Noorpersoba :P

Haikyuu (Character x Reader):

Laced Reactions:

1. Atsumu

Pregnancy:

1. Ushijima 2. Iwaizumi 3. Kuroo (NSFW) 4. Atsumu 5. Yaku 6. Daichi (NSFW) 7. Sakusa 8. Tsukishima

Confessions

1. Tsukishima 2. Iwaizumi 3. Atsumu 4. Kita 5. Oikawa 6. Osamu 7. Kuroo 8. Kageyama

Rivals

(Link to all posts)

Jealousy

1. Tsukishima 2. Meian 3. Osamu 4. Kageyama 5. Iwaizumi 6. Atsumu 7. Kyotani (Mad Dog) 8. Oikawa 9. Suna (NSFW) 10. Nishinoya 11. Tendou (NSFW) 12. Yaku (NSFW)

Unrequited Love

1. Oikawa & Bonus 2. Atsumu 3. Kenma 4. Bokuto

Husbandry

1. Iwaizumi 2. Atsumu 3. Tsukishima 4. Oikawa 5. Daichi 6. Bokuto (NSFW) 7. Kuroo (NSFW) 8. Kenma 9. Hinata 10. Osamu

Favourite Positions (NSFW)

(Link to all posts)

Anon Asks

(Link to all posts)

Managerial Duties

1. Nekoma 2. Karasuno & Part 2 3. Inarizaki & Bonus 4. Aoba Johsai 5. Fukurodani

Stand Alone Fics

Osamu cooked like he lived: patient, deliberate, endlessly steady. His calm bled into everything, into the way he breathed evenly, into the way he leaned against the counter to study the pan as though the rest of the world could wait until he was ready. He made it look effortless. And you were supposed to be reviewing work emails.

Your pen lay forgotten on the page. You propped your chin on your palm, staring openly now. It was ridiculous, the way you couldn’t look away, as though he wasn’t just a man cooking dinner but something magnetic, impossible to ignore.

The smell of garlic hit first, sharp and rich, followed by the low sweetness of onions caramelizing in butter. Oil hissed gently as he shifted the pan, and something savory filled the air, wrapping around the room like a blanket. It should have made your stomach growl. It usually did. Tonight, though, your appetite had nothing to do with food. Not when Osamu hummed under his breath, sprinkling in salt with a practiced flick, looking every bit the picture of quiet devotion. Not when he looked so at home in this space—the two of you’s space—tending to you in the most ordinary, extraordinary way.

He tilted the pan, brought the spoon to his lips for a taste. You knew the look that came next: his brow furrowing in concentration, mouth pressing thin as he weighed whether something was missing. It wasn’t just cooking for him. It was creation, an act of care. Each motion purposeful, each choice guided by his instinct to nurture. Watching him made your chest ache, too tight with something you couldn’t quite name. This wasn’t just your husband making dinner. This was your husband loving you the way he always did—wordlessly, but no less loudly for it.

He turned, spoon in hand, and you barely had time to sit up straighter before he was at your side, holding it out toward you. “Try this,” he murmured, calm as ever, like this was nothing unusual. He didn’t even think twice about stepping close, about lifting the spoon toward your mouth himself. The steam curled into your face as he tipped it to your lips. “Well? Good?”

The flavor bloomed instantly—perfectly balanced seasoning, warm broth, the earthy lift of herbs. But you hardly noticed. Because Osamu was watching you, waiting, his gaze steady and patient in the way it always was with you. And suddenly your throat was dry, the words catching on something else entirely.

“The best,” you said, your voice too rough around the edges, betraying you. Your eyes lingered on his mouth a second too long before you forced them back toward the stove. “You about done?”

He nodded, already moving to set the spoon aside, reaching for plates to start setting the table. The normal rhythm of your evenings. Except tonight nothing about you felt normal. Not when your pulse was racing, not when your work was completely forgotten, not when all you wanted was to be closer.

The laptop snapped closed with a quiet click. He glanced back at the sound, brow arching slightly. Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, steps measured as you came around the island. “Keep it warm,” you told him, stopping him with nothing but the weight in your tone. His hand stilled mid-reach, the plate slipping halfway from the cupboard. “We need to do something first.”

Osamu blinked, plate still in his hand, confusion flickering across his face. “Huh?”

But before he could get the question out, you were right there in front of him. Close enough to breathe in the faint, clean scent of soap still clinging to his skin beneath the layers of garlic, herbs, and heat from the kitchen. Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him down, and then your mouth was on his.

The kiss started soft, testing, but the second you felt the way his breath hitched—surprise, then surrender—you pressed harder, deepening it. He answered immediately, instinctively, with that same patience you loved in him, only now laced with heat. He kissed you back like he had nowhere else to be, like the food could burn and he still wouldn’t care.

When you finally broke away, he looked dazed—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, chest rising just a little quicker than before. The plate dangled forgotten in his hand, as though he had completely lost track of what he’d been doing. You didn’t give him time to find his bearings. You slid your hand down, lacing your fingers through his, tugging firmly toward the hall.

“Come on,” you whispered, the smile tugging at your mouth unstoppable when you caught the way his ears flushed red. He followed without hesitation, steps falling into yours, shoulders still carrying that quiet strength you could never get enough of.

Dinner could wait. The food would keep.

The night it happened, you weren’t even planning on letting anything happen. You were lounging in his room, trading sarcastic commentary over a movie, sprawled on his bed with your feet in his lap. He was being stupid, dramatic, grinning like an idiot at every dumb joke you made. Somewhere between the playful bickering and him tossing popcorn at your face, he looked at you like he meant it. Like he wanted you — not just to fuck, but to worship.

He said something soft. Something stupid. Something like, “You’d be dangerous if you knew how much I think about you.” And maybe you laughed, maybe you rolled your eyes — but your heart skipped a beat. And you kissed him.

You didn’t think it would be bad. You figured, worst case, he’d be sweet and fumbly and leave you wanting more. You thought maybe he’d talk too much, lose rhythm halfway through, or just be all limbs and too much enthusiasm.

You didn’t expect this.

Because right now, you’re pinned. Arms held up behind your head, body stretched, back arched, feet barely touching the floor — and Lev is fucking you like it’s the only thing he’s ever been good at.

He’s panting against your shoulder, his hands locked behind your neck, keeping you pressed so tight to him you can feel every shudder of his breath, every twitch of his thighs. And even though your entire body is shaking — thighs burning, skin flushed, mouth falling open with every thrust — he just keeps going. Hips slamming into yours at a pace that makes your head spin. Your jaw hangs open, drool slicking your chin, and Lev’s eyes flick down to watch it with a dazed, reverent kind of awe.

You didn’t even know he had this kind of strength. But it’s all you can feel. His height, his power, the way he’s holding you in place like he needs to. Like if he lets go, the spell breaks. And every time you squeeze around him, he makes this helpless noise — part whimper, part groan — and fucks you deeper like he’s chasing something he can’t name.

“You’re—” he moans, voice cracking. “You’re so—God, I knew—fuck—I knew you’d feel like this.”

His reflection in the mirror is a mess. Sweat-damp hair sticking to his forehead, teeth clenched, eyes glued to the way your body bounces with every deep, punishing thrust. He’s barely holding himself together. You don’t even care how wrecked you look — not with the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

You try to say something — Lev, slow down, or I’m gonna come again, maybe even holy shit — but you can’t get a single word out. Not with how he’s hitting that perfect, devastating spot inside you over and over, so deep it knocks the breath out of you. Your mouth just falls open wider, your back arching harder, your legs twitching helplessly in the air as he rails you like his life depends on it.

And he feels it — the way your body tightens, the way your breath catches — and it makes him whimper, hips stuttering for a second before he bites down a groan and fucks into you harder.

“Come for me,” he begs, voice shaky. “Please, I need—I need you to—fuck—please.”

And you do.

You break apart in his arms, full-body trembling, crying out so loud he almost drops you. Your legs go weak, your walls clamp down so tight he chokes on a moan, eyes squeezing shut like he’s in pain. For a second, you think he’ll stop. That he’ll slow down. Give you a second to breathe.

He doesn’t.

Because Lev is gone.

He’s rutting into you now, frantic and desperate, moaning helplessly against your shoulder, “Oh my God—oh my God—” like he can’t believe this is happening. Like you can’t possibly be real. He’s panting so hard you can feel it in your bones, every gasp ragged, every thrust sloppier than the last. And then he shudders — one hard, messy thrust, and he’s coming, moaning your name like a prayer, body pressed flush to yours like he never wants to let go.

You both collapse onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, your arms finally free, your chest heaving. Lev’s face is buried in your neck. He’s still breathless. Still shaking. His hands are twitching a little at your sides, like he doesn’t know if he should pull you closer or apologize for nearly breaking your spine.

You feel him press a soft kiss to your shoulder, then another. He’s babbling now — too quiet, too hoarse, mostly nonsense.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers. “I’m gonna be thinking about that forever.”

“You’re still inside me,” you murmur, voice hoarse.

“Right. Yeah. Sorry.” He pulls out with a shaky breath and collapses beside you, blinking up at the ceiling like he’s just seen God. You’re still twitching. Still dazed. Still unsure how someone so tall, so ridiculous, so Lev, just rearranged your insides and ruined your expectations for everyone after him.

He lifts his head just enough to look at you, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes wide and glowing. And then, so softly you almost miss it:

“You felt… amazing.”

You groan and swat at his chest, and he just laughs, stupidly bright and giddy. He leans in to kiss you — messy, eager, all teeth and heat — before flopping back beside you and sighing like he just ran a marathon.

“So uh… does this mean I get to do that again sometime?”

And even though you’re sore, and exhausted, and still trying to figure out how the fuck you ended up having the best sex of your life with Lev Haiba — you nod.

Because apparently, the tall idiot knew exactly what he was doing.

And apparently, your standards weren’t high enough. -- GUYS IM SO FUCKING SORRY!!

Long story short I just got beatdown after beatdown and I didn't have the energy to write but I just had to get back on the saddle! I hope you guys enjoy ily guys so much <33

And just like that, Daichi stopped being the gentle, even-tempered man he was.

Now he was all weight, all heat — driving into you from behind like he had something to prove.

He’s over you — chest to your back, hips pounding into yours, the full weight of him pressing you into the mattress like he’s trying to fuck you through it.

You’re face down, legs parted, arms trembling beneath your head as he holds you in place with a hand braced firm on your lower back. The other grips your thigh, tugging your hips higher, forcing you into the perfect arch while his cock drives in again, again, again. Deep. Devastating. You can’t catch your breath. Can’t think. Your voice is a string of broken moans, throat hoarse from crying out.

Only feel. And take.

He’s not giving you an inch. Not letting you move. Not letting you hide from the sheer force of it — the way your body jerks with every thrust, the way your moans dissolve into gasps and broken curses against the sheets. You’re crying out for him, into the pillow, into the mattress, into nothing. Your hands twist in the fabric, desperate for something to hold onto, fingernails clawing deep into the mattress like you might fall apart if you don’t.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

“You wanted this,” he growls against the shell of your ear, sweat slicking his chest where it drags against your back. “So take it.”

You try to respond — something, anything — but your voice is gone. All that comes out is a strangled sob as his hips snap forward again, and again, pace merciless. He’s breathing heavy now, groaning when you clench around him, fucking into you like his sanity depends on it. And maybe it does. There’s nothing measured about the way he ruts into you now. It’s messy. Animalistic. Built from days of stress and hours of teasing and the overwhelming need to make you pay for every second you spent acting like you weren’t begging for this.

