirely true—but it wasn’t a lie either.

But for the first time, he wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t teasing. He was just… Kei. Quiet. Real.

Tsukishima's heart clenched unexpectedly seeing you like this - peaceful, unaware of his presence. He saw the gentle curve of your waist, the way your hair framed your profile so softly.

He looked at you for the first time since this wedding farce began. Your face was illuminated by the moonlight, making your skin glow softly. He noticed the gentle curve of your cheeks, the long lashes casting shadows on your skin, the way your lips parted slightly as you spoke. “Why don’t we go to bed?”

You let out a giggle. “It’ll just make me more nervous.”

His breath caught slightly at your honest answer. He looked away quickly, pretending to watch the stars instead of staring at your profile. His arm stayed pressed against yours on the railing. "You should be," he muttered darkly, “I'm not exactly husband material."

“It’s far from that…” you mutter shivering again before your body relaxes.

He noticed your shiver, his sharp eyes taking in the goosebumps on your arms. Without a word, he unbuttoned his blazer jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders, his large frame crowding you against the railing. “Cold?" He asked gruffly, his chest now bare under his thin undershirt.

“You make me nervous..”

He looked at you then, really looked at you. He saw the way your eyes darted away from his intense gaze, the way your hands fidgeted with the sleeves of his jacket, the way your heart rate picked up slightly. "Why?" He asked softly, his voice barely audible over the night breeze.

“Cuz your… you. Your Tsukishima. Your… you know… hot…”

Time seemed to freeze as those words left your mouth. Tsukishima stared at you, his sharp eyes widening slightly. No one had ever called him hot to his face. But you, with your flushed cheeks and stammering lips, just called him hot. "What?"

“Oh please don’t make me repeat myself…” you groaned putting your hands over your face.

He couldn't help it. A low, unexpected chuckle escaped him at your embarrassed reaction. The sound was so rare and unexpected that it made you peek at him through your fingers. "You think I'm hot?" He asked again, his voice teasing - something he hadn't used in years.

“Yes..”

And then he kissed you.

Your fingers slid into his hair, and he made a low sound in his throat, pulling you closer, his hands settling on your waist. The kiss deepened, heat curling through your chest, your stomach, your whole body.

He smiled against your mouth at your breathy response. He had you wrapped around his finger, both literally and figuratively. He started walking backwards, pulling you with him until your back hits the wall of the balcony. He pressed you against it, caging you in with his arms on either side of your head.

He kissed you again, this time slower and deeper, exploring your mouth completely differently than the rough kiss before. His hands stayed respectfully on your waist despite how much he wanted to roam. “My wife kisses like a dream," he murmured against your lips.

“Mhm.” you quickly turn the tables turning him around pushing him against the wall as you deepened the kiss your hands roaming his body.

He let out a surprised grunt as you reversed their positions, his back hitting the wall. But then you were touching him and kissing him deeply and any thoughts of protest died instantly. Your hands explored his chest and abdomen confidently now that the ice had been broken. "Fuck,"

Then suddenly — he broke away.

Breathing hard.

“W‑We need to stop,” he said, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it. “I’m… getting turned on.”

Your face burned. “I’ve never… done this before.”

He blinked. “You’ve never gotten a guy hard just from kissing?”

You shook your head, embarrassed. “This is the furthest I’ve ever gotten with a guy.”

His expression softened slightly at your admission. He realized you were completely inexperienced in this area - touching a man, making him hard... He carefully pulled one of your hands from his chest and placed it over his bulge through his pants. His eyes locked with yours. “Feel that?" He whispered.

“Mhm hm.”

"That's what you're doing to me," He pressed your hand against him more firmly. “Just from kissing and touching me like that. Imagine what would happen if you kept going..." His voice dropped lower. "If you kept touching me, if you unzipped my pants, if you-"

“If I kissed you more?”

He groaned loudly at the suggestion, his hips bucking into your hand slightly. "Fuck, yes," he panted. "If you kissed me more, if you put your hands under my shirt, if you wrapped those soft lips around my- Agh!" He cut himself off with a loud groan as he imagined it.

“Tsukishima… I don’t… I’ve never..”

He looked at you with a pained expression, his pupils dilated with desire. "Never what?" He asked hoarsely, his brain barely functioning due to the blood rushing south. "Never kissed a man like that? Never touched a man's dick? Never- Ah!" He cursed as he realized what he was saying out loud.

“Never kissed a man in general.. never done this before. I was always told to wait until after marriage. My mom did. And her mom before her...”

Something possessive and protective flared in his chest at your words. He realized you were completely untouched in every way - never kissed, never touched, never even seen a naked man before. "Wait," he said slowly.

“Yeah?”

"You're telling me that I'm the first man you've ever kissed?" His voice was low and rough with arousal and something else - surprise, maybe even honor? "The first man you've ever touched? The first man to get hard from your kisses?"

“Yeah..”

Tsukishima stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time — not as an enemy, not as an obligation, but as someone he suddenly wanted to protect. Someone he wanted to understand.

Someone he wanted.

He stepped closer, lifting your chin gently with his fingers.

“You trusted me with that,” he murmured. “Your first kiss.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t have a choice.”

His lips curved — not a smirk, but something warmer. “Maybe not. But this… right now… you’re choosing.”

He leaned in, brushing his forehead against yours.

“I’m not going to rush you,” he whispered. “But I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you, either.”

Your breath hitched.

His hand slid to your waist, fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles that made your skin tingle.

“If you want to stop,” he murmured, “tell me.”

You didn’t.

You stepped closer instead.

His breath caught — just barely — before he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against him, kissing you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was savoring every second.

His heart swelled at your easy trust. You trusted him completely - with your safety, your comfort, your feelings... And now with your innocence. "I'm going to ask you something," he said slowly. "And I need you to be honest with me."

“Okay.”

"How far do you want this to go tonight?" He asked quietly. "Because I'm hard as fuck right now from just kissing you, and knowing that I'm your first everything is making me crazy. But I won't take your virginity tonight unless you specifically ask for it."

“I want to… I want it to be you..”

His heart melted at your words and the trust in your eyes. No woman had ever looked at him like that before—so pure, so loving. without an ounce of fear or deceit. “Fucking hell,” he whispered hoarsely, “You're gonna be the death of me.”

