oraoraora

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And use it, he does. God.

In the span of a couple quarters, you just now think maybe Kuroo Tetsurou took that “personality hire” comment to heart. Not to spite, you don’t think—hope, he's already proven himself to be a powerful man in spoken word alone. He’s probably using it as his motto, hung in his mind’s visionboard of JVA success, and you’re not sure how you feel about being the catalyst.

“It’s been less than a year and he's playing them like fiddles!” You exclaim over your coffee, cold in comparison to your blood, broiling over.

Akaashi only hums in response, softly blowing his latte and taking a sip as he listens to your grievances. You’d think your favorite former junior (which may soon turn into former favorite junior) would be a good ear, but each complaint is returned with its own origin story from high school and serves to piss you off even more.

“It took me ages to get Mr. Kanasawa to so much as glance at my presentations, but twenty minutes with him and a spontaneous proposal with Raijin is automatically stamped?”

That’s the worst of them, and it’s only the beginning. The cliques that make up your office building split like the sea for Kuroo, clawing at his former varsity athlete muscles and inviting him for drinks every evening. All the while you log more and more overtime, sipping at canned coffee—which is terrible for taking off the edge.

“That’s Kuroo for you. He did the same thing with Bokuto when they first met: played him like a fiddle.”

Akaashi continues. “You’d have thought they’d just clicked, you know? And it did look that way—but Kuroo tries when it comes to people. He tried for notoriously moody high school Bokuto Koutarou, and he's not stopping now.”

Akaashi laughs at the memory, light. Nostalgic and fond, warm as the latte he takes another sip of. You click your teeth.

It’s then that you realize you’re not a catalyst. Nothing close to it. You’re not, and have never been, a part of this at all. 

Kuroo Tetsurou has always been this way. More than mildly irritating and more than sufficed to be his own chemical reaction.

It’s then that you scratch off the “mild inconvenience” label on Kuroo’s mental file in the back of your mind and write down “hate” instead. With mental pencil—not pen. Because you do not feel so strongly about a simple co-worker. You're not paid nearly enough to feel much about anything. It is simply the only word that’s strong enough for now.

────────

The campaign is supposed to be with EJP Raijin and it is supposed to be Kuroo’s. It is not.

It is an exhibition match with EJP Raijin and the MSBY Black Jackals, and it is both yours and Kuroo’s. Shoved in your hands and sent to your email in a matter of seconds as how most things that belong to you have been delivered lately.

Kuroo comes with the coffee this time, pulling you into an unscheduled meeting room in the spaces between occupied timeslots and in the spaces where you’d, preferably, like to be away from him and preparing your own presentations due tomorrow. He hands you the latte and two large folders and gets to work.

“It’s still in small meetings and talks. It won’t actually be held until after the season starts.”

He has about three more stacks of paper than you, and he flips through them for a couple of seconds before stopping. A long finger points at some player profiles. Black and white ink, environmentally and budget-conscious.

“Suna Rintarou, Tatsuki Washio, and Komori Motoya all signed with Raijin at the beginning of the year. Inarizaki and Fukurodani graduates respectively, and high school’s best libero from the great Itachiyama Institute."

“And just this summer, an infamous little crow who wore the number ten is trying out with the Jackals. Home to some old friends and a cousin of whom I just mentioned.”

The volleyball nerd acts like you should know all of these names, and most of them, you do, but he also acts like you should be just as excited. With one of your superiors peeking through the windows as they pass by, you indulge him anyway.

“What does this mean for us?” For you, you want to say. How much more does this mean for him and he’s just dragging you along and unknowingly humiliating you?

“It means,” Kuroo taps two of his fingers on the table in a self-serving and somewhat pathetic kind of drumroll. “We’re about to get a V. League season of Monster Generation players. And if all goes well, a national team full of them.”

“You come up with that branding yourself?”

“Yes. And I want it all over Japan before the season’s over. Ideally in time for the Olympics.”

“Starting with EJP Raijin v. MSBY?”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

You sarcastically fanfare, blank, “And time for the million dollar question…”

“Have any of them actually agreed?”

Kuroo smirks. You want to smack it off him and make him pick it up.

“That’s what I have you for.”

You briefly glance at the window, and your superior is long gone. Then, you look back at Kuroo and take the folders and coffee. You don’t tell him that slideshows are already being crafted in your mind, emails drafted across your frontal lobe. You simply decide. 

You won’t be humiliated.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m a genius who’s about to get us both a raise, thank you.”

────────

You’ve come up with two reasons as to why you’ve gotten pulled into Kuroo Tetsurou’s nonsense exhibition match. He didn’t tell you, but you didn’t need him to. You could always tell things like this.

One of the two reasons Kuroo needs you is because he can’t be in two places at once. Otherwise, he’d have these teams wrapped around his finger and dancing in the square of his palm, which they already are, courtesy of high school connections. 

He’s been best friends with Bokuto Koutarou since they were seventeen, and newcomer Hinata Shoyo, freshly tanned and back straight from Brazil, can sweet talk teammates and adversaries alike even better than your co-worker. You never thought you’d see the day.

With each of them, you coax an agreement just by mentioning something about Kuroo, or 2012 to 2013, or that fated Spring Tournament, and they're in. It’s just like back at the office. Speak his name like a spell, and here comes the cavalry. It annoys you more than you could imagine, but it’s a check off the to-do list.

EJP Raijin and the Black Jackals are secured. 

The second reason, which is something Kuroo can’t make up for overnight and the one thing you have over him, is company seniority, and the privilege to present his updated proposal to the main conference room. 

Unfortunately for him and you both, that’s only the first step.

You’re but a cowardly lion in this circus ring, except the circus is a rectangular wooden table, ergonomic office chairs, and made up of executives twice your age, half your hair, and voices with power. Power (and money) you and Kuroo needed.

“Preparations for the Olympics are already starting, and the V. League season is busy as it is. Where are you getting the time and money?” Says one of the men on the farther end of the ergonomic circus table.

You. Jackasses.

Another comments, “I suppose the Black Jackals have been a dark horse as of lately, but these teams aren’t in any significant rankings right now. The JVA likes certainty, not sports betting and high school nostalgia. Can you guarantee enough success from both of them during the season to garner interest?”

Your stomach swirls, a little sick. There’s already interest! And success! Three slideshows, countless highlight reels and hundreds of crazed Twitter fan comments worth of it! Most of them about Miya Atsumu, yes, but it's interest all the same. 

Your nails dig into your binder. You switch to the next slide showing the charts instead of voicing your thoughts. It gets some vaguely neutral-positive hums, but it’s not enough. 

An older woman on the right off-handedly comments on Hinata, who you forget is practically an unknown. A notion you never would’ve guessed by the way both teams—and even Kuroo himself—seemed to have the back of his high school jersey etched in their heart and behind their eyelids. It makes your brow twitch for him. The man was a total sweetheart when you’d met, and if the buzz amongst the teams was true, a total monster to the soles of his reputedly powerful feet.

“You graduated from Fukurodani, the same year as Mr. Kuroo, correct? I admire your respect for your alma mater, especially with such talent that had come from it.”

She continues. “I know you’re young. We appreciate ambition, but we’re not charity workers.” 

Someone drops a pen as soon as the words leave her mouth. It hits the ground with the weight of your meteor heart, falling to your feet. You glance at the clock.

“Thank you for your time.”

And after, if you wait for the bathroom to clear so you can scream into your hands and scorn Kuroo Tetsurou, no one can say. Does an overworked sports promoter truly make a sound if there’s no one around to hear?

────────

“So how’d you get to know Tetsurou?” Bokuto asked you the day you came in to propose the idea to the teams, which doesn’t take much time at all, so you’re spent in the middle of this reunion between men who, in all their own ways, all know each other. High school volleyball can somehow make this world feel incredibly small.

“We met when he got hired. I went to Fukurodani.” You said flatly.

“Really?! Didja ever watch any of my games?! You know anyone from the team?”

“Your best friend, also my best friend?” A weak chuckle escaped you. “Aghaashi Keiji?”

His owl-like eyes went wide and he bursted into a fit of laughter, followed by some nostalgic stories similar to the day you and Akaashi went out for coffee, only they included him this time. You cared enough to keep some details in the back of your mind to tease Akaashi the next time you two meet. 

Your computer screen goes black from inactivity, snapping you out of your daydreams, which could be considered actual dreams, what with the late hour glaring at the corner of your monitor when you turn it back on again. 

There’s a singular pathetic light at the corner of your desk, in the corner of your pathetic cubicle, while the rest of the night outside your window is more warmly lit. The open air is likely buzzed from better office workers unlike yourself sipping sake. 

Meeting some alumni of your old high school had you thinking these past few days. Much more thinking than you’d like to do in the spaces where work had to be done. An old professor back in college, when you’d asked him why he chose what he did, said:

“I simply chose a mistake I could live with.”

You thought he was stupid. You took the advice, but young, possibly (re: definitely) arrogant, and fiery you made a deal with yourself. You’d never live with a mistake. You’d make your decisions and prove they were right and you’d see them through until the end.

But the thing about mistakes is they’re much like surprises. You don’t know what they are until you’ve ripped off the ribbon like a bandage, and after sifting through confetti, the wound spills of consequences and you’re sitting in its puddle. 

Your puddle looks like overtime and a trash can full of mediocre canned vending machine coffee. And it reeks of jealousy.

Stupid, petty jealousy and Kuroo Tetsurou’s cologne, and the JVA does not leave expense for jealousy. You know this enough because they did not leave expense for your perfect, seemingly seamless proposal. They don’t leave enough for you to feel, but they spark these feelings in you anyway and expect you to curb them so it’s not taking up the budget.

If Kuroo tried for people and he’s been trying since he was in high school, you wonder what you’ve been doing. 

It’s the caffeine you blame for these thoughts, so to deter them, you sit up and try to make better use of the energy in your veins, flowing with the anger in the torrents and bursting beneath your skin.

The hot rushing anger suddenly turns cold at the back of your neck. You scream and jump from your chair, turning around and ungraciously hitting the figure responsible with a flimsy folder.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” 

“Agh—!”

