Hello :)

Honestly, the entire reason the four of you had even gathered at Kenma’s apartment in the first place was for gaming. Kuroo, like always, had managed to irritate Kozume for days, twisting some farfetched tale that his newfound fling had wanted to try fps. So, he agreed to show her the ropes. That was until Kuroo placed his fucking hands on her hips, guiding her ass into his crotch until both of their eyesights couldn’t fixate on anything but each other’s skin. 

Which unfortunately left you and Kenma alone with a story game you’d convinced him to try. At first, it was exactly what he expected — exactly like you explained: long, choice driven, full of tension and consequences that followed the same notion of a butterfly effect. It was as though one wrong move, one missed clue, and a character died. There were no second chances. No sense of safety when making such impactful verdicts; all the storyline did with your opinions was shift the outcomes, forcing a new wave of obstacles that only hastened anxiety. 

Such an odd game of choice… though, it did surprisingly keep his attention away from the two imbeciles mouth fucking on the floor. So, that was a win.

Well, until the romance came. The sappy moments between fictional characters that overrode any achievement the two of you had accomplished. You managed to escape a monster? Eh, anyone could do that. You became mayor of the town and saved at least half the population due to your studious objectives? So what.

It was like the hours worth of dialogue options, the tiny decisions that somehow affected communities and personal growth didn’t matter. For fuck’s sake the main character nearly died three separate times and still the game wanted them to care more about whether they held someone’s hand at an opportune time.

It was like he was surrounded by unfettered lust; both the game and Kuroo made him miserable. There was no escape from such coitous actions; writer ploys, hormones… affection was everywhere. Couldn’t horror and mystery just rest on unsolved enigmas? Sure, Kozume could swallow Tetsuro ruining his floor with sweat, but a game built on strategy and decisions… that felt almost churlish.  

Yet, still, here he was — letting the two of you play through such a dumbfounded game, allowing your body to position itself near the edge of the bed with his controller in hand. Kenma leaned against the headboard beside you, eyes fixed on the cutscene unfolded on the screen. And finally, after what felt like fucking forever, the main character sealed their choice of love with a makeout session. 

Kenma rolled his eyes, puffed out cheek rested atop the grooves of his fist. I mean, c’mon, who would even fall for that? Probably an idiot — his eyes followed upwards, the glimpse of your kicked feet glinting in the corner of his eyes. “Finally,” you groaned. “That took, like, two hours of decisions just to get to this point.”

He couldn’t believe it. You had seriously based the majority of your decisions to get to this point? A mundane scripted sequence that only blasted shitty music to get an emotional rise. And their tongues… gross — all tangled together like they couldn’t function without devouring each other’s insides. 

Stupid storytelling. 

“What happened?” Kuroo poked his head from above, his girlfriend whimpering softly from the lack of attention she inadvertently received (so fucking abhorrent — he better dump her asap). “Wait. I thought we wanted Mira to end up with Asher.”

“That was before we found out he spread the rumors about Maeve.” Kenma affirmed. “So our decisions have been pinpointed on Kole since then,” his eyes glazed over his friend's enmeshed body. Idiot. “You’d know that if you paid attention.”

Kuroo furrowed his brows, palmed hands braced on either side of his lover's head while his eyes lowered at the frustrated setter. “Well sorry that I’m entertained over here.”

“I hope you get mono.” 

You snorted at Kenma’s declared medical curse, the sound quickly joined by Tetsuro’s girlfriend. And if on cue, she peered her head just below the captain, irises fixed on Kozume’s exasperated glare. Yeah, he was definitely not letting her come back. Still, she seemed oblivious to the setter's attempts to cut their intimacy off, pressing her lips against Kuroo’s which earned a short grunt from the depths of his throat.

Kenma was fucking baffled. I mean, what was so pleasurable about kissing anyway? It was just two people pressing skin against skin. There was no way it felt good (if you get his gist). Yet, here his friend was, acting like his life depended on such foolish acts. 

“If you keep staring like that, you’re gonna come off as a prude.” Kozume pushed his exasperated expression towards you. “Don’t get mad at me! Just saying…”

“I don’t get it.” Kenma grumbled, layered hair pushed back to take another look at the two bodies in constant movement. “Why do they have to keep kissing?”

“Because it’s cute.”

Cute? What part of it was cute? From the outside it looked like they were about to eat each other’s skin. “It’s disgusting.”

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you Kenma, it’s—” Kuroo was cut off by faint vibrations, a sound trickling near the middle of his girlfriend's shorts. “Babe… is that your vibrator?” 

Okay. That crossed a line. Even your cheeks heated at that comment; something Kenma awkwardly took notice of. “Oh,” she said casually, reaching deep into her pocket. “It’s my roommate. She texted that she needs me.” 

The tension dispersed after that resolute; soft chuckles and relaxed postures echoing across the room. Even Kenma visibly eased, a quiet and relieved sound murmured under his breath — a string of thank yous uttered to the universe.

Kuroo’s girlfriend didn’t seem to mind the thirty seconds of embarrassment however, already stepping back toward the door while Tetsuro followed behind her with exaggerated reluctance, still complaining the entire way like he hadn’t just spent the last four hours attached to her face. And when the front door clicked not even ten minutes later, Kuroo stumbled in like he’d been personally betrayed by every higher being for getting cock blocked. 

Little did he know his anger should’ve been directed towards her roommates' need for support. That’s what he gets for dating a freshman. 

“You still up for the game?” you asked.

But Kuroo didn’t respond properly. Instead, he made it exactly three steps into the room before collapsing face-first onto Kenma’s air mattress with a dramatic groan. “I’m emotionally drained,” he declared. And within seconds, his voice softened into something incoherent, phone slipping from his hand as his breathing evened out. “Don’t do anything… fun… without me…” he mumbled, already half-asleep — just like that, he was out cold, sprawled across the blankets like the sole reason to be at Kenma’s was just to face fuck his girlfriend.

“I hate her.” 

Your palms pressed against the bed, pushing your torso sideways to get a better look at the setter next to you. His brow was raised, the edge of his lip downturned in pure repulse to the memories of displayed intimacy. “Huh. If I didn't know better, I take it you haven’t kissed anyone, Kozume.” 

“Huh?” His cheeks seared with red; something he tried, and failed, to hide with his hair. “That’s… not the reason why. Besides, I’ve kissed someone before.” The ends of his fingers pulled at the drawstring of his hoodie, fabric pooling around his wrists due to your blatant declaration. Kenma wasn’t embarrassed about his inexperience, that much was certain. But for you to just expose his personal information… like it was normal? Now that — that made him retreat.

“Only one?”

Kenma’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Stop acting like it’s odd or something.” 

“It’s not odd,” you added quickly. “It’s just… Kuroo, as uh we can see, is like always tongue deep in his girlfriend. I just thought maybe…” Your face warped promptly at your own thoughts. “Okay, don’t laugh. Just hear me out.” Kenma disregarded your comment entirely, chuckling lightly at the way your ears turned a soft shade of pink. “I just mean — he obviously thinks it's incredible. So I figured maybe he would’ve, I don’t know, dragged you onto a double date or tried getting you to kiss someone too.” 

“I would die if he did that.”

Yeah, honestly, it was a stupid notion. There was no way in hell Kozume would ever follow Kuroo's egregious plans. For fuck’s sake it took you months just to get him to talk to you in English class. Let alone sit near you. “Look, all I’m saying is if you kiss someone you’re close to, you’ll probably understand why Kuroo can’t stop putting his lips on another girl. You can’t disregard the whole making out just cause your first kiss sucked.” 

Kenma stared at you from beside the headboard, fingers still curled loosely around his hoodie strings. “Uh, and who would that be?” The room fell silent after that; the only noise coming from the forgotten game in the background, the characters voices incoherently reiterating the coded dialogue the developers inputted. And of course, Kuroo’s snores. “Do you have someone in mind?” 

Fuck. Now it was your turn to hide — head pushed to the right to keep your eyes peeled away  from the setter. Originally, there was no intention behind your comment. The declaration purely based on the notion of an unknown female. But you had to admit, it did sound like you meant yourself. And really, the more you thought about it, the more it made sense. If Kenma were to have a better kiss, the most plausible outcome would be with someone he knew. Someone he was comfortable with. “Why don’t you,” you paused, left hand coming up to press against your cheek. “Kiss me.”

“Oh.” His torso leaned forward, head tilted and hung low as he eyed your tense posture. “Okay.” 

Really, it was that easy?

Okay, no, this is good — you’ll just take the kiss… slow. You heaved your body upwards, feet tucked beneath you as you scooted closer to Kozume, the boy whose hips still slouched against the headboard as he watched with cautious eyes. And for a second, neither of you moved. The two of you just stared, fixated on each other as if this was some ridiculous side quest triggered by a stupid captain who couldn’t keep his mouth off his own girlfriend.  

But you’d be damned if you backed out now; especially with the way his attention had drawn on you, like the entire concept of affection had suddenly narrowed down to you specifically. And really, what kind of friend would you be if you didn’t let Kenma experience firsthand why people got so addicted to kissing in the first place? So, despite every echo of denial in your brain, you leaned forward, pressing the rounds of your lips against his. 

Kenma stilled; his eyes wide and body trembled with nerves (or was it anticipation?). Either way, his eyes eventually shut, his movements promptly following suit of yours — slow pace, no tongue. Just pure inexplicit intimacy. 

And for a while, just your mouths moved in tandem — until Kenma’s fingers innately sunk underneath the hem of your shirt, rough fingertips brushing against the skin of your waist. Honestly, he was better than you had imagined: His lips would consistently follow yours, head swiftly adjusting whenever you deemed it necessary to shift sides. Even his grip would unconsciously tighten when you moved away, hoodie sleeves bunched around his wrists while he tried tugging himself closer between every gasp for oxygen.

Really, you half expected the boy to deepen the kiss with the way he seemed so eager… until he pulled away, golden eyes peering at your flushed cheeks and pouted lips. Only, this Kozume seemed different than before. His pupils, which were now blown wide, looked almost half dazed, like his brain hadn't really caught up with what just ensued. 

Huh, maybe he just isn’t a fan of kissing in general. 

Nonetheless you still opened your mouth, prepared to ask the stunned setter if he could discern Kuroo’s reasoning now for such a public display of affection. But Kenma didn’t wait for the words to leave your mouth. Instead, he kissed you again: This time needier, sloppier, as if something in him had finally clicked to the idea of how much a turn on lips could be. A soft sound escaped your throat when his hands tightened around your waist, pulling you forward until your legs slid across either side of his lap. The sudden closeness dragged a shaky breath from both of you, mouths parting briefly just to breathe before reconnecting again. Even his hips ground upwards, the pure feeling of ecstasy just from kissing now prevalent in his own sweatpants. 

God, how did Kuroo do this everywhere? Did he truly have a boner each time and just hid it? 

Your fingers instinctively twisted into the fabric of his hoodie, tugging his torso forward until he had no choice but to switch positions; his frame now towered above your sprawled out body. Still, Kozume wasted no time in pushing his pelvis back against yours, grinding in slow, deliberate circles until a string of groans vibrated against your lips. 

Truthfully, it seemed as though the poor boy was utterly lost in bliss — the very same feeling his friend had for the past four hours. And now? Now Kenma was pissed; because why the fuck wasn’t he having a makeout session for half the day? 

But you didn’t mind the switch-up of your friend — the way he pressed eagerly against your shorts. Nor did you mind the string of saliva sealed against your neck every time he became too overwhelmed with kissing — the neurons of his brain not able to compute such a surge of hormones.

Frankly, Kenma was going to lose it. The way the hem of your underwear exposed itself from the constant tug and pull of his hips, the gasps you exuded from each push between your legs… Yeah, he wanted this to go farther. Who cares if Kuroo was in the same room. 

Honestly it was too bad girls didn’t just carry around their vibrator like Tetsuro assumed… eh, he could always just use his controller.

Honestly, it was probably a concerning sight for anyone passing by. Because from their perspective, it looked as though you were moments away from hurling… unfortunately, you weren’t that lucky: your glimpse of anguish destined to stay perpetual.

What was worse, though? You had spent the last ten minutes shifting into every awkward position imaginable, desperately hoping one of the odd stances would ease the agonizing throb clawing through your body. You tried bending forward, squatting, even sprawled out on the concrete below. Yet, none of it worked. The pain only grew, the sharp keen to your stomach worsening with each movement. 

“I’m tellin’ ya, I’m gonna be his next setter!” Atsumu’s voice was the first to echo off the pavement. And you fully meant to move, to stand upright and pretend that the knife dug into your lower stomach was nothing more than a scratch. But you couldn’t. Your body only shuddered with effort, cheeks red with warmth, soft whimpers trapped within your throat. “Oh god… ya look awful. What’s wrong with ya?” 