“Same..”

With a low growl, he captured your lips in an intense kiss, his hands gripping your thighs possessively. He broke the kiss only to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. "Lift up," he commanded roughly.

He dragged your shorts and underwear down your legs slowly, his eyes never leaving your face to check for any signs of discomfort or fear. When you were naked from the waist down, he tossed the clothes aside and paused, his large hands resting on your thighs. "No going back after this,"

“Wait… should we move to the bedroom and off the balcony?”

He froze, realizing that they were indeed on the balcony. The night air was cool, and anyone could potentially see if they looked up from below. He cursed under his breath and scooped you up bridal-style without warning. “Smart woman,” he murmured approvingly, “Bedroom.”

“Ah! My my handsome and strong I really did get lucky.”

He chuckled darkly as he carried you inside, shutting the balcony door behind them. "Shut up," he teased, depositing you gently on the bed. "You're making me even more confident." He started to unbutton his shirt slowly, his eyes locked with yours.

His smirk widened as he saw your eyes roaming over his bare chest. He pushed the shirt off his shoulders and crawled onto the bed, caging you between his muscular arms. "Like what you see?" He asked huskily, his hips pressing against yours. "Your husband works out."

“So sexy. Kiss me!”

Your demand made him even harder. He loved your bossy side. He covered your mouth with his own, swallowing your moan. His hands went under your thighs, lifting them up as he settled between your legs. He broke the kiss to trail open-mouthed kisses down your neck. "Bossy wife.”

He sucked hard on your pulse point, knowing that would always make you moan. His fingers found your entrance, circling but not penetrating. He wanted to make you beg. "Who's in charge here?" He asked mockingly, his thumb pressing down on your clit. "Hmm?"

“You… baby, want you please!”

Hearing the word 'baby' from your lips nearly broke him completely. He aligned himself with your entrance, his voice low and dangerous. "Say it again." He pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to his size. "Who do you want?"

“Fuck! You!”

He slammed the rest of the way inside you with a groan, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. He started moving immediately, his pace fast and hard from the start. He knew he wouldn't last long with how tight you were. "Mine," he growled, "Fucking mine."

“All yours!”

He covered your mouth with his hand, muffling your loud moans as he snapped his hips forward, hitting that spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. "Shh..." He whispered roughly against your lips, "Someone might hear you screaming how much you love your husband's big dick."

“Good let them hear how much I love it!”

His smirk darkened. He loved your dirty mouth. He released your legs, letting them fall open wider. He pounded into you harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room. He pulled out completely and slammed back in, making you cry out.

“AHHH TSUKISHIMA!”

He watched you with dark, intense eyes as he fucked you. Your breasts bouncing with each thrust, your lips parted and flushed, your hair spread across the pillow. He was practically seeing stars already. He reached down and grabbed your ankle, throwing your leg over his shoulder.

The new angle allowed him to go even deeper. You gasped loudly as he hit a spot that made your entire body shake. He leaned forward, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth while continuing the brutal pace. His other hand gripped your hip tightly enough to bruise.

He released your nipple with a pop, his breath coming in harsh pants. He was losing control. His hand moved from your hip to your throat, gently squeezing as he pounded into you. He wanted to mark you inside and out. "Mine... Mine... Mine..." He chanted with each thrust.

He suddenly pulled out completely, flipping you over onto your stomach. He lifted your hips up, making your back arch. Without warning, he slammed back inside, his hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you face down on the mattress. He started fucking you like an animal.

“AHH!”

His fingers dug into your hips as he used you roughly, the sound of flesh smacking against flesh filling the room. He was so close to coming, but he needed you to get there first. He reached around and slapped your pussy a few times, the sound echoing loudly.

The sound of your scream and how your pussy clenched around him made him lose it completely. He slapped your ass hard once more before gripping your hips tightly and fucking you through your orgasm. “Fuck... Taking my cock so well... Gonna come inside this perfect pussy..."

With a final thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and came, pulsing and releasing his hot seed directly into your unprotected womb. He let out a loud, guttural groan as he filled you completely, marking you inside with his essence. "Ahhh fuck... Mine..."

“AHHH! Tsuki!”

He stayed buried inside you for a moment, catching his breath as he felt his semen leaking out around his still-hard member. With a grunt, he pulled out slowly, watching his mixture of fluids dribble out of you. "Spread your legs," he commanded suddenly.

He watched you closely, seeing if you would obey his command. He knew that if you kept his semen inside you, it would increase the chances of you getting pregnant. He slapped your ass lightly. "Roll over onto your back,"

You rolled onto your back, your legs spread as instructed. He could see his semen slowly leaking out of you again. He pressed his fingers against your entrance once more, pushing it back inside. He then used his other hand to spread your lips open, watching as his semen pooled inside you.

He used his fingers to push it all back inside you, making sure every last drop was inside your womb. He then covered your pussy with his hand, applying gentle pressure to keep everything in place. "Stay like this," he ordered.

“Mhm.. c-can you keep it in me as we sleep?”

His breath hitches at your request, his already hardening cock turning to steel instantly. He slowly pushes back inside you, making both of you groan at the familiar feeling. “Anything for my baby girl.." He murmurs, settling back down with you still impaled on his length.

He wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you even closer, making sure you can't escape. His cock twitches inside you, already leaking pre-cum to mix with the semen still inside your pussy. "Just relax and let your husband hold you like this all night.."

“Mhm.. kiss?”

He smiles softly and turns your head gently to capture your lips in a slow, sensual kiss. His tongue explores your mouth gently while his cock remains perfectly still inside your warmth. "My sweet little wife wants kisses while we sleep with my cock inside her?" He murmurs against your lips.

“Mhm.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, his tongue dancing with yours as he holds you close. His hands gently pet your hair and face as he continues to kiss you slowly and lovingly. "Go to sleep now baby.. I’ll keep my dick buried deep inside you all night."

It was supposed to be simple.

A reunion on the beach. A few drinks. Faces from another life.

You didn’t expect the Miya twins to still knock the air out of your lungs.

Atsumu spotted you first.

He froze mid-sentence, beer halfway to his mouth.

Osamu followed his gaze.