You didn’t think speaking, or even thinking of the devil was real, but here he is. Not a devil, but with what you’d imagine owns a similar smirk and irritating laugh. Kuroo’s spooked, from what you could tell from his heavy breaths, but he looks more amused if anything.

You chuckle yourself, half-heartedly, in the way a horror movie protagonist stares at the shadows. “I thought you went out drinking with the others.”

Once Kuroo’s settled from his laughing fit, he answers.

“Forgot something.”

He waves around a small pencil case, cylindrical and black cat themed with yellow eyes and a zipper to open where its head should be. A little brutal, but surprisingly cute and in his image. In his other hand, he holds the culprit of your mini panic: more cold mediocre canned vending machine coffee.

Kuroo places it on your desk and peeks at the spreadsheets on your computer screen.

“I heard from Bokuto that your meeting went well.” He says. “And I also heard the budget meeting didn’t go quite so well.”

You stare at the ground.

“Sorry for messing up your proposal.” It was pretty good, after all. With your edits, of course.

“Don’t apologize. I know it was ambitious.”

“That’s what the lady said. Then she threw it in the trash.”

Kuroo opens his mouth, closes it again. You’ve pulled him into your wallowing, in the dim light, and you almost feel a little bad. You hear yourself speak, nothing louder than a mutter, but in the dark, it reaches him.

“I haven’t made a mistake, right?”

Your breath hitches. You want to take it back, but it makes no sense to anyone else but yourself. There’s a beat of silence that’s much too loud.

“What got you into the job?” Kuroo suddenly asks.

You squint. “What’s gotten you into small talk?”

“Just humor me.”

Humor, you do, despite yourself.

“I watched Fukurodani’s match in the finals. 2013 Spring Nationals.”

It was a favor for your only friend, their starting setter at the time, though it might’ve been more of a favor to you. You couldn’t care much for volleyball, but you enjoyed the atmosphere and the feeling of school spirit. You could pretend your social life wasn’t as bland as it was normally, waving to Akaashi from the stands and getting perhaps one stare wondering how you two knew each other. Plus, the tickets were free to the student body.

Of all the sports you knew, volleyball looked so seamless. Connection by law of the basic rulebook. Three touches, none by the same man in a row; bump, set, and spike. You watched your school’s team fight, and they lost, yes, but that day, you knew you witnessed true connection. 

It looked easier than any other type of connection you knew. So you went into college for business, did well in your courses, and scored an entry-level position with the JVA as young as twenty-two all on your own, and that was enough.

Sure, you still weren’t a fan of people, but you liked numbers and clearing off a task list, and for a while, that was enough. Not until Kuroo walked through those doors, a brand new suit in tow. (He never told you, but you could tell.) And you realized it was never just numbers.

It was always going to be about people. People you just didn’t know if you could try hard enough for.

“I got into it because of that but,” you bite your lip. “I don’t know why I stayed.”

“I don’t think I was ever passionate about connecting people to the sport. I think I just saw that connection that day and wanted that for myself.”

This is a concerning amount of vulnerability in front of a co-worker you’ve spent hating in place of insecurity, and you’re not sure how you feel about unravelling this wound and laying the bandage in front of him. 

You swivel back in your chair, like ripples in a puddle. If you’ve already accepted this as a mistake, is this one that you want to live with?

Kuroo leans over your desk. Maybe it’s the low light and blue gleam, but his feline gaze isn’t quite so sharp at this hour. 

“You don’t want to quit, do you?”

You blink. “Not really.”

He hums. 

“You know, it’s our job to help people learn to love volleyball. For me, I always just liked the feeling when I knew people saw it the way I do.”

He looks at you then, that gentle feline-like gaze.

“You can learn to love volleyball. Doesn’t matter how much time it takes. Trust me, it’ll get easier after that.”

And maybe it’s the low light and the caffeine, and the soft way he looks at you, but you want to believe him. And maybe, mistakes, like wounds, will heal in time and become appreciated scars. They are mistakes all the same, but the skin won't be as tender.

It’s then that you realize something, and make a small update to your little mental file.

You don’t hate Kuroo Tetsurou.

You don’t. 

────────

And you do listen to him. Trust him. It’s more learning than loving at this stage. In your mind and chest, in your heart, you’re conjuring up something similar. 

The numbers are easier than the people, but the people are fun, or at the very least, entertaining. You return to the training centers in Osaka and Shizuoka regularly to keep the teams updated, and they pull you in for some drills regardless of your work wear.

You trade your own stories about Akaashi with Bokuto. You trade passes with Hinata, and no matter how terrible you are, he’s quite the gentle teacher. Suna sends you the funny videos he’s always recording through Instagram and you find the drinks that you share with Kuroo and these men taste sweeter than caffeine and go down easier than any of the evenings you’ve spent with the people from the office.

You don’t love volleyball as much as they do, but you think it’d be an incredible thing to inspire the same love in others. Great news for you, because that’s been in your job description for the past two years. Everything you learn laces your presentations and assignments with something fresh, and it even gets you in a couple rooms and meetings with more important executives, not nearly as irritating as before. 

Your supervisor says there’s something different about you. The way you carry yourself these days. You simply reply that you’ve made some new friends.

After a while, closer to the season’s start, you learn to bring an extra change of clothes, or if you can’t or forget, dress in more casual than business on the days you go out to see Raijin or MSBY. When you finally escape from their grips and let them (re: make them, because your job is dependent on their success) go back to their regular training, Kuroo is at the door.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area with the other division,” replies Kuroo.

He takes out a tablet and taps three times. Running fingers through his dark hair, it tussles out the way to show both of his eyes clearly.

“I’ve got some bad news and some better news.”

“Just call it all news and say what you have for me.”

“Well, the exhibition match isn’t gonna happen when we want it. It could be as far as until after the Olympics.” You hold your breath. Kuroo continues. “But the proposal isn’t rejected. We can still work at it.”

“And what’s the better news?”

“I got the season match-ups before anyone else could get their grubby hands on it, and guess who’s the kick-off?”

You tilt your head, reaching a hand for the tablet, which he gives with a small smile—almost giddy, like a little boy. Your eyes widen.

────────

So, EJP Raijin v. MSBY Black Jackals isn’t scheduled to happen when it should, but the folders are kept open by yours and Kuroo’s sheer will and some smooth, silvered words, and the nickname “Monster Generation” actually sticks. It’s plastered on all of the articles and flyers and Kuroo’s definitely going to lord that over you for as long as you live. 

In place of your paused proposal, the first match of the season between the latter and the Schweiden Adlers takes center stage, and you greedily capitalize on its success like you’re in America instead of Miyagi Prefecture and three tiers higher than your job title.

Hinata Shoyo makes an incredible debut, and you’re reminded of the finals back in your third year of high school, as you watched man fly. Fly, he does. Not just him, but Hoshiumi Kourai is absolutely incredible, and there seems to be a new light in Kageyama Tobio and Ushijima Wakatoshi’s gleaming eyes. 

There’s new light and love and just now, you think you understand what Kuroo means when he talks about how volleyball makes him feel and what it feels like when others see it and feel it like he does.

You go to the Adlers’ section to get their contact information, and what you hear is Kageyama’s surprisingly adorable autograph, which leads to Kuroo dragging you to meet all his old friends and rivals, and somehow, it leads you into a crowded bar with both teams and a few others. 

“It’s true!” Kuroo exclaims. He’s sat across from you while you’ve been squished between two Karasuno alumni and old friends of his: Sugawara and Sawamura, who insists you call him Daichi.

“Really?” You huff through your nose, leaned over the table and a few empty shot glasses. “You’re not speaking from a previous life or anything?”

“Oh my god—” Kuroo scoffs, appalled. “How hard is it to believe I was a shy kid? Really, I couldn’t even look Kenma in the eye!”

He turns to Daichi on your right, who’s still howling with laughter. 

Sugawara giggles. “You know, I’d believe you if not for that. Everyone’s a little shy as a kid, but Kenma? Worse than Kenma?” 

“Oh, come on!”

It’s all fake anger and mirth in Kuroo’s gaze, hazy laughter ringing through your ears. His smooth dark hair, which he’s just revealed to you as bedhead—and you believe that as much as you believe the stories of his shy childhood—is tussled unevenly in his hands.

“We should play volleyball again, sometime,” Daichi finally says, settling down and sipping from his drink.

“Oh, really?” Competition sparks in Kuroo’s smile. “You sure you can take it, penalty king?” 

Sugawara interjects their taunting. “Let me start working out again first! I’m not built like you two!”

Kuroo flexes his muscles to you three through his suit, making the other two men roll their eyes. You playfully gag and turn away, distracting you from the heat converging across your cheeks. It’s the alcohol, and you try taking another sip to dispel the heat with a stronger burn. When you lift your head, you hear his flexing accidentally knock Bokuto in the head with his biceps.

“You know, that reminds me,” Sugawara turns back to Kuroo. “I never expected you to go into business. I really thought you’d go pro too!”

Kuroo tilts his head up from his drink. “Really?”

“Oh, don’t gas him up,” you groan. “He gets enough of that at work already.”

The man across gives you a look, somewhat pitiful, and you look back, sticking out your tongue.

“He does dress more like a conman now, though! You’ve always had that look to you,” Daichi remarks.

“No, I don’t!”

And the bar bursts with laughter again, buzzing. 

Kuroo’s soft—like this. Surrounded by people you know he loves more than anyone else in the world. That, he doesn't have to tell you. You could always tell things like that. In the way he rubs Bokuto’s back before he runs out of the bar, keeling from a speed drinking competition with Miya Atsumu. In the way he continues to taunt Daichi and who he playfully calls “Suga-chan”, and it’s all for naught because there’s no malice laced in his words or his soft feline-like gaze. In the way he brought you canned coffee with that same look you forget how many nights ago.

It’s all love. All in the way he just is.

He hears Bokuto gagging outside and runs to the door, and all you can do is smile and take another sip.

In that way, too. And in—

And—oh.

Oh.

“Alright,” Kuroo soon enters the bar again with Bokuto hanging off one of his shoulders, mouth washed and exhausted. “We’ve gotta get this guy back to the hotel. You coming with?”