Your head tilted slightly, eyes peering toward the group gathered a few feet away: Four volleyball players stood frozen near the gym entrance — horror etched onto three of their faces. Kita, however, remained expressionless; his narrowed gaze dropped toward the hand you had pressed taut against the fabric of your skirt. 

“Y/n, did ya eat anythin’ today?” Osamu bent slightly at the waist, lips pulling into a small frown. 

“Not everythin’ revolves around food, Osamu.” Suna rebutted. 

“It does when people look like they’re about throwin’ up.” 

You grunted at their banter, a string of curse words etched into your mind at the imbecilic behavior you were faced with. Fuck… you should have just walked home earlier. “I’m not,” you groaned lightly, nose scrunched and breaths uneven. “Going to throw up.”

“Then what are ya doin’ on the floor like that?” Yeah. You’re going to punch Osamu. You shifted your body, brows pulled inwards as you prepared to shout at the moron stood nearby. But the moment you tried to lift yourself, another sharp ache ripped through your stomach, the sheer pain forcing you back against the brick wall. 

“Oh shit. Do we need to call somebody?! Is it appendicitis?!" Atsumu was fumbling with his phone, the sweat built on the pads of his digits swiftly allowing his cell to land on the walkway. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“No,” you groaned quickly, mortification burning throughout your veins. “I’m fine.”

The four of them stared at you. I mean, you were crouched against a wall, sweating through your uniform, and visibly trembling… clearly, nobody believed you.

Kita bent down, tucked knees pressed to his body as he tried to gain eye level with your curled frame. “Is it cramps?” 

And, unlike Atsumu’s panic or Osamu’s intensive questioning over food, his voice stayed… serene. As if this sort of menstrual dilemma was something he dealt with quite frequently (how cute). Still, that didn’t take away from the sheer embarrassment of his declaration. For fuck’s sake, might as well slap a sign on your forehead while he’s at it. “I, uh, um… yeah.” Your grip tightened over your stomach. 

Suna snorted, phone wrapped within his palm and pointed upwards at a reddened Atsumu. “Congrats. How do ya feel knowin’ ya yelled at a girl on her period?” 

“I didn’t know, okay?!” Atsumu puffed his cheeks out, hand swatted out to cover the lens of the unconventional recording Suna was about to store within his albums. “And can you stop recordin’ everythin’?! My mom sees that stuff!”

Osamu ignored the two delinquents entirely, eyes flickering back toward you. “Damn. Been hurtin’ long?”

You nodded. “All day.”

Kita’s expression hardened almost imperceptibly at your answer. “All day?” he repeated. “Why didn’t ya go home? Yer health is important.”

While you hated to admit it — Shinsuke was right. If you had half a mind, you would’ve gone home hours ago. You would’ve sunk into a bath, epsom salt soaked into your muscles while clean sheets and sweats laid neatly atop of your bed. But you were stubborn. And your attendance meant more than some clenched walls of your organ. 

“It’s usually not this bad, but—” you sucked in hard, eyes wide and a slight whimper trembling throughout your throat as another wave of battle erupted within your uterus. “Fuck.”

Honestly, it was a rare sight for them; witnessing how their friend doubled-over in such discomfort. Normally, you were one to brush these things off. Even Atsumu, who had detrimentally miscalculated his serve the other day and sent the ball crashing straight into your shoulder, remembered the way you’d only laughed through the sting while your skin reddened under the blow. 

So, seeing you like this now? They didn’t know what the fuck to do. 

Atsumu snatched his phone from the floor, the balls of his feet attempting to stay stationary to keep some feign sort of poise to the situation at hand; still, the nervous energy wasn’t hard to miss. Especially with how pitifully obvious it was to what he was doing — scrolling through a wiki-how tutorial about periods and pain management (such a fucking idiot). Even Osamu, who stood a few inches beside the other Miya, watched Atsumu’s fingers with deeply creased brows, irritation impending at how inept his own brother was. And if it wasn't for Suna, who kept to his recording, the tip of his phone shamelessly directed toward your hunched figure and twisted expression, Osamu probably would’ve smacked his twin. 

“Maybe don’t record y/n.”

Suna disregarded Osamu’s attempt to shut his videography down, torso leaned forward as his pinched fingers zoomed the camera closer. “Just documenting,” Suna responded. “In case this happens again, y’know?”

Atsumu parted his lips, prepared to back his brother up on this matter… but truthfully, Atsumu had become peculiarly grateful for it. At least now he could show his mom exactly why he’d assumed you were dying from appendicitis. 

You sucked in sharply, glossed over sclera’s directed at the boy who closely resembled a fox. “Suna, if you use me,” you whined briefly, eyes clamped down to keep a scream from tearing through you. “For research purposes. I will murder you. Trust.”

“Got it.” Suna lowered his phone.

“Reddit says to take otc pain meds,” Atsumu had his face glued to the glow of the screen; probably to hide the pink tint of his cheeks from the pure discomfort of the situation. The audacity — why the fuck was he uncomfortable? You were the one actively piling blood into your underwear right now. “And warmth? The fuck that gonna do for ya.”

“Maybe a bite of my Onigiri would help. Have ya eatin’? Ya never answered.” 

Oh. My. God. 

You were going to kill them. I mean, they were useless: pitifully incompetent. Of course you knew to take medicine, to use a heating pad, to eat small portions, to drink plenty of water. You’d had a period long before any of them decided to earn some stupid menstrual doctorate through Reddit and wiki-how tutorials. The real issue, however, seemed to fly directly over their heads. Where the fuck did they expect you to get any of those things… outside of the gym.

“I think ibuprofen is the best solution. Suna, ya got some?”

Suna huffed out a laugh, palms placed on the dips of his hips as he nodded towards the entrance. “Ya, genius. Lemme go grab that from a volleyball.” 

There was a moment of silence after Suna’s callout. Probably due to the realization of the group's shitty whereabouts. And you would’ve assumed that the brief stretch of quietude, something you grew grateful for, would’ve been a perfect opportunity for the boys to find a rational solution: grab the school's physical trainer, walk to the convenience store… hell, even help you up. But Atsumu found it in him to jest. “Ya know,” the piss blonde took a step forward, phone still grasped tightly in hand. “There is a way to get rid of periods… for like nine months.”

Honestly, his suggestion made your uterus reflex in disgust, pulsating a new wave of tightness that forced your body to lean further into the wall. But it seemed his twin thought the same as your muscular organ. “Why would ya joke like that right now?”

“Wait. Let him continue.” Suna’s thumb instinctively tapped the red button, camera angled above to capture Atsumu and his childish grin. 

“Well, biologically, if ya were to… y’know—”

You briefly shoved the pain aside, hoisting your torso upwards, eyes directed scrupulously at the setter. Maybe you should’ve yelled: Maybe you should’ve told him to shut the hell up and leave you alone. But, frankly, you were pissed. And if Atsumu wanted to joke — well, then you’d love to tag along. “You’d ruin our kids' genes.”

“Huh…” Atsumu’s grin settled downwards, a slight scrunch pinched at the bridge of his nose. “What does that mean?!”

Suna, whose phone still occupied his palm, swapped the camera between your huddled body and Atsumu’s widened eyes. “She’s got a point.” 

“Agreed.”

Atsumu let out an audible whine. “Why does everyone think I’m ugly?!”

Kita, of course, had stayed quiet through most of the unruly exchanges. While the Miya twins bickered and Suna filmed, he naturally… discerned. His irises followed your movements; the way your shoulders trembled inwards every fifteen seconds, how your fingers clenched taut against your school’s fabric in place of a whimper. Honestly, you’d nearly forgotten he was even there. Until he stepped forward; one large hand settled atop your abandoned backpack before he tugged the strap over his shoulder. “Save yer energy for walkin’,” he said. “Ya can come to mine. It’s closer than yer place.”

“Huh?” Your right brow angled upwards, trembled shoulders pulled back in an effort to make some sort of eye contact with the captain. “It’s okay. I’m fine, seriously. I can make it back to,” your tone wavered as another stabbing pulse disrupted your abdomen. “My house.”

Kita shook his head before one arm outstretched behind your back, the other hooking just below your knees, hoisting you up until your body firmly pressed against the hardness of his chest. Before you knew it, a startled inhale made its way down your throat, your palms intuitively dragging the bottom of your skirt down to keep the masses from witnessing the war in your underwear. 

For fuck’s sake — this was utterly humiliating. Sure, you and Kita had been friends for years. You’d seen each other through awful at-home haircuts, the horrid period of time where you only wore hoodies. He even witnessed first hand the day you laughed so hard you peed yourself. But this? Being carried bridal-style while actively withering away from cramps outside the volleyball gym? Yep. This was a brand new low. 

“Oh, c’mon,” Atsumu groaned from behind. “Kita’s genes?!” His head whipped between the two of you while Kita adjusted his hold slightly, still inscrutable towards the nonsense spilling from his teammate’s mouth. 

Osamu swatted his twin, earning a small whine from the yellow-haired boy. “Least her kids ain’t growin’ up to be idiots.”

But you couldn’t take it anymore. The countless waves of excruciating pain, the nonstop chatter, the horrifying realization that everyone around you had probably just mentally conjured a child born from you and Kita having sex. “Oh my god,” you groaned, dragging your hands over your face. “Just leave me here to die, will you? I don’t think I’ll recover from this.”

Before you knew it, a faint vibration rumbled against your cheek. Was Kita… laughing? No. That’s not possible — he hadn’t laughed in months. You peered through your digits, watching as the boy's lips twitched into a tiny smile, as if he was attempting to hold a rupture of howling back. “Ya bein’ dramatic,” his voice had lowered, words muttered in faint so that only you could bear witness to his next atrocious statement. “Ya got over peein’ yerself in front of the second grade class pretty fast. Ya can get over this.”

Your pupils dilated, a rose sheen glossed over the rounds of your apples as you dug your face deeper into your sweat soaked palms. “You’re,” and you wholeheartedly meant to finish that threat. But a whine erupted from your vocal chords, nails dug into your scalp to ease pain with pain. 

Kita’s chuckle promptly vanished after that, head swiveled to the side to say his goodbye’s. “Alright. We’re goin’ ahead.”

“Well, good luck.” Atsumu noted. 

Suna blinked, camera pointed back to the moron next to him. “Good luck with what?”

“I don’t fuckin’ know. Bein’ a girl?”

You had to admit; the silence that overcame the two of you was far better than the nonsense the Miya twins spilled out of convenience. Even the faint scent of grain and freshly dried towels surrounding him almost managed to dull the embarrassment still simmered within your mind.

Well… almost. Until corporeality came crashing back to existence the second another ruthless cramp tore through your abdomen. You hissed at the sudden twinge of your organ, hand pushing into your stomach as Kita drove his shoulder lower, toeing his shoes off at the entrance. “Sorry,” you mumbled, hands now palmed against his shoulder in an attempt to rid yourself from his grasp. But he disregarded your attempt entirely. “I can walk now.” 

“No, ya can’t.” With that, he pushed forwards, making his way towards the systematically fluffed and vacuumed couch, laying your limp frame against the folded blankets. Your fingers found their way to the cushion beneath, heaving your torso upwards to take in the familiar sight of his home. It was the same as it was two weeks ago; shoes aligned properly near the doorway, glossed floors from countless hours of hand mopping. And, of course, this week’s load of laundry strung orderly in the backyard. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.” 

Frankly, it wasn’t like you had much of a choice. The contracted muscle was nothing short of tortuous, not to mention exhausting. So, you resorted to flitting your head to the side, listening as the creak of cabinets were heard, faint splashes of water echoing against stainless steel. Before long, he returned with three small rust brown pills laid symmetrically within his right palm, a glass of water gripped right above. On the left hand remained a large item wrapped in a white towel. 

“I don’t have a proper heatin’ pad,” Kita draped the warmth over your lower stomach; something your body sunk right into. “But I had a water bottle. So I filled it up with hot water and created a reprieve to keep the heat under control.” He dropped the pills in your hand, eyeing as you gulped it down in one swallow — still, he wasn’t content with the situation. Shinsuke’s irises flickered between the hallway and the couch before settling on the tight fabric the school uniform displayed. “Ya can wear my sweats and hoodie.”

Okay, you needed to draw a line. Create some sort of distance between the innate caretaker within Kita. It was evident that the boy didn’t think much of it; his mind purely fixed on the logical solution of this predicament. But, to you? This felt way more intimate than necessary. You began with speaking his name, uttering the same syllables you always did, yet he was long gone. 

Fuck.

The next time you saw him, a pair of grey sweats and a dark hoodie was slung over his shoulder. “Ya know where the bathroom is. Or ya can use my room.” Bathroom — definitely bathroom. His room would be… you shook your head, burying the remainder of that thought to the depths of your hippocampus. Though, that ponder was the least of your worries. Because the pain meds hadn’t kicked in yet, and each drag of your body only sharpened the clamping of your organ. “Ya can change here. Less movement. I’ll help.” 