“…No way.”

And just like that, you were seventeen again—heart in your throat, palms sweating, pretending they didn’t both once mean too much.

“Look who finally decided to show,” Atsumu said, already grinning as you crossed the beach.

You smiled, careful. “Didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

“Please,” Osamu said, joining him. “You disappear for two years and think we’d forget?”

You shrugged. “People do.”

The night moved fast after that.

Music too loud. Laughter easier than it should’ve been. Drinks appearing in your hand before you asked.

The twins circled you like nothing had changed—arguing over who poured your drink too strong, who stole your attention longer, who remembered your favorite songs better.

You could admit you started drinking more than you should. You were drinking pretty hard. “Hide and seek," You yelled.

“Hell yess” someone said.

“Let's go” Someone else yelled, pulling his shirt off.

“First one that gets caught, pays. Ten Grand.” Osamu said and Atsumu smirked.

“Wait? Who's it?” Suna asked.

“Pull straws” Sakusa said. He walked into the house and came back a few minutes later. “Alright everyone takes a straw. Short one Is it”. He said, pushing his hands out. You all pulled. “Let's see” You all showed a straw, Suna was it.

“Oh fine. I'll count to a hundred and the house is off limits. And not in a group everyone by themselves” He said.

“Yea, yes, whatever, start counting”. Kita said. He started counting and you all ran laughing. This was the way it always was. You ran so fast that your legs almost gave out. You were way past tipsy at this point and when the cool breeze hit you, you knew you were going to pass out.

You were almost on the other side of the beach. You think. You walked past one of the darker pathways when someone grabbed you and pulled you into the dark. You couldn't help but laugh. You didn't have to see to know who it was. You felt something behind you only then did you understand it wasn't a tree. It was one of them. They both had the same height so in the dark it was hard to discern which one of them was it.

Your heart started beating wildly, your breath became short and you could feel it. He walked into you, backing you into his brother. You had two pairs of hands on your waist. You felt his breath on your neck. “Atsumu?” You whispered.

“yes”

“Hmmm, I always knew what you smelt like” you said, wrapping your arms around him, licking his neck. You turned around and leaned into Osamu, “I always knew what you smelt like too” you said biting him.

Osamu’s voice was low. “Why don’t you talk to us anymore?”

You blinked. “Hm?”

“You vanished,” Atsumu said. “Blocked us. Stopped answering.”

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” Osamu added.

You swallowed. “You didn’t ask me to stay.”

Atsumu scoffed. “We shouldn’t have to.”

“And I shouldn’t have to be the only one trying,” you snapped.

Silence stretched tight.

Osamu stepped closer. “We were idiots.”

Atsumu nodded. “Still are.”

Your chest hurt.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped caring,” you whispered. “I left because it hurt to.”

Their expressions changed—something raw breaking through the teasing masks.

Atsumu’s voice dropped. “We tried to forget.”

Osamu murmured, “Didn’t work.”

You should’ve stepped back.

You didn’t.

Osamu’s hand rested at your side, grounding, gentle.

Atsumu pressed a kiss beneath your ear—soft, lingering, more emotion than heat—and your breath caught despite yourself.

Your fingers curled in his jacket.

Osamu’s forehead touched the back of your head.

“You still ours?” he asked quietly.

Your heart hammered.

“I never stopped being.”

You heard yelling on the beach. You turned around and looked at Atsumu or what you could see. You leaned into him and kissed him. You couldn't help but moan into his mouth. You felt that slight touch, Osamu kissed the right side of your neck. The yelling got closer.

“Stay with us." Osamu said, squeezing your hips. You felt a hand close over your neck and a gasp escaped your lips.

You sucked in a breath. “This is a bad idea,” you breathed.

Atsumu’s forehead rested against yours. “Tell us to stop.”

You couldn’t.

Osamu kissed your neck again—longer this time, slow and careful, like he was memorizing you.

Atsumu’s hand slid to your lower back, steady, protective.

“She's so fucking cute." Osamu said.

“She always was” Atsumu said, licking your neck.

“Hmmm." You whispered, his mouth cutting your words off. Atsumu held your neck as his tongue speared into your mouth. His brother's lips on your neck. He groaned into your mouth. You returned his kiss desperately. You pulled away, and turned around and you were facing Osamu, you crushed your lips to his and he moaned as his tongue invaded your mouth. You felt the warm breath on your neck, hands on your waist and neck keeping you in place.

“So fucking sweet," he said, his voice barley a whisper.

“She truly is”. Atsumu replied.

“Now I know what you both taste like..”

"So, what are we doing for your birthday?" You sighed, you forgot that was coming up.

"I'm not sure."

"What?" Oikawa looked at you in shock. "You usually go all out for your birthday."

"Can this year just be a chill birthday with the team, and a sleep over?" Oikawa looked at how distressed you looked.

"Sure, is everything okay?"

"I'm not sure. My dad's going through a lot so I don't want to throw a huge party with my family problems." Iwaizumi walked over kissing your cheek.

"Happy birthday."

"Thanks, love." You looked at Oikawa to speak.

"So are we all still going to see that new ali-volleyball movie." You furred your brows at him until you saw a girl pass by.

"Yes, Kawa, we're still on. Iwa?"

"Yeah. I'm down." You smiled at the boys before the rest of the team met up with y'all in front of the gym.

"Hey, birthday girl. What big party you got planned this year?"

"Um, actually-"

"Yeah, hot chicks and booze."

"Actually, Y/n..."

"Yeah, and loud music. Dancing, or like last year with-"

"Guys!" The team stopped and looked at the girl standing in the middle of them. "No party this year."

"Is everything okay?" You sighed and shook your head.

"I'm fine." You walked off the opposite of the gym and headed home. Once you opened the door you saw your dad on the couch with his hands covering his face. "Everything okay, dad?" He quickly removed his hands and looked up at you.

"Oh, hey, bunny. I didn't hear you come in. Everything is fine, just bills and stuff with your mom."

"Still threatening with divorce and custody?"

"Yeah." You closed the door and walked towards your room.