Maybe something cracked in him the second you pushed too far. Maybe he’s been holding this in for too long — the restraint, the patience, the quiet control. And now it’s boiling over, pouring into every thrust, every grip, every sound he tears out of you like he’s owed it. He’s not gentle. He’s not holding back. He’s wrecking you — in the way only Daichi can.

Your legs shake. Your hands claw at the sheets. You feel yourself spiraling — pushed too deep, stretched too wide, used too good — and you don’t even care how loud you are when you finally break.

You come hard.

Your vision goes white, mouth falling open as the orgasm tears through you, violent and sudden. Your back arches, body convulsing beneath him as your muscles lock down around his cock, and for a second, you swear he stutters — just once — like the way you clamp down on him nearly pulled him over the edge.

But he doesn’t stop.

Not even a little.

He rides you through it, hips slamming forward with punishing force, a steady chant of "good girl," or maybe "that’s it, baby" — you can’t even tell. His voice is raw, gravel dragged through heat. His palm comes down flat on your lower back again, keeping you right there, bent and shaking and dripping around him.

You whine, high and broken, your body twitching under the onslaught, so overstimulated you feel like you might break. But he won’t stop. Not until he’s wrung every drop from you. His hand slides around your front, fingers working you in time with his thrusts, and your thighs kick, body lurching like you can’t handle any more. Your cries are incoherent now — desperate, begging, nothing but noise.

“Just one more,” he grits out, breath hot on the back of your neck. “Give me one more, sweetheart.”

And you do.

The second orgasm rips through you harder than the first. You scream for him, breath gone, body collapsing forward as the force of it steals every last bit of strength. Your thighs tremble violently, cunt fluttering around him, and this time — this time — Daichi loses it.

He lets out a strangled, low growl that sounds ripped from his chest, and with one last thrust — brutal and deep — he buries himself to the hilt and cums hard, warmth spilling inside you as his entire body shudders above yours. His grip on your hips bruises. His forehead drops to your shoulder, and he groans your name like it’s the only word he remembers. You feel him throb inside you, pulse after pulse, so much it drips out around him as he slows, hips twitching through the aftershocks.

He doesn’t move for a long moment.

Just keeps you beneath him, pressed down and panting, skin slick with sweat, his arm wrapped tight around your waist like he’s afraid to let go. He kisses your shoulder, your neck, breath still ragged against your skin. His other hand brushes gently over your knuckles, grounding you.

Eventually, he pulls out with a quiet groan, and the absence makes you whimper. Your body sags against the bed, boneless, completely spent. But he’s already moving — lifting you gently, tucking you under the sheets, his touch impossibly soft now compared to how he wrecked you minutes ago.

He presses kisses to every inch of skin he can reach — your shoulder, your spine, the shell of your ear. His hands stroke your waist, your back, grounding you even as you float. He slips his fingers between yours, threading them together like he needs to feel every inch of you still. You hum weakly when he nuzzles against your cheek, and he smiles against your skin.

“You okay?” he murmurs, brushing damp hair from your forehead, his palm warm against your cheek.

You nod, exhausted and glowing. “I can’t feel my legs.”

He laughs — low and rough, the kind that curls in your stomach — and kisses your temple. “You’ll be fine,” he murmurs, voice smug. “You asked for this, remember?”

You groan and smack his chest weakly. “You’re such a bastard.”

He grins, wide and satisfied, and tucks you tighter against him, big arms caging you in like he’s still keeping you where he wants you. The weight of him is comforting now, grounding, solid.

He pulls you to his chest, tucks your head under his chin, and keeps you close like the safest thing in the world is right here, curled against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. His breathing slows. He presses another kiss to your hairline, murmurs something soft you can’t quite hear.

And even as your body throbs and aches, you know you’d let him do it all over again.

Because no one fucks you like Daichi does.

“You,” he barked, voice like gravel, already storming toward you.

You didn’t even slow down. “Wow. You do know how to speak. Color me impressed.”

He didn’t answer. Just kept walking, chest rising faster. You could feel the heat radiating off him before he even caught up.

“The hell was that back there?”

You rolled your eyes. “The part where I ignored you, or the part where I meant it?”

His hand caught your arm. Rough. Unapologetic.

You yanked it free without hesitation. “Touch me again and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”

His glare darkened, but still—he didn’t speak.

“You really gonna throw a tantrum just ‘cause I laughed at someone else’s joke?”

He scoffed through his nose. “You were all over him.”

“And you were drooling over that cheerleader with the push-up bra, Kentarō.”

His jaw ticked at the name. You used to say it softer. Now it was a curse.

“I didn’t touch her.”

You laughed. Mean. Loud enough for a few heads to turn.

“And I didn't touch him. But go ahead, throw your little jealous fit. It’s cute.”

He stepped into your space. Didn’t say a word. Just breathed hard like he was trying not to do something stupid.

Your voice dropped, venom curling around every word. “You’re really pathetic, you know that? Two weeks of radio silence, and now you’re suddenly the fuckin’ boyfriend police?”

His jaw flexed, nostrils flaring. Still nothing. Just that same stare, dark and livid—like he was deciding whether to scream or punch a wall.

You tilted your head, lips curling into a sneer. “What? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just brooding your way through another tantrum?”

Still nothing. Just that tight, coiled silence.

“Say something,” you snapped. “Or is this one of your sulking episodes again? All bark and no bite?”

He didn’t bite. He snapped.

His hand clamped around your wrist again, hotter this time—frustrated, electric—and you felt it in your gut, that old, dangerous pull you should’ve ignored.

But you didn’t.

Because you were just as fucked up as he was. Just as angry. Just as desperate to win the fight you both kept starting.

He yanked you down the hallway without a word, steps heavy, purposeful. You could hear the stomp of his sneakers, the clatter of your breath, the blood pounding in your ears. Past the vending machines, past the lockers, through the stale, echoing hum of fluorescent lights.

He shoved open the boys’ bathroom like it owed him something and dragged you inside.

The door slammed. The sound bounced off tile and metal and hit you in the spine.

You ripped your arm free, harder than before. Your shoulder jolted. “What the fuck do you want, Kentarō?”

He was breathing like he’d just run a mile. Fists flexing and unflexing at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to speak without breaking something.

He stepped in. Close. Closer. Until your back kissed the cold tile behind you and you were locked in the heat of him—his chest heaving, his eyes flicking over your face like he was looking for somewhere to aim all that anger.

“Why are you still looking at me like that?” you hissed. “You broke up with me, remember?”

He didn’t say a word.

“You don’t get to act like I’m yours when you’re the one who walked.”

Your voice was louder now, cracking around the edges. You jabbed your finger into his chest, firm and fast. “You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to be mad. You don’t get to show up looking like this and expect me not to hate you for it.”

And he snapped.

One hard shove. Not enough to hurt—but enough to rattle your breath. Enough to slam your spine against the metal stall door and leave his hand braced beside your head.

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

“Try that again,” you dared, voice low, dangerous.

He did.

But not with his hands.

He stepped into the stall.

And locked the door behind him.

Kentarō crowded into your space the second the lock clicked. No hesitation, no room to breathe. The metal wall of the stall pressed cold against your spine, and he stood over you like a storm—fists clenched at his sides, jaw flexing with everything he wasn’t saying.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you spat, voice sharp and venom-laced, heart slamming against your ribs.

He looked down at you, eyes narrowed, that feral heat simmering just beneath the surface. The same kind of anger he wore when he played. The kind that twisted into something hungrier when it came to you.

“Take your underwear off,” he said, voice flat. No room for games.

You scoffed, sharp and bitter. “Fuck you.”

But you didn’t move.

Didn’t shove him away when his hands came to your hips. Didn’t stop him when he stepped even closer, until your chests were nearly touching and his breath was warm against your jaw. You clenched your teeth, fists curled at your sides—but your body betrayed you.

Because when he leaned in, breath hitching over your skin, lips grazing your neck like a whisper before he bit—first light, then deep enough to sting—you gasped. Grabbed the front of his shirt like it was instinct. Like if you let go, you might actually fall apart.

He smirked against your skin. “You’re mine.”

“Bullshit,” you muttered, voice shaky now.

“I can’t fuckin’ stand seeing you that close to some other guy,” he growled. “The way he looked at you—like he had a fuckin’ chance.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your throat was too tight, your breath too shallow. You hated him. Hated this. Hated that it always came to this.

But most of all, you hated how much your body didn't hate it.

His hand moved between your legs, slow and sure, pushing up the hem of your skirt until his knuckles brushed warm against your inner thigh.

You flinched.

He didn’t.

Fingers found your panties. Slid them to the side without asking.

“Tell me you want it,” he rasped.

Your jaw locked. You hesitated, heart punching your ribs, body shaking from the tension coiled so tight inside you.

But then his fingers slid through your folds—slow, precise, maddening.

You sucked in a breath.

“I want—” your voice cracked. You swallowed hard, knuckles white where you clutched his shirt. “Ken, please. Fuck.”

It broke you. Every bit of willpower, every line you swore you wouldn’t cross.

He didn’t waste a second.

Two fingers sank into you with ease, slick and hot and overwhelming. He moved slow—torturously so—drawing back just to curl them again, knuckles deep. Not rough. Not yet. He took his time, worked you open like he was trying to make you beg for it.

Your knees buckled.

You threw your hands out, palms slapping against the stall wall, forehead falling forward as you gasped.

“Fuck, Kentarō—”

He just watched. Just breathed against your shoulder, his free hand gripping your waist as your hips began to move on their own, chasing the pace he set.

The heat built slow. Sharp. Every curl of his fingers had you closer to unraveling, until your legs were trembling and your breaths came in short, frantic bursts.

“Right there,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

He didn’t.

He fucked you with his fingers until you were panting like you couldn’t catch your breath—until your moans echoed harsh against the stall walls and mixed with the wet sound of his knuckles working inside you. Your muscles clenched tight around him, your hips rolling without thought, chasing the pressure, the rhythm, the high that kept dancing just out of reach.

Every curl of his fingers struck lightning through your spine. You bit your lip so hard it almost bled, trying not to cry out his name. The stall was stifling—hot with your breath, his breath, the way his chest pressed against your side, trapping you between him and the wall like he was afraid you might disappear.

“Ken—fuck—” your voice cracked as your head tipped back, jaw slack. You were shaking.

He growled something low under his breath. You didn’t catch the words, but the sound of it made your knees nearly give out.

He moved faster now, but never sloppy. Just deeper. Just more. And you could feel it building, climbing, tightening in your belly until the only thing you could do was hold onto the stall and try not to scream.

Your body went taut.

Thighs clamped around his wrist. Toes curled in your shoes. Your vision blurred as the pleasure finally snapped—sharp and sudden and devastating. It tore through you like it had claws, ripping sound from your throat and heat from your lungs.

You came with a sob, forehead pressed to the metal stall, nails dragging down the scratched-up paint as your whole body trembled.

And still, he didn’t look away.

He eased his fingers out slow, your body twitching at the loss. Then he brought them to his mouth and licked them clean, one knuckle at a time, eyes never leaving yours.

Like he already knew he’d wrecked you. And wasn’t sorry for it one bit.