“No.” Your response was immediate. And, if it wasn’t for the heat creeping up to the rounds of your ears, you probably would’ve looked a lot more intimidating with your declaration. But he was right: your movements were limited. The most reasonable course of action would be to change here. But you’d be damned if he witnessed that. “I’ll change here. Just turn away.” Kita tilted his head, eyes blinking a few times before handing you his personal pairs of fabrics. Something you took with feigned ease, waiting until your friend turned his back before slipping his sweats underneath your skirt. 

Hah. See — easy. 

Your back leaned against the cushion, fingers unclasping each button of your uniform shirt with trembling reflexes. God, this was so awkward. For fuck’s sake Kita was only a few feet away. It wasn’t unreasonable to assume he could hear the ruffle of materials, taking note each time you undressed with shaky exhales. 

No — Stop: Focus on the hoodie. 

You slid your skin out from under the pressed button-down, replacing the cool breeze against your body with the warmth of soft fabric. The comfort was instantaneous; oversized hoodie swallowing your frame the second you tugged it over your head, sleeves drooping past your hands while the abiding scent of sun-dried cotton engulfed your surroundings. Frankly, if it wasn’t for the dull ache warping into something more unbearable, you could’ve melted from the relief of fabric alone. Your eyes squeezed shut as your hands tremulously grabbed at the hem of your skirt, aiming to tug it down over the sweatpants without bending too much. But a pathetic whimper escaped you before you could stop it; a clear signal to Shinsuke that you were, in fact, not doing okay.

Kita shifted his attention to your bent over torso, large hands brushing yours aside. “Lemme help.” And, too exhausted to argue, you let him. You allowed your grip to loosen while the captain tugged your skirt the rest of the way down, tossing it aside somewhere onto the floor. Honestly, at this point, you barely cared about dignity anymore. Not when your uterus currently felt determined to murder you from the inside out.

“Hmph… Kita,” He crouched in front of you, hands sprawled on your knees while he peered upwards, awaiting your next set of syllables. Truthfully, you wanted to inquire about removing your uterus; whine about how you wished someone could just reach up and tug the organ out of you to relieve such pressure. But he’d only tell you how impossible that was — so, you opted for the next best thing. “Can you push on my stomach?”

His brow perked, probably from the unfamiliarity of hearing such a request like that leave your mouth. Still, Kita didn’t question it. He shifted his positioning to the couch, cushions dipping beneath his weight as one large hand settled carefully against your lower abdomen, underneath the hoodie and makeshift heater. “Here?” he asked,

“Mm… lower.”

He obeyed, broad palm stretching lower across your skin before pressing down, thumb moving in small, firm circles. A shiver radiated throughout your veins: The warmth from his hand, the slow pressure, the inordinate clothes, the blanket… you couldn’t help but allow your eyelids to grow heavy. 

Shinsuke noted the change in your demeanor instantly (Of course he did). And what better way to help out his friend than to reposition? One of his hands remained secure against your stomach, the other moving behind your shoulders, gently guiding your weight sideways with him until both of you sank deeper into the couch cushions. Kita, whose spine was pressed taut against the back of the furniture, urged your body closer, allowing one of your legs to entangle between both of his. Honestly, with the new proximity, you half-expected the poor boy to reek of sweat and leather. Instead, his uniform seemed to be saturated with fresh soap and disinfectant (damn, how much did this boy clean?). 

“You know,” your hand lazily snaked its way over his, feeling the way each of his tendons tightened with every press to your abdomen. “You’re really… good at this. Caretaking.”

A quiet huff of amusement vibrated against your body. “I’ve got younger cousins,” he explained. “Used to help when they got sick. Also, ya know… my grandma; been needin’ more help lately. ”

“How is Yumie doing?” You winced at another wave of affliction towards your organ, something Kita reacted promptly to, digging his thumb deeper until your bottom lip stopped its trembles. “I haven’t seen her in a few weeks. Is she around?”

“She’s visitin’ Nakamura-san with my brother. She should be back soon, though.” You hummed in response, a slight tug to the ends of your lips at the notion of seeing precious Yumie again. Honestly, you adored his grandmother. She was warm in the same quiet way Kita was — blunt with her words, but gentle nonetheless. “Ya can stay for dinner too,” Kita continued, voice dulcet as his hand continued its slow circles against your stomach. “She’d like that. I’m cookin’ Tamago porridge.”

God, did he even realize how unfairly sweet he was? 

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was the way his clothes draped your frame and the warmth of his hand eased your suffering. Regardless, your brain wasn’t exactly equipped to filter your thoughts before they left your mouth. “Whoever ends up with you, they’re going to be so lucky.”

Kita’s fingers twitched, the slow movement of his hand faltering for the briefest second against your stomach before continuing again. “Ya think so?”

“Yeah,” your head pushed underneath his chin, slurred words mushed together as you tried your hardest to spill each fleeting thought before exhaustion dragged you under. “I know people seem to straighten up around you. Probably because you’re so blunt. But it always baffles me… you're such a softie, Kita.” Had you looked up, you probably would’ve noticed the way Kita’s expression softened; the way his gaze lingered on the top of your head with longing. “You remember. You take care of everyone,” your voice gradually dissolved into incoherent murmurs, thoughts trailing apart faster than your mind could keep up with. “Oh, and so organized… and…” 

Kita pushed his head upwards, observing as your chest steadily rose with each drag of breath. And, for a while, he stayed like that — thumb circling your skin, irises fixed on your slumber. “Who says I want ‘whoever’?”

Satoru Gojo

Really, you had never meant to take it this far. There was no initial attraction, no butterflies — just pure vexation. Hell, there was no room for adoration when his mouth was like a constant motor, running every second you spent together. And yet, his strings of syllables never meant anything; no substance, no thought. Just ego wrapped in sarcasm.

Sure, he was the strongest sorcerer in modern time, but that didn’t mean he had to act like a complete fucking imbecile. 

So, when Yaga sent the two of you on a mission together, you nearly cursed the entire fucking school. It was a jab — you knew it was. Your stubborn refusal to be taken under his wing had clearly gotten under Yaga’s skin, and this was his retaliation. The only way he knew how to punish you was to shove you into despair. And apparently that meant a week-long mission with Gojo… alone. 

Maybe then you’d reconsider his offer. 

Truthfully, the first few days were brutal. Satoru had inherently decided that his primary objective on this mission was not the cursed spirits, but getting under your skin. His voice, which was, of course, still neverending, doubled in commentary. Endless statements soaked in self-conceit, every sentence dripping with sarcasm that made you want to shove him off the nearest rooftop. And whenever a cursed spirit appeared, he made a point of stepping in first, shoulders tautly pulled back as if this was some sort of warm-up for him.

It was obvious, the way Gojo minimized your use — that somehow, you had landed on his radar as deadweight. As if letting you handle combat would drag down the great, untouchable, Satoru Gojo from his high-ass pedestal. It was fucking infuriating. And you swore that the moment the mission was over, you’d hit the sensei where he’d least expect it, wiping that smug grin clear off his face. 

But then things got weird. 

Three days into the mission, you had noticed the usual egotistical comments had started to fade (well, not completely, this was still Gojo we’re talking about). But the consistent stream of nonsense slowed to something more… comprehensible. Even his objections to your participation would falter, allowing you to tackle fights alone. And all he’d do is sit-back, snarky remarks held within on how inept you were at a skill he had already mastered. 

Just sheer observation.  

Except, the strangest part of it all? At night, when the two of you collapsed into whatever mediocre hotel Yaga paid for, his Infinity wasn’t active. You noticed it the fifth evening: His finger had brushed yours by accident, the shock of his touch written clear across the crease of your brows. 

Usually, he was distant. It was evident in any room he sauntered into; tall figure tucked neatly in corners, arms crossed, blindfold pressed to his eyes. But now? Now it seemed as though his isolation tendency had cracked, a sliver of a moment to feel the gentle touch of another human being. 

And you half expected him to turn it back on before he fell asleep. There was no way in hell the strongest sorcerer would let his guard down in the midst of a mission, away from the barriers of Tengen. But he didn’t. All he did was spin around the chair, eyes glued to his phone as he stalked Itadori’s instagram (him and Nobara were definitely causing Megumi a headache). 

“Okay,” you pushed your torso upwards from the floor you flopped upon, irises directed at the white-haired sorcerer. “What gives?” 

He tilted his head, fingers prodded under his blindfold. “What do you mean?” 

“Your energy… or infinity — whatever. Why is it off?” 

He tilted the fabric downwards, glancing up over the rim, pale blue eyes flicking toward you. For once, he didn’t immediately respond with something stupid. Instead, he hummed quietly, rocking the chair once before answering. “I usually do assignments alone,” he started. “But you don’t seem to take much care in that, do you?” 

You scoffed at that. Of course you didn’t. “Duh. What the hell would I do if you were gone? Look, leaning on someone’s back isn’t going to make anyone better. And I don’t plan on dying before thirty just because I let you do all the work.” 

What you said made sense: it was the forefront for resilience. Sure, a lower rank sorcerer could count on Gojo to swoop in and save the day from time to time. But when he’s gone? When there is no Satoru to level the playing field — what next? Which was why you half expected him to agree. Or at least feel some sort of relief that he didn’t have to carry such weight of your reliance. 

Yet his next words were unexpected; and honestly, you wished he had kept it to himself. “Do you like me?” 

How could you even respond? No, you didn’t like him. In fact, you loathed him. Acquaintance, friendship, lovers… they all sounded repulsive to you. “What do you mean?” 

“Do you like me?” He ignored your question, opting to repeat his initial query. “Or are you tolerating me because of Yaga?” 

“Uh,” you hesitated, head dipped low in subtle shame. There was no point in lying, he’d spot it from a mile away. So, you deflected. “Why are you asking this?”

He locked the screen of his phone, placing it face-down on the wooden counter near the chair. His shoulders leaned forward, nose rumpled in the usual puzzled expression he wears whenever Yuji asks a strange inquiry. “Hypothetically,” he started. “If I wasn’t the strongest. Would you like me?” 

“I think I’d like you more if you weren’t.”

Silence followed. And Gojo took the opportunity to sink further in his mind, debating internally if his next question would send you into a blaze of fury out of pure embarrassment. Or if you’d be flattered. 

He opted for the latter. 

“Okay, serious question now.” Your brows perked at that, a small shudder radiating throughout your body. Because if his last question wasn’t serious? What the fuck would this be? “If I kissed you… would you be flattered or should I prepare for Yaga to kill me?” 

Really, you should’ve left it at that. Your mouth, which was straightened into a flat line, should have never replied. Because here you were, an hour later, legs spread wide with Gojo’s tongue swiping stripes against your folds. 

“I didn’t know it tasted so… good — fuck.” His words were muffled, vibrations against your cunt sending shock waves up your spine. But you could hear him; could discern the apparent praise his voice conjured up. And you loved it. 

Your hands instinctively entangled themselves into his disheveled hair, the blindfold he was once wearing draped neatly across your stomach. And his tongue, which was previously in slow rhythm, delved deep within your walls. It was obvious Gojo was aching for more, the sweet slick that dripped down his chin and your inner thighs wasn’t enough to satisfy the hunger he unexpectedly acquired. 

Satoru needed your body — and all of it. 

His thumb replaced the vacancy of his previous warmth, rubbing tight, neat circles against your clit. A gasp slipped your mouth, back arched off the bed while your legs wrapped around his shoulders. Truthfully, you probably could’ve ascended right then and there. “Shit,” you whined, teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. “For a virgin, hmphh, you’re — you’re great… at this.” Now that changed his demeanor. 

The sensei’s usual playful grin morphed into a simper, the pad of his middle digit rubbing harder against your delicate bundle of nerves. You gasped; both hands clamped down against his scalp. Fuck, for someone who claimed to be so inexperienced, he sure was good. 

Perhaps it was because of porn — the stretch of years he spent alone, hand wrapped around his length as he observed the explicit acts of strangers. Or, maybe it was due to his incessant curiosity of anatomy, the intrigue over how a single touch could turn the most skilled of people into mush. Most likely, though? Suguru. It was widely noted amongst the staff that his old buddy was a player; his ventures must have been a primary topic of discussion when the two would hang out. 

Either way, Gojo had become an expert in this field, even if he was a virgin. And all that mattered to him was seeing you falter, writhing beneath him as he watched stars speckle at the corners of your eyes. Because that would mean respect; a clear sign that you did need him. Just like everybody else. 

“Satoru… I’m, fuck,” your head snapped backwards, irises rolled to the tops of your lids, jaw hung agape due to the consistent frays rounding at your once tightened knot. “Don’t stop.” And, really, he would’ve listened. But this was the first time he was going to witness someone’s orgasm up close and personal — especially from his own doing. So, he wanted to watch; wanted to gaze down at the warped reactions of pain and pleasure. 