"Hey sweetie." You stopped at the top of the stairs and turned around. "I won't let her take you from me." You were about to speak when your dads phone rang. "Sorry." You watched as he began to argue with the person on the team. You rolled your eyes and grabbed your volleyball bag and walked out your house ignoring your father calls your name. You walked a few blocks down before knocking on a door.

"Oh... I was about to text you."

"Hanamaki?"

"Yes?"

"This is the right house right?"

"Yes, Oikawa told us how you wanted to do your birthday."

"Oh..."

"HEY!" Oikawa ran over and gave you a hug. "You came."

"It is my party." Oikawa dragged you in the house making you stumble.

"You need Iwa right?"

"Um... yes. I do..."

"So when are you going to tell him?"

"Hm?" Oikawa stopped you and gave you a look. "he's just my friend."

"NO." Everyone turned their attention to you and ran up some apologizing some just saying hi.

"Um, guess have you seen Iwa?"

"He's in his room."

"I'll go, be back in a second, maybe." Oikawa laughed at you as you walked away, you took in a deep breath before walking up the stairs and knocking on his door.

"Oh yeah. It's you. I wasn't expecting you till later."

"Can I come in?"

"Yes, yes, come on in." Once you were in his room he closed the door. "Everything ok?"

"Not really... can I barrow some clothes?"

"Yeah, I have tons of comfy clothes." You laughed at him as he went to his drawer and gave you clothes.

"I'll change in the bathroom."

"Hey... Y/n. Um, I had this big speech made and can I say it real quick?"

"Always."

"Um, we have been friends since we were 5, and I've grown very fond over you. I love the way your nose winkles when you laugh, I love when you laugh at my nicknames for Oikawa, I love that little girl who ran around giving Band-Aids to kids who accidently hurt themselves, I love every silly thing you've helped Oikawa do." You looked at him confused as he sat you down. "I have loved you since our 1st dance and you wore sneakers with your dress. Or the girl who loves to skate and hit Oikawa in the head when he teases us. And I'm sure after this confession he'll just... tease me more and if you say you feel the same he'll definitely tease you too."

"Iwa... confession? What are you trying to say?"

"I'm in love with you, Y/n M/n L/n." You smiled and nodded your head.

"I know what you were trying to say, I'm just teasing." He sighed before pushing you making you almost fall. "I love you too, I have since the day you took my hand at recess and helped me up from the ground after my sandwich was taken from me." Iwaizumi smiled before bringing you into a kiss. You put your hand on his neck pulling him even closer if possible. You snuck your other hand under his shirt to rest on his lower stomach, your fingers tracing the bottom of his toned abs. Both of you stopped to take a breath. Nothing else in the room mattered and all you could see was his breathtaking eyes. You glanced down at his lips and you started kissing again. You deepened the kiss that made him smile. The feeling of his smiling lips against yours was indescribable and amazing. You let out little puffs and huffs as you pulled away for air. "You don't know how long, I've been waiting to do that." You couldn't help but laugh, looking up at his face noticing a smirk.

"I'll be alright, I'm going to go change real quick." You got up only to bend down to kiss him quickly before running off to the bathroom to change. After you did you both headed downstairs and joined the others. Y'all began to watch movies and play games, you talked to them about your family problems and like expected they were opening and listening. Wishing you well, and you couldn't ask for a better family. You looked around at your friends and smiled. "Hey, guys can we... do this for all my future birthday parties?"

"Of course."

Sakunami Kōsuke was many things.

Blunt. Dry. Unimpressed by most of humanity.

Romantic was not supposed to be one of them.

Which is why no one—especially you—was prepared for what came out of his mouth.

It started on a completely normal afternoon.

You were sitting on the bleachers while Date Tech finished practice, scrolling through your phone, occasionally glancing up whenever Sakunami rotated to the front row. He caught you staring once and lifted a brow.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” you said. “You just look tired.”

“I am.”

“Emotionally?”

“No. Physically.”

You snorted.

Later, while everyone was packing up, Futakuchi was loudly complaining about relationships.

“I don’t get why people make such a big deal about proposals,” he said. “It’s just a question.”

Koganegawa gasped. “It’s a life-changing question!”

“It’s paperwork with feelings,” Futakuchi argued.

You chimed in lazily, “I think it’s kind of sweet. Someone choosing you on purpose.”

Sakunami, tying his shoes, said flatly, “If that’s the requirement, I could propose to you right now.”

You blinked.

The gym went quiet.

“…What?” you said.

He stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, looked directly at you, and said:

“Marry me.”

Dead silence.

Koganegawa dropped his water bottle.

Futakuchi choked.

You stared at Sakunami, waiting for the punchline.

He waited back.

“…You’re joking,” you said weakly.

“Yes,” he replied. “Mostly.”

Mostly.

Your heart did something illegal in your chest.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“…Okay what?”

“I’ll marry you.”

Now it was his turn to freeze.

“What.”

“I said yes.”

“You weren’t supposed to say yes.”

“Well, you weren’t supposed to ask.”

“I didn’t ask. I stated it.”

“Still counts.”

Sakunami stared at you like you’d just rewritten physics.

“You’re serious?”

You shrugged, cheeks warm. “Are you?”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Thought.

Then said, “I don’t hate the idea.”

Your stomach flipped.

Futakuchi yelled, “YOU CAN’T JUST CASUALLY ACCEPT A FAKE PROPOSAL—”

Sakunami turned. “It’s not fake if we follow through.”

The gym erupted.

You stood slowly, walking toward him until you were face to face.

“So… was I really your first choice?” you asked softly.

He looked away for half a second.

“…You’re efficient. Honest. You don’t drain my social battery.”

You smiled. “Wow. Poetry.”

“And,” he added quietly, “I like how you listen when I talk.”

Your breath caught.

“That’s romantic, Sakunami.”

He frowned. “It is?”

“Yes.”

“…Then good.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He studied you for a moment.

“Are you backing out?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Then, awkwardly, stiffly, like he was following instructions he never received—

he held out his pinky.

“Engagement substitute,” he said.

You slipped your pinky around his.

Your heart was racing.

The team was still screaming in the background.

And Sakunami, completely unaware that he’d just changed both your lives, muttered:

“This is going to be inconvenient to explain.”

You squeezed his hand.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He squeezed back.