“Come to my place tonight,” he said, voice hoarse and final. “We’re not done.”

And then he left. Just like that.

Didn’t say another word. Didn’t look back. Just unlocked the stall and slipped out into the hallway like none of it had happened—like he hadn’t just broken you open and left your body humming with the kind of heat you’d promised yourself you were done chasing.

You stayed frozen for a moment, pressed against the wall, breathing hard. The air felt too thick, your clothes too tight. Your thighs were still trembling—sticky, your panties a mess, your whole body aching in the worst and most familiar way.

You dragged a hand down your face. “God, I’m fucked, aren’t I?” you muttered under your breath, voice hoarse and raw.

There was no fixing it now. Not what you’d done. Not what it meant.

You adjusted your skirt, wiped at the corner of your mouth where your lipstick had smudged. Smoothed your hands over your hair and tried to swallow down the regret that hadn’t quite settled yet. Your heartbeat thudded loud in your ears, and your legs still didn’t feel steady when you stepped forward.

You took a long, shaky inhale, straightened your back, and pushed the stall door open.

Just as the bathroom door creaked open.

A boy froze mid-step, eyes wide the second he spotted you.

“Ah! This is the boys’ washroom!” he stammered.

You stared at him, deadpan, eyes rimmed with sweat and sin, voice flat as concrete. “Could’ve fooled me.”

And you walked past him without so much as a glance back.

Chin up. Mouth set.

And you don’t want to go get them alone. Because walking the streets by yourself in the middle of the night while heavily pregnant sounds like the beginning of a news headline. But you also don’t want to wake Kei. Because that would be mean. Because he’s tired. Because he worked all day. Because he’s peaceful and warm and you love him.

But mostly because you know the exact face he’ll make.

So you suffer. Dramatically.

Toss. Turn. Huff into your pillow. Try to think about literally anything else—your baby shower next week, the nursery wall color you can’t agree on, what you’ll make for breakfast in six hours. None of it works. Your brain is a carousel of sour peach-flavored hell.

The mattress shifts slightly.

“You’re going to rupture a blood vessel,” Kei mumbles.

You go still.

“Go back to sleep,” you whisper.

“Hard to do when the person next to me is performing an exorcism.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re twitching like a Victorian ghost.”

“Kei.”

He finally blinks one eye open, squinting at you without his glasses, his expression blurry but unimpressed. His brows lift a fraction, eyes narrowing just slightly—that look. The one that says, are you serious right now? He doesn’t even have to speak. It’s all in the flat line of his mouth and the way his cheek sinks deeper into the pillow like he’s trying to burrow away from the sheer audacity of being awake at this hour—like the universe personally inconvenienced him, and you’re just its loudest representative.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice flat, resigned, but not unkind.

You’re quiet for a second too long.

He exhales slowly through his nose. “Just say it.”

“I want peach gummies,” you mutter. “The sour ones. I’m losing my mind.”

“We don’t have that.”

“I know. But the store on the corner does.”

He groans softly, head tipping back against the headboard for a beat before he’s already sitting up.

You prop yourself on your elbow. “Wait, no. You don’t have to—”

“Put on a coat.”

“Kei—”

“You’re going to stand at the door and look pitiful until I give in anyway. Let’s just skip to that part.”

You don’t argue again. Just roll out of bed and waddle to the closet.

He’s pulling on sweatpants, shoving his glasses on with a muttered curse under his breath. His hair is still a mess and the frames sit crooked on his nose. He yawns mid-step, already muttering about how you’ve shortened his lifespan with every trimester.

The air outside is sharp with early autumn chill, the kind that sneaks under your collar and settles in your bones, and he grabs your hand the moment you step onto the sidewalk—his palm cool but steady, long fingers curling firm around yours like it’s instinct, like he’s done it a thousand times and will do it a thousand more. You’re still a little puffy-eyed from sleep, breath puffing in small clouds, and you lean slightly into his warmth.

Your neighborhood is quiet, lamplit and still, the kind of sleepy calm that makes everything feel a little too big. Every footstep echoes off the pavement, every rustle of leaves sounds louder than it should. Kei says nothing, just walks beside you, his pace a beat slower than usual to match yours.

Halfway down the block, without a word, he shifts to the outside of the sidewalk. A step behind, then a sidelong glance, then the faintest tug on your joined hands. Just enough to reposition you. It’s seamless. Second nature.

When you hesitate near a pothole, he slows and braces you with a steadying hand on your lower back. When your steps hitch from the dull ache in your hips, he adjusts his grip to take more of your weight, fingers splayed firm and grounding against your coat. When a breeze picks up and you shiver, he reaches across with a quiet huff and zips your coat all the way to your chin without saying a word. His thumb lingers at the edge of the zipper for a second longer than necessary, brushing gently over your scarf.

You notice. Every single thing. And don’t say anything.

But your fingers tighten slightly around his.

The store’s neon sign glows like a beacon—flickering, a little crooked, but impossibly bright in the stillness of the street.

Four minutes later, you’re halfway through the bag, chewing noisily with a look of pure, unfiltered joy on your face.

He sighs, long and theatrical. “Maybe you could be less annoying with your craving times.”

You nudge him with your shoulder. “She’s demanding. Just like her father.”

He rolls his eyes and tugs you in by the hand, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

---

HELLO! I AM SO SORRY for disappearing for like… an entire month 😭 I had the worst writer’s block, a healthy dose of procrastination, and life just kept piling on.

BUT! I’m trying to get back into the habit of writing daily again, so fingers crossed this is the start of something more consistent. A few people requested this one, so I really hope you enjoy it.

Thank you for being so patient with me. I love you all so much ♡

This is the part no one talks about. Not the cute baby kicks, not the weird cravings or the glow everyone swears you have. It’s this—sore, swollen, and tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Even breathing feels like it takes effort.

And through it all, Sakusa is there.

He’s been steady. Quietly doting. Not the type to coo over baby socks or rub your feet with oil while humming lullabies, but the kind of man who starts carrying hand sanitizer in your favorite scent just in case you need it. The kind who keeps snacks in the car, reminds you to hydrate without making it sound like a chore, who started going to prenatal appointments not because you asked, but because he wanted to understand everything. Who reads parenting books with sticky tabs and highlights and pretends he didn’t.

He’s not loud about it. He doesn’t post bump photos or narrate your journey in grand poetic terms. But he’s shown up every day in ways that matter. Never once flinching when you sobbed over dropped pickles or had a breakdown in the baby aisle because you couldn’t decide between two swaddle patterns. He holds the pieces when you feel like you’re falling apart. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

You hear the front door click open, then the quiet hush of it swinging closed. You don’t move. Just listen to the familiar sound of Sakusa’s footsteps coming in—soft, always measured, always deliberate. No keys clatter. He always puts them in the bowl on the shelf. No shoes squeaking either; he wipes them, every time. You know it’s him without having to look.

He pauses in the entryway, no doubt clocking the mess of your position. Then, his voice—calm and even, with that velvety weight that always makes your heart twitch even when you're annoyed.

“Back again?”

“Mmh,” you hum noncommittally, eyes still covered. “Felt like someone took a crowbar to my spine. So I gave up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You imagine him there, eyes scanning you—your hunched shoulders, the tension in your jaw, the deep set crease between your brows. He’s not the type to hover. Not the type to fuss, at least not where you can see it. But you know him well enough by now. If he could physically fight your discomfort, he would’ve by now. With gloves on.

You feel the couch dip near your legs. Then the rustle of a bag being set down.

“I read about something,” he says slowly.

You lower your arm just enough to peek at him. He’s still in his work clothes—jacket slung over the armrest, sleeves rolled neatly past his elbows, forearms bare. His mask is off, stashed away now that he’s home. You catch the faintest crease of worry between his brows, like he’s weighing the next words carefully.

“Can I try?” he asks.

You blink, too tired to be curious. “Whatever. Go for it.”

He tilts his head. “You have to stand up first.”

You lower your arm further to shoot him a flat look. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You huff, but he’s already sliding a hand beneath your arm. Gently, steadily, he helps you sit up, then rise to your feet with the kind of efficiency that speaks to practice. He’s been doing this for weeks now—helping you in and out of bed, out of the car, off the floor when you insisted you could pick something up by yourself.

“I swear to god, if this is another stretch video where I end up looking like a tipped cow—”

“It’s not.”

“Because if I fall, I'm taking you down with me.”

“Duly noted.”

Once you’re upright, he steps behind you. You feel the warmth of him, close and focused. One of his hands briefly trails up your spine in a slow, soothing pass—a single stroke meant to coax your muscles into releasing some of their stubborn tension.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice low and steady, his breath brushing the shell of your ear.

Then his hands brush your hips and slide slowly beneath the swell of your belly. One palm anchors, the other adjusts. It’s deliberate, the kind of precise contact that could only come from research and repeat watching. Then—he lifts.

Just an inch. Maybe two. But it’s enough.

The relief is instant.

Your lower back uncoils like a spring released from tension. That hot, grinding ache that’s lived there for weeks just… lessens. Not gone entirely, but dulled. Blurred. Like someone finally turned the pressure dial down from an eleven to a manageable hum.

You let out a sound you weren’t expecting—a breath that shudders out of you with more feeling than you meant to show. Like your whole body’s been waiting for this and didn’t know how to ask.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s… holy shit.”

You hear him exhale, and the barest hint of a smile follows in his voice.

“Guess it works.”

You nod, or try to. “What even—how’d you think of that?”

“There’s a forum,” he says. “A bunch of people were talking about it. Said lifting the weight can take pressure off the sacroiliac joint. Sounded reasonable.”

Of course it did. It’s so— him. Reading about biomechanics like it’s no big deal. Quietly researching ways to ease your pain without saying a word. You picture him in bed at night, phone dimmed, scrolling through medical threads while you snored beside him.

You lean back slightly, weight shifting into his hold like you’re trusting it—trusting him—with more than just the curve of your belly. His hands adjust to steady you.

Then you feel him begin to lower your bump back down.

“I didn’t say you could stop yet,” you murmur, voice hushed and wry.

His hands still immediately.

There's a pause, not because he's unsure—but because he’s listening. Because when it comes to you, Sakusa never rushes.

You feel his thumbs move slightly, drawing slow circles near your hips as he steadies the lift again, as if to say, I’ve got you.

"Should’ve tried this ages ago," you mumble.

You’re still basking in the quiet relief of his hold. Your back doesn’t feel like it's screaming anymore, and for the first time in hours, your body feels like it belongs to you again—like maybe you're not just a vessel walking around with sore feet and too many hormones.

He shifts slightly, adjusting the lift with a faint grunt.

"He’s heavy," Sakusa murmurs. There’s no complaint in his voice—just quiet awe.

You smile faintly, placing a hand over his. "That’s your fault."

"My fault?"

"You’re six-three, with legs like telephone poles. What did you think was gonna happen?"

He huffs a soft, amused breath behind you. "Could still be your fault. Maybe you manifested it."

You snort. "Yeah, I manifested a linebacker. Great job, me."

"He’s not even here yet and I already feel outnumbered," he mutters.

You squeeze his hand. "Don’t worry. He’ll probably inherit your poker face. You two can be brooding and beautiful together."

A beat. Then, so quiet it barely makes it to your ears:

"He’s going to be perfect."

You close your eyes, feeling everything swell in your chest all at once.