His finger pulled away, head tugged backwards until his torso towered over your reclined body. “Sorry,” but his apology was useless. The throb between your legs had doubled in pace since the moment he suggested these acts. And your face showed it; the pale pink of warmth coating the rounds of your cheeks, widened eyes begging up at the blonde to resist his urge of teasing. “I just, I really need to watch you.” His fingers made their way to his belt, unclasping the hook, dragging the zipper down until he was left in nothing but his underwear and opened shirt. 

And fuck was the outline big: just pressed to his hips it looked like nine inches. You shifted your weight onto your elbows, peering up at the dazed sorcerer while he fumbled with the last bit of fabric, finally allowing the reddened tip of his dick to breathe. Honestly, it seemed almost painful, how aroused he was. 

His palm positioned itself around the base, pumping just a few times until his thigh twitched, chest hovered over yours. “Shit,” he lined himself up, swiping the plump of his head against your slick. “Oh my god you’re fucking wet.” He moved his hips, and each time he caught, briefly, near your entrance, you released all withholding air from your lungs. “Comforting to know I’m not the only one feeling fucking wrecked right now.” 

“Shut — nghh,” Your previous rebuttal to his tactless joke was briskly silenced; pupils dilated and stomach twitching the moment he slid within your walls. And poor Gojo couldn’t help but let out a strangled moan. His head dipped forward, strands of blonde hair brushed against your cheek as he set a slow, agonizing pace, allowing his length to ease its way in deep. 

Now this — this was what Satoru craved. Watching as your lips formed a loose ‘o’, glossed over eyes peering into the rounds of his icy blue irises. To him, it looked like you believed he held the world in his hands — that every ounce of your desire rested on him, and him alone. “Tell me, fuck,” he paused, jaw tightened as he felt the tissue of your walls clamp around his cock. “That you need me.” Your lashes fluttered, squelches of wetness filling the silence as he maintained a devastatingly steady pace. “Please.” His usual ego had dulled, his voice slipping into something higher in pitch.

Did Satoru Gojo just… whine? 

His calloused palms, which previously occupied the dip in your waist, moved languidly to your hips, fingers pressing feverishly into the supple of your skin. “I,” you didn’t even have time to finish your sentence before the sensei whimpered, face buried in the crook of your neck. “Need you.” You shouldn’t have said that — shouldn’t have fed into Gojo’s need for your approval like it was something only you could give. But… how were you supposed to refuse? Satoru was unraveling in front of you, a breathy, pleading mess — and for some reason, the way he wanted you, so completely, made something warm flourish in your abdomen.  

Gojo pulled back just enough to look at you, cheeks flushed and uneven with heat, lashes damp as his forehead glistened faintly under the light. His stare lingered on you like he was trying, and failing, to steady himself. “You, oh my god,” His hips stuttered, momentum breaking as his torso pushed up slightly, abs tightening with the movement. He shifted his hands to your thighs, guiding your legs higher, drawing your knees closer to your chest until he was able to watch the way your pussy clenched around him; how his dick disappeared inch by inch until his skin slapped against yours.

Yeah, he needed to spit this out — he was not going to last. 

“You don’t get it, I like you, I really — fuck,” he stilled, core taut as he tried to hold back the impending sense of ecstasy. “And I didn’t mean for this to happen, I swear, I just,” his brows pulled inwards, thumb moving closer to the swell of your clit. “I need you to… need me.” His thrusts picked back up, finger moving in tight neat circles with the help of your slick. 

And frankly, you didn’t understand. How could you? Sure, Gojo had a tendency to delve into flirtation with you, but it never felt… real. All his fibbed efforts bordered background noise more than anything else — especially anything worth holding onto. I mean, half the time you drowned his words out entirely, because they never really carried any weight.

But here he was now: Completely and utterly undone by you. “You always — fuck… ignore me,” his paced slowed, teeth gnawed against the side of his cheek as he observed the thick white film ringed around his cock. “So I try to show you how reliable I am, and…” His eyes darted upwards, locking onto your glazed over sclera. “Oh my fucking god.” He couldn’t do it; couldn’t even look you in the eyes. Because here you were, the girl he had pined after all these months, sucking him in and begging him to let you cum with just a glint of supplication in the rounds of your irises. “I’ll behave better, I swear.” Satoru couldn’t keep a coherent sentence anymore, meanings and statements bouncing between every thought before it could finalize.  

Even his voice broke around the edges, softer than anything you’d ever heard from him — like the confidence he wore so easily had finally slipped through his fingers. And you didn’t know what came over you.

Maybe it was the way everything felt too intense, too overwhelming in the best way. Maybe it was the rarity of seeing Gojo like this — whiny, breathless, unguarded. Or, maybe, it was the way he looked at you, like he’d been holding himself back for far too long and was finally losing the fight. Either way, your chest tightened, vision blurred at the edges. And before you could stop it, your eyes prickled, tears slipping free without reason.

Shit — how had you been so blind? So completely, painfully unaware. But then it hit you, the guilt gnawing deep within your veins, blotches of red spotting across your collar bones: All you could do was picture every offhand comment you’d thrown at him, every eye roll, every moment you brushed him off like he was nothing more than a parasite. And through all of it… he had still tried. Satoru Gojo, the strongest, had been chasing something as simple as your approval.

And you shut him down every time.

You called him obnoxious, avoided him in the halls, focused on his students instead of him, even when you knew he was speaking to you. You had made it completely and unmistakingly clear — he didn’t matter. And he never would.

“Satoru.” He didn’t move. His gaze stayed averted, fixed somewhere on your hip, like meeting your eyes was suddenly the hardest thing in the world. “Look at me.” There was a flicker of hesitation, as if he was debating whether he even wanted to. But eventually, he did. His lids opened up, brows directed inwards. “Harder.”

It was a simple comment; one that, to many, would hold no meaning. To Gojo, though? He understood. Which was why the second most embarrassing thing in his life happened… He came. Instantly. The base of his cock stayed buried to the hilt, thighs stuttering as if he was trying to hold on to some resemblance of dignity. But he couldn’t withhold the whimpers, the pure pitch of his moans while he spilled deep inside, feeling the way the warmth of his overflooded seed leaked on top of the dip of his balls. 

“Oh fuck, I’m so sorry.”

Choso Kamo

It was true — you had a thing for your best friend’s brother. And honestly, it wasn’t subtle: He was older, taller, built in a way that made it hard not to just whine from desire. And, unfortunately for you, it seemed like he knew it; every glance caught between the two of you lingered, the quietude between your bodies stretched thin with something unwavering — something unspoken.

Which was why Choso was… a problem. Because this was uncharted territory — dangerous territory. And you weren’t about to cross that line, not when it meant risking someone like Yuji Itadori: the one person that accepted you for who you were. He was your best friend. Really, your only friend. And what kind of person would you be if you went behind his back like that?

God, the thought alone made you want to spew vomit all over the carpet. 

So, you kept your distance. You ignored every time Choso invited you and Yuji to his room to watch a movie, brushing it off with some weak excuse. You avoided tarrying too long when the two of you ended up alone, like in the kitchen during those late nights you spent gaming with Yuji. So, when it did happen, when you did find yourself isolated with him, you were always quick to leave, conjuring up some insipid idea as to why you had to exit.

To Choso, you were always in a rush, always needing to be somewhere else… even if that wasn’t the case. Even if the real reason was the fact that you couldn’t trust yourself; couldn’t certitude that you’d keep from falling into temptation and confessing. 

And it was going so well — your running… But you should’ve known you couldn’t avoid him forever. 

It was late, you knew that. Which was exactly why you’d come prepared: A small overnight bag sat by the couch, stuffed with your pajamas and whatever else you’d need to crash at Itadori’s place. He’d insisted — something about a must-watch movie he’d rented, some ridiculous title like Human Earthworm 3 that you were already questioning.

Still, you came. Because it was Yuji… and saying no to him was never really your strong suit.

So, here you were, slumped on the counter of the kitchen island, cabinet doors half-open as you scanned for anything remotely snack-worthy. Yet, just as you had assumed, there was nothing (such a boy). Which is precisely why Yuji had run out to the nearest convenience store, leaving you utterly unattended in the consternation of his apartment as he acquired the necessary food.

Normally you wouldn’t have been caught dead in such a public area of Yuji’s home; the notion of running into Choso a constant perturbation. But his brother was supposedly at Jujutsu High tonight — some kind of late briefing with Yuki.

And, really, that was good. It gave you a breather, a single moment of comfort that you could relish in with Itadori. But you couldn’t help it, your mind had decidedly taken the path of covetousness. You pictured the way he’d stand beside her, listening, maybe talking in that low, inviting voice of his that always made your core ache with desire. 

It shouldn’t have bothered you. It really, really shouldn’t have. And yet, there was something keen dug deep between your lungs every time the thought surfaced. You huffed quietly, propping your weight onto both your palms. “This is good,” you muttered, eyes fixed onto the hinges of the chipped cabinet. “Super good.” Because maybe this was exactly what you needed. Maybe seeing him with someone else; someone older, more experienced, would finally knock some sense into you.

“What’s good?” 

No. No, that voice was not supposed to be here.

Your breath snagged, eyes wide, still staring at the metal hinge like it was the only thing keeping you from heaving at this ghastly moment. But you knew, eventually, you’d have to at least turn to look at him. Because backing away without a single glance would just make you look like an idiot. So, you swiveled your head, peering at the tall figure leaned against the frame of the entrance. His face remained expressionless, except for the faint crease between his brows — tenuous, but enough to tell you he was thinking, probably trying to piece together why you were in their kitchen at such a late hour. “Yuji said you had a briefing,” you mentioned. “With Yuki.” 

“It ended early.” That was it? No elaboration? No, I finished having sex so I wanted to come home? (yeah, you’re delusional they were not having sex). “Why are you here?” His eyes drifted towards the couch, to your strewn pajamas and emptied duffel bag. And for a slight moment, you could’ve sworn you saw his face tauten. 

“Yuji invited me over. We’re just watching a movie.” He grunted in response, stepping a few paces forward. It wasn’t much, the space between still inviolable. Still, your guard stayed up, your body innately sent into its usual panic: leaned torso, hands already bracing like you were about to hop off the counter and escape the situation entirely. “Uh, Yuji, he isn’t… um, here right now,” your sentences were full of fillers, words tripping over themselves to find some other weak excuse to part ways. “He went to grab snacks. I was just checking what we needed… but I should really go set up the movie before he gets back.” 

And you fully planned to make haste, keep the barrier between the two of you as you awaited your dear friend’s arrival. But Choso seemed to have other plans. His body tugged towards the left, his broad frame blocking the only exit from the shared corridor. And just like that, you were stuck, thrust into the one circumstance you had so promptly tried to avoid. 

“Stop.” Choso’s voice didn’t fluctuate — not a single shred of rise to his tone. Because, really, he didn’t need to. His large figure spoke for him; body stationed, relaxed shoulders, pupils fixed on you as if you were some sort of flee risk (technically you were). 

You swallowed, the beat of your heart quickening in panic. You were so fucked. “Choso, I just said I need to—” 

“You don’t.” The interruption was immediate. And, that — that was new. He stayed still, palms pressed against his legs as he watched the way your forehead wrinkled in incredulity. It was almost unfair, how at ease he was in this situation. “You keep doing this.”

Your brows pulled together. “Doing what?”

“Making excuses to be away from me.”

Your grip tightened faintly at your sides. “That’s not what I’m doing.” But your words came out frailer than you intended. Because it was a lie. An utter fib, and he noted it immediately. 

His tongue dragged across his lower lip; jaw shifted in thought. “It is.” He tilted his head faintly, eyes glazed over as if he was deep in thought — like he was trying to understand your declaration, but it wasn’t quite making sense. “You’re fine when it’s Yuji,” he said. “You don’t make excuses with him.” His right foot pushed forward, towering frame leaning closer to your body. “But when it’s me,” he continued. “You’re always in a rush.”

You opened your mouth, fully prepared to summon another miserable justification to your lack of proximity. Yet, there was nothing. No spew of syllables that Choso could find remotely believable. 

“You like him. Don’t you?” Your mouth hung agape, searing red painted across the rounds of your cheeks. “You must feel awkward with me. Don’t want him to think you like me. I get it.” 

Oh god, he couldn’t be farther from the truth. “Choso, that’s not, I mean,” you were stuttering, trying to find some sort of explanation to prove just how wrong he was without disclosing your fondness of the boy in front of you. “I don’t like Yuji. He’s just a friend.” 

“Oh.” His brows tugged inwards, nose crinkled, pointer finger braced under his chin as he went back into the depths of his mind. “Do you like me?”

Okay, now he’s just playing guess which brother you like.

“That’s a very personal question.” Your face directed back towards the cabinets, hoping that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t see the beat of your pulse on the right side of your neck. Nor would he be able to see the way your breath became a little more shaky with each exhale. “Why does it matter?”

“So, you do.” 

Yep, you forgot how much you loathed his bluntness. “Choso.”