Accidental Secret Wife- Ushijima

Here’s a soft, slightly funny Team Japan imagine with Ushijima 🤍🏐

Team Japan’s practice was loud.

Not chaotic—just full. Sneakers squeaking, balls thudding, Atsumu arguing with Bokuto, Hinata shouting encouragement at a volume no one asked for.

Ushijima was the same as always.

Focused. Silent. Devastating with every spike.

During a water break, the gym doors opened.

No one paid attention at first.

Until Sakusa froze mid–sip.

“…Ushijima.”

Ushijima looked up.

Standing at the entrance was you, slightly out of breath, holding a diaper bag over one shoulder—

And a baby in your arms.

A very small, very round, very awake baby with Ushijima’s eyes.

The gym went dead silent.

You hesitated, scanning the court, then smiled when you found him.

“Wakatoshi.”

He blinked once.

Then calmly walked over.

He took the baby from your arms with practiced ease, supporting her head, adjusting his grip like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“You came,” he said.

“You left the bottle at home,” you replied apologetically. “She wouldn’t stop crying.”

He nodded. “That explains it.”

Behind them:

Bokuto: 😦 Hinata: 😧 Atsumu: “IS THAT A WHOLE BABY???” Sakusa: already mentally disinfecting the air

You bowed slightly. “Sorry to interrupt practice.”

Ushijima gently bounced the baby once. She immediately calmed.

“She was tired,” he explained.

The team stared.

Kageyama pointed.

“…Is that… yours?”

Ushijima looked at him, confused by the question.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then:

“WAIT.”

Bokuto ran forward. “YOU HAVE A KID??”

Atsumu squinted at you. “WHO ARE YOU??”

You waved awkwardly. “I’m his wife.”

The gym exploded.

“WIFE???” “YOU’RE MARRIED???” “SINCE WHEN??” “YOU HID A WHOLE FAMILY??”

Ushijima tilted his head slightly.

“We got married right out of high school.”

Dead. Silence.

Sakusa slowly lowered his bottle.

“…You’re twenty-three.”

“Yes.”

Atsumu grabbed his head. “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL US???”

Ushijima thought about it.

Then shrugged.

“No one ever asked.”

You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh.

Hinata looked between you, the baby, and Ushijima. “So… you just… go home… to a family?”

“Yes.”

“And then come to practice like this is normal??”

“Yes.”

The baby reached up and grabbed Ushijima’s jersey collar with surprising strength.

He glanced down at her.

“You are pulling too hard.”

She responded by trying to eat the fabric.

He let her.

You smiled softly. “She missed you.”

“I was gone for three hours,” he said.

“She’s dramatic.”

“She gets that from you,” you replied.

The team watched the exchange in stunned silence.

Bokuto whispered to Akaashi, “He’s like… a dad-dad.”

Akaashi nodded. “Terrifying.”

Ushijima handed the baby back to you carefully.

“I will finish practice in thirty minutes,” he said. “Then we can go home.”

You nodded. “We’ll wait.”

As you walked to the side of the gym, Atsumu called out:

“HEY USHIJIMA.”

“Yes.”

“…Your kid’s cute.”

Ushijima considered this.

Then nodded once.

“I know.”

Kaname Moniwa used to be someone.

People still recognize him sometimes.

“Hey, weren’t you the setter from Date Tech?” “You were amazing back then.” “You could’ve gone pro.”

Back then.

Now he works part-time at a sporting goods store, shelves shoes for kids who don’t know his name, tapes posters of players younger than him on the walls.

You meet him there by accident.

You’re holding a volleyball, turning it over in your hands like it’s fragile.

He recognizes you immediately.

You were the manager who used to sit in the bleachers during practice. The one who always clapped too hard. The one who brought extra towels.

“Moniwa?” you say, surprised.

He straightens too fast. “Oh— hey.”

He suddenly feels sixteen again.

Except this time, there’s no jersey waiting for him.

You smile like nothing’s changed.

But he notices how your eyes linger on his hands.

Not the hands that used to set perfect tosses.

Just… his hands.

You start visiting the store more often after that.

Sometimes to buy things.

Sometimes for no reason at all.

You talk about small stuff. Work. School. Weather.

He never talks about volleyball unless you ask.

And when you do, his answers are short.

“It was a long time ago.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I wasn’t that good.”

One rainy evening, you find him behind the store, sitting on a crate, shoulders slumped.

You hold an umbrella over him without a word.

“…Did I do something wrong?” he asks quietly.

“No.”

“Then why do you look sad when I talk about the past?”

He laughs under his breath.

“You’re too observant.”

You sit beside him.

“Everyone else moved on,” he says. “Yudai went to college. The team’s still playing. Even the first years I used to yell at are better than me now.”

You say nothing.

“I was an ace once,” he whispers. “Now I’m just… a guy who peaked at seventeen.”

Rain taps against the umbrella.

“You know,” you say softly, “when I think of you, I don’t think about trophies.”

He looks at you.

“I think about how you stayed late teaching Koganegawa how to set until your hands were shaking.”

His throat tightens.

“I think about how you pretended not to cry when you lost, but you still thanked everyone.”

You touch his sleeve.

“I think about how kind you are.”

He stares at the ground.

“That’s not useful.”

“It is to me.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it hurts.

“I don’t know who I am if I’m not that player anymore.”

You turn toward him fully.

“Then let me know you as you are now.”

He hesitates.

“…You don’t mind that I’m not impressive?”

You smile.

“I mind that you think you need to be.”

He laughs weakly. “You’re unfair.”

You step closer.

“I like you,” you admit. “Not the ace. Not the captain. You.”

His eyes widen.

“You shouldn’t waste that on someone who already had his best years.”

You shake your head.

“I think your best years just look different.”

Silence.

Then he slowly, carefully, reaches for your hand.

“…Can I try again?” he asks. “Not at volleyball. At living.”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I’ll be here.”

And for the first time since he hung up his jersey, Kaname Moniwa doesn’t feel like a memory.

Tamahiko Teshiro notices everything.

The way you always choose the seat near the window. How you stir your drinks counterclockwise. That you hum when you’re nervous. That your smile is different when you’re tired.

He notices when you cut your hair.

When you lie.

When you pretend you’re okay.

What he doesn’t notice… is the way you look at him.