"He already is."

And there’s something so simple, so steadfast in the way he says it that you have to bite your lip against the warm rush crawling up your chest.

You rest your hand over his where it cups your belly. "Kiyoomi?"

"Mm."

"I love you."

His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. You hear the breath he draws, steady as ever.

"I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."

And just like that, in the stillness of your living room, with the soft glow of daylight bleeding through the windows and his arms supporting you from behind, you feel the kind of full-body peace that no prenatal yoga class has ever given you.

You can’t, not really. Every time he pushes deeper, your thighs shake. Your hands scrabble for something to hold — his wrist, the edge of the bed — anything to ground you. But he’s already grounding you. Arms around your waist. Breath against your skin. Fingers flexing as he guides your pace, the pads of his thumbs pressing gentle circles into your hips, then gripping just a little harder when you squeeze around him without meaning to. You can feel the restraint in his body, the way his chest expands against your back, muscles trembling just slightly like he’s holding himself back for your sake.

You try to take control once — roll your hips down just a little too fast, a little too hard. He lets you, for a moment. Then his hand slides up. Wraps around your throat, not tight, not even threatening. Just there. His thumb brushes over your jaw like a quiet tether.

His voice is barely audible. “Slow.”

And you do. Not because you’re scared — because that single word hits harder than any moan ever could. Because you’ve never been touched like this. Felt like this. Every motion of your hips after that feels more vulnerable. More exposed. And he doesn’t falter once. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t lose rhythm.

Like he’s memorizing every part of you.

He doesn’t rush. Even when you tremble. Even when your breathing turns ragged and your hips falter. He’s still holding you, steadying you — one arm banded across your stomach now, the other low on your thigh, fingertips dragging lazy circles against your skin. Every time he thrusts up into you, your hands tighten in his hair, your head falling back onto his shoulder, mouth open, gasping nothing. You’re flushed everywhere. Your chest rising too fast. Your lips bitten red.

He groans once — just once — when you clench too hard around him, a rough sound punched out of his throat like he hadn’t meant to let it slip. It’s low and brief and wrecks you instantly. It makes your walls flutter, your hands jerk against his arms, your breath stutter out in a gasp that sounds more like a sob.

It makes you whimper. Makes you grind down harder, trying to coax it out again. But Kai doesn’t give easily. He slows down instead, lets the drag of every motion sink in deep. He bites down on your shoulder — a quiet warning.

"Don’t push your luck."

But you want more. You want all of him. The heat of his breath against your neck, the tension building in his core, the way his hands stay steady even as his pace falters. You can feel the effort in him, the control it takes not to snap his hips up harder. He’s waiting for you. Always waiting.

Except your body’s already betraying you. The tight pull in your abdomen, the building heat under your skin, the way your thighs twitch with every roll of his hips. And you know he can feel it. You know he’s holding back. It’s written in the tension of his jaw, the strength in his grip, the way his thighs flex beneath you like he’s anchoring himself there. His whole body is heat and precision and barely bridled need.

You come without warning.

It crashes over you hard — no build-up, no crescendo — just a blinding snap and your voice breaking in his name. He holds you through it. Keeps moving, slower now, letting you ride it out. You’re breathless and pliant, half-slumped against him, fingers trembling where they grip his wrist. Your skin is hot and damp, nerves strung out, every inch of you oversensitive. You feel like you’re melting back into him.

And still, he doesn’t let go.

"Can you take more?"

His voice is warm and low, lips brushing the shell of your ear. You nod before you think. And it’s a mistake — you realize that a second too late. Because the restraint you’d been cradled in shatters quietly, piece by piece, like a dam cracking wide.

Because this is when he lets go of the leash.

He stands with you still on him — the movement effortless. Turns you around like your weight is nothing, like you were made to be molded to his touch. Lays you back, presses your knees apart, leans over you with that unreadable look in his eyes that makes your chest tighten. His hand finds yours and laces your fingers together as he sinks back in, and you feel it all over again — deep, slow, devastating.

His mouth hovers over yours. “Eyes on me.”

You don’t look away once.

And this time, when you fall apart, he falls with you.

But even then, he doesn’t collapse. He stays over you, breathing hard, foreheads nearly touching, hand still entwined with yours. He studies you like you’ve left him speechless — like the words are there but he’s choosing not to say them. You reach up and cup his jaw, and for the first time since he touched you, his body slumps a little, some invisible tension gone.

When you whisper his name, he closes his eyes, presses a kiss to your temple, and says it back — soft, hoarse, reverent.

There’s a pause.

A long one.

You glance up.

Yaku’s chopsticks are frozen midair, beef strip halfway to his mouth. His whole body has gone still, like someone hit pause. The lean lines of his frame are sharper now than they were in high school—broad shoulders under a fitted tee, forearms corded with definition from years of pro training.

His jaw is a little more cut, mouth plush but tense, and his hair, once wild and youthful, is cropped shorter now—cleaner, more intentional, but still unmistakably him. His brows pull together slowly, eyes narrowing beneath the soft gold of the apartment light, gaze locked on you like you just flipped a switch he didn’t know he had.

"...What?"

You blink. "What?"

He sets the food down like it’s suddenly unimportant. "Say that again."

You let out a short laugh, a little embarrassed now. "Relax. I just said no one’s ever made me cum from, like… oral. It’s not a big deal."

He blinks once. Then again. Like the words haven’t quite landed yet.

"That’s a huge deal."

You shrug, awkward. "It’s not like I haven’t tried. It’s just… I don’t know. Doesn’t really do it for me, I guess."

His gaze sharpens. He leans forward slightly, chopsticks forgotten. "Not even close?"

You squint, thinking. "...There was one time. An ex got me pretty close."

And you don’t think much of it—until your voice trails off and your body betrays you. You shiver.

Just a small one. Barely noticeable. But Yaku sees it.

Something shifts behind his eyes. The teasing falls away in an instant, replaced by something cooler. Focused.

He tilts his head, voice dropping. "You shivered."

Your stomach flips. "Did I?"

"Yeah." His tone is unreadable. Then, after a pause: "So he got close."

You hesitate. "I mean, yeah, I guess—?"

His jaw ticks. His eyes drag down to your thighs and linger. There’s a long moment where nothing moves—where you feel pinned, almost hunted.

Then:

"Okay," he says, voice low and flat. "Lie back."

You blink. "I—what?"

He’s already shifting onto his knees.

"You’re gonna lie back, and you’re gonna tell me exactly what he did. And I’m gonna do it better."

The air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. "Morisuke—are you serious—?"

"Dead serious." His hands land on your thighs. His thumbs draw slow, deliberate circles just below the hem of your shorts. "You said it’s specific, right? So tell me."

You try to form a sentence. Fail.

"Right here?" you say, dumbly, gesturing to the floor.

"Do you see me moving?"

Your mouth opens again, but nothing comes out except a strangled sound halfway between protest and disbelief. You hadn’t expected this to flip so quickly. He’d been teasing you about soy sauce stains a second ago.

"You’re insane," you whisper.

He smirks. "You’ve got no idea."

Your heart’s beating hard enough now that you can feel it in your teeth. And maybe you should say no. Maybe you should tell him this is insane and that you were not planning to get eaten out on a hardwood floor before dessert.

But the way he’s looking at you—focused, calm, possessive—it burns.

You exhale slowly.

"...You’re not gonna let this go, are you."

"Nope."

You glance toward the couch. Then back to him. He doesn’t budge. Doesn’t blink.

Fine.

You lie back.

The floor is cool under your shoulders. Your head rests near the base of his couch. You feel vulnerable as hell—and stupidly turned on.

Yaku leans over you, arms on either side of your legs, and asks with quiet finality:

"What did he do that almost worked?"

Your pulse stutters.

You want to tease. Make a joke. Brush it off with a flippant "wouldn’t you like to know." But something in Yaku’s gaze pins you down more than his hands ever could.

So you answer.

"He, um. He didn’t use rhythm. Just… kept changing it up. Not too much suction. More tongue. Real light pressure."

Your voice is breathier than you meant it to be. He notices.

"Anything else?"

You shake your head. "That’s all I remember. It felt good. Just… not enough."

He nods once. Eyes half-lidded now. One hand slides down your thigh to the waistband of your shorts.

"Let’s fix that."

You’re not sure when exactly your mouth went dry. Somewhere between the sound of your shorts unzipping and the heat of Yaku’s palms spreading you open, your brain just stopped firing in full sentences.

He works you out of your bottoms like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal to undress someone on a hardwood floor after a casual dinner. Your panties come off with them in one smooth drag, and for a second, he just… pauses.

Like he’s taking you in.

It’s not lewd. Not cartoonish. He’s quiet, measured, but there’s something unmistakably hungry in his eyes. His gaze roves across your thighs, up to where your legs part, then back to your face.

"Still okay?" he asks, voice low.

You nod. Your heart is pounding.

"Good," he says, and sinks lower.

His hands push your thighs apart, thumbs brushing the inside. He’s not even touching you where it counts yet, but your body is already reacting—heat pooling fast and low, anticipation coiling tight behind your ribs.

He leans in close, breath warm, but pauses again.

"Tell me what not to do," he murmurs against your skin. "What didn’t work?"

You exhale shakily. "Too much suction. Too fast. Like they were trying to get it over with."

That makes him huff a laugh against your thigh. "Idiots."

Then, softly—almost under his breath:

"I’m not rushing a fucking thing."

You jolt.

He starts slow, the backs of his knuckles brushing up the crease of your thigh like a warning. And it’s insane, how much your body tenses just from that. You’re hyperaware of everything: the soft scrape of his nails, the heat of his breath, the faint creak of the floor under his knees.

He kisses the inside of your leg. Then higher. Then higher.

And then finally—

His mouth meets your cunt.

You gasp, hips jolting at the first wet stripe of his tongue. It’s not rushed. Not experimental. It’s intentional—slow and flat, a teasing lick that ends with his lips barely brushing your clit.

He pulls back slightly and tilts his head, watching you.

"That?"

You swallow hard. "Y-yeah. That’s good."

He goes again, and this time he lingers—tongue circling, just shy of pressure, flicking the way you described, not sticking to any pattern. You feel his grip tighten on your thighs when your hips twitch.

"There she is," he mutters.

He doesn’t tease verbally. He doesn’t need to. Every movement says it for him. Every drag of his tongue across your folds is a deliberate challenge.

This is what almost did it? Then this should be easy.

He adjusts his angle, tilts your hips up slightly to get a better hold, and it knocks your breath clean out of your lungs.

"Fuck—Mori—"

His response is a groan against you that vibrates straight into your clit. Your legs twitch, reflexively trying to close, but his hands are already braced firmly on your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles like he wants you to stay open for him.

You bite your lip. Hard. The pleasure is building faster than you’re used to—coiling and hot, making your thighs tremble and your voice catch in your throat.

"Doing okay?" he murmurs again, voice rough.

You manage a breathless nod. "S-so good—"

He doesn’t slow. Just lets out another quiet hum of approval before returning his mouth to you with renewed focus. He alternates between flicking and flattening, licking you open, then pulling back to suck just lightly, barely enough to make you squirm.

You’re already panting.

Already embarrassingly close.

And he knows it.

"You’re sensitive," he mutters into you. "Cute."

You squirm, biting back a whimper.

"Shut up."