You blink. Slow. It’s the alcohol, you tell yourself.

“Yeah,” you pause. “Yeah.”

The early winter breeze washes over your skin, sobering you up a little more. Kuroo makes you take Bokuto’s other side, and you both give each other a look and share a laugh when you nearly collapse beneath his muscle. The pair of you fall into a rhythm after getting used to it though, walking to the street corner where the car will be waiting.

“I never realized how much I missed them,” says Kuroo. He looks at Bokuto, who’s half-asleep mumbling drowsily, then at you. It makes your breath hitch.

That’s the thing about connection. “They’re here. They’ll always be.”

Kuroo smiles at your response, and his laughter, softer this time than in the bar, sings with the sounds of the night life.

God, you need to see Akaashi. Maybe invite him for drinks instead of coffee this time.

────────

Unfortunately, Akaashi is still in Tokyo. You’re still in Sendai. Fortunately, phones exist.

“You knew this was gonna happen?” You deadpan.

Akaashi mumbles through the speaker. “Yeah. That’s how Kuroo is. He was gonna get you one way or another.”

“Which way was this?”

“Not exactly what I expected, but it was one of the possibilities—the way you constantly complained about him to me.”

He pauses. “Are you complaining?”

You think back to the bar. That overtime night at the office. The laughter, the coffee, the alcohol, the night and the moonlight against his skin and what can’t possibly be bedhead because how does it look that soft?

“No,” you laugh.

“Then enjoy it, but make sure to say something when it feels right.”

────────

The next meeting you’re in, on a warmer Monday morning, it’s closer and closer to the Summer Olympics, and the conference room is full of names you’d have only dreamed of. The national team selection is being shown to you in its own branded packet. Color and cardstock, this time. You trace the names on the sheet beneath your fingers.

Most of them are men you’ve been acquainted with, some you’ve seen on the regular on your trips to Osaka and Shizuoka, some you’d gotten to know that night after the Jackals-Adlers. Most of them are people you’ve connected with, one way or another, and the names or faces you don’t know, you’re excited to make connections with. 

This time, it's actual connection, like that winter afternoon in your third year of high school at Tokyo Arena. For the first time in your life, it's the connection you've always wanted to make.

The meeting ends later than you expect, shaking hands and adding a few new numbers to your work phone. You don't mean to be proud, but really, it's getting a bit much at this point. Out the door, amidst the small crowd, you move down a quieter hall.

Kuroo’s waiting for you in one of the break rooms, still not enough seniority to have joined that meeting, though you can vividly picture he would’ve been buzzing in his seat. He's even doing it now, tapping two fingers against the table.

The roster would be going public soon, and all who were chosen were already notified, so you were told it’s not completely confidential. Technically. But Kuroo can keep his mouth shut. 

You hand him the papers wordlessly. He scans it carefully, and you watch his eyes move slowly from one side to the other. Across the table, you can't tell where he's actually looking. You think he’s pausing at certain names, and his breath hangs in the air for some special ones. What you believe are special anyway, the way his gaze widens and glimmers and the grin he just can’t hold back turns dopey and boyish. 

Proud. That’s more like it.

“It’s all you wanted,” you say.

He finally speaks, breathless. “Yeah, it is.”

Kuroo looks up at you, and his dopey, boyish grin turns smug. More annoying than proud. “And guess what the Official Olympic Committee is calling it and all subsequent advertising?”

“What?”

“The Monster Generation,” he gloats. “And even more branding all to do with describing them as monsters.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“It was genius, thank you.”

You roll your eyes, playful.

“Their first practice is next week,” you sing-song.

“Yeah?”

“Guess who got invited to supervise?”

────────

Ajinomoto NTC isn’t new to most of the members, many of whom you learn had gotten invited to one of the Youth Intensives back in high school. It shouldn’t be so grand, but the tall ceilings, high tech equipment, fills you with something new. A light feeling, rushing against your clothes like a soft breeze.

It’s new to you and Kuroo, of course you’d be amazed.

“The floor isn’t hardwood,” Kuroo mutters. It’s a fact he should’ve known by now, been to more professional matches than he could count, played at Nationals with the same synthetic ground, but it seems to fill him with wonder all the same.

“Tobio-kun said the same thing the first time we were here!” Atsumu laughs, walking in from behind you two. The rest of the team follow close behind, and the young suns of the bunch (it’s just Bokuto and Hinata) nearly bounce off the walls, while the others carry laughter and determination in their stride.

You’re supposed to be in the corner with the other staff, taking notes, keeping track of stats, things that are part of your job. Information you can relay back to the JVA and the duties you were sent here to do. 

That lasts about until after lunch. 

Maybe it’s the enthusiasm of new beginnings that keeps the energy levels just as high as they were in the morning, but it’s worryingly infectious, and it’s reaching your co-worker. 

“Play a set with us!” Bokuto pleads, pulling at Kuroo’s dress shirt sleeves. 

He looks at Coach Hibarida for aid, who only looks at the two like they’re children with a content smile. Kuroo then turns to you, and it’s definitely the enthusiasm infecting you as well, and you return his glower with a teasing thumbs up. He doesn’t say “fuck you” but his eyes communicate something close.

All of Kuroo’s further excuses are dismissed. Clothes? About the same size as Ushijima-san, Yaku deflects like a perfect serve receive, shoving him into the locker room. Unfit? The team takes one look at him and the shoulders that want to escape his suit vest, says bullshit, and pulls him onto the court. 

It’s all fake denial from Kuroo. You can tell. He’s practically vibrating in his borrowed volleyball shoes like he’s a middle school boy playing volleyball for the first time again. (You punch his arm when you notice he’s a little too proud about being able to share clothes with Young Cannon Ushijima Wakatoshi. Your knuckles sting a little and your face goes warm when you realize there’s a reason he’s able to fit the clothes of the young cannon.)

You move your chair closer to the court to watch, admittedly a little curious to see Kuroo play. For someone presumably out of practice, it takes less than a few rallies for Kuroo to fall into place. You’d never admit this to him, but you understand what Sugawara meant when they thought he’d go pro.

He loves volleyball in this way too. Loves in the way the rest of these men have dedicated their lives to the sport, but in a suit and once, years ago, in a jersey. How his eyes gleam getting a quick set from Kageyama, and the setter’s eyes shimmer in turn. Kuroo’s sprinting across the court, receiving serves and spikes from the best in the country, occasionally blocking the nastiest hitters to step foot on this linoleum ground, and it feels no different than a hardwood high school gym. As sweat drips from his forehead and he takes a glance at you, you think this is one of the few times you’ve seen true, unbridled joy on his face. It looks gorgeous on him.

“Don’t you dare tell him this, but I really do miss him.” Yaku says, standing beside your chair and taking a sip from his water bottle.

He introduced himself to you just this morning as Nekoma’s and Kuroo’s former libero. Kuroo introduced him as the infamous Demon Senpai and consequently had his ass kicked by a man no taller than five-foot five. You didn’t know if the moniker “demon” was warranted, but watching their banter had you see some resemblance. 

You didn’t have the pleasure of meeting him until this spring. Apparently, he’d been playing in foreign leagues as young as twenty-one, over in the snowy cities in Russia. He speaks again, and the words slip so gently beneath his breath, you don’t think they’re for you.

“I loved having him in front of me.”

You blink. “He’s still here.”

“Yeah,” Yaku smiles, yet his cheekbones seem like they’re held up with a little more weight. Bittersweet, how his voice lays on his tongue, and ever so heavier. “I know.”

────────

In the end, they definitely played more than one set, and Kuroo’s thoroughly sweated through Ushijima’s athleisure and volleyball shoes. They weren’t new or truly beloved, the spiker reassures, but Kuroo takes them with him in a bag to wash and return at the next practice. Beneath his smooth words and an exhausted smile, you catch the enthusiasm at the possibility of the “next time”. 

You glance at the training center behind as you leave, and the lights of the surrounding city remind you that the night is far from over. Just as you think that, you hear a little commotion from the men walking in front of you.

“No drinks!” Iwaizumi, newly hired trainer, warns. There’s some groans in the crowd, but they concede.

“We could at least get dinner,” Komori offers. “Anyone we’re missing?”

“Kageyama and Hinata are still in there, but they promised Hibarida-san they’d help close up,” sighs Suna.

Ushijima comments. “Hoshiumi-san is still inside as well.”

“I’ll check in with them,” you say. You hadn’t had the chance to get Hoshiumi’s number, not at the game or at the Jackadlers—nickname coined by yours truly—afterparty. 

You walk back into the sounds of court squeaking and Hoshiumi’s high voice scolding Kageyama and Hinata, possibly getting a little raspy from doing it for so long.

“I thought you guys grew out of this!” Hoshiumi chides, both hands on his hips. Kageyama and Hinata are practicing their signature combination, which you know they’ve been doing for a while, blue-and-yellow balls decorating the floor of the other side of the gym and the complete opposite of helping Hibarida close up. For a moment, you wonder if it was mistake or Japan’s greatest weapon on the committee’s part to have them be on the same side of the court again.

The shorter spiker sighs when the duo insist on five—”No, ten!”—more minutes. By his age in comparison, you suspect Hoshiumi’s grown rather doting towards his teammate and longstanding rival. 

“They really try harder than anyone else,” you chuckle into your fist.

Hoshiumi sighs, coupled with a tired grin that softens his features. While he does agree, the flames of rivalry that glint in his gaze tell you he won’t be left behind. You suspect it’s the same for the rest of the team.

“It’s because we love it so much that it’ll only get even harder.”

Once Hoshiumi’s had it, and you think perhaps these demon-like qualities come with being under 180 centimeters, you leave your response to that unsaid and unheard. You’ve learned something. Just today, this past month, these last quarters. You’ve learned about connection all in the way you watched Kuroo play. Bump, set, and spike. Connection in the way Hoshiumi takes the dynamic duo by the ears—somewhat affectionately, what you suspect is his love language, anyway—and helps them clean up.

It’s precisely because of that love that you’ll be able to persevere. 