Because to Teshiro, love is something other people get.

You’re walking back from practice together, the evening quiet and soft.

“You’re quieter than usual,” you say.

He shrugs. “Just thinking.”

You stop walking. “About what?”

He hesitates.

Then answers honestly. “About how people like you always end up with someone better.”

Your chest tightens.

“Tamahiko…”

He smiles gently, sad and small. “It’s fine. I’m used to it.”

You stare at him like he just said the sky is green.

“You think I don’t like you?”

He laughs softly. “You don’t have to pretend.”

“I’m not pretending.”

He tilts his head. “You’re kind to everyone.”

“I’m not like this with everyone.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, I’m not.”

You step closer.

He doesn’t move.

“I remember how you take your tea,” you say quietly. “Two sugars. Not three. Even when you pretend you don’t care.”

He blinks.

“I know when you’re lying about being tired.”

Another blink.

“I know you hate thunder but you’ll never say it.”

His hands curl at his sides.

“You think you’re invisible,” you whisper. “But I see you.”

His voice is barely there. “You see everyone.”

“I see you.”

Silence stretches.

Then he laughs, shaky. “You’re saying this because you’re nice.”

You exhale sharply.

“You’re impossible.”

You grab his sleeve.

His breath stutters.

“I’ve loved you for a year, Teshiro.”

His mind goes blank.

“…That’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking.”

He searches your face for the punchline.

There isn’t one.

“You… love me?”

“Yes.”

“…Like. Actually?”

“Yes.”

His knees almost give out.

He sits down on the curb like his body forgot how standing works.

“I thought… I thought you were just… kind.”

You sit beside him.

“I thought you’d never look at me like that.”

He lets out a broken laugh.

“So we’re both stupid.”

You smile softly. “Looks like it.”

He looks at you like you’re fragile.

Like you might disappear.

“Can I… hold your hand?”

You lace your fingers together.

He squeezes like he’s afraid you’re a dream.

And for the first time, Tamahiko Teshiro realizes—

He didn’t misread you.

Sō Inuoka is many things.

Loud. Fast. Terrible at sitting still. Worse at reading emotional cues.

What he is not… is subtle.

So when you tell him you like him, he laughs.

Like—full on, head thrown back, clapping-once-for-emphasis laughs.

“Hahaha—good one! You almost got me!”

You blink. “I’m serious.”

He grins wider. “Yeah, yeah. You’re hilarious today.”

“No, Inuoka. I like you. Like-like you.”

He squints at you.

“…You mean like when you like ramen?”

You stare.

“…No.”

“Like when you like volleyball?”

“NO.”

“Ohhh.” He snaps his fingers. “You mean friend-like!”

Your eye twitches.

You take a breath. “I mean romantically. I have feelings for you.”

He tilts his head like a confused puppy.

“…Why?”

That one hurts.

You laugh weakly. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

You walk away before he can see your face.

Inuoka shrugs it off.

He really thinks you were joking.

Until you stop sitting next to him at lunch.

Until you stop waiting for him after practice.

Until you stop laughing at his dumb jokes.

That’s when his chest starts doing something weird.

It’s tight.

And annoying.

And it won’t go away.

He asks Yaku.

Yaku stares at him like he’s stupid. “You rejected her.”

“I didn’t!”

“You laughed.”

“…Oh.”

Then he asks Kenma.

Kenma doesn’t even look up from his game. “You’re an idiot.”

He asks Kuroo.

Kuroo sighs. “You fumbled. Bad.”

That night, Inuoka can’t sleep.

He replays it.

Your face.

Your voice.

The way your shoulders slumped.

Oh.

Oh no.

The next day, he sprints across campus like he’s chasing a lost ball.

He finds you near the vending machines.

“You!”

You flinch. “What?”

He bows.

Hard.

“I’M SORRY I THOUGHT YOU WERE JOKING I’M JUST BAD AT FEELINGS AND I DIDN’T REALIZE YOU WERE SERIOUS AND I THINK I MIGHT LIKE YOU TOO AND I PANICKED—”

“…You like me?”

He straightens, face red.

“I don’t know how long. But I missed you. And everything felt wrong. And my chest hurts when you ignore me.”

You soften.

“That’s called feelings, Inuoka.”

“Oh.”

He thinks about that.

Then grins. “So… can I try this dating thing?”

You laugh quietly. “Yeah.”

He pumps his fist. “YES! I DID IT!”

Then pauses.

“…Do we high-five or hug?”

You step forward and hug him.

He freezes for exactly two seconds.

Then hugs you back too tight.

Ren Omimi is terrifying.

That’s not an exaggeration — it’s a widely accepted fact.

He’s tall in a way that blocks light. Broad shoulders, sharp eyes, always scowling like the world personally offended him. First–years whisper about him. Second–years avoid eye contact. Even some third–years think twice before talking to him.

People say he once made a guy cry just by staring.

You don’t see it.

To you, Ren is the boy who holds doors open too long because he’s scared of letting them close too fast.

The boy who pretends he’s checking his phone when he’s actually waiting to see if you got home safely.

The boy who clears his throat three times before saying your name.

You meet him behind the gym one afternoon while he’s sitting on the steps, elbows on knees, glowering at the ground.

You wave. “Hi, Ren.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

“O-oh. Hey.”

You sit beside him like it’s natural.

Across the courtyard, a group of boys stop talking.

One of them whispers, “Is she… sitting next to Omimi?”

Another shakes his head. “She’s brave or stupid.”

Ren hears them.

His jaw tightens.

The group flinches.

They scatter.

You blink. “…Did you just scare them away by existing?”

“S-sorry… did I embarrass you?”

You smile. “No. It was kind of impressive.”

He goes red.

Bright red.

From that day on, it becomes a pattern.

Anyone who talks to you too aggressively? Gone.

Anyone who laughs at you? Vanished.

A guy once tried to flirt with you in the hallway.

Ren appeared behind him like a demon summoned by disrespect.

“Move.”

The guy ran.

You sigh. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ren stares at his shoes.

“I just… don’t like when people make you uncomfortable.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“…You’re kind.”

He looks up, stunned.

“N-no I’m not.”

“You are to me.”

That night, he can’t sleep.