He just laughs—the kind of low, smug sound that says you’re mine now.

Then he brings one hand up, slick fingers parting your folds to expose your clit more fully. And the second his tongue presses flat there and stays, you see stars.

Your hips jump. Your hand shoots to his hair on instinct, gripping tight.

"There," you gasp. "Right there—don’t—don’t stop—"

But he doesn’t. Not even close.

His rhythm changes again, tongue rolling just right, and your vision blurs. You feel it building too fast—your breath coming in short gasps, hips rocking against his face like your body’s chasing that final step on its own.

"Mori—oh fuck—please—"

He groans into you. It’s desperate. Unhinged. Like he’s been waiting for this reaction since the second you first opened your mouth. And you can feel it—his pride, his need to be the one who wrecks you like this.

Your thighs start to close again, but his hands hold you open, grip bruising now, locking you down like you’re not going anywhere.

"Come on," he growls. "Give it to me."

Your orgasm slams into you like a freight train.

It steals your breath, punches a moan out of your chest, and makes your hips jolt up off the floor. You can’t even think—you just feel, helpless and shaking, back arching while your fingers yank at his hair and your legs tremble under his grip.

He keeps going. Gentle, coaxing licks as you ride it out, until you gasp out a strangled:

"Stop—too much—!"

And only then does he finally pull back.

You’re boneless. Blinking at the ceiling like you’ve been electrocuted. Your chest is heaving. Your thighs are still twitching.

Yaku leans back on his knees, face flushed, lips slick, chest rising and falling.

He looks like he just won a championship.

You don’t realize your eyes are glassy until you blink.

Everything feels smeared—like you’re seeing through heat. Your chest rises and falls in jagged pulls of air, your lips parted, your entire body loose and shaky like your bones dissolved somewhere mid-orgasm.

You can still feel his mouth on you. Not literally—but in the way your skin remembers.

Yaku stays between your thighs for a second longer, breathing hard, watching the way you’re laid out across the floor. You’re glowing with sweat, hair mussed across your cheek, and he looks… possessed.

But not wild. Not messy. Proud.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes flicking up to your face. Then he leans in again—not to keep going, but just to kiss the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent, like you’re a holy site he just conquered.

You can’t even find the words yet.

He crawls up your body, carefully avoiding the most sensitive parts, and lies down beside you, one elbow propped up so he can rest his cheek in his hand.

"So," he murmurs. "That was ‘specific,’ huh?"

You groan and throw an arm over your face. "Don’t."

He grins. "What? I’m just asking."

Your voice comes out hoarse. "You are so smug right now."

"I think I earned it."

You peek at him through your fingers. His hair’s a mess. His lips are swollen. His voice is a little rougher than usual. But he looks satisfied in a way you’ve never seen on him before.

And god, you want to deny it. You want to tell him it was a fluke, that the stars just aligned, that you were due. But the way your body is still buzzing with aftershocks?

You’re not that good a liar.

You let your arm fall to your side and stare up at the ceiling.

"...I didn’t think I could cum like that," you say quietly.

He hums. "Guess you just needed the right mouth."

You snort and smack his arm.

But there’s something under the humor—an ache in your chest, soft and weirdly tender. Because this wasn’t just physical. It wasn’t. He listened. He asked. And then he learned you in real time, with the kind of careful intensity that no one’s ever taken the time to offer you.

You turn your head to face him.

He’s already watching you. His eyes are dark, unreadable. Then he says, softly:

"I want you to forget what almost worked."

Your breath catches.

"You don’t need to remember anyone else," he adds, voice low. "You’ll think of me. From now on, it’s me."

There’s no question in his tone. No performance. Just quiet, matter-of-fact ownership.

And you don’t respond. You can’t. Not with words. Not when your body is still shuddering from the truth of it.

So instead, you shift. Still dazed, still heavy-limbed, you push yourself up with trembling arms and swing one leg over his hips to straddle him. He looks surprised at first, but his hands fly to your thighs immediately.

You lean down, kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.

"Your turn," you murmur.

He exhales a laugh. "That eager, huh?"

You flush. "Don’t push it."

But your hands are already tugging at the waistband of his sweats, and he’s already lifting his hips to help. You pause long enough to kiss the underside of his jaw, then mouth along his throat, just to feel his pulse spike.

His cock springs free, flushed and hard and already leaking.

You blink down at it and mutter:

"...Okay. Yeah. That tracks."

He smirks, half-lidded, dragging his hands up your sides. "Didn’t exactly hold back."

You look back up at him, heartbeat rising again. He looks wrecked. Not just aroused—wrecked. Red-faced, chest heaving, mouth parted.

"I need you to ride me," he says, voice low and sharp with need. "Need to feel you still shaking."

You nearly combust on the spot.

You reach between you and grip him, lining him up. His head falls back against the floor, jaw clenched as you slowly sink down, inch by inch, until he’s fully seated inside you. The stretch burns in the best way—hot, deep, intense. You gasp.

He groans. Loudly.

"Fucking hell—look at you—"

But you can’t. Your head’s thrown back, hands splayed on his chest for balance, thighs still twitching from what he just did to you. He grabs your hips, grounding you, and murmurs:

"Go slow. Just let me feel you."

So you do.

You rock against him, slow and deep, every motion making his breath hitch. He watches your body like it’s the most important thing he’s ever seen. His grip never falters. He doesn’t thrust—just lets you use him, takes it, groaning and whispering praise between clenched teeth.

"Still wet for me. Look at you." "Didn’t know you could come that hard." "Gonna be in your head for days."

And he’s right.

You already know you’ll feel this for the rest of the week. Every step. Every thought. You’ll remember the way he looked at you—serious, starved—and the way he said "Forget them. Think of me."

You’re not thinking of anything else now.

You don’t know how long you stay like that—sore, stretched, and still joined at the hips. Neither of you moves. It’s not laziness. It’s something heavier. A stillness that feels earned.

Yaku’s hands stroke slowly up and down your sides, not because he’s trying to seduce you again, but because he can’t stop touching you. Like he needs to remind himself he did that. That he got to see you like this—raw, wrecked, glowing.

Eventually, you shift off him with a low hiss. He lets you go with a breath, one hand catching your thigh as if reluctant to lose contact. You settle beside him on the floor, curling into his side, head tucked under his chin.

He kisses your hair.

"You okay?"

You nod, still a little dazed. "I think you broke my soul."

He snorts. "You’ll live."

You lift your head slightly, eyes narrowing at him. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he says, brushing his thumb over your jaw, "you’re snuggled right up next to me like I’m your favorite blanket."

You open your mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. He has a point.

"I hate you," you mumble.

"You’re welcome."

There’s a stretch of quiet then, just the sound of your breathing and the thrum of your pulse trying to regulate again. Your muscles are loose, body limp. Every part of you is still echoing with the ghost of his mouth and the way he held you down like it was a personal mission.

He shifts onto his side to face you.

"So. Now that I’ve ruined you for everyone else, what do we do next?"

You glare at him. "You’re lucky I’m too exhausted to punch you."

"That’s not a no."

You roll your eyes, then bury your face into his chest, groaning. He laughs and pulls you in tighter.

You lay there for a while, silent.

Eventually, you murmur, "You really meant it, didn’t you?"

He brushes a kiss against your temple. "Every word."

"You want me to forget everyone else."

"Not want. Expect."

You tilt your head to look at him. He’s not smirking now. He’s serious. Calm. Like he’s not just talking about sex.

And you believe him.

"Okay," you whisper.

He smiles. Not smug. Not cocky. Just… content.

Your limbs felt too heavy to move. You were already late. But your body didn’t want to cooperate, still humming with the echoes of last night’s chaos.

Eventually, you peeled yourself out of bed. Showered. Changed. Each movement felt a little too deliberate, like you had to stay ahead of your own thoughts.

You pulled your shirt collar higher, fingers twitching before you even looked in the mirror.

And then—you did.

You froze.

A bruise bloomed at the junction of your neck and shoulder, dark and stark against your skin. The teeth marks were faint, but visible. Centered. Unmistakable.

A perfect goddamn bite.

Your stomach twisted.

Because it wasn’t just the mark. It was what it reminded you of—his mouth on your skin, his breath ragged in your ear, the way he’d grabbed you like he was trying to burn you into his hands. It hadn’t been careful. It hadn’t been slow.

It had been savage.

And the worst part? Your body had loved it. You’d clung to him, gasped for him, arched into every bruising touch like your nerves were wired to his. The memory alone made your thighs clench involuntarily, heat crawling up your neck.

You slapped a hand over the mark and hissed through your teeth. "You idiot."

The mirror did not argue.

You grabbed your concealer, foundation, every desperate cover-up product in reach, and went to work like a soldier patching over a bullet wound. You could still feel the phantom sting of his teeth, the way his mouth had lingered like he wanted you to deal with this exact problem.

Eventually, it looked passable. Barely. You tugged your collar higher and gave yourself one last look.

No one would notice. Probably.

Still, your heart kicked like a rabbit as you walked through the gym doors.

And there he was.

Kyotani stood across the court, towel slung over his shoulder, tapping a volleyball lightly against the polished floor. Each dull thud echoed in your chest.

He wasn’t hunched forward in his usual aggressive stance. His jaw wasn’t clenched. No restless, agitated pacing. Just stillness.

Then he looked up.

Your eyes met—just for a second.

And just as fast, he looked away.

Something in your chest pinched. The kind of hollow, bitter squeeze that felt personal, even if it wasn’t.

You didn’t know what you were expecting. Maybe a smirk. Maybe the tiniest trace of recognition. Anything that said, "Yeah, that happened."

But you got nothing.

Like the night before hadn’t happened at all.

And it was worse than if he’d started a fight.

You hated how your chest tightened, how your mouth went dry. You hated that you noticed his silence more than you would’ve noticed his anger. That it made you wonder if last night meant anything to him—or if it was just a release. A mistake. Something forgettable.

The same heat that had curled your toes now burned in your throat. You straightened your shoulders, swallowed it down, and dropped your bag beside the bench a little harder than necessary.

Practice started. And quickly, the team started noticing.

“Are we just gonna ignore how weirdly civil it is in here?” Hanamaki asked during serve-receive, his voice low but clearly audible.

“They haven’t fought once,” Matsukawa muttered. “I feel like I’m watching two ghosts play volleyball.”

“They both seem... recharged,” Watari said, frowning slightly. “Kinda creepy.”

Yahaba’s eyes narrowed. “They haven’t looked at each other. Not even once.”

Oikawa stood with his arms crossed, tracking you like you were a new kind of puzzle. “I don’t like it. It’s too quiet. They're never this quiet. Something’s off.”

“I mean, she’s not yelling, and Kyotani hasn’t body-checked anyone yet,” Kindaichi added, confused and anxious in equal parts.

Even Kunimi glanced up from tying his shoe. “Honestly? It’s unnerving.”

Hanamaki squinted toward you. “Think they’re sick?”

“Maybe they killed each other and these are just really convincing doubles,” Matsukawa deadpanned.

“I don’t know,” Yahaba said, folding his arms. “But I’m watching them.”

“Everyone focus!” you snapped suddenly, voice sharp as a whip. “If we lose this next drill, you're all running sucides.”

The group jumped and quickly scattered back to formation. Watari coughed quietly into his sleeve.

“Yup,” Hanamaki said under his breath. “Still her.”