────────

You don’t join the team for dinner, and surprisingly, Kuroo doesn’t either. Then you get ten more emails sent to you, and you hear ten more notifications coming from Kuroo’s suit pants that next morning and it doesn’t surprise you much at all.

But these, like all the things that have been shoved in your hands and sent to your emails, belong to you now. Volleyball, in some way, belongs to you now. It wouldn’t be polite to not take care of them. Gently polish and refine, as one does with a volleyball and other precious things.

You don’t ride the bullet train to Osaka and Shizuoka anymore, instead, you circle a few buses until you get to Ajinomoto Training Center and supervise their training every day. And supervise is but a strong word—Hibarida has asked you to leave the room multiple times a day so they don’t get distracted trying to impress you. Kuroo joins a few more sets during their free practice, less than before due to the work piling on your backs, but enough to exhaust him and keep his friends happy. He returns the clothes and shoes to Ushijima and starts bringing in his own, and you’ve even caught him scrolling online stores on your breaks looking for new pairs. 

Eventually, every day turns into every other week to none for Kuroo, much to Bokuto’s dismay, but it can’t sting the team for long. Their first match is dawning over the horizon. You try not to let it sting you either. Your tasks still need taking care of and there’s three more campaigns for some of the national team members you’ve just been assigned. You take a sip of canned coffee from the vending machine at the training center, which is surprisingly better than the one at the office, and continue working at your laptop.

And if there are two extra tabs open, one for a nicer sports store with volleyball shoes recommended by the team, and a few fancy restaurants in this area of Tokyo, including the place the players went to after that first day of practice that you and Kuroo missed, no one knows. No one sees.

────────

“I am so sorry, Keiji,” you exclaim, crashing through the doors of the small cafe without regard for the rest of the occupants. 

At a table near the entrance, there’s two new guests included in your coffee hour, which you’re fifteen minutes late to: Bokuto, and a tall, bespectacled blond you’re told is another old friend from high school and in Tokyo for the matches coming up.

Akaashi waves his hand around in reassurance, patting the seat beside him.

You sit down, reaching a hand for the blond and introducing yourself.

“Tsukishima Kei,” he responds. “You work with Kuroo-san?”

“Does he have to be the common link between everyone?” You groan, though lighthearted.

Akaashi smiles into his mug of coffee. “He’s quite the charmer.”

Tsukishima rolls his eyes and you think you’ve found a kindred spirit in the mind behind those glasses. Bokuto catches that look and puts his arm around his shoulders.

“Oh, don’t act like you weren’t charmed too, Mr. “Just A Club” Sendai Frogs Blocker! Why didn’t you tell us?!”

“Congratulations,” Akaashi says. “I hear they’re about to breach Division 1. It’ll go far under your guidance.” 

“It’s not under my guidance—agh!” Tsukishima tries to spit out the words beneath all of Bokuto’s smothering. He gets something out, and you empathize with his attempts. You knew how it felt to be carrying all that muscle.

“You’re still the cornerstone blocker, right? Learned against the best around!” Bokuto proudly puffs out his chest. 

“Kuroo-san?” Tsukishima smirks, and the spiker’s face drops. The words leave his mouth too quickly for Akaashi to record the indirect admission.

“Ah, that’s where I’ve heard your name! At the Jackadlers’ party,” you suddenly realize. “Hinata sings your praises, you know?”

“Tell me something I don’t hear everyday.”

His scorn comes out all too soft. A light flush dusts his cheeks, no matter how bitter his tongue.

Akaashi huffs a noise. “Jackadlers?”

“The Black Jackals and the Adlers.” you explain, pulling out your phone and a few posts. “I made it up, you know. Convinced the Enaga Fumi and her intern to start using it in their articles. It’s going around on social media.”

Akaashi nods, then looks back at the other two. Tsukishima, who finally escaped from Bokuto’s coos, only to have to comfort him for hurting his feelings.

“You know who made up the nickname Monster Generation and convinced the JVA to put it all over their branding?” The former setter goads, and the other two figure it out just from his mirthful smile.

“That was not his idea.” Tsukishima deadpans in denial.

“It was,” you confirm. “Pisses me off as much as you.”

“What I hate even more is that he’s throwing that fact around every chance he gets.” You look back at Akaashi, and you make sure to ask him when the last time he even saw Kuroo was that he’d be able to tell him. Knowing their history, it’s probably been conceptualized as far back as their mindless conversations in high school, when all those players first made their mark all those years ago.

“Speaking of Kuroo, he was supposed to come today,” Akaashi comments. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

You hum, a finger to your chin. “You and I both. I think he got put on the front lines for marketing the first match, and I honestly haven’t seen him since. Still, it shouldn’t be that hard for him to answer his phone.”

With a frown, you turn to Akaashi and sigh, “I’ll try to catch him at work.”

────────

And catch him, you try. And Kuroo tries not to blame you, but you are being terribly obvious.

It helps that his superiors keep pulling him left and right, tacking more work and reports on his desk with a smile, and Kuroo feels everything except joy. It keeps him away from you and your invitations to go back to the training center and watch the team again. 

Sure, his phone keeps blowing up. Not just from work, but from many of the others too. If not for their match this weekend, he’s sure Koutarou would be texting him every hour, on the hour. Akaashi’s invited him out multiple times, on his dime, and though free food and drinks are tempting and the exact things he needs to take the edge off, his mental to-do list shields his brain from getting any respite. (And it’s not even food and drink he needs, it’s just Akaashi.) Even Kei and Kenma have sent him a text or two, and lord knows how difficult it is for them to look at their messages.

They wouldn’t blame him, would they? You wouldn’t blame him. 

Of course, he’d take that promotion. 

He was pulled into one of the bigger offices, its own room made for one person. He was given the position and the sizable pay raise from his work in the aftermath of the Jackadlers—he saw Enaga’s articles, he’ll give you credit—game, and was promised even more if the marketing for this weekend’s match went well and he took it. 

Now, a small lamp flickering in the corner of his desk, and his monitor screen about to go black from how long he’s spent staring and not working, he wonders if it was worth it. It’s close to midnight. The skyscrapers outside of the JVA’s building replace the stars, blinding the corners of his vision and giving him a small headache. 

Closing his eyes, the rest of his senses come forth. There’s footsteps behind him. Yours, he’d know blind. The assertive way your presence struck the earth, or the gray carpet at least. You’re probably trying to pull the same trick he did all those months ago, and he’s proven right when cold metal presses the back of his neck. It doesn’t surprise him as bad as it did you back then, but he does jolt. A little. 

Kuroo opens one eye. You place the canned coffee on the desk, right next to his black cat-themed pencil pouch. He vaguely remembers you mentioning that the vending machine coffee at Ajinomoto NTC tasted better than the vending machines here, which you would’ve followed up with an invitation to return when you were ungraciously interrupted by another meeting he had to run to. 

He opens both eyes when he realizes his monitor had turned off. You don’t say anything, leaning over the desk and lit by the dim, yellow lamp. The edges of you are warm, soft against the dark office and skyscraper-lit night through the windows. Your expression is anything but, but he sees the softness in your features anyway. He can always find it. Things like that.

“They’re asking about you,” you say, finally.

“Kou?”

“All of them.”

He takes a breath. “I figured.”

“So why are you not answering?” You badger, firm.

“There’s still more to do,” replies Kuroo, reaching for his mouse and clicking around to start the computer again. You place a hand over his, making his breath hitch. He hopes it isn’t heard over the tension, just as the warmth blooming across his body isn’t seen over the dark.

“How much more is there to do?” You fume, keeping an iron grip over his knuckles. “I’ve seen your work, you know?”

Kuroo stays quiet.

“I saw the campaign you did with Bouncing Ball. I saw you nudging sponsors and scholarships towards that high schooler on the roster. I see it all.”

God, of course you do. How does anything escape you? Nothing does. You’re in and out of the office, on the buses to the training center and on the bullet train to Osaka and Shizuoka, and you’re still getting all your assignments and presentations done on the hour sharp. You’re on your laptop and in the big meeting rooms he’s still not allowed in, and you’re—

Everything. He isn't.

“Can you just leave me alone?” He snaps, jerking his hand away and making yours return to your sides.

You scoff, jaw slack. Kuroo’s blood suddenly goes cold.

“Sorry, sorry, I’ve just been in a mood lately, and—”

“No, no,” you sigh, exasperated. “Don’t apologize. Just tell me what’s been up with you.”

Your hand moves to the desk, and it hits his nameplate. You blink, taking it and lifting it to your gaze as you read it over. 

“When did this happen?” You turn it over to him, like it’s not his nameplate and he hasn’t read it a million times on nights just like this, showing off the shiny new engraving. 

“Since I stopped going to the practices with you.”

A huff of disbelief escapes your throat. 

“That’s what it was,” you mutter. “You never told me you were team lead.”

“You never asked.”

“How was I supposed to—jeez, why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s all still new. It’s really only in name. I’m the youngest one in the group.”

“We’re the same age.”

“Exactly!” Kuroo adds, “but you’re so—”

He bites his lip, making you tilt your head.

“So…what?”

It’s now that he realizes you were probably thinking the same things that night of overtime as he is right now. Lit by this same light, staring out this same window and starless night. It’s that realization that finally grabs his thoughts out of his throat.

“I thought I was ready. I spent so many all-nighters for this, you know, and I knew this was what I wanted to do with volleyball in my life.”

“Then the proposal got put on hold, and everything was still technically fine, but it hit me. And work began piling up, and there’s so, so much more to this than just going around schools in Tokyo and holding workshops.”

He looks up at you. The monitor turns off again, and all your soft edges are warm once more.

“You saw me play with the guys, right? I was back in it. I was blocking some of the best in all of Japan! God, one set, I made Kiyoomi lose his damn mind. Sakusa Kiyoomi.” 

“They were talking about how much they missed playing with me, or playing against me. The ones I didn’t play back then wished they did when we were in high school and I wished I could’ve as well, and…”

He finally takes a breath. It heaves out of his lungs like burning rope, in and out of his throat and still trying to grip and pull something out he doesn’t yet want to release. Kuroo’s next words come out warbled and shamefully watery.

“I’m doing the right thing, right?”