After that, the conversation had become a blur. Because now, your sole focus had become Choso’s body and the way it fit so neatly between your legs, pants pulled down to his lower thigh, pink tip leaking with pre-cum as he eyed the way your pussy spread so obediently in front of him. 

Really, you had no idea how the string of statements had led to this. One minute you were purely embarrassed he had guessed your secret, and the next his lips were glued to your neck, tongue dragging against the supple of your skin until it formed goosebumps along your shoulders. 

And now here you were; his thumb swiping over his head, soaking his digit in his own slick before he placed it against your folds, rubbing small circles against your entrance. “Choso.” Your teeth clenched at the sudden touch, back arched in rapture, palms braced over his Trapezius muscles to keep some sense of composure. “That feels… oh my god.” Kamo grunted in response, his abdomen twitching just faintly to the sound of your pitched moan.  

“You sound cute. Whimpering like that.” Oh fuck — you needed to look away. Needed to hide the way your cheeks turned torrid at the sudden praise. “Do it again, y/n.” And just like before, his calloused finger circled, dipping ever so slightly into the confines of your walls until he felt the clench of your muscles. You whined in response, forehead pressed against his chest: God, just his digit felt fucking amazing. 

Which is why your knees spread further for the older brother — hips buckled upwards, the desire of your body trying its hardest to keep Kamo’s finger within your walls, urging his movements to continue. He groaned in acknowledgment, hand moving in tandem with your hips, the ends of the middle digit curling ever so slightly until he heard another gasp slip your mouth. 

“Damn. You feel so soft.” Choso noted. And only then did he begin to thrust his hips forward, the underside of his length rubbing languidly against your inner thigh to create some sort of friction. 

Honestly, you were surprised Choso had taken to such patience — his body seemed to shiver with each drag of his finger, cock jumping to your whimpers. Even his once pink tip had reddened in agony, pre-cum oozing until most of your skin was coated. “Choso,” his eyes dragged upwards, locking onto yours. “You know… you can just, fuck me.” 

He whined at your abrupt sense of confidence. “You sure?” You nodded at the older boy, and that was all the confirmation he needed, plunging his tip into the grooves of your tissue. “Oh… oh, shit.” Kamo’s hip stuttered at the abrupt tug of your cunt; both hands gripped against the plump of your ass until your doughy skin seeped through the gaps of his fingers. “Why…” Poor Choso had to pause, had to press his tongue against his cheek to keep his breaths a little more steady. “Why didn’t you just, mmmhh, tell me you liked me?” 

It was an undemanding query; one that, really, didn’t require much brain power. Yet, here you were, pupils glazed in panic and mouth parted in breathless pleas. Because now you remembered where you were… and what you were doing. “Yuji,” you began. “What if Yuji walks in?” 

“Y/n, please don’t speak my brother’s name,” his canines latched to his bottom lip, a slight whimper escaping his throat as he felt his cock hit the spongy pattern of your tissue. “Fuck,” Choso’s head lowered against your shoulder, teeth releasing its previous victim to grip onto the nape of your neck for some sort of temporary relief to the ecstasy that threatened to wash over. “While im inside you.” 

Yeah, maybe that wasn’t the best move.

Your palm grazed over the round of his shoulder. “Why… nghhh, didn’t you ever confess?” Now it was his turn to be placed in the hot seat. And fuck, were you fully prepared to watch this stoic man hesitate; observe how his eyelids twitch and jaw slack to the sudden reversal of roles. Yet, Kamo’s hips didn’t falter. The slow thrusts still as agonizing as ever. 

“I thought you liked,” he hesitated, clearly opting to keep his brother’s name from being spilled during this carnal activity. “I didn’t want to get in the way. Even if I had to put my feelings aside.” His cock slid another few inches within your walls, breathy moans broken between the both of you until he came to a precipitous halt. You whined at the fullness, legs moving to wrap around the width of his waist to urge him to move. To create more friction — because the last thing you wanted was to cum just by cock warming (yeah, you’d rather Itadori walk in then risk that embarrassment). Yet, he didn’t budge. “Part of me though… fuck… just couldn’t let you keep staying away. That’s why I kept trying to at least get both of you to hang with me.” Choso lifted his eyes, blown out pupils locked onto yours. “But you always said no.” 

You watched as the whites of his eyes glistened; somber expression etched into the way his bottom lip trembled. Oh god, Choso was about to cry. And all because of you. Because of your stupid need to preserve everything around you. I mean, you were such an idiot — you had spent so long panicking over Yuji’s feelings, so terrified of ruining something important, that you never once stopped to think about what your constant rejection was doing to Choso instead. 

“I was afraid,” your fingers slipped from the curve of his back, nails lightly dragging between his lungs with each uneven breath that spilled from his body. “I was afraid if we spent time together I’d do something stupid. I’d confess. You’d reject me and…” You blinked rapidly; body inherently trying to rid itself of the sting that began to build. “I’d end up just losing both of you.” 

Choso’s grip tightened around your ass after your confession, tugging your body forward until you stationed yourself closer to the edge of the counter. “I like you, y/n.” His forehead neared yours, hips languorously moving again. “Why else would I… shit, voluntarily watch you and Yuji be so close just to hang out with you?” 

Yeah, that did you in. The tears slipped free before you could stop them, warm and ignominious as they dragged down your cheeks. You squeezed your eyes shut immediately, like somehow that’d save you from the humiliation of completely falling apart in front of him. But Choso didn’t tug his body away. Didn’t even look at you with an odd expression, as if he was perturbed by the way you responded. Instead, his lips connected with the corner of your eyes, soaking up each salty sob before it dropped. 

“Kamo,” he huffed at your use of his last name. “Keep going.” 

His body moved with ease to your statement, hips picking up speed until his balls were slapping sharply against the curve of your ass. But what was worse? The way his left leg shifted to the right, the curve in his tip pummeling against the gooey spot that soaked the space between y’alls skin. 

“I’m gonna,” your head rolled back, soft whimpers escaping with each drag of his cock. “Cum… fuck.”

His thighs stuttered, grip continuing to tighten until you were sure there would be bruises the next day. “Shit. Say it again.”

“I’m gonna cum.” 

He whined at your obedience, body arched forward, hips carelessly losing its rhythm until you shuddered beneath him. Only then did he follow, whimpers lodged in his throat as his warmth filled your insides. And it was clear as day, the activity unfolded within the kitchen, mixed releases seeping below until a string of slick dripped down the island. 

“Can I watch the movie with you guys?”

Because two boys, who appeared older (not to mention louder), were dragging a long white net across the floor, stretching it right through the space you’d claimed as your own for the past few weeks. And honestly, the scrape of it against the worn down scooters made something ache in your chest. 

Maybe it was because your once predictable atmosphere had turned incalculable. Maybe it was because you couldn’t fathom how the gym teacher would allow such preposterous energy to enter this space during your quiet time. Or maybe it was because you were wholeheartedly, unexpectedly, thrown into a lion’s den; mind racing with possible conversations the two boys could conjure up. 

I mean, of all days for someone to take over your spot. Of all people for Mr. Nakamura to say yes to. You were irritated; Infuriated, even. So rightfully vexed that you were preparing yourself to turn around, maybe even say something — something dismissive, something that would make it clear the situation irked you. 

Until one of them looked up.

His short hair was a mess, eyes narrowed in concentration as if the world around him didn’t matter as much as the unfolded net. There was something almost stubborn in his expression. A flicker of indignation that gleamed in the rounds of his eyes. 

And just like that, the irritation fizzled out as quickly as it had come, replaced by something far worse — heat creeping up your legs, blood quickening through your veins. 

He was cute.

“Hey!” You flinched at the sudden outburst, irises glancing over to his friend. It was odd, the way they differed so distinctly from each other. The taller one was clean-cut; an innocent smile glued to his face. There were no narrowed brows, no sense of exasperation. Just a young boy oozing with confidence. “Think you can toss some balls for us?”

Your heart jumped at the query — shit, this wasn’t part of your scenarios. Not once did you anticipate that they’d ask you to join. But rehearsed or not, it didn’t matter. Because that meant staying. That meant being closer… and maybe, just maybe, the cute boy would look at you again. 

But then the voices echoed. The cynical notions that would always find a way to etch itself into the grooves of your brain, replaying at a constant rate until every pragmatic counter argument became nothing but fibs: What if you messed up? What if your throw was awful? What if you embarrassed yourself? What if he noticed — and not in a good way?

Your throat tightened. “I—” Yet nothing came out. All that remained was the suffocating silence and utter confusion written on both of their faces. 

So, you did the only thing you could at eight years old: You turned on your heel and bolted. And by the time you made it outside, your vision had blurred, tears slipping out before you could stop them — frustration and embarrassment were the sole embodiments of your existence. I mean, why did something so small feel so overwhelming?

All you could discern was the fact that you hadn’t even learned his name. And next time — next time you weren’t going to freeze up. In fact, you’d never let a situation like that cause such panic ever again. 

Which was why the second time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were different. You had spent the past nine years of your life forcing yourself to talk more, smile more, throw yourself into conversations before doubt could catch up. And it worked, mostly. 

At least, until he appeared again. 

You were mid-conversation, attention narrowed entirely on the blonde in front of you — the one currently rambling about the science project you’d just been paired on. Normally, you wouldn’t have given such undivided attention to a mundane conversation. But he was cute. And you’d be damned if you got another A- in this course. 

“I was thinking we could do reaction times,” Haru continued, completely unaware of the advantage he had just by existing the way he did — longer strides, effortless pacing. You noticed it immediately, the way you had to step forward, then quicken, just to stay beside him. “Like, testing how different stimuli affect reflex speed. It’d be fun. There’s a ton we could do with that!” 

You nodded, keeping pace as best as you could. “I agree.” 

“Oh good! I knew choosing you as a partner would be a good idea…” You didn’t notice the chair. Nor did he. At least, not until your shin collided with cold metal; the impact sent a sharp jolt up your leg, your balance pitching forward before you could catch it, allowing a sliver of moment to let your head collide with the edge of a table. The pain was instantaneous; a flourish of heat ruminating the left hemisphere of your forehead. 

“Oh fuck, are you alright?” You tilted your head upwards, vision spotting at the edges as you forced your eyes open… Oh. Weird. This guy’s hair looked so similar to the same unruly mess you took note of in 2nd grade. “I’m so sorry,” he was already crouching beside you, voice tight in a way that didn’t quite sync with his otherwise steady movements.  “I should’ve made Lazykawa push his stupid ass chair back in.” His hands came up without hesitation, steady and warm as they framed the base of your neck, tilting your head just enough to check you over. Haru hovered somewhere beside him, still mid-panic. 

But it was too much: The noise. The neverending cycle of murmurs building around you, the sharp inhales, the shifting bodies, the way attention became positioned at every angle. You wanted it to go away. You wanted this whole ordeal to be a forgotten memory. So, you braced your palm against the boy’s shoulder, pushing just slightly to give cue of your pending sense of rise. “I’m,” your first word was hoarse, a hint of agony still laced deep in your throat no matter how hard you tried to smooth it over. “I’m okay, don’t sweat it.” 

Haru leaned further into your line of sight, his expression warping as he took in the small stream of crimson cascading down your brow. “You’re bleeding!” 

No. No, no… Please no. 

Your right hand removed itself from the student’s broad shoulder; fingers brushing up toward your forehead. The second you felt it, the damp slick, you froze. “I’m so sorry.” Honestly, you didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.

“Sorry?” The boy’s tone shifted after that; his sentences now edged with something closer to irritation as if that was the last thing you should be saying. “Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.”  And before you could respond, before you could even explain your reasoning behind such nonsensical verbiage, his arm slid behind your back, the other hooking beneath your legs. You gasped at the sudden lift, your hand instinctively grabbing onto the front of his shirt as he adjusted your weight against him. “I’m taking you to the nurse.” He said, already moving, stride steady as he turned down the hall.

Haru scrambled after him, still talking — still panicking. But you barely registered it; too fixated on the drops of red pooling in your palm.

“If you’re just going to ramble, get out.” Haru blinked, clearly caught off guard, his mouth parting as if he had some sort of rebuttal towards the boy’s directness. Still, he didn’t seem like the type to delve into confrontation. So, Haru just nodded, demeanor a little more flustered now, bowing once toward where you sat.

“Sorry — yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll text you later. Make sure you’re okay.” His words tripped over themselves on the way out, fading as he backed toward the door. And just like that — he was gone.

Honestly, you felt bad for Haru. Anyone in this situation would’ve panicked. One second you’re talking about a project, the next there’s blood running down the side of your face like something out of a thriller. So Haru wasn’t wrong for freezing up. If anything, he handled it well for most people’s standards. 

Which is why you were already opening your mouth — ready to say something, anything, to the boy in front of you. Because did he really have to be so… taut about it? 

But then the door clicked; and everything else went with it. The chatter outside dulled, footsteps became distant. Even the weight of people watching seemed to be categorized as unimportant — peering eyes blocked by the tall wooden door. All that remained was the faint hum of the cheap fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of fabric as you eased your palms back onto one of the beds. 