You tried to keep your focus on drills. On breathing. On not thinking about Kyotani.

Sweat clung to your skin like a second layer—salty, sticky, and clinging to the nape of your neck beneath your shirt collar. The gym buzzed with post-practice static: sneakers squeaking against the floor, stray balls bouncing lazily, the scuff of shuffling feet and the low hum of water bottles cracking open. It was the kind of tired silence that only followed chaos barely held together.

You dragged your towel down your face, the rough fabric scraping over overheated skin, when Iwaizumi’s shadow blocked the glare of the overhead lights.

“How’d it go last night?” he asked casually, voice even, but his eyes were razor sharp.

Your hand stuttered halfway through wiping your neck.

A flash—hands in your hair, breath caught in your throat, the weight of Kyotani’s body pinning yours to the mat—

You forced a swallow. “It went fine.”

A beat passed. Then Hanamaki’s voice cut through from behind. “You sure? That’s not what your aura’s saying.”

You didn’t turn, just rolled your eyes. “My aura is exhausted. Leave it alone.”

You reached for your water bottle, hoping the conversation would die there—but no such luck.

“Wait…” Matsukawa leaned in, eyebrows raised so high they nearly disappeared into his hairline. “Is that something on your neck?”

Your spine stiffened. “Nothing,” you said too fast, stepping back so hard you nearly tripped over the bench.

But it was too late.

Hanamaki gasped, clapping a hand over his mouth like he’d just witnessed a public proposal. “Oh my god. That’s a hickey.”

“It’s not a hickey,” you snapped, tugging your collar up like it might suddenly grow an extra two inches.

Watari leaned in dramatically, squinting like he was a jeweler inspecting a diamond. “No, that’s absolutely a hickey. High definition. Textbook.”

“I told you it’s not!”

“Maybe she tripped and fell mouth-first into a curling iron,” Yahaba deadpanned. “One with teeth.”

“Damn,” Kindaichi whispered, wide-eyed. “That’s kinda intense.”

Kunimi, who hadn’t spoken all practice, blinked at you and said, “Whoever it was, they had something to say.”

“Oh my god,” Hanamaki wailed. “It’s a scandal. A full-blown, gym-wide scandal.”

Matsukawa nodded solemnly. “We should hold a press conference.”

“Get away from me!” you barked, slapping at their hands as they closed in like a pack of cackling vultures.

And then, the final nail in your emotional coffin—

Oikawa swept dramatically into the circle like he was walking a red carpet, expression grave. “Perhaps... Kyotani finally snapped. And bit her in a passionate frenzy.”

You froze.

Every muscle in your body went taut.

Across the court, Kyotani looked up.

The pause was deadly.

Then, without missing a beat, he said flatly, “Like I’d ever touch her with a ten-foot pole.”

The court exploded.

Hanamaki collapsed onto the floor dramatically. “THANK YOU! All is right in the world again!”

“Balance has been restored!” Matsukawa echoed like a town crier.

Watari let out a long breath. “I was starting to worry. This—this I can process.”

“Damn,” Yahaba muttered. “They had me for a second.”

“Ten-foot pole is crazy,” Kindaichi mumbled, wheezing.

Kunimi shook his head, tone as dry as dust. “Takes commitment to be that mean, honestly.”

And Oikawa—arms folded, grinning like a cat with cream—sighed dramatically. “Ah. Love. So volatile. So stupid.”

Your eyes snapped to Kyotani like daggers, and before you could stop yourself, you hissed, “You wish, you rabid dog."

“Can we bottle this?” Matsukawa asked. “Sell it to Netflix?”

“Back to hating each other like normal,” Watari nodded approvingly. “I feel safe again.”

But just as quickly as they’d lost it, the team moved on.

Oikawa checked the clock, dramatically clutching his chest. “Well, we’ve got three minutes before the bell, and some of us don’t have time for your tragic lovers’ quarrel.”

You growled. “Say one more thing and I will rearrange your teeth.”

“Violence,” he said, finger to chin. “My love language.”

“Go to class,” Iwaizumi barked.

Like a switch had flipped, the team scattered, grabbing bags and water bottles and heading for the locker rooms like nothing happened.

You clenched your jaw so hard it clicked.

Smart. It was smart. But it still stung like hell.

The moment the gym started emptying, you were on the move.

He was almost at the doors when you caught up and yanked his sleeve—hard. He didn’t resist. Not even a grunt of surprise. He let you pull him like a dog on a leash, quiet and unflinching, his footsteps falling into sync behind yours without hesitation.

There was something jarring about it—how easy he made it. No glare. No sarcastic remark. No tension in the tug of war that usually followed your interactions.

He just followed.

Like he already knew where this was going.

“Are you serious?” you growled, shoving him back into the wall. “You bit me, Kyotani. Then you stood there and acted like I disgust you?”

His eyes flicked down to your mouth, but his tone was sharp. “What did you want me to say? That I liked it?”

You scoffed. “No. I wanted you to keep your goddamn mouth shut for once.”

“You were about to fold the second someone asked,” he said, stepping into your space. “Don’t pretend like you had it under control.”

Your hand slapped his chest. “I did have it under control until you opened your big mouth.”

“You didn’t even try to lie—”

“You didn’t have to go that hard,” you hissed. “Ten-foot pole? Really?”

His jaw ticked. “I said what I had to.”

“And now I look like a desperate idiot,” you snapped, grabbing the front of his shirt. “So congratulations. You win.”

The air between you was molten. Furious. Cracked open by everything neither of you were willing to say aloud.

He grabbed your hips hard, like he was ready to lift you onto the concrete ledge behind. “You looked anything but desperate last night.”

Your breath hitched, fury blurring into heat so fast you didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

“I should slap you,” you whispered.

“Do it,” he dared.

You leaned in. He didn’t move.

You were so close your noses brushed, his breath hot against your mouth. Your fingers fisted tighter in his shirt, anchoring yourself.

You were going to do it. Kiss him. Throw all of it into that one pull.

Because the way he looked at you in that moment made it feel like nothing else mattered. Like he would’ve let you break him open and crawl inside.

And worse—you wanted to.

Your lips had just barely grazed his—

When the bell shrieked overhead.

You flinched back like you’d been hit with cold water, heart slamming so hard it hurt.

“Shit,” you breathed.

You took a shaky step back, staring at him, your skin flushed and your stomach tight.

It had been so easy. Too easy. To forget where you were. To forget what this was. If that bell hadn’t rung…

You would've done it. Right there behind the gym.

And you didn’t even know if you regretted it.

You spun around, boots scraping concrete, and turned the corner—

Only to stop dead.

Iwaizumi stood a few paces away, leaning against the wall like he’d been there for long enough to hear everything. His arms were crossed, brow furrowed in that way that said he was somewhere between judgment and fatigue.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Your heart pounded against your ribs, still aching with heat that hadn’t gone away.

Behind you, you heard footsteps.

Kyotani rounded the corner a second later, expression unreadable. His eyes flicked to Iwaizumi. Just once. He didn’t say a word.

Then he turned and walked in the opposite direction—shoulders tense, hands shoved in his pockets, disappearing down the hall like none of it mattered.

You and Iwaizumi stood in silence.

He didn’t speak. Just raised an eyebrow. Patient. Resigned.

You let out a long, breathless sigh and dragged a hand through your hair.

“Be happy I’m not murdering him.”

Iwaizumi sighed back, scrubbing a hand over his face like he aged ten years in ten seconds. "You're gonna kill me before this semester ends."

That made you pause. You glanced up as he approached, swinging a sleek black shopping bag by its gold ribbon handles. He dropped it next to you on the couch, and his grin told you he knew exactly what reaction he was about to get.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” you said, side-eyeing him even as you reached for the bag.

“Didn’t say I had to,” he replied, kicking off his shoes. “I wanted to.”

You parted the tissue paper carefully.

And blinked.

Deep, vivid red gleamed up at you—lace, straps, sheer panels, and the soft glint of garter clips. A matching lingerie set, rich as blood and twice as dangerous.

You stared down at it, then slowly lifted the bra with two fingers, holding it like it might purr or explode.

“Seriously?” you said flatly, casting a look at him.

“You’re a pig.”

He let out a full, unapologetic laugh, already crouching beside you with a shameless twinkle in his eyes.

“I’m your pig,” he said proudly, placing a palm over his heart like it was a badge of honor.

You opened your mouth to roast him properly, but he leaned in—close enough that you caught the salt of his sweat, the spice of his cologne—and his voice dropped low, just for you.

“Wanna see you in it,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges, breath ghosting against your ear with a heat that raised the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. The scent of him—sweat still clinging faintly to his skin from practice, mingled with the citrusy spice of his cologne—coiled into your senses like smoke. His words sank deep, velvet-wrapped and deliberate, vibrating through your spine as his fingers traced a slow, teasing path beneath your jaw. The pads of his fingertips were warm, a little calloused from hours of drills, dragging lightly across your skin as if tasting it through touch.

“Bet it’ll be fun.”

The way he said it—low, lazy, laced with just enough amusement and hunger—made your stomach clench. It wasn’t even overtly dirty. It was suggestive in the most infuriating, devastating way. Like he wasn’t just asking for a favor. Like he was offering an experience, something slow and indulgent.

It pooled heat in your belly, crawled up your spine, lit your nerve endings with a hum. Your cheeks flared instantly, warmth blooming beneath your skin before you even realized it. Your breath caught, barely audible, and you swatted at his shoulder—not hard, just enough to make contact.

“Stop doing that.”

He leaned back slightly, blinking at you with mock innocence, though the glint in his eyes was anything but pure. His hand still rested at your waist, fingers curling ever so slightly into your side—warm and sure, like he knew exactly how much space he was taking up.

“Doin’ what?” he asked, his voice lilting up with faux confusion, but there was already a smirk tugging at his mouth.

Your glare barely held its form, shaky at best. “That thing with your voice.”

His smile broke into something slow and satisfied, like a cat stretching in the sun. He leaned in again without hesitation, and his lips brushed your throat—a kiss so soft, so maddeningly light, it felt more like a memory of touch than the real thing. Still, it left behind heat. Goosebumps.

You sucked in a breath as the warmth of his breath lingered. The scent of him—earthy, sweat-slicked from training and laced with that familiar, spicy cologne—wrapped around you like velvet. Every word he spoke settled low in your belly.

“What thing?” he whispered, voice a rough murmur that sent a tremor up your spine. “The one that gets you all red?”

As if to punctuate it, his thumb drifted just beneath your collarbone. You shivered. Audibly.

You groaned, the sound caught somewhere between protest and surrender. Your hand found his chest and pushed, but there was no force behind it.

“Just try it on,” he said, voice lighter now, but no less persuasive. His arms slid further around your waist, pulling you closer—his grip snug but gentle, like he was grounding himself with the feel of you. “Humor me, yeah?”

You grabbed the bag with a grumble, flushed to the tips of your ears, and stomped off toward the bedroom.

Behind you, his victory whoop echoed with shameless delight.

Inside, you shut the door and exhaled slowly.

You pulled the set out piece by piece, laying it on the bed. The red looked even more scandalous against the pale quilt. You stripped off the jersey and stood in front of the mirror, holding the bra up and narrowing your eyes.

One strap. Then another.

You clipped yourself in and stepped back.