Kuroo Tetsurou hasn’t wasted anything by trading his captain’s jersey for a suit, has he? The shadows or threads of fate haven’t looked down on him for moving their places, spending his nights in a college library now a corporate office instead of a gym, and sweat, and synthetic ground?

In teaching others how to love, he hasn’t lost his own, has he? He still loves volleyball, not as much as he did at eighteen, or at eleven when Tokyo and the world was so large and unfamiliar and volleyball was his everything and maybe, it’s not as everything as before, but volleyball knows how much he loves it, yes?

The people—Koutarou, Kei, Kenma, Nekoma, you, all of them—know how much he loves them, yes? Because he does. So damn much. Despite the diverging paths of life and fate, shadows and threads, despite everything, he does. He loves. More than anything he’s ever known. 

Even if he never returns to the court, he loves volleyball and everything that it gave him. How it blessed him and held him so gently. That, yes, connection can come in just three touches. Bump, set, and spike. Body, brain, heart. Connection is as simple as this and yet as complicated as can be, how it flows through his veins and the atoms that make up his blood and the oxygen within, but Kuroo won’t ever care about the technicalities because it’s brought him everything. 

He’s shown his love, hasn’t he? Don’t they know?

A tear falls down his cheek. Kuroo tells himself it’s the headache and sleep deprivation.

With all your soft edges, yellow light against your skin and warming the pads of your fingers, you wipe the wet salt away, hand lingering against his skin and his tussled bedhead. It doesn’t linger for so long, but the touch—yours—is phantom on his face. 

You lead the silence away with your voice, like a firefly on a summer’s night like this one, so unnatural in the middle of urban Tokyo. 

“I had a professor once say to me, when I asked why he did what he did,” you quote, “I simply chose a mistake I could live with.”

Kuroo squints.

“I thought he was stupid.”

He smiles, wetly. That sounds more like you.

“But,” you add. “I understood what he meant. Just recently. We’re all made of some bad decisions. The things we love will only hurt so much more, but that’s what it takes to love them with all our hearts.”

“You can decide the things, the mistakes if you will, that’ll feel easiest to carry. Or, you can carry what you want anyway, because you know it’ll be worth it. It’ll be worth it even if it hurts like hell because it’s yours.”

Kuroo finally looks up at you and you’re staring back. In the way your gaze softens, in the way your eyes are glassy too, just as his, he sees an emotion he’s not yet faced on you yet. He can’t give it a name, but it’s kindred. It belongs to you both. To this night, and it probably belongs to that last overtime night too, when the positions were switched and you were in the chair and he, on the desk and lit by another flickering lamp.

It looks gorgeous on you. If it’s on him too, somewhere in the glass of his gaze, Kuroo hopes you think the same.

Your voice turns light. “You know, you’re wracking your brain over these two things, but really, you’re just choosing between volleyball and volleyball, aren’t you?”

That seems to crack you up, lifting your shoulders with rejoice. “It’s all still volleyball, no matter which way you look at it.”

Your joy pulls out Kuroo’s own, squeezing his stomach with laughter, and the rest of the tears that laid in waiting fall still, but not from the emotion they were born to. When you’ve both settled down, he smiles. Smaller, soft.

“It’s still volleyball.”

────────

“So, who’s Oikawa Tooru?” You ask, turning to Tsukishima on your right. 

Kuroo’s sat on your left, with Akaashi to his, knuckles resting on your knee and branded with Team Japan all over him. He’s wearing Bokuto’s number 4 with Yaku’s number 17 underneath in case the former misses any spikes, and vice versa for the libero dare he botch a serve receive. 

“The most annoying bastard to live,” the blond responds. “I need those two idiots to crush him.”

That doesn’t answer your question in the slightest, but you find you don’t quite care. You wave around your flag and cheer when Japan and Argentina come out on the court, and a few of them spot you four in the stands and wave back. 

You’re not with them. You’ll never know what it truly feels like to stand on that court, behind the net and in that heat. You’ll always be in these stands, back in that winter afternoon in Tokyo Arena in 2013, and now. Kuroo won’t step onto it in the same way he did at eighteen. You both wear business casual, leaning towards business these days, and despite it all, this still belongs to you. 

This is still volleyball, and this is still yours.

This court, the shrill whistle, the cheers. Volleyball belongs to you both, not in the ways it did or could’ve before, but in all the ways it needs to. 

That’s all the both of you ever need.

────────

You pull at Kuroo’s dress shirt, pleading. “Come on, it’s important!”

“What’s so important we need to go back to the office again?” Kuroo tries tugging you off of him, looking back and forth between your insistent gaze and the Japan team, seconds from walking off to the restaurant without the pair of you.

“Very important!” You insist, “we can see them after, but I need to show you something!”

He sighs, allowing you to take his arm and drag him back to the JVA building. It’s all cleared out, association members partying just as you two are supposed to be tonight, but then he watches your eager eyes as you dig through your desk for the surprise you have prepared, and he thinks he can hold off on caring. Just for a second. 

“Alright, close your eyes,” you command, though you do so for him anyway, palm grazing over his eyelids. 

Kuroo concedes, holding out his hands. Something weighty and cardboard rests on his arms, and he nearly drops it when he realizes his muscles are too relaxed for the item you’ve given.

“Okay,” you finally say. “Open them.”

He looks down. He can tell as soon as he sees the box but he opens it anyway. They’re volleyball shoes.

State of the art, the same brand as all of the players on the national team, and in mature dark red and black detailing. He traces the material beneath his fingers, and looks up at you, somewhat giddy. The way you look at him feels so—everything.

Volleyball isn’t so everything anymore, but it still belongs to him. It might not take up his heart anymore, large as the moon and his frame, but it’s the smaller, precious things that are held most gently, aren’t they?

This, this moment, feels like everything. Everything he’s been given by you, and life, and volleyball, and he loves it with all his being. Instead of everything he's thinking, he says something else.

“You know how much these cost?”

You roll your eyes. “I know, jackass, I’m the one who bought them. On the recommendation of the best jumper we’ve met too.”

“Hinata-kun?”

“Hoshiumi.”

Kuroo gasps. “Traitor! Kou’s his teacher, you know!”

“What can I say? I became a fan.” He did have quite the highlight reel during the Argentina game, which Kuroo’s currently planning to edit and hopefully post in time. 

Kuroo jabs your arm playfully, setting the box down and smiling at you. You scoff in faux disbelief.

“That’s what you get for calling me a personality hire,” he says.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god, how long have you been holding that in? Did that actually hurt your feelings?”

“Of course, it did! It’d hurt anyone’s!”

“Are you serious?” You chortle with amusement. “Wait, wait, wait, now I feel bad!”

“Now?” Kuroo huffs, but it’s all jest and false anger. He knows you can tell. “I was repeating it to myself in the mirror everyday before I came into work like it would curse you.”

“How could I have known? You replied to me all smug, like it never bothered you.”

“Well, I didn’t internalize it that bad. You told me to use it well.”

You think about those words, all that time ago, and maybe you should’ve taken your own advice much earlier. His, as well. All you do is connect. That’s what he said that day. 

“Use it, you did,” you say, breathing into the night.

It’s closer to midnight. The monitor sitting on your desk isn’t on, and neither is the small pathetic light in your cubicle. All that’s present is what little space lay between you and Kuroo, and this same feeling, present then, both times in this place, and now. Maybe, it's always followed you both. 

The sky is starless in the big city, but there’s constellations to be formed in the way everything has fallen into place to connect you both. And so, you take Kuroo’s tie, pulling him in, and letting his warmth seep into the empty spaces, and maybe you’d like to breathe, but not right now. 

He returns your kiss eagerly, pressing you up against your desk. There’s a moment, a silence where you both stare into the softness around the edges of your gazes, yours not warmed anymore without the dim light, but Kuroo’s is all hazel and honey and glowing, and then he kisses you again.

After you’ve indulged, and his tie comes a little loose, with your own clothes disheveled, you speak again.

“You’re incredible, Kuroo. No matter what you do from here on out. You know that, right?”

“Of course, I do.”

He repeats your words. “You know that yourself, yeah?”

“Of course.”

All you do is connect. Maybe connecting, in threes, in people, in heart, body, and mind, is all you both know how to do. 

Right now, it’s all you both want to do, for the rest of your lives.

note. there's a lot here. so much. i just want to say thank you to the user who asked if they could expand on the bl tropes headcanon in their own fic, which had me think about expanding the popular office worker kuroo headcanon, and it turned into this. somehow.

“Hey Daichi, you keep walking with them everytime after school.”

“Oh yeah! What about it?”

“You live in the opposite direction.”

Daichi will laugh it off and bring up the fact that, he wanted to make sure you were going home safely.

From that moment on, the entire volleyball club watches the slowest, most painfully obvious crush unfold right in front of them.

Instead of simply asking you about yourself, Daichi will try to ask Kiyoko and Yachi instead.

He’ll casually wander over after practice and ask how you’ve been doing, whether you’ve seemed stressed lately, any upcoming plans, if you’ve been eating enough, what your favorite snacks are, or if anything interesting has happened recently.

Kiyoko only smiles and sigh before telling him, “You know… you could just ask them yourself.”

Meanwhile, Yachi is bursting with excitement, insisting that it’s incredibly sweet how much he cares about you, which only makes Daichi deny everything even harder. And Yachi, will try—will fail—to help Daichi talk to you or ask you out.

I will die on the hill that Daichi’s way of showing affection is about taking care of people.

If he notices you’re carrying something heavy, he’s already reaching for it before you’ve even realized he moved.

“Oh, you’re carrying all of that? Here, let me.”

“No, I’ve got it.”

“Oh okay…” then a brief pause while Daichi stares at the multiple stacks you’ll have to carry. “I’ll carry the other stack, then.”

If you mention being hungry even once, he’ll mysteriously have “accidentally” bought an extra rice ball or sandwich from the convenience store.

“I bought too much.” Daichi awkwardly chuckles while handing the rice ball towards you “Again?” You replied while taking the rice ball way from his hand.

“…Yeah.”

“You say that every week.”

He’ll only scratch the back of his neck and look away.