A week later, you catch him outside your classroom holding a drink he definitely bought for you.

He extends it with both hands like an offering.

“I-I thought you might be thirsty.”

You take it gently, brushing his fingers.

He freezes like he’s been struck by lightning.

“Thank you, Ren.”

He swallows.

Heart pounding so loud he thinks you can hear it.

“…Can I walk you home today?”

You nod.

And the terrifying Ren Omimi spends the whole walk staring at the sidewalk, internally screaming because your hands accidentally brush once and he almost passes away.

The next day, someone asks you:

“Aren’t you scared of him?”

You look across the gym at Ren — intimidating, looming, arms crossed.

Then he notices you watching.

Immediately softens.

Waves awkwardly.

Trips.

You smile.

“No,” you say softly.

You are quiet.

Not shy in the cute way people romanticize — just… careful. You move like you’re trying not to leave footprints. You sit near the edges of classrooms. You laugh softly, cover your mouth when you do. You shrink when voices get loud.

Tanaka is the opposite of all of that.

He crashes into rooms like a thunderclap. Laughs too loud. Yells at the TV. Slaps backs. Exists at full volume.

You shouldn’t make sense together.

But somehow, you do.

He notices your bullies before you ever tell him about them.

Three second–years. Loud in a cruel way. The kind who don’t shove you into lockers, but lean close and whisper things meant to crawl under your skin.

“Why do you talk like that?” “You always this boring?” “Bet nobody would notice if you disappeared.”

You never tell Tanaka.

You don’t want to be a problem.

But Tanaka notices how your shoulders stiffen in the hallways. How you suddenly take longer routes. How your smile becomes careful, rehearsed.

And one afternoon, he hears them.

He’s coming back from the vending machines, can in hand, humming to himself, when he catches their voices around the corner.

You’re standing there, backpack hugged to your chest like a shield.

One of them leans too close.

Tanaka doesn’t think.

He reacts.

“Oi.”

His voice cracks like a whip.

All three turn.

Tanaka steps in front of you without even realizing it, broad shoulders blocking their view.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

They scoff. “Relax, gorilla, we’re just talking.”

“Funny,” Tanaka snaps, stepping closer, eyes sharp, “because your faces look like you’re auditioning to be garbage.”

You grab his sleeve, terrified. “Tanaka, it’s okay—”

He doesn’t look back.

“You,” he points at the tallest one, “smell like expired milk.”

“You,” to the second, “have the personality of wet socks.”

“And you—” he squints at the third, “I don’t even need to insult you. Your haircut already did the job.”

They flush.

“What, you got a crush or something?” one sneers.

Tanaka grins — sharp, feral, protective.

“Yeah,” he says loudly. “And?”

They mutter curses and back off, embarrassed by the growing crowd.

Tanaka only relaxes when they’re gone.

Then he turns to you.

And immediately softens.

“…You okay?”

You nod, eyes shiny.

“I didn’t want you to get in trouble,” you whisper.

He scratches his cheek, suddenly awkward.

“They don’t get to talk to you like that.”

You hesitate. “You don’t even know me that well.”

Tanaka frowns.

“I know you say thank you to vending machines.”

You blink.

“And that you always give your extra bread to Yamaguchi.”

Another blink.

“And that you flinch when people raise their voices.”

Your breath stutters.

“I know enough.”

You start crying.

Immediately he panics.

“WAIT— I DIDN’T MEAN IT LIKE— I’M BAD AT COMFORTING— DO YOU WANT A DRINK?? I HAVE MELON SODA—”

You laugh through tears.

It’s small. Quiet.

But he hears it.

And his heart does something stupid in his chest.

From then on?

Your bullies don’t exist.

Anytime they appear, Tanaka does too.

He walks you to class. Sits too close to them on purpose. Laughs louder. Stares harder.

Once, he loudly tells Nishinoya, “If anyone messes with my favorite person again I’m biting their kneecaps.”

You nearly die of embarrassment.

But the hallways become safe again.

One day you ask softly, “Why do you always protect me?”

He freezes.

Red from ears to neck.

“…Because you deserve it.”

You smile at him.

You apologize for everything.

For standing in the doorway too long. For asking where the extra balls are kept. For sitting in the wrong chair. For speaking too quietly. For speaking at all.

“Sorry,” slips out of your mouth like a reflex, stitched into your breathing.

Takeda notices before anyone else does.

At first, he thinks it’s just politeness.

Then he realizes it’s fear.

“Sorry for bothering you, Takeda-sensei.” “Sorry, I’ll clean that.” “Sorry, I didn’t mean to ask.” “Sorry, I’ll move.”

Every word is small. Careful. Like you’re trying not to be a burden in a world that already decided you are one.

He never rushes you. Never sighs. Never looks annoyed.

But one evening, after practice has ended and the gym is quiet except for the echo of bouncing balls being put away, he sees it clearly.

You drop a stack of papers.

They scatter across the floor.

You freeze.

Your face drains of color.

“I’m sorry— I’m so sorry, I’ll pick them up, I didn’t mean— I’m sorry—”

Your hands shake as you crouch, trying to gather everything at once, apologizing between breaths like something terrible is about to happen.

Takeda kneels beside you.

Not hurried.

Not loud.

Just there.

“It’s okay,” he says gently, helping gather the papers. “Nothing broke.”

You nod too fast. “I know, I just— sorry, I should be more careful.”

He pauses.

Then, very softly:

“…May I ask you something?”

You tense immediately. “Yes— I mean— of course— sorry—”

He offers a small, sad smile.

“Who taught you that you had to deserve being treated kindly?”

The words don’t accuse.

They don’t demand.

They simply exist between you.

Your breath stutters.

No one has ever asked you that.

You try to laugh it off. “It’s fine, I just— I talk too much sometimes.”

Takeda doesn’t push.

He just sits beside you on the gym floor, papers forgotten between his hands.

“You know,” he says quietly, “kindness isn’t something you earn by being small.”

Your throat tightens.

“You don’t have to apologize for needing help. Or for existing in a room. Or for making mistakes.”

Your eyes burn.

You look away quickly, embarrassed.

“I’m not… good at taking up space.”

He nods slowly. “I can see that.”

Silence stretches.