It clung to you like it had been poured on. The fabric stretched and hugged every curve with sinful precision, molded to your frame like a second skin crafted from temptation. The lace was impossibly soft—whisper-light against your skin, intricate patterns etched in delicate swirls and scalloped edges that brushed your ribs and traced the slope of your hips. The cut was wicked—high, daring, unapologetically bold. It bared your thighs and framed your chest in fine filigree, the kind of lace that didn’t hide, but highlighted. The deep red shimmered under the overhead light, catching gold undertones in the delicate threads, demanding attention without even trying.

You turned slightly in front of the mirror. The garter straps stretched taut as your leg shifted, and you reached up to adjust one of the bra straps—fingers grazing your shoulder as you settled it into place. Then your hands drifted lower, thumbs resting briefly at the dip of your waist. Your fingers brushed the edge of the garters where they kissed the top of your thighs, soft elastic and polished metal clasps cool beneath your touch. Heat gathered in your face, your chest. Your reflection stared back—half incredulous, half mesmerized.

You looked powerful.

And very, very doomed.

“He’s gonna combust,” you muttered, and your voice sounded distant to your own ears. Your skin tingled, blood rushing hot through your cheeks as your toes curled into the carpet. Your ears were already burning, heat pooling at the nape of your neck. You hovered at the doorway for a heartbeat, one hand gripping the frame like it could anchor you to something real.

Then, with a breath dragged deep into your lungs, you stepped out.

The light in the living room was low and golden, casting soft shadows on the hardwood. Atsumu was sprawled on the couch like he owned it—one leg kicked over the back, his phone cradled lazily in his hand, expression half-lidded with contentment. He looked utterly at peace, his world uncomplicated.

Until you walked in.

The moment he sensed movement, his head lifted—and everything changed.

His jaw unhinged in slow motion. The phone slipped from his grip and landed on his chest with a dull thump, unnoticed. His mouth parted like he was about to speak, but no sound came. Just stunned, wide-eyed silence.

His gaze swept over you like a heatwave, dragging across the curve of your hips, the dip of your waist, the way the red lace caught the light and turned your skin to gold. His breath visibly stuttered, his throat bobbing with a swallow that sounded like it hurt.

"Oh my god," he whispered, voice ragged. His eyes flicked up to yours, glassy and awestruck. "You’re gonna kill me."

You crossed your arms, trying to ignore the way your heart was pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. "Well?"

He surged to his feet like gravity had reversed.

He was on you in a blink. One hand cupped your waist, the other slid reverently over your hip, fingers spreading wide like he was trying to memorize the exact feel of you under his palms. His touch was warm, trembling, desperate with restraint.

“You’re not real,” he breathed, eyes locked on your chest, then your legs, then your face. “You’re—babe, you can’t just walk around like that. This is illegal. You’re illegal.”

You raised a brow, trying to keep your cool even as his fingers threatened to make your knees buckle. “Hands off.”

He froze mid-lean, lips just shy of your collarbone. “Wait, what?”

“No touching,” you said, stepping aside like it was the easiest thing in the world. “If I have to be out here half-naked, the least you can do is look.”

The groan he let out was deep and strangled, like it had been torn from his chest. He dragged both hands through his hair, pacing a slow circle.

“You’re evil, that’s what you are,” he said, his voice half-laugh, half-prayer.

“You’ll survive.”

“I’m not so sure,” he muttered, staring at you like you were a myth that just stepped off the page.

You walked past him slowly, deliberately, aware of every sway of your hips, every squeak of the floorboard beneath your feet. His eyes followed you like he was starved.

When you glanced over your shoulder, he was still rooted in place, fists clenched at his sides like he was physically holding himself back.

Then the spell snapped.

He launched forward with a sharp, breathless curse. You shrieked and bolted, the hallway blurring around you as his footsteps thundered behind.

Laughter echoed down the walls—yours breathless and bright, his low and exhilarated. He caught you just outside the bedroom, his arms banding around your waist, lifting you clean off the ground with a triumphant, half-mad noise.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he growled, burying his face in your neck as you laughed, squirming in his grip.

“Then I better make it worth it,” you gasped.

Because the moment you gasped his name—really cried it, eyes glassy and back arched—something in him changed.

His hands tightened. His mouth dragged a curse into the curve of your shoulder. And when he pulled back to flip you onto your stomach, his voice dropped, low and hoarse:

"Don’t tap out. Not yet."

You didn’t plan to. Not until his weight settled behind you, feet planted on the mattress, thighs caging yours. His chest hovered, a hand on your hip and the other gripping your ass, your head angled toward the pillow as he pressed in—slow at first, then all at once.

The stretch burned. The thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

You didn’t know you could feel so full.

Every snap of his hips was brutal, relentless. The slick slap of skin filled the room, punctuated only by the ragged moans tearing from your throat—shameless, needy, loud. You couldn't help it. Not with the way he kept hitting so deep, driving into a place that made your legs tremble and your fingers claw helplessly at the sheets.

"That’s it," he rasped behind you, breath hot on your ear. "Louder, baby. I wanna hear you."

You gave him everything. Every cry, every broken whimper, every choked-off plea.

And he ate it up.

You didn’t even realize it was coming—your first orgasm crashed into you so suddenly, it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. One second you were struggling to hold yourself up, and the next—

"Yuu—!" you sobbed, the name escaping before you even realized you’d said it.

Your whole body tensed. Your vision blurred. Your mouth opened around a wordless cry as heat spiraled out from your center in a blinding, overwhelming wave. Your legs gave out. You collapsed forward into the sheets, shaking, gasping, nerves alight like you’d been struck by lightning.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, that just spurred him on.

You barely had time to catch a breath before he was pulling your hips back up, driving into you harder, deeper. You shrieked, voice cracking, face pressed to the pillow as he groaned low behind you.

"That’s it," Yuu growled, like the sound of his name unraveling from your throat had done something to him. "Just like that. Give me another."

Nishinoya moved like a man possessed—each thrust carefully angled, each roll of his hips deliberate. Like he wanted to ruin you. Like he knew exactly how to. His grip on your jaw softened only to trail down, fingers brushing over your throat, then your chest, tracing sweat-slicked skin as he pressed kisses to your shoulder blade, your spine, the nape of your neck.

You lost count of how many times he made you come.

Twice, three times—then again before your body could even stop shaking. It was too much. Too much and not enough. You twisted beneath him, trying to breathe, trying to think, but he only groaned and pushed deeper, dragging a helpless cry from your lips.

Your entire body was one raw nerve, lit from the inside out.

"Yuu—I—"

"I got you," he growled, kissing the corner of your jaw. "Just let go. You’re doing so good."

Your world fractured around you.

White heat bloomed behind your eyes. Your mouth fell open but no sound came out—just a raw, shuddering exhale as your entire body seized beneath him. You couldn’t even feel your legs. Couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. The sheets were damp under your cheek, your skin flushed and trembling.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Not until he fell apart with a strangled moan, spilling into you with one last deep, dragging thrust. Not until his arms wrapped around your waist and he collapsed forward, holding you like something precious.

You lay there, unmoving, your body a heap of oversensitive nerves and unraveling thoughts. His chest rose and fell against your back, his breath hot and uneven. The air felt thick with everything unsaid, charged and humming. You weren’t sure if you could ever look him in the eye again—at least, not without remembering the way he looked at you just before he broke you open.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly—far too casually—he muttered into your hair:

"So… what'd you think?"

You would’ve laughed, but you couldn’t even breathe.

He pulled back just enough to kiss your shoulder again, featherlight.

"Told you I could handle you," he said.

Your voice came out hoarse, barely audible. "You’re a monster."

Yuu laughed—really laughed—and pulled you into his chest, one arm snug around your waist, the other combing gently through your hair.

"Only for you," he whispered against your skin.

You’d been with them nearly two years now. And to his complete dismay, you had not only proven yourself an effective manager—you had managed to wedge yourself beneath his skin like a splinter he couldn’t ignore.

On paper, you were everything a coach could want. Organized. Efficient. You remembered stats like a machine, kept meticulous logs, planned trips to the second, and answered press questions with a calm grace that rivaled any professional. You were technically perfect.

But you were also loud. Opinionated. You didn’t walk, you prowled. You gave everyone nicknames they didn’t ask for, cracked jokes mid-stretch, and had once drawn an anatomically questionable caricature of Coach Washijou on the team whiteboard that stayed up for a week. You were chaos wrapped in a school uniform. And somehow, everyone adored you for it.

Especially the team. Tendou egged you on constantly. Semi tried to act above it, but even he cracked grins when you were around. Goshiki blushed bright red whenever you leaned over him to check notes, and Reon always made sure you had a spare chair next to his.

They loved you. And that was a problem. Because Ushijima couldn’t stand how much he noticed you.

He told himself it was irritation. That the reason his eyes followed you was because you were disruptive. But it wasn’t that. Not anymore. Somewhere along the way, the awareness of you had shifted. It was in the way your laugh lingered long after you left a room. The way his gaze found you first whenever he entered one. The way your teasing, infuriating voice stayed in his head longer than his own thoughts. You weren’t just a disruption anymore. You were a fixation.

And he hated that.

Practice had ended nearly twenty minutes ago. Most of the team had already filtered out, some slapping towels at each other, others muttering about dinner plans. But you hadn’t left. You never did until he did.

You lingered like a shadow at the edge of the gym, leaning lazily against the wall as you watched him.

"Still punishing the ball for losing, Wakatoshi?"

He caught it mid-bounce and turned toward you, expression grim, eyes sharper than usual. You were in your usual end-of-day state—hair piled messily on your head, jacket tied around your waist, and that clipboard still glued to your side. He wondered if you ever let yourself be still. He doubted it.

“Need you to sign these for Coach,” you said, strolling up like you hadn’t just committed volleyball treason. “Year-end reports. Budgets. Dreams. Regrets. All the greatest hits.”

Ushijima didn’t say a word as he took the clipboard. His eyes scanned the top page with clinical precision, but you noticed the way his jaw ticked. The little muscle near his temple fluttered. A tiny, telltale crack in the calm.

You lingered a step away, leaning on one leg. “Also, Tendou left his knee brace again. I was gonna hide it in the ball cart as revenge but I’m trying to be a better person.”

The page turned with more force than necessary. Not a full rip—but the threat was there.

“Coach said to schedule a final practice match,” he said, voice flat.

You blinked. Then smiled—slow and deliberate.

“Yeah,” you said, breezy, “and I talked him out of it.”

His gaze lifted with a slowness that could have been mistaken for calm if it weren’t for the way he locked onto you like a goddamn laser sight. His posture changed—nothing dramatic, but all at once he was taller, broader, coiled tight like a rubber band one twist from snapping. You could feel the tension radiating off him like heat off sunbaked concrete.

“You went behind my back,” he said. The words were barely a sound. More like a growl, tucked into his chest.

You just raised both brows. “You make it sound so dramatic. It was a conversation. I made my case. Coach agreed. That’s not sabotage, it's persuasion.”

The clipboard creaked beneath his grip. You saw it now—his knuckles, white. His throat bobbing with a swallowed word. The slight tremor running through his arms like his own control was betraying him. And naturally, you stepped closer.

“Woah,” you murmured, voice dipping to something low and delighted. “Are you shaking, Ushijima?”

His eyes darkened.

“That decision wasn’t yours to make.”

“Neither was losing to Karasuno, but it still happened,” you shot back.