Practice runs late? He’s already waiting by the gym doors with his bag over one shoulder.

“I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know…I want too and it’s getting dark.”

If someone outside the team is bothering you, he’ll step simply in, and drag you away from them.

if someone on the team was being a nuisance to you. They are receiving a polite (intimidating) conversation.

(I guess, he is protective without being overbearing.)

Outside of volleyball, he’d be the type to text you just to check in.

Nothing excessive, just messages throughout the day asking if you’ve eaten, how your classes went, or whether you made it home safely.

Though, those short conversations always turn into hours of talking.

He genuinely wants to know everything about you—your favorite food, your hobbies, your childhood stories, what makes you laugh, what your dreams are after graduation.

He wants to know because he is interested because it’s you.

But of course, he’ll deny every accusation that comes his way.

“You like the manager.”

“No..I don’t.” But the bright pink creeping up his ears gives him away every single time.

Eventually, the entire Karasuno staff becomes invested in getting the two of you together.

Sugawara shamelessly tries to create opportunities for you to be alone.

Nishinoya and Tanaka cheer whenever you stand next to each other for more than five seconds and place bets on how long it’ll take Daichi to confess, everyone in the team just watches and waits—there’s a whole separate group chat titled: ‘operation get our captain be with our manager’.

Even Coach Ukai took note on what’s happening, telling Daichi that he’d probably have better luck talking to you instead of asking Yachi and Kiyoki every other day.

Takeda Sensei, simply smiles and motivates him, “you got this.”

By the end of it all, everyone knows Daichi is hopelessly in love with the team’s manager. Everyone… except Daichi himself.

𑣲⋆Tetsurō Kuroo

Most people assumed Kuroo was a flirt, but the truth was a bit complicated than that.

He was naturally charismatic. He talked to everyone, teased everyone, and had a habit of making people laugh within minutes of meeting them.

He loved getting reactions out of people, so when he started joking around with you, nobody thought much of it. It was just Kuroo being Kuroo… or so everyone believed.

(The guys is pretty much emotionally intelligent, like that one scene when they were kids.)

(Kenma and Kuroo interactions were so endearingly sweet.)

The difference became obvious surprisingly fast when he started talking to you.

With everyone else, his teasing was effortless. He always had a comeback ready, a smug grin on his face.

Around you, though?

He’d stumble over his own pick up lines, laugh a little harder than necessary whenever you said something funny, or completely lose his train of thought because you smiled at him you’ll listen to him talk about his interests or when you complimented him.

Sometimes he’d also catch himself staring at you for too long before awkwardly clearing his throat and pretending he’d been looking at something behind you.

He always, tried way too hard to impress you—he doesn’t realize it tho…

One afternoon he attempted to make a chemistry joke while you were organizing practice schedules.

“You know…” he smirked, “I think we’ve got pretty good chemistry.”

You blinked. “…Chemistry?”

“Yeah.” He replied then you tilted your head. “ like The subject?”

Kuroo just stared “You know just forget that I said anything.”

And immediately left muttering and mumbling to himself while he buried his face in his hands while Kenma quietly snorted from the corner of the gym.

A full minute later your eyes widened. “…Oh…he..meant that chemistry.”

Whenever Nekoma had team dinners, Kuroo somehow always ended up sitting next to you. It didn’t matter where you chose to sit—he’d find an excuse. If someone else had already taken the seat beside you, he’d casually convince them to switch.

Nobody knew how he kept pulling it off, but somehow the captain always ended up within arm’s reach of their manager.

During practice, he’d invent the flimsiest reasons imaginable to come over and talk to you and ask for any updates about your life.

“Need help carrying those volleyballs?”

“I’ve got them.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Positive?”

“Yes, Kuroo.”

“Okay, okay.”

He’d walk away… Only to wander back five minutes later because he “forgot to ask Coach something.”

Coach hadn’t even called him over and when he did he just spent his time in idle talking to you. While the coach just sighs knowing that the boy got a crush on you.

If you were helping the other managers refill water bottles or organize equipment, he’d finish his own drills suspiciously quickly just to strike up another conversation or have an excuse to hold hands with you.

Another big giveaway was that he actually listened.

Kuroo remembered everything.

If you casually said you liked a certain dessert once, he’d somehow “accidentally” buy one for himself the next time the team stopped somewhere—then offer you half because he “couldn’t finish it.”

He was also constantly looking for reasons to text you. It would start with something completely normal.

“Coach said practice starts thirty minutes earlier tomorrow.”

Then…

“Did you finish that assignment?”

“Have you eaten yet?”

“Kenma says this movie is good. Have you seen it?”

“Do you know about this new video game? Wanna come over?”

“Sleep well, goodnight!”

Before either of you realized it, you’d spent two hours talking about absolutely nothing.

His very personal close friend Kenma noticed almost immediately. Because he had to listen to Kuroo talk and gush about you while he played his game on the console.

Every practice morning, Kuroo would stop in front of the locker room mirror, fixing his hair for the third time before flashing himself a smile.

“ Is it too much?” He’d try a wink.

“…Definitely too much.” Kenma will reply not looking up from his position.

“Kenma.”

“Hm.”

“Do I look okay?”

Kenma didn’t even glance up from his handheld console.“They’re coming today, aren’t they?” It got even worse after he’d invited you over to his house to study. Suddenly he was panicking over things he’d never cared about before.

Were there enough snacks?

Should he clean his room again?

Did his bookshelf make him look like a nerd?

Should he wear his Nekoma hoodie or was that trying too hard?

Kenma walked into his room, took one look at Kuroo rearranging the same stack of manga for the fourth time, and sighed.

“You’ve cleaned your room more today than you have all year.”

“I’m just… making it look presentable.”

“They’re just coming over to study.”

Kenma simply walked away. “They like you too much to care.”

Kuroo froze. “Wait—what did you just say?”

“…Nothing.” Kenma replied while quickly turning away.

“Kenma.”

𑣲⋆Tōru Oikawa

The agenda that Oikawa has had dozens of girlfriends just because he’s popular is completely false.

The guy had one girlfriend, got dumped, and somehow that became enough for everyone to assume he was a legendary heartbreaker. Yeah no…

Sure, girls confessed to him all the time, but actually pursuing someone he genuinely liked?

That was a completely different story. Oikawa could charm an entire gymnasium filled with girls—maybe? Probably without breaking a sweat, but in reality with a person he liked—he’d struggle.

The first time he saw you, he genuinely forgot how to speak. His mouth literally fell open, earning a chorus of laughter from the rest of Aoba Johsai before he could even recover.

From that day on, he became embarrassingly determined to make a good impression. And poor Iwaizumi ended up being forced to listen to Oikawa rehearse greetings before practice.

“Should I say ‘Good morning’? No… too plain...maybe, ‘Hey! Fancy seeing you here!’ Wait, no, that’s stupid. What if I compliment them? Too much? What if I wink?”

Iwaizumi would just deadass stare at him with the most exhausted expression imaginable. “You’re talking to the manager, not confessing.”

After twenty minutes of practicing, Oikawa would finally convince himself he was ready.

He walked into the gym full of confidence and motivation, looking like the coolest person alive, hair perfectly styled, smile perfectly practiced, absolutely radiant.

Then when you’d look up and casually say, “Oh, Oikawa, Coach wanted you,” suddenly every single prepared sentence vanished from his brain. “…H-Huh? Me? Right. Yeah. Coach. Of course.”

He’d stumble over his own words so badly that you’d give him a confused look before walking away, leaving him frozen in place.

The second you disappeared around the corner, he’d dramatically collapse against the nearest wall while Iwaizumi watched without a shred of sympathy.

“That was pathetic.”

“I KNOW IWA-CHAN!”

It continued on he became painfully obvious to everyone except you. He’d start fixing his hair whenever he caught his reflection in a window. He’d suddenly care about whether his practice jacket looked wrinkled. He’d ask Kunimi or iwazumi, “Do I look okay?” so often that they’d stop answering and just give him a thumbs-up without looking.

If you complimented literally anything—his serve, his haircut, even his water bottle—he’d spend the next week thinking about it. And he’ll replay every conversation in his head that night, wondering if he sounded cool or if he embarrassed himself again.

He’d constantly invent excuses to be around you, too. Need help carrying volleyballs? He’s already there. Coach asked someone to move equipment?

Oikawa volunteered before anyone else could. If you were talking to another manager or one of the first years, he’d casually wander over with a grin and somehow try to insert himself into the conversation.

He’d never admit it was because he wanted to spend more time with you, but everyone else could connect the dots.

Naturally, the entire team notice and try to tease their captain, Hanamaki and Matsukawa would make it their life’s mission to sabotage him at every opportunity. Actually the whole team, just so Oikawa will owe them up to a free treat to a soba meal.

They’d loudly call your name whenever Oikawa was staring so he’d whip his head away. If he was about to walk over and talk to you, they’d suddenly throw an arm around his shoulders and start asking him nonsense just to watch him suffer.

Iwaizumi was somehow both his biggest supporter and biggest bully. He’d tell Oikawa to just confess already… then immediately smack him over the head whenever he started overthinking another three-word conversation.

𑣲⋆Wakatoshi Ushijima

Ushijima was rather…uhm…well…he didn’t recognize his feelings as a crush.

To him, it was simply the fact that: your presence was pleasant and he felt pleased to be around you and listen to you talk and compliment him, you were someone he trusted completely and whose company he preferred over being alone, someone that he naturally looked for after practice without realizing he was doing it.

In his mind, you were simply a close friend—someone he liked very, very much. There was no reason to question it.

It wasn’t until Tendō bluntly announced, “Ushijima, you have a crush on the manager,” that made him actually stop and think.

He stood there silently for several long seconds before asking, completely serious, “…Is that what this feeling is?” Making Tendō nearly fell over laughing that his friend hadn’t realized that his actions weren’t normal.

Ushijima didn’t understand what was so funny. If there was a name for what he was feeling, then yeah, he had a crush.

During his early morning runs, he’d quietly reflect on it. He’d replay conversations the two of you had shared, the way you smiled when you greeted him every morning, how you always remembered to ask if he’d eaten after long practices.