Finally… you could breathe.

“That your boyfriend?”

You blinked, lifting your head slightly despite the dull throb that followed. “What?”

“If it is,” he continued, tone more matter-of-fact than anything else. “Sorry for grabbing you like that in front of him. He didn’t look like he was going to handle the situation well.”

Your brows knit together, confusion flickering through the lingering haze. You shook your head. “No. He’s just my new science partner.”

“Oh.” The brunette leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest as his eyes dragged along the curve of your cheek. “Alright.” 

Alright? 

The corners of your lips tipped downwards, canine dug deep against the tissue of your cheek as you observed the boy in uniform. Truthfully, something about him was weird. Not in a bad way — just… off.  Like trying to recall a dream you know you had, but can’t quite piece together no matter how hard you focus. But you didn’t dwell on it. You did just have your head slammed into. 

“Well,” you started. “Thanks for bringing me.”  Your gaze soon flicked toward the door, subtle but intentional, giving him a clear out to the situation he had unexpectedly found himself in. Except, he didn’t take it. Didn’t even move, really. He just continued to lean, still watching you in that same quiet, almost absent way — like he wasn’t trying to stare, but couldn’t quite stop himself either. Honestly, it was making your demeanor border diffident more than anything else. A sense of unease that hadn’t appeared in your vocabulary since you were eight. “Guess I should really watch where I’m going, huh?” You added, a weak attempt at humor slipping through. 

Fuck. Why was he making you so… Awkward?

His expression remained stoic, a slight sigh escaping his nasal. “Yeah.” You almost whined in pure embarrassment at his response. I mean, that was it? Not even a courtesy laugh — just that dry, practical agreement like your attempt at easing the situation hadn’t even registered as a joke. 

“C’mon man. The least you could do is pretend that was funny.” You muttered, warmth already creeping up the base of your neck. 

Sadly, he didn’t bite. “But I agree. Watching where you’re going would definitely help.” 

Yep, you wanted to disappear; drag the thin, crinkling sheet over your head and hope that somehow, miraculously, you’d phase out of existence. Because what was this? Why was this happening? And more importantly — where the hell was the nurse?

She’d stepped out not long ago; something about a call, leaving you behind with gauze pressed to your forehead and that stupid wrap snug around your head. Frankly, her being here would’ve helped. At least then there’d be something to focus on. Something to fill the thick stretch of silence that made every aching second worse.

Your fingers twisted into the sleeves pooled around your hands, fabric bunching as you tried to steady yourself; tried to find that version of you that didn’t get like this. Because you didn’t — not anymore. You’d worked too hard for that: You knew how to hold conversations, how to stay present, how to keep your thoughts from spiraling into something unmanageable. You were good at it.

So why was it unraveling now?

Your gaze flicked up before you could stop it. And of course, he was still looking at you. “You seemed like you were pretty into that conversation.” 

“Huh?”

“With him,” he clarified, nodding vaguely toward the door. “Before you ran into the desk.” 

Normally, a query like that would signal some underlying intention. A sliver of inquisitive wonder to get some sort of information. But for some reason, his tone didn’t have an ounce of accusation to it. “Oh — yeah. We were just discussing an upcoming project.” 

“What kind?”

“Reaction times,” you said; voice a little steadier now that the topic made sense. “We’re thinking of doing experiments on reflex speed. Different stimuli, stuff like that.” He hummed once: Not fully impressed with the reasoning behind your lack of awareness, but not dismissive either. “I think we need people for it, though,” you added. “Like actual participants. Not just me and him. And I’m not sure how we'd even round anyone up for that.”

The boy cleared his throat, back straightening as his shoulders returned against the wall. “Volleyball players would work.”

“What?”

“They’ve got fast reflexes,” he said simply. “More consistent results.”

Huh. That actually… made sense. But how in the hell would you get a whole team to participate in such a random quest? You opened your mouth to respond, ready to dig deeper into his thought process, yet the door slammed open, a soft voice quickly following suit. “Iwa-channn, I got wind from Hanamaki that you snapped and started hitting people other than me. I’m impressed. But also a bit annoyed because I thought I was the only one—” The boy faltered, eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he peered down at you. It was Oikawa. Now he, you knew — your friends could never really shut up about him and his unparalleled beauty. “Oh,” he said, goaded tone immediately shifting to intrigue. “It’s you.”

You scrunched your nose. “Me?”

“Mhm.” His smile came easily, a sense of confidence etched into his stance as he rested an elbow atop of his friend’s shoulder. “You’re friends with Matsuda, right? I noticed you always hang around her in the hallways whenever she drops by my classroom.”

Yeah, this was not helping your current state of mind. Your fingers lifted, the pad of your pointer pressed against your temple as you tried to recall moments of passing. But everything seemed fuzzy; at least, everything regarding Oikawa. The only faint memory was Matsuda goggling at a few of the volleyball teammates in class 3-6, but you didn’t really pay much mind to that. I mean, why would you? You only ever stayed around that room for a few minutes before darting off. 

Iwa-chan (at least, that’s what Oikawa called him) exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiver of irritation evident in the way his nostrils flared. “Why are you here, Oikawa?”

“To visit my dear teammate, obviously,” Oikawa alleged, sliding his elbow away and stepping further into the cramped room without a hint of hesitation. “And to meet the head-injury victim.” His gaze flicked back to you, lingering just a second too long for your comfort. 

“Oh. I’m fine.” You said quickly.

“Good,” he replied. “You’re pretty, so I'd hope you were okay.”

Your brows pulled inward immediately at that. For two people who seemed so different, they both had this same problem — talking like their thoughts didn’t need filtering. The difference was that Oikawa’s bluntness landed somewhere between observation and flirtation, which only made your posture tighten, shoulders drawing in slightly as heat prickled the tips of your ears. 

Iwa-chan’s expression tautened immediately. “Oikawa.”

“What?” he said innocently, hands lifted in mock surrender. “It’s true.” The air notably shifted at his reluctance to back down. Subtle exchanges between the two boys had become increasingly common. Like something in the room had been recalibrated, off-center, and they didn’t quite know how to work it out yet (with words, at least). But you could see the way Iwa’s jaw tightened. And you could see the way Oikawa noted it immediately. His expression changed — camera-ready grin softening into something more calculated, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Anyway,” he resumed. “I did happen to hear something about the volleyball team. If you ever need the team, I can make that work: The team… Me… Whatever you need!”

Iwa-chan’s patience visibly snapped. “Shittykawa,” he said flatly, stepping forward just slightly. “We’re trying to help her. You offering yourself up sounds less like helping and more like you just want attention. Fucking idiot.” His hand raised, palm smacking against the back of his friend’s scalp. 

Oikawa gasped dramatically, clutching his skull in effort to dull the radiated pain. “How cruel. I’m offering resources.”

“You’re saying you are the resource.” 

“And a very valuable one!” Oikawa added immediately. You stared between them, unsure where you were supposed to land in this conversation — if you were even meant to be part of it at all. But Oikawa’s attention drifted back to you again.

“As I was saying. Think about it.”

The third time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, it was in the high school gym.

And boy was it… different. Your once solidified memory of predictability and contentment had no longer meshed with the word gymnasium. Because this one was louder: Shoes screeching against the once polished floors, sharp echo of volleyballs colliding with hands at each corner.

This wasn’t your space. Not like before, at least. And yet — you had still walked in. Because, somehow, you had agreed to this. Agreed to the arrangement that now had you standing just near the entrance, fingers curled back into your sleeves, eyes trying hard to ignore the chaotic movements of rowdy boys.

Yeah…No. This wasn’t going to work. 

Your heels dug into the wood, fully prepared to swivel your body out the door before anyone could take note of your appearance. But you could feel it; the vibrations of Haru behind you. And there was no way in hell he was going to let you walk out. “This is perfect,” he beamed, already pulling out his notebook. “Do you see their form? Their reaction speed? This is exactly what we needed.”

Of course it was. Of course he was thrilled. Easy volunteers, controlled environment, data that would probably carry the entire project on its back.

Oh, Haru had won. And he knew it.

You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting across the gym in reluctance — only to catch something familiar. Or, more accurately, someone: Iwa-chan stood across the court, a volleyball resting loosely in his palm as he listened to something one of his teammates was saying. 

Yet, for a second, his gaze flicked up, meeting yours in an instant. And you couldn’t help it; the center of your chest tightened, warmth shedding your entire body. It was the same feeling you had at eight years old. 

Oh god, please don’t run away and cry.

But his lingering gaze soon turned into a subtle gesture; a small tilt of his head toward the court, like he was telling you to come closer without making a big deal out of it. And this was what you had prepared for all those years ago. The rare moment that would allow you to refine your past into something more ameliorate. You took a big gulp and pushed your weakening feet forwards. 

It was difficult though; finding a reason not to bolt. The sounds only sharpened the deeper you got in the gym: Their voices became more disordered, their serves became a little less predictable — near misses to the side of your head inevitable. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly, gaze flicking from one player to the next, trying to map out where you were supposed to stand — where you were supposed to even exist in this environment.

“Oi, Iwaizumi…” The voice drifted off the second he saw you. And there was no subtlety to your intrusion anymore — just pure dubiety written across everyone’s faces as you turned to the brunette for any sort of repose. “Uh, who’s that? New manager?” 

“No,” Iwaizumi shifted his jaw around, thumb hooking around the collar of your shirt as he tugged you forward slightly. “She’s here for a project.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to settle his teammates' questions before it could spiral into a mountain of more queries. The group nodded in understanding, attention fixed neatly on you as they awaited more clarity on their pending participation. Yet, you couldn’t move. I mean, who knew volleyball players could be so… intimidating. Iwaizumi stepped closer, finger still hooked within your fabric while the ball in his right hand tapped once against his palm before he stilled it. “Head okay?”

“Yeah.”

His irises narrowed, a look of uncertainty engrained in the crease between his brows. But he didn’t push it. That wasn’t really his place. “Alright,” he noted, glancing past you briefly — probably toward where Haru was still hovering near the entrance. “Get whatever you need to set up.”

Right. Setup. 

You turned slightly as you waved Haru over. And he didn’t need much convincing (unlike you) — already halfway across the floor before you fully gestured, notebook still clutched in one hand, the other digging through his bag for whatever materials he had insisted on bringing.

“This is fantastic,” he breathed, eyes darting everywhere at once. “We can start with baseline reaction tests, then move into variable stimuli: auditory, visual—”

“Keep it simple today.” Iwaizumi cut in.

Haru stuttered. “Simple?”

“Yeah. Don’t overcomplicate it.”

Haru nodded quickly. “Right. Yes, okay, we can do that.” You glanced between them, then back toward the rest of the team who were still watching, some more subtly than others. It was peculiar, observing the intensity Iwa possessed when discussing with Haru. For anyone on the outside, it would seem as though the volleyball player harbored hatred towards the blonde. 

Huh, maybe it was because of the way he reacted this morning. 

No matter the cause, it would appear that you had, unbeknownst, become the best mediator in the situation, the one who would oversee communication between the players and Haru. Although, one particular team member deemed it a necessary obstacle you’d have to overcome. 

“Hey l/n-chan!” You turned, watching as Oikawa stood just a few steps away — one hand rested on his hip, the other lifting in a small, easy wave. “You made it. Nice bandage too. Looking cute!” It was a simple comment; a declaration followed by his warm and inviting smile. But that wasn’t what caught you: It was your name, and the way it came out so easily for him. Not to mention the honorifics he added to the end of it. “Oh, wait,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “It is l/n, right? I asked Matsuda earlier.” 

Yeah, Matsuda was definitely going to give you an earful about this later. 

Iwa, however, looked like he was two seconds away from combusting. His finger, still hooked lightly beneath the collar of your shirt, tightened just enough to tug you back — to pull you out of the center like you didn’t belong there in the first place. It was subtle: Controlled. But it still made you feel like a ragdoll being repositioned without warning. 

“Yeah. It is.” You answered, slower this time. Honestly, you weren’t sure if that was the right response. Or if you were supposed to correct him, say something about the honorifics, tell him not to use it so casually. But maybe that’s how Oikawa was. So who were you to shut down his playful mannerisms? Yet with the way Iwaizumi lingered, the way his finger kept a firm grip on your clothes, it felt like that was the wrong decision. And it was becoming painfully clear that Iwa wasn’t going to be your sense of relief anymore. 

Unfortunately, that left Haru. Who, completely oblivious, was already across the court trying to line up a ruler with one of the players’ hands like none of this was happening.

“Perfect!” Oikawa continued, completely unfazed to his teammates' death glares. “For a second I thought I had it wrong. That would’ve been embarrassing, huh?” 

You let out a polite laugh, something to fill the uncomfortable silence that threatened to build. “Yeah.” 