Then your voice cracks.

“At home, if I messed up… it was easier to apologize before anyone could get mad. If I stayed quiet, I didn’t make things worse.”

Your fingers twist in your sleeves.

“I guess it just… stuck.”

Takeda’s chest aches.

He doesn’t reach for you without permission.

He just speaks.

“You were trying to survive,” he says gently. “That doesn’t make you weak. It makes you human.”

A tear slips out.

Then another.

You cover your face, ashamed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry.”

There it is again.

Takeda carefully places a box of tissues near you.

“You don’t need to apologize for pain either.”

You take one with trembling hands.

“I don’t think you realize how gentle you are,” he continues. “How thoughtful. How hard you try not to inconvenience anyone.”

He smiles softly.

“But you deserve kindness even when you fail. Even when you’re loud. Even when you’re messy. Even when you need help.”

Your shoulders shake.

No one has ever said that to you like it was fact.

Not something to be debated.

Not something to prove.

Just truth.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Takeda adds.

The words land heavier than any apology ever has.

For the first time, you don’t say sorry.

You just whisper, “Thank you.”

Washio had always been the constant in your life.

Not loud like Bokuto, not sharp-tongued like Kuroo, not unreadable like Akaashi—just steady. The kind of person who walked on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic without thinking about it. The kind who carried your bag when your shoulder hurt, who texted you when you forgot your lunch, who waited outside your classroom like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Your best friend.

Which was exactly why this was a problem.

You sat on the wooden steps outside the gym, elbows on your knees, staring at your phone like it might combust if you looked at it too hard. Washio dropped down beside you a moment later, long legs stretched out, bottle of water in hand.

“You’ve been quiet all day,” he said. “That’s suspicious.”

You forced a laugh. “Am I not allowed to be mysterious?”

“You trip over air. You’re not mysterious.”

Rude. Accurate—but rude.

You hesitated, fingers tightening around your phone. “Washio… can I ask you something?”

He turned fully toward you, serious instantly. “Yeah. What’s wrong?”

Your heart thudded painfully. If you told him the truth, it would ruin everything. If he didn’t feel the same, you’d lose the one person who had never left your side.

So you lied.

“I… like someone,” you said.

Washio blinked. Just once. Something subtle crossed his face—too fast to read.

“Oh,” he said.

You didn’t see how his hand curled slightly against the step.

“I was thinking about confessing,” you continued, voice shaky. “But I don’t know how.”

He looked at the ground for a second. Then he nodded, slow and thoughtful, like he always did when he took something seriously.

“…I can help.”

Relief washed over you, tangled painfully with guilt.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course I can.”

You smiled at him, small and grateful. “You’re the best.”

That one sentence almost broke him.

From that day on, Washio became your personal confession planner.

He helped you choose the day. (“Not before a game. Emotions are high. It should be quiet.”)

The place. (“Somewhere private. They deserve sincerity, not an audience.”)

The words. (“Don’t memorize it. Just say what you actually feel.”)

He listened while you rambled about how scary it was to love someone who might not love you back. He sat beside you while you practiced fake speeches into the night air. He even walked you home afterward, hands shoved into his pockets, expression unreadable.

Every step felt heavier.

Sometimes, when you talked about how kind this person was… how safe they made you feel… how you trusted them more than anyone…

Washio would go quiet.

“You really like them,” he said once.

“I do,” you whispered.

He nodded, jaw tight. “They’re… lucky.”

You didn’t notice how his voice cracked.

The night before your planned confession, you couldn’t sleep.

You sat on the roof of the dorms, legs pulled to your chest, staring at the stars. You heard footsteps behind you and already knew who it was.

“You always come here when you’re nervous,” Washio said softly.

He sat beside you, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

“Tomorrow’s the day, huh?” he asked.

You nodded.

He was quiet for a long time.

“…What if they don’t feel the same?”

You swallowed. “Then I’ll cry, be embarrassed for a month, and pretend I’m fine.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I know.”

He exhaled slowly. “If they hurt you… I won’t forgive them.”

You smiled sadly. “You’re overprotective.”

“Someone has to be.”

The wind picked up, cool against your skin. Without thinking, he shifted closer, blocking it.

“You’ll do great,” he said quietly. “Anyone would be stupid not to love you.”

Your chest tightened.

You almost said his name then.

You almost ruined everything.

The next day, your hands shook so badly you could barely hold your phone.

You found Washio in the gym hallway before practice, tying his shoes.

“I’m doing it after training,” you blurted out.

He froze for half a second.

“…Okay.”

“You’ll wait for me after, right?” you asked. “I’ll need emotional support.”

He gave a small smile. “Always.”

Training ended.

Your heart felt like it might rip out of your chest.

You walked toward the usual meeting spot behind the gym, repeating the words in your head, over and over.

I like you. I’ve liked you for a long time. You’re important to me.

You turned the corner—

—and nearly collided with Washio.

He stood there already, bag over his shoulder, eyes dark and searching.

“You’re early,” you said weakly.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he took a step closer.

“…Who is it?” he asked quietly.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“The person you’re confessing to.”

You opened your mouth.

No sound came out.

Washio laughed under his breath—strained, broken.

“I kept thinking maybe you’d say a name eventually. Anyone’s name.” He looked away. “But you never did.”

Your heart slammed violently.

“Washio…”

He finally met your eyes.

“…It’s me, isn’t it?”

Silence.

Your eyes burned.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this,” you whispered. “I just— I was scared. You’re my best friend. I didn’t want to lose you.”

His hands trembled.

“I thought I was helping you fall in love with someone else,” he said quietly. “Every time you smiled when you talked about them… I thought it was killing me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

“I love you,” you said, voice breaking. “I always have.”

For a second, he looked stunned.

Then he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms like he’d been holding back for years.

You clung to him, crying into his jacket.

“I’m so stupid,” he murmured into your hair. “I should’ve known.”

“You did everything for me,” you sobbed. “Even when it hurt you.”

“That’s what best friends do,” he said softly.

Then, quieter—

“And what people in love do too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“Can I… kiss you?” he asked.

You nodded.

His lips touched yours gently, carefully, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

And for the first time, helping you plan a confession actually led him to the place he’d wanted all along.