He found himself remembering details that most people wouldn’t know or bother to remember if they aren’t close with one another.

Eventually, another realization settled in. Whenever the two of you walked somewhere together, he always wanted to reach over and hold your hand.

Not because there was any particular reason—he simply thought it felt…right…and whenever he sees someone making you uncomfortable by talking to you or asking your number, he feels somewhat—jealous —then spikes a ball that hits them to leave you alone.

Ushijima expressed his affection through his actions.

If you were carrying equipment, he’d wordlessly take the heavier box.

If practice ran late, he’d wait without being asked so you wouldn’t have to walk home alone.

If someone was bothering you, they somehow found themselves on the receiving end of Ushijima’s spike or intimidating stare until they decided they had somewhere else to be.

Whenever you thanked him, he’d simply nod and reply, “You’re important to the team.”

To everyone else, it sounded like something a captain would naturally say.

The truth was, he’d do those things even if you weren’t the manager anymore.

Ironically, the two of you were probably the only people who didn’t realize what was happening.

You simply thought Ushijima was an incredibly dependable friend. Quiet? Yes. Awkward? Occasionally.

But he’d always been kind to you, so none of it seemed unusual.

Meanwhile, Ushijima believed he was treating you—well—almost the same but it was still different…completely unaware that the team had started keeping score of how many times he looked for you first after practice.

Whenever you passed by and smiled or waved at him, he’d calmly lift a hand and wave back before returning to whatever he was doing, thinking absolutely nothing of it.

Tendou meanwhile, would simply sigh in the background.

When you walked into the gym every afternoon, Ushijima would instinctively glance toward the entrance to make sure you’d arrived safely.

If you looked tired, he’d ask if you were feeling alright.

If you forgot to eat lunch, he’d quietly buy you something from the vending machine.

None of those things felt extraordinary to him—they were simply the logical things to do for someone important.

The problem was… he didn’t do those things for everyone.

If you were running late, Ushijima would casually ask, “Have they arrived yet?”

If you missed practice because you were sick, he’d quietly ask Coach Washijō if you were recovering well.

If you mentioned an upcoming exam, he’d remember the exact date weeks later and ask how it went.

To him, those were simply the things friends did.

If you ever asked him why he always seemed to be there whenever you needed help, he’d answer with complete sincerity

“Because you’re important to me.”

Then he’d continue walking as though he’d said something ordinary, leaving everyone else—including you—to process what he’d just admitted.

𑣲⋆Kōtarō Bokuto

Bokuto was completely incapable of hiding his feelings. The moment he realized he liked you, the entire volleyball club somehow knew within a week.

Honestly, it probably took less than that. Bokuto wasn’t the type to quietly yearn you from afar—he made it everyone’s business.

The gym echoed with your name at least five times every practice because he’d shout, “HEY, ‘….’ !! LOOK AT THIS!” from the opposite side of the court before attempting his best spike.

The second he landed it, he’d immediately turn to see if you were watching.

He lived for your praise. One simple “That was amazing, Bokuto!” and suddenly he was playing like he’d been possessed, hitting every spike with even more confidence than before, even if he missed he’ll still be motivated because he sees you on the side lines watching him.

If you clapped for him, he’d spend the next thirty minutes grinning so hard his cheeks hurt.

If you complimented a single play, he’d perform even better for the rest of practice, convinced he had to live up to your expectations and not to let you down.

The opposite was also true.

If you left before practice ended because you had errands to run, Bokuto would dramatically flop onto the gym floor as though all life had left his body.

“They left…”

“Bokuto, they just went to the store.”

“…Without saying goodbye…”

“You watched them wave at you.”

“…It’s not the same.”

If you happened to miss practice altogether, he’d spend the entire day asking where you were. The moment practice ended, your phone would explode with notifications.

Bokuto: hey

Bokuto: hey hey

Bokuto: HEYYYYYY???

Bokuto: where were youuu??

Bokuto: are you alive??

Bokuto: you okay

Bokuto: HELLOOOOO???

If you still didn’t answer, he’d call you, and the second you picked up, you’d hear the most exaggerated fake sobbing imaginable.

“ ‘….’ You weren’t here today…”

“Bokuto—”

“You abandoned me…”

“I had to go to the dentist.”

Then his mood shifts “Oh okay—yey!! How was it??”

You genuinely made his entire day brighter just by existing. If you walked into the gym and smiled at him before practice, he’d somehow have enough energy to power the entire team.

If you laughed at one of his jokes—even the terrible ones—he’d be riding that high for hours. And flexing that to everyone that—HE—yes—HE—made you smile!

Akaashi noticed this and used it to his advantage and also help Bokuto get to you—doesn’t seem like you really mind, anyways…

Whenever Bokuto started spiraling into one of his moods, Akaashi would calmly glance around the gym before saying, “Manager, could you hand Bokuto the extra volleyballs?”

Almost instantly, Bokuto perked back up.

“Oh! Hi! ‘…’!!”

“Hi, Bokuto!!”

“Did you see my last spike?”

“I did.”

“…Really?”

“It was impressive.”

“…AKAASHI, DID YOU HEAR THAT?!”

Akaashi had, in fact, he planned the entire interaction.

During official matches, the team practically relied on you as part of their strategy. Whenever Bokuto’s confidence started wavering after a blocked spike, everyone instinctively looked toward you. One thumbs-up, a clap, or a simple, “You’ve got this, Bokuto!” was usually all it took.

His shoulders straightened and his grin returned.

“RIGHT! I’VE GOT THIS!”

Kenji Futakuchi

Futakuchi definitely teased the hell out of you. It got to the point where half your conversations ended with you threatening to throw a volleyball at him.

The only way he knew how to get closer to someone was by being an absolute menace.

He’d make sarcastic comments whenever you walked by, roast you for the smallest mistakes, steal your clipboard for no reason other than to watch you chase after him, and smirk every time you rolled your eyes.

The thing was, he didn’t tease you because he wanted to annoy you.

He teased you because it gave him an excuse to talk to you.

(Real…mature move over here…)

If you ignored him, he’d somehow find another reason to bother you five minutes later.

If you snapped back with an insult of your own, his grin will reach from both ends of his ears, smiling widely.

In his mind, if you were arguing with him, at least you were paying attention to him.

The rest of Date Tech thought it was painfully obvious, but you simply assumed Futakuchi was like that with everyone.

Though, he was surprisingly observant. He noticed when you looked stressed before anyone else did.

If you had dark circles under your eyes after exam week, he’d notice. And reassure you to take breaks and you can pass the test.

If you skipped lunch because you were too busy helping Coach, he’d notice that too. And quietly place the sweet bread hr bought from the cafeteria.

Too much things to dowhen you are about to turn around to grab a box of volleyballs only to find they’d already disappeared because Futakuchi had carried them away.

If you asked why, he’d shrug and say, “I didn’t trust you not to drop them.” there was always an excuse. He’d never admit.

He also had a habit of unconsciously looking for you. The moment he walked into the gym, his eyes would flick toward the manager’s desk just to make sure you’d made it to practice.

If you were absent that day, he’d casually ask, “Manager’s not here today?” trying to sound like he was only curious because it affected practice.

Nobody believed him. Not Moniwa, not Kamasaki, not even Aone.

They all knew exactly why he’d asked.

Whenever the team went out to eat after a match, Futakuchi will make sure you are eating first and getting the food you wanted.

If you needed to carry drinks back to the table, he’d take half of them before you even had the chance, saying it was simply the practical thing to do.

If someone else started bothering you, he’d immediately jump into the conversation—not because he was jealous, he’d insist, but because “they’re being annoying.”

The irony of that statement was completely lost on him.

The biggest weakness in this entire act was kindness.

He could handle you yelling at him. He could handle you roasting him back. He could even handle you threatening to hit him with a volleyball. He could handle you hitting him and calling him “annoying.”

But if you smiled warmly and said, “Thanks, Futakuchi. I appreciate you helping me,” his brain would completely short-circuit.

His ears would turn pink, he’d suddenly become shying away , and he’d mutter something like, “yeah, whatever,” before quickly walking away.

The smug grin he’d worn all day would disappear in an instant.

His teammates lived to see those moments. They’d spend entire practices trying to orchestrate situations where you’d thank him just to watch him go soft and quite.

𑣲⋆Shinsuke Kita

Shinsuke Kita didn’t realize the exact moment he fell for you. There wasn’t some dramatic confession to himself or a day he could point back to.

One morning, he simply noticed that he had started looking toward the gym entrance without thinking, wondering if you’d arrived yet.

If you were already there setting up equipment, he’d feel oddly relieved and go up to you asking if you wanted him to help you.

If you were running late, he’d quietly glance at the clock once or twice before returning to practice.

It wasn’t something he questioned at first.

To him, it was simply another part of his daily routine, like arriving early, sweeping the gym, or checking the volleyballs before practice.

He admired the little things about you more than anything else.

The way you stayed behind to organize supplies even after everyone else had left.

How you always remembered which players forgot their water bottles.

The “good morning” you’d give him every day, even if the two of you exchanged only a handful of words afterward.

He appreciated the consistency of the interactions that you had.

The Miya twins noticed long before he did, they’ll ask him questions and bring out how he always stares at you.

“He’s a goner” Osamu sighed.

“Our captain’s in love.” Atsuma replied back

Kita wasn’t the type to become flustered or act differently around someone he liked. If anything, he became even more dependable.

He’d quietly set aside your favorite drink whenever the team stopped at the convenience store.

If he noticed you looked tired, he’d ask, “Did you sleep well?”

If it started unexpectedly rain, there would already be an umbrella waiting because he’d checked the forecast that morning and packed an extra one without mentioning it.

The affection he had was almost impossible to recognize unless you paid close attention.

If everyone was helping clean up, he’d naturally drift toward whatever task you were doing so the work would finish faster.

“You don’t have to carry that.”

“It isn’t heavy.”

“It is.”

And he’ll reach out and carry it.

“Thank you, Kita.”

“You’re welcome.”

That was the entire conversation.

To everyone else, though, it said plenty.