Iwa didn’t budge to the fibbed innocence. He placed his right leg in front of yours, the ball resting in his hand thrown roughly against the chest of the captain. “Unbelievable,” Oikawa squealed, hand pressing to his sternum. “You always resort to violence!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you were smart.”

Yeah, you needed this to end — It was becoming painfully uncomfortable. “Why don’t we start?” You asked, palms clasped together in an effort to cut through whatever that was trying to become. “We’ll just start with something simple. Reaction timing.”  A few of them straightened slightly, attention shifting back. “We’ll start with you all catching the ruler when it drops. That way, we can measure the distance and convert it into reaction time.”

“Cool. Sounds easy enough.” Someone mentioned.

“I can go first.” Your head turned instinctively: Iwaizumi. He stepped forward without hesitation, rolling his shoulders once before holding his hand out, palm hovering just below the ruler. “Like this?” he asked.

You nodded, stepping closer to position it properly. “Yeah, just don’t grab it until it falls.”

“Got it.”

You adjusted the height slightly, trying your hardest to ignore his bicep brushed against your shoulder. But with the way the tension in his arm pressed against the fabric, muscles set in preparation — you almost let the ruler slip. “You, uh, ready?” He nodded once and that was all the confirmation you needed; anything to get him and his body away. So, you let go, observing as his fingers snapped shut around the ruler instantly. 

What the fuck. That was fast. 

A small scoff came from somewhere behind you two, a tall figure looming within your peripheral vision. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want accurate data, y/n.” You shivered at Oikawa’s address: It was one thing to add honorifics to your last name. But your first name? That was something you were definitely going to have to get used to. “Right, Iwa-chan?”

Iwaizumi’s posture shifted, tongue pressed tight to the inside of his cheek as your name echoed within the group. He needed to control himself, to restrain himself from smacking Oikawa so hard he’d forget his own birthday. So, he resorted to gripping the ruler, knuckles white from the tension. “Shut up, Shittykawa. Or I’m making you run laps.” 

Yep. You were absolutely turning red — you needed Haru, and stat. 

“You can’t do that! I’m captain!” Iwa-chan narrowed his gaze, earning a small whimper from the boy to the side. “How about I just try?” Oikawa puffed his chest out as if that statement alone justified everything that had come out of his mouth — hand already reaching for the ruler like he had every right to take over. Iwaizumi, however, was swift to smack it away before his fingers could even brush the plastic.

“No.”

“Wow. Again, violent. In front of a girl too,” Oikawa muttered, rubbing the back of his hand before flashing you a grin that didn’t quite rival the look of irritation in his eyes. “See what I deal with, y/n?”

There it was again: Your name. You swallowed, ignoring the grunt that escaped Iwa’s throat at his incredulous friend. “I’ll adjust. Hold it higher to match inconsistencies in height.” You stated, stepping back half a pace — anything to create space from the touch of Iwa’s bicep.

“Do it again.” Iwa stated.

Your head lilted innately, a few blinks fluttering at the newfound abruptness. “What?”

“The test,” he clarified, holding his hand out again. “Do it again.”

Oikawa dragged his tongue across his lower lip, cheeks puffed out at the frustration iwaizumi was putting him through. “You’re acting like you didn’t just ace it.”

“I said do it again.” 

The tone was enough to silence Oikawa, forcing him to back away, hands pressed against his shorts while his lips thinned into a tight line. “Fine, fine. I’ll wait my turn.”

Yeah, the hit to your head was definitely getting to you. “Alright then, ready?” A nod. And just like before, his fingers caught it instantly. “Okay, yeah. That’s, uh, consistent.”

“Told you.” Oikawa chimed in from behind, far too pleased for someone who hadn’t even participated yet.

But you ignored his commentary, your focus now fixated on the line of participants you needed to get through. How many rounds of experiments until you were able to escape such a fever dream. “Oikawa.” you waved him up, stepping a full pace away from the wing spiker before he even had the chance to pull you back into whatever invisible radius he seemed to keep you in. 

And just like that, the rhythm picked up. Haru scribbled frantically beside you, muttering calculations under his breath as he eyed the measurements. It wasn’t until dusk had arrived, most members of the team gone, that time had caught up with you. 

“I’m going to go home and get this data written out coherently before I forget,” Haru tipped forward, blonde hair framing the sides of his ears. “Please get home safe. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too much.” 

You gave a smile, a gentle reminder to your science partner that you were, indeed, feeling loads better than the last time he saw you. Haru gave a weak thumbs up after that, scrambling out the door and into the night. 

It was funny, really. The way you’d somehow ended up back in a gym alone. Only this time, the walls weren’t lined with those chipped scooters you used to wait for. No quiet corners carved out solely for you. Just buckets of volleyballs stacked along the edges, the faint scent of socks and varnished wood lingering heavier than it did a few hours ago. 

“You’re still here.” You whipped around, watching as Iwaizumi stood near the bathroom door, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges, shirt clinging slightly from the perspiration of today’s training. 

“Sorry,” you started, already backing up on your heels, fingers curling tight around the strap of your bag as the exit crept closer behind you. “Haru and I were just going over the results — like a debrief. I was about to leave.” 

His gaze didn’t follow the explanation, though. It stayed on you; traced your face like he was looking for something specific — before dropping, settling on the bandage still stuck stubbornly to your skin. “I’ll walk you home.”

Your brows pinched together. Walk you home? He didn’t even know where you lived. What if you were on the complete opposite side of town? You opened your mouth, ready to question it, to at least clarify, but he already grabbed his bag in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second thought, no reason for you to decline his declaration. 

So, the fourth time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi — it was intentional.

But Pebble only scoffed at your refusal, the thin patience the crow held for you wound tighter with each transient second. “Orders are from Ubuyashiki — you cannot refuse!”

Fuck.

You were stuck. Thrust into a sick and twisted proposal with no real exit, forced to walk alongside the crow who was beginning to grate on every last nerve you possessed. You tried to ignore each of Pebble’s shouts, but the more you learned of the missing villagers, the harder that became. 

It sounded almost surreal: Members of the surrounding villages reported strange glows near grave sites. Faint lights flickering between the headstones and whispers in the dark that resembled the voices of lost loved ones. 

It was no wonder the lower-ranking slayers continued to follow the same path as the vanished villagers. Each description of the demon’s ability hinted at something far stronger than the average threat — something nearing the level of an Upper Rank. The kind of monster only a Hashira could realistically handle.

And Shinazugawa was a safe bet. His Wind Breathing technique was volatile and erratic, destructive in ways most slayers couldn’t hope to match. If anyone could dive headfirst into a situation like this, it was him. Which, frankly, pissed you off even more. Not only were you stuck with the one coworker who seemed perpetually irritated by your presence, but now you had to watch him work; forced to witness firsthand just how terrifyingly skilled he actually was.

Not that you would ever admit that to him. You’d rather drop dead.

The village was quieter than it should have been. Sure, it was small, but even the coziest places carried a rhythm: Voices echoing between houses, shop owners waving in customers under the crowded paths. Yet here, there was nothing. Only a few sparse flowers tucked in a dirty vase near the vegetable stand. 

Even the graveled walkways were scarcely disturbed. Each crunch of your feet a new indent into the pristine streets. It was depressing, really. Witnessing the fear and despondency of the residing citizens. The bouts of futility that lingered from the lack of rescue by the Imperial Army. All that remained was the stench of dread for the future. And unanswered pleas. 

But what was worse? Sanemi. 

There he stood, palms clasped to his sides as he perked his brow at the young boy standing in front of the medicinal herbs. His hair was unruly, probably from the constant drag of his fingers, and his sword was tucked tightly against his hip. The clasps of his top were unlatched, allowing any human (or demon) he encountered to see the years of scars he’d obtained from the monsters. 

“Huh?” His lids narrowed, lips thinned into a tight line. “What do you mean a group of people investigated last night? Are you all that dumb?” His tone was the usual; condescending. As if Shinazugawa was the only one in a thirty-mile radius that obtained solid logic. 

The boy almost looked shaken at the outlandish declaration, his eyes jumping from wall to wall to ignore the lingering gaze of pale purple. And as selfish as it was, all you could hope for was the notion that you’d become invisible. That the young kid would skip over the unknown entity coward in the corner. 

But you never had good luck. 

Sanemi followed his goggled expression, intrigued brows now knitted together in a crease as the realization sank in. He was to be accompanied on this mission. And, of course, it had to be you. 

“Why the fuck are you here?” The kid took the well-timed opportunity to bolt. The wind Hashira paid no mind, though. His focus was glued exclusively on you. “Tell me this is an accident.” 

“It’s not,” you stepped forward, arms crossed over your chest as you fought back the trembles that threatened to slip from your legs. Fuck he was intimidating. “Ubuyashiki requested me… and you.” 

Shinazugawa looked as though he was going to burst into a fit of rage. But he held back, the logical side of his brain etched on public appearance towards the Demon Slayer Corp. Because if he were to make one wrong move, one wrong sign of destruction — his paycheck was bound to eat it. 

Besides, last time Sanemi was placed under disciplinary review, he almost went insane. 

He mumbled a string of profanities, hand pressed to the hilt of his sword as he scoured the surroundings again. Something he always did when you were near. It didn’t take a genius to detect such displease to your presence; knuckles white from death gripping his weapon, eyes shooting towards something tangible and less... you. 

What was it about you that irked him so much? 

“Well,” you took your cue. “I’m going to go see if I can track anyone down. And next time Sanemi, please don’t let a witness get away.” 

He hated when you used his first name. You knew that. Which is exactly why you did it, watching as his ears turned a shade of red that matched Rengoku’s haori. If he was going to be a dick (like usual) the least you could do in return was poke fun at the bear. It made it all the more entertaining. And easier — you weren’t afraid to admit you were fearful of the wind Hashira. So playing a little game always eased your nerves. 

“Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.” 

That was the intention at least; getting this all over with. But somehow, someway, Sanemi had managed to scare the very last witness off again. 

It all started when you continued forward, knees bending slightly as you placed your hand above the gravel. Initially, you were there to inspect the spill of oil — a clear sign that someone had dropped a lantern in the midst of an escape. But then you felt it: a small pulse underneath the soil. 

Huh… weird.

“Um, excuse me,” a wavering voice pulled you from your investigation, causing you to peer above, head tilted slightly to view the tall man who hovered close by. “Do you need help?” He flinched at your innate narrowed stare, clutching a small knife in his hand. His cotton vest bore a single kanji in white: ‘Watcher.’ Perhaps he was the village’s makeshift guard until someone more capable arrived.

“Actually, yes.” You heaved yourself off the ground, palms pressing against your sides to scrape off the few loose rocks that indented themselves in your skin. “Do you know anything about the missing residents?”

“Oh,” the man straightened instantly at that. His previous scared demeanor quickly overshadowed with relief as his eyes scanned your sheathed Nichirin sword. He knew. “Are you with the white-haired man?” You almost gagged. But you nodded anyway. “Some of my neighbors noted that he had shown up a bit earlier today! I’m so glad you came too.”

Great, so he got here a whole hour before you — just one more thing he can irk about later on. 

“Your vest, it says you’re a watcher?” He nodded at your query. “Does that mean you know what’s been happening?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek; his pointer directed to the edge of the town. “There’s been witness accounts of small bouts of light coming from over there,” he shifted slightly, leaning closer to your ear, his voice hushed — as if to keep the two children pressed against the cracked door nearby from hearing. “There’ve been… voices too. From dead loved ones.” 

Your brow furrowed, thumb rubbing small circles against the hilt of your sword in puzzlement. Voices? Lights? Pebble had mentioned it in the debriefing. But if there were witnesses, people stood nearby to notice each trademark… Well, it sounded more like a serial killer than a demon. Not once had you seen blood demon art that could harbor such purity with such foul intentions. Not to mention leave bystanders alive.

“Has anyone investigated?” 

He swallowed, eyes darting nervously. “Yeah… and they never come back.”

You had planned to pry more, your eyes widened up at the man who was now leaned in closer. Each breath he dragged swayed the strands of your hair; and, honestly, he was kind of cute. His brown hair, ruffled and layered, laid just above his lashes. The shade of pink that coated his cheeks only exacerbated the adorable freckles that coated his nose. 

Was he single? No, this is probably the wrong time to ask that. “How long has this been happening?” 

“A week ago; it only happens every other night, oddly enough.” His distance stayed the same, nose brushed against yours with each swift word. And you had to wonder now — was he doing that on purpose? “Sorry if this is… weird, but can I ask something?”

You nodded. But the poor man was never able to finish his inquisitive wonder. Because Sanemi rounded the corner, eyes wild and swirled with a twinge of darkness that only happened in the midst of battles. “I’m sorry,” his voice was low; sharper than it was before. “Did we lose the goal of this mission?” You didn’t even have time to respond. “If it wasn't apparent,” he continued, gaze flicking briefly between you and the man. “This isn’t a ‘find a husband’ search.” 