“You undermined me.”

“I protected the team.”

“You acted without me.”

“Because you don’t listen when you’re pissed!” you snapped, and for a moment, it wasn’t playful. “You’d drive them into the floor just to claw back one more win that’s not coming.”

Another step forward. You were close now. Not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. He looked at you like he wanted to bury something into the wall—rage flickering in his eyes, shoulders square and trembling under the weight of holding himself back. His breath hitched in that way people do when they’re about to yell or—do something else.

You tilted your chin, smirking. “Any harder of a glare and I'll be six-feet under.”

His silence was deafening. Then, in a voice gritted and bitten off at the ends: “I can’t stand you.”

You snorted. “Yeah, that’s why I catch you staring at me during every water break. Real subtle by the way.”

He flinched. Just slightly. Enough to make your grin bloom.

“You're a virus,” he muttered. “An irritant. You dig in and stay.”

You leaned in closer—nose nearly brushing his. “Say it like I’m not your favorite headache.”

His fists clenched tighter at his sides. His whole body trembled, jaw wired shut, eyes boring into you with something wild behind them. You held his gaze for one beat too long. Two.

Then stepped back.

“Anyway. No match. Final answer.”

You turned with a hum and tossed your voice over your shoulder as the gym door creaked open. “Try meditation or something, big guy. Realign those chakras. Might help with the rage.”

The door clicked shut behind you.

Behind it, there was a sharp, violent sound—an unmistakable, echoing pop. The volleyball in his grip had split open beneath his palm. Rubber and air hissed free from the sudden rupture, the seams blown wide from sheer force. He didn’t even look down at it. Just stood there in the middle of the gym, breath heavy, pulse roaring in his ears, jaw tight enough to splinter.

You were a virus.

Suna Rintarou.

His name drags itself across your thoughts like a scrape on pavement. You didn’t even work with him for long—barely a handful of shoots, really—but somehow, he lingered. Like you'd seen him just minutes ago instead of months. You didn’t need him. And you were proud of that—still are. But that doesn’t stop the memory of his smug smirks during shoots, the ones that made you want to throw your camera. Or the way he’d push back on your direction—not out of disrespect, but because he enjoyed getting under your skin. Because he could. Because he knew you’d rise to it.

Those joint features were chaos. Him turning the lens into a stage. You, trying not to let it show how often he got under it all.

You thought cutting him out would bring clarity. Clean slates. Easy breathing.

But he stuck.

Even when you didn’t want him to, his image hovered—uninvited, unwelcome—just beneath your thoughts. Every time you lined up a shot, adjusted your lighting, planned a sequence… some part of you remembered him.

The thing is, he photographs well. Too well.

He knows exactly how to angle his jaw to catch the light, how to hold tension in his shoulders like a coiled spring. He doesn't over-pose, doesn’t overthink. He listens—but only just enough. There’s a kind of wordless fluency to working with him that you hate how much you don’t hate.

There’d been moments behind the viewfinder where you forgot yourself—forgot time. Reframing and rebalancing not because the shot lacked anything… but because he gave it something extra. Something real. Something intimate that you couldn’t quite scrub out, no matter how many layers you stacked over it.

You loved the photos. Hated the personality behind them.

Every shoot ended with you in the darkroom or hunched over Lightroom, muttering curses and jabbing at the contrast slider like it could erase the smugness from his eyes. Cropping tighter. Sharper. Still, that look remained. Like he knew something you didn’t. Like he was winning.

Eventually, the shoots stopped. And you had come out on top; Exactly where you wanted to be.

Peace was a luxury. You finally had it.

Until your phone lights up.

You're still basking in it—the warmth of finally getting your due, of knowing you carved your space with nothing but grit and shutter clicks—when the screen flares to life beside you.

Unknown Number

Your stomach twists. Your first instinct is to ignore it, let it ring out. You want to hold on to this moment a little longer—just a few more seconds of peace before the next deadline, the next fight for creative credit, the next moment you’re expected to be brilliant again.

But your brain betrays you with a whisper: What if it’s another opportunity?

You hesitate, thumb hovering above the screen. It could be a thank-you call. A freelance inquiry. A scouting request from a bigger brand.

Or it could be nothing. A telemarketer. A missed delivery.

You swipe anyway.

"Hello?"

“Hi there,” comes a smooth, clipped voice. “This is Rei Sakamoto—Suna Rintarou’s agent. Do you have a moment to talk about a collaboration opportunity?”

The world stills. Your thoughts scatter.

His name—again. Like a curse. Like a hook in your side.

“…I’m sorry, who?”

“You’re the one who shot the MSBY campaigns, right? We’ve been following your work. Kuroo Tetsurou, who’s heading the promotional division, specifically requested you.”

Kuroo. Of course. He’d always had a knack for chaos.

You close your eyes, exhaling hard through your nose. It’s like fate is laughing in your face. Like every ounce of peace you clawed back is now being pried from your grip, one smug pretty boy at a time.

“I, uh… I’m not sure I’m available right now,” you say. It’s almost believable—except your voice wavers, just slightly. Too polite. Too professional. Too damn interested.

The agent doesn’t skip a beat. “It’s only two sessions. Photo editorials for Suna’s next campaign. We’re pairing it with short written features, but what we really need is your eye behind the lens. Tight turnaround—two weeks. Kuroo asked me to set up a meeting today if you’re free.”

You want to say no. Want to burn the whole idea to ash with a single word.

But your mind’s already racing. Editorial credits. National campaign. Expansion. Kuroo’s name attached to it—solid. Respected. The kind of line on your résumé that opens doors.

And him.

Suna Rintarou.

Back in your frame. Back in your space.

You already know how this ends: you’ll hate every second of it—every conversation, every glance, every quiet smirk. And then you'll go home, dump the files onto your laptop, open them one by one… and hate how good they are. How well he fits inside the world you build with your lens. How easy it is to lose yourself in the art of it—even if you can't stand the subject.

You grit your teeth. You already know you're going to say yes.

“…Fine. When?”

--

The Japan Volleyball Association building is quieter than you expected.

Cool glass, clean floors, air conditioning that hums low and clinical. Everything smells faintly like lemon polish and too-new printer ink. The receptionist barely glances up when you give your name—just types something into her terminal and points you down the hall.

Your boots click against tile that shines like water. You hate how out of place you feel. The kind of out-of-place that makes you tighten your grip on the camera bag slung over your shoulder, square your jaw, and pretend like you belong anywhere.

You’re led into a minimalist conference room—long table, white walls, recessed lighting so harsh it feels surgical. There’s a carafe of untouched water on the sideboard and not a single personal touch in sight.

He spots you the second you step in, and that trademark grin stretches across his face like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning.

“You’re early,” he says, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Didn’t peg you for the punctual type.”

You slide into the chair but don’t drop your guard. “Didn’t peg you for the ambush type.”

Kuroo chuckles, unbothered. “Come on, you’ve survived worse. And you can’t tell me this opportunity didn’t tempt you a little.”

You arch a brow. “Would’ve been nice to have a briefing that didn’t come with a mystery number and a fifteen-second pitch.”

“I like keeping things exciting,” he says, lacing his fingers behind his head. “Besides, I figured you’d say yes the second you heard your name in the same sentence as ‘full creative control.’”

You don’t deny it. But your expression stays flat.

He tilts his head. “Look, I wouldn’t have looped you in if I didn’t think you’d kill it. You’ve got the eye and the edge. And we both know you make him look good.”

You stiffen, and Kuroo notices. He always notices.

Before you can retort, footsteps echo in the hallway.

The door swings open, and in walks Rei Sakamoto—poised as ever in tailored black, expression neutral but sharp. Suna follows just a step behind, hands in his hoodie pocket, hood still up like he couldn’t be bothered to dress the part.

He glances at you the moment he enters, something smug already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Took a guess you'd be early," he says, voice low and lazy.

You don’t even blink. “And you still couldn’t beat me here?”

He shrugs, eyes drifting to the empty seat across from you like it was all part of the plan. Like he meant to show up just late enough to make an entrance.

You don’t bite. Not yet.

Sakamoto steps forward, smoothing the front of her blazer like she’s rehearsed this. “Thank you for coming on short notice. Suna wanted you for this campaign—he was quite specific.”

That makes your brow twitch. You look at her first, then slowly shift your gaze to him.

“Oh really?”

Suna doesn’t flinch. That familiar smirk starts small, lazy, spreading like heat under your collar. “Told you. You make me look good.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your tone light. “Sure. Let’s pretend that’s the reason.”

He opens his mouth like he might say something else, but Kuroo cuts in with a clap of his hands, sharp and loud.

“Alright,” he says brightly. “Now that we’re all here—let’s get to it. We want two sessions. Back-to-back if possible. Full editorials. You’ll shoot, edit, and build out the visual content for the rollout. Your style, your approach—we’re trusting you with the look of this thing.”

You nod once, already calculating the timeline in your head.

Kuroo continues, “We’ve got a tight two-week window. You’ll coordinate with the social team, marketing gets final say on phrasing, but visual direction is all you.”

Sakamoto adds smoothly, “We’ll match your usual rate. If the final drafts are done early, there’s room for a bonus.”

You lean back slightly, arms crossing. “Alright,” you say carefully. “But I have conditions.”

Kuroo lifts a brow, intrigued. “Naturally. Go on.”

You glance at Suna, then back to Kuroo, and gesture subtly with your chin. “He shows up. No excuses. No reschedules, no ghosting, no half-assing it while I pull sixteen-hour days.”

Kuroo blinks, surprised at the sharpness of your tone, but doesn’t interrupt.

Sakamoto takes a half-step forward, voice already measured. “You have my word he’ll be—”

“No.”

Your voice cuts clean through the room. Calm. Sharp. Nonnegotiable.

Her mouth stays open for a second longer than it should, like the interruption stunned her. Kuroo leans back a little, watching you with a new kind of focus, like even he wasn’t expecting that edge.

You keep your eyes fixed on Suna, voice even as steel. “I want to hear it from him.”

The air shifts.

Suna’s posture doesn’t change, but the weight in the room tips toward him.

He doesn’t look startled. Or challenged. If anything, he looks pleased. Like he’s been waiting for this exact line of tension to stretch between you two.

Slowly, he leans forward. Elbows to the table, fingers laced like he’s settling in for something fun. His chin tips just slightly, gaze fixed on yours with all the ease in the world. A smirk ghosts the corner of his mouth again—barely there, but impossible to miss.

He holds your stare, eyes sharp under that lazy half-lid expression, like he’s enjoying the way the room has gone still around you. Like he’s waiting for you to squirm. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

The silence stretches and stretches—so much so that even Kuroo seems to quiet with anticipation.

When he speaks, it’s low and slow, the kind of delivery meant to land just right.

Then, he speaks.

“I show up when it counts.”

The words hang in the air, obnoxiously self-satisfied. He says it like it’s fact. Like it’s charm. Like that one line should erase every time he made you wait, every time he rolled into a shoot with his hair still damp and a smirk that made you want to break your camera.

Your spine stiffens. Your fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeves beneath the table.

Of course that’s what he’d say.

He leans back, clearly pleased with himself, and adds—just loud enough—“And I always count for something, don’t I?”

That earns a twitch in your jaw. You don’t blink. You don’t flinch. But god, you want to.

You inhale, slow and sharp, and don’t dignify it with a response.