The second-years began making bets on how long it would take before Kita realized he wasn’t treating you the same as everyone else. Aran merely chuckled whenever the twins complained.

“Leave him alone.”

“But Aran-san!”

“He literally asked if he was comfortable when we all went out to eat and gave them a piece of his food” Atsumu pointed out.

“That ‘s just being considerate.”

Atsumu just stared at Aran in absolute disbelief.

And Kita himself remained blissfully unaware.

To him, caring for someone was simply the right thing to do. If someone mattered to you, you remembered the little things. You paid attention. You made their day a little easier if you could.

Only much later, after hearing Atsumu loudly complain for what felt like the hundredth time, did Kita quietly ask,

“…Is this really considered having a crush?”

The gym fell completely silent. Even Suna looked up from his phone, while Atsumu slowly pointed at him shouting out loud,

“YOU ARE SERIOUSLY ASKING ABOUT THAT NOW?”

Osamu pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Kita-san…”

“…You’ve had one for months.”

Kita was quiet for a long moment.

“I see.” He nodded once, accepting the information as calmly as if someone had told him practice started thirty minutes earlier. “That explains a few things.”

And the very next morning, he greeted you exactly as he always did.

“Good morning.”

“Morning, Kita.”

A small smile crossed his face.

“…I’m glad you’re here.”

Across the gym, Atsumu buried his face in his hands.

“They’re both hopeless.”

𑣲⋆Yūji Terushima

Terushima was absolutely convinced he had game. According to him, there wasn’t a person alive who could resist his “natural charm.”

The boys on Johzenji had heard that speech so many times they could recite it word for word.

So when the manager caught his eye, everyone knew that he’ll either fail or have you wrapped around his finger within a week.

Instead, you humbled him almost immediately.

He was leaning against the gym wall with what he thought was the coolest smile imaginable.

“Hey, manager. You know, if I wasn’t on the volleyball team, I’d probably be a model.”

You ignore him and his comment and said

“…Coach said if you keep standing there, you’re running suicides and you’ll be a dead weight..so I suggest you start getting yourself together and practice.”

“…Right.”

The team howled with laughter as he slowly walked back onto the court. It became a weekly occurrence that he’ll try to find a way to make you fall for him.

Terushima would confidently stroll over with a brand-new pickup line he’d thought of on the train ride to school, only for you to accidentally—intentionally—shut it down without even trying.

“You know, you smiled at me today.”

“I smile at everyone.”

“I smiled at a guy today too.”

“Ouch that hurts…” he would dramatically say.

The funniest part was that he never stayed embarrassed for long. Give him thirty seconds, and he’d bounce right back with another grin and another terrible attempt.

He took absolutely nothing seriously. If you rolled your eyes, he’d dramatically clutch his chest and claim you’d “wounded” him before immediately asking if you wanted something from the vending machine.

If you called him annoying, he’d proudly respond, “That means you think about me!”

If you threatened to throw a volleyball at him, he’d hand you one with a smile.

The problem was that, despite all the jokes, he also paid attention to you and your feelings. He’ll also stop bothering you when you looked exhausted and will go up to you and tell you to sit this one out.

He noticed when you looked exhausted after carrying equipment all afternoon and would suddenly snatch the boxes out of your hands.

He also had an annoying habit of appearing exactly when your mood dipped. If practice had been stressful or you looked overwhelmed, Terushima would somehow materialize beside you.

“Wanna hear something funny?”

“Sure.”

Five minutes later, he was now reenacting one of his teammates tripping over a volleyball or giving an exaggerated impression of the referee from your last match until you laughed despite yourself.

The second he heard that laugh, he’d grin—There it is.

every time you smiled at one of his ridiculous jokes or laughed at another one of his failed attempts to flirt, he’d forget whatever cheesy line he’d planned next. He liked seeing you smile.

His teammates commented about how he somehow got significantly dumber around you.

Even when he embarrasses himself, he’d recover almost instantly and walk confidently towards you.

If a volleyball smacked him in the face while he was trying to flirt, he’d come back still with a smile.

Terushima wasn’t actually trying to impress you at all anymore. He was trying to make you laugh, because he wanted you to be happy.

well im ovulating so

taglist @vampyric-puppy @septembermoonchild @plaguecxlt @nanamitiddiechomper @kekeanna266 @amazedfor @dogggggggblog-kaye @literallyadarling @dawnsoblivion @chewiebee @iquitfindingausername @valberryboos @pwd54gr54 @raendarkfaerie @bbfawns @itimisu @sapph22 @bornafairy @sukunahs @hatchus2 @sukubusss @pawwwginaaa @b-bitter

thirst tweet #1

@bakudekudefender69

Pro Hero Dynamight saving the city with explosions AND that slutty waist. Pick a struggle, sir

He leans back in the chair like he owns the space, tongue pressing briefly to the inside of his cheek.

“…Slutty?” he repeats, incredulous, then scoffs. “I’m literally working.”

His eyes flick up, sharp with amusement. “And I’m doing it well.”

thirst tweet #2

@greatexplosionfuckmegod

Dynamight could tell me to shut up and I’d say thank you.

He doesn’t even look at the camera at first. Just reads it. Then—

“Shut up,” he says flatly, like he didn't even care. He glances up with sharp eyes.

“Now where’s my thank you?”

Laughter breaks out, loud and immediate.

thirst tweet #3

@peonypunk00

i’m going to destroy every chair on earth so the only place he has to sit is on my face

He drops his gaze, looks at the chair beneath him, then spreads his legs just slightly — claiming the space.

“Well, you’re doing a terrible job,” he says, smirk slow as his gaze dips. “I’m clearly sitting just fine.”

thirst tweet #4

@dynadaddy_

top me @/dynamightofficial, i deserved it

Katsuki hums, slow and thoughtful, like he’s genuinely considering it. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with interest rather than annoyance.

“What’d you do to earn that?”

thist tweet #5

@explosive_thoughts

‘Oh look at me I’m so strong and handsome and I defeated afo’ girl fuck you

He squints, then laughs— sharp, surprised.

“…Okay, first of all,” he says, sitting up straighter, “accurate.”

Then he shrugs.

“Second, I kinda wanna meet them. That’s my level of confidence.”

thirst tweet #6

@dynamight_s_waist

oh i know its veiny @/dynamightofficial

Katsuki’s smile turns slow. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming.

“Oh?” He leans back, arms crossing, gaze never leaving the screen.

“Then go on,” he says. “What else do you know?”

thirst tweet #7

@sparksandzerofucks

Dynamight’s explosions are loud but my moans would be louder.

He exhales through his nose, amused, shoulders relaxing like he’s settling into this now.

“That’s a big claim,” he replies, shaking his head.

thirst tweet #8

@/groundzero0

I could take Dynamight

“In a fight?” Katsuki asks immediately, brows furrowing, genuine confusion on his face.

The director coughs. “Uh… no.”

He blinks. Then groans, dragging a hand down his face. “…I hate this place.”

thirst tweet #9

@bunnyspony

dynamight’s name is so long, i wonder what else is

Katsuki leans forward again— slowly, intentionally— forearms braced on his thighs.

“I’ll tell you what isn’t,” he says coolly. “My patience.”

thirst tweet #10

@y_n_bakugou

@/dynamightofficial tomorrow isn’t promised!!! we need to fuck today!!!

“The fuck—” He freezes. Stares intently at the username, then groans so hard he drops his head back.

“Why is my wife on this list?” He points at the screen. “And why does she have internet access?”

thirst tweet #11

@no1pussypopper77

I need to see Dynamight’s abs right now 😫😫

He sighs, already halfway standing. “Relax.”

With zero hesitation, he lifts his shirt just enough— no flexing, no posing, just defined muscle and obvious strength.

Gasps and giggles erupt in the studio, and one very loud oh my god can be heard.

He drops the shirt like nothing happened.

thirst tweet #12

@redsoji

Dynamight’s fav sex position must be missionary since that man never shuts his mouth. We can argue in peace while he’s dicking me down.🤤🤤

Katsuki considers it, nodding slowly.

“Clever theory,” he says.

Then he looks straight into the camera. “But wrong.”

There is a pause, then,

“It's doggy.”

People in the studio gasp, again.

thirst tweet #13

@dynamightfanpage

the way he leans in when he’s annoyed??? Sir, this is not foreplay. Or is it??👁️👁️

He reads it, then deliberately leans in again— closer, heavier, gaze unwavering.

“This is how I get people to listen,” he says evenly. “If you’re distracted,” his mouth curves, “that’s your problem.”

thirst tweet #14

@katsuki_s_lefttesticle

I’m IN LOVE WITH THIS MAN THERE’s JUST SOMETHING UNDIAGNOSED ABOUT HIM

Katsuki snorts.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s called drive.”

thirst tweet #15

@explosionbetweenmylegs

Dynamight makes me see sparks but can he make me see stars as well???

His smile turns sharp and controlled.

“That depends,” he says slowly, “on how much you can handle.”

thirst tweet #16

@kurabaku88

I love Great Explosion Sex God Dynamight or whatever is name is

He exhales, shaking his head.

“…They never say it right,” he mutters.

Katsuki exhales slowly through his nose and finally lowers the last cardboard, as he lets it drop onto the pile.

He leans back in his chair, spreading his legs, one arm draped over the backrest, the other sitting in his lap. There’s a grin pulling at his mouth— lazy, entirely too pleased with himself.

He quickly scans the studio: the crew still half-laughing, the director rubbing their face, someone behind the camera very clearly regretting their life choices.

“You’re all insufferable perverts,” he says, voice low and rough with amusement. Not angry. Not scolding. He’s entertained. His eyes flick towards the camera, sharp and knowing.

“Seriously. You really think you could handle me just because you’re typing behind a screen?”

He scoffs, shaking his head once, smirk widening as he taps the edge of the cardboard against his knee.

“Pathetic,” he adds— then pauses, grin sharpening. “…But I don’t hate it.”

Then his grin fades into something slower, more deliberate. His eyes narrow as if he has just remmebered something.

“…And you,” he says, lifting hand, finger pointing towards the camera, voice dipping into something dangerous but unmistakably playful, “just wait until I get home.”