The villager stiffened instantly. “My apologies!” He stammered, bowing quickly toward Shinazugawa before retreating without another word. You watched him go, irritation flaring: First of all, there was no reason for him to apologize to Sanemi. Second — you had been gathering information.

Crucial information. The one piece of information, actually, that was the cause for the shared room at the inn. 

Don’t get it twisted, you did try to plead with the innkeeper; bribe him into splitting you both up. Yet with travelers too afraid to leave, and even fewer willing to pass through, every room but one had been occupied. So, here you were, stretched out atop the shikibuton, staring up at the ceiling as the white-haired man beside you made a very deliberate effort to drag the kakebuton further away from your side.

Which was pointless. The room was far too small. 

“Can you move your makura?” you asked, voice edged with vexation. “Preferably… away from mine?” 

Sanemi just scoffed. “There’s nowhere else to put it.” He dropped back against his own futon, forearm sliding beneath his head as he shoved the pillow slightly to the side, as if that alone created distance. It didn’t. “Trust me,” he muttered, eyes fixed above. “If I could, I wouldn’t be here.” 

“This is so stupid.” You whined. Shinazugawa was quick to grunt in agreement. “What the fuck does the demon even do every other night?” 

“How the fuck would I know?” 

You shot him a glare. “It was a rhetorical question,” you paused, eyes scanning over his obviously irked demeanor. “If you don’t know what that is, it’s—”

“I know what that is!” There was a moment of silence after his outburst. A quietude that you felt grateful for. Until Sanemi decided to make it a one man show — once again. “Shit, you’re a distraction.” Your fingers stilled against the fabric of the kakebuton. And slowly, your head turned, observing as the scarred Hashira kept his gaze on the plafond. “No fucking clue why you’re here.” 

“A distraction?” You repeated. 

You couldn’t believe it. There was no way in hell you were a distraction. If anything, he was. All Sanemi did was scare off every witness. Not to mention consistently groan in protest to your arrival. Which, from what Mitsuri told you, was completely out of character for him. But maybe Obanai wasn’t the most trustworthy informant when it came to the love Hashira. He was probably too distracted by her presence to actually delve into the hell he faced with his co-worker. 

“Yeah.”

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, brows raised in utter astonishment. “That’s funny,” you mumbled. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“Didn’t realize I needed permission to point out the obvious.” He retorted.

Oh, you wanted to punch him. No, worse — you wanted to leave him for dead. There was absolutely zero evidence to support his claim. “What are you even talking about?” 

“Seriously?” His head flit to the side, the corner of his right iris peering at you over the scrunched makura. “I had to keep you from kissing a total stranger.” 

That’s what this was about? His entire exasperation in this very moment had to do with the notion that the villager… stood too close? “Excuse me?” You leaned forward, strands of hair cascading over your cheek as you eyed the Hashira mere inches beneath you and to the right. “I was gathering information. Like we planned.”

“Information on something, I bet.” 

That was the final straw. You could deal with his ignorance in Hashira meetings, deal with the fact that every time you stepped in a room he left. For fuck’s sake, you could deal with the fact that everyone knew just how much he despised you — no matter how humiliating it was. But this? This was beyond that. Because now, he was insulting your morals. 

Well, sure… You did think he was attractive. And yes, the thought of asking if he was single had crossed your mind. But you didn’t. That counts for something. “Even if he was attractive,” you said. “I wasn’t going to jeopardize the mission. Every slayer knows work comes before anything else.”

“The fuck did you just say?” Shinazugawa propped up on his arms, the swirls in his pale purple eyes turning closer to a shade of a ripe plum. “Attractive?” 

Of course he completely glazed over the rest of the sentence. 

“Yes.”

He surged forward, the futon shifting beneath him as he leaned in, closing the distance in an instant. But it was too fast, too close — your breath caught, a flicker of defensive instinct tightening in your chest as his presence loomed over you. And for half a second, you thought he might actually hit you. “That’s your type?”

Okay, this steered completely off topic. “Again, what are you talking about?”

“Your type is ugly dark-haired men.” You opened your mouth to protest, but he kept going. “I’ve seen the way you hang with Tomioka. He’s ugly. And has dark hair.” 

And you couldn’t help it. You laughed. You doubled-over, hand clasped to the Hashira’s shoulder as your head swiveled down, your shoulder bouncing with each drag of breath. “Tomioka is the only one that will train with me when asked.” But Shinazugawa didn’t laugh with you. And he sure as hell didn’t crack a smile. His gaze stayed locked on you — and, against his will, dipped just slightly as your chin lifted again. The quick flick of your tongue across your lower lip definitely didn’t help either. “How do you even know this? You leave every room I walk into unless you’re forced.” 

“Obanai.”

Huh, it seems Obanai was everyone’s messenger when it came to things they had no business in knowing.

And, really, that should’ve been your first sign. The first inclination that Sanemi’s reason for distance was not due to your ‘lack’ of skills. But you were too caught up in the moment — too distracted by the humor of it all. Too focused by the absurdity in the way the whites of his eyes began to web with faint vessels, twitching with every flicker of irritation.

“Laugh it up,” His voice turned rougher, like something was sitting wrong in his throat. Or, more accurately, as if one flawed tone, one wrong slip up, and his secret would spill. “Didn’t realize that was your standard.”

You should’ve pulled away after your laughter subsided. Created some sort of distance between the two of you. Hell, that’s exactly what you would’ve done two days ago. But if you were being realistic, this wouldn’t have even been a predicament — because Sanemi would’ve never let you get this close. And he sure wouldn’t have allowed you to brace your palm over the broad part of his shoulder. “Why does it matter?” 

“It doesn’t.” He kept still, eyes lasering through the thick of your orbits. “Hashira operate under different rules when it comes to being with commoners."

“Not when it comes to sex.” 

Sanemi’s lid convulsed, something volatile flickering beneath the surface as he leaned impossibly closer — close enough that the ridges of his scars brushed faintly against the fabric of your yukata. His hand pressed into the futon beside you, bracing his weight, caging you in with full oblivion. Because if he had half a mind, he’d maintain any sliver of distance. “You can’t just—” His voice faltered, the words catching unexpectedly as his jaw tightened. “sleep with strangers?”

“I never said I wanted to,” you corrected, steady despite the way your pulse had begun to climb. “I was just stating that the rules around sex aren’t the same as marriage.”

Sanemi stared at you. Really stared. Like he was trying to pick apart every word you’d just said — and getting more irritated the longer he thought about it. “You think that makes it better?”

Your brows knitted together slightly. Honestly, you didn’t even understand why he was so upset about the logical part of your solution. Sure, sex with strangers wasn't the most ideal; diseases and unwarranted pregnancies could always arise. But it seemed way better than marriage. Besides, men usually lacked emotional maturity needed for such a long-term commitment. “I’m just being realistic.” 

“Realistic?” His fingers clutched the fabric beneath him, knuckles whitening as the tendons in his hand pulled tight. “Is that what your mind thinks of?”

Truthfully, that was a very personal query. Of course you thought about it. Every Hashira probably has. Especially Tengen with his three wives. But no one really… discussed it. “Well, um,” you were stammering. And each delay of the answer only solidified his initial notion. Which, somehow, shifted his expression. As if he was filling in the blanks himself, and none of the conclusions were helping his mood. So you pivoted. “Do you?”

“What?” His eyes narrowed, the ends of his lips downturned at the sudden transfer in discussion. 

Good, you managed to deflect. “Do you think about sex?”

Sanemi blinked. Once. Then twice before the tips of his ears twinged into a shade of deep red. It was obvious he wasn’t prepared for the switch of his inquiry. A flicker of satisfaction sparked in your chest. And maybe you would’ve pushed it further, pressed the advantage, watched him unravel under the pressure of it. But his gaze dropped; lower than you anticipated. 

Your lips. He was staring directly at your lips. 

And it wasn’t the casual glance, the one you do when you’re displaying listening intent. It was more. His jaw pulled, brows tugged together like something in his mind had gone haywire —  and he was irritated with himself, with you, with whatever had him frozen there instead of pulling away like he should have.

“... Sanemi?”

His teeth ground together, the tension in his body coiling tighter as his fists pressed deeper into the blanket beneath you, fabric bunching beneath the strain. You could tell he looked to be in agony; like he was desperately trying to ground himself, hold himself back from… Well, you weren’t exactly sure.  

“Don’t say my name again.” Even his sentence came out pained. And suddenly — you were aware of everything: Your hand on his shoulder, the heat between you, the way his face had drifted closer without you noticing.

An inch. That was all it would take.

And that didn’t make any sense: This was Shinazugawa. The Hashira who avoided you. Who left rooms just to escape your presence. Who met you with insults and indifference at every turn. He never wanted you around. So why wasn’t he moving away?

“Why?” You weren’t even sure what you were asking anymore; Why wasn’t he moving? Why didn’t he want you to say his name?

Either way, it didn’t matter. He ignored it entirely. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.” Your breath hitched. The admission sat heavy between you, honest in a way nothing else he’d said had been. But surely he wasn’t saying what you thought he was saying… “And it’s a distraction,” he continued, jaw shifting. “That’s why I avoid it.” Your chest tightened, because he didn’t need to spell it outright. Didn’t need to clarify. You understood. 

By it — He meant you.

And you’d be lying if you said you hadn't thought about it too. The way his hands would clasp around your neck, his movements drilling into you with such force that your eyes would innately roll back. It would be volatile; rough. There would be no care for your wellbeing — just Sanemi chasing his own high as he watched you unravel beneath him. 

But it was a fantasy. A fleeting moment of imagery while you touched yourself in your own estate. Because there was no world in which Sanemi would lay a finger on you. For fuck’s sake, he hardly even looked at you. 

You opened your mouth to retort something sarcastic. Say anything that could shift the conversation back to his usual irritation with you. Yet all you could do was gawk. Irises traveling down his lips and to his exposed chest; the diabolical images now displayed proudly in your mind. 

No — no, this wasn’t okay. How dare you feel the warmth pool between your thighs. Shinazugawa warranted nothing more than a slap to his face… his beautiful, sculpted and scarred face. 

Oh my gosh you were losing it. There was no reason for this excitement. You hated Sanemi; loathed him with every ounce of your being. Sure, you imagined him naked on the rare occasion. And sure, you had noted that he was attractive the first time you met. But you had learned to push those feelings down; learned the notion that Shinazugawa saw you as nothing but a burden. Yet, here you were; legs shifted beneath the blanket, hoping that whatever dampened your undergarments was nothing more than the start of your period. 

But who were you kidding, you weren’t due for two more weeks. 

“Something bothering you?” Your eyes trailed back up to his face, observing as he adorned a rare smirk. It was the same expression you had only noted once; the single moment in passing as you heard him tease Obanai for gifting Mitsuri new socks after she ruined the first pair. 

He knew. 

Sanemi fucking knew. 

And he was reveling in it, finding absolute pleasure in the way your knees brushed together to obtain some sort of friction to distract yourself from the fluttered heartbeat between your legs. But the more you tried to conceal the explicit anticipation, the more Shinazugawa pressed forward. His nose touched yours; the plump of his lips brushed slightly against your skin.

It was wrong. All of this was irrevocably inapt. And Sanemi understood that. He knew the consequences of Hashira romance, the constant turmoil that followed due to death and lack of time. Even his brain was shouting at a high octave, attempting to halt the insanity that was about to ensue: The amygdala displayed a horrid future — you dead, strewn on your back as blood seeped from your lungs. And the only thing Shinazugawa could do was watch. Witness the last moment he’d ever lay eyes on you again. 

But that image wasn’t a fact. It was fear; fear of the unknown. And Sanemi hated that. He prided himself on his ability to dive head first with no terror. So, if ripping your clothes to shreds meant he’d conquer trepidation? All well. 

Besides, it was a bonus that he’d make you forget about the commoner who stood too close to you. 

He’d just reap the repercussions later. 

His palm released the scrunched cloth, finger dragging over the kakebuton as it neared the dip in your borrowed yukuta. It was a silly thing — your initial idea of wearing pajamas was a sigh of relief due to its comfort. But now? Now all you wished for was a pound of fabric shielding the way your chest trickled with goosebumps. The telltale sign that, whatever Sanemi was doing, had some sort of impact on your body. 

“Someone nervous?” Of course you were nervous. Not once did this idea flash inside your mind. The only thing you anticipated was snarky remarks and ignorance. You didn’t prep for… this. But it seemed Sanemi had thought about this moment a bit too much. His mouth watered in excitement; eyes darting at every inch of exposed skin. “Odd. I thought casual sex was… what did you say? Realistic.”

Ugh, curse your loud mouth. 

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat, knees still pressed together to keep the rapid heartbeat from quickening further. Still, the wind Hashira wasn’t oblivious. And besides, your lack of refusal as he unfastened your yukuta was all the agreement he needed to move forward. So, before you knew it, he had mounted on top of your bare body, scarred chest pressed to yours as his digit dragged along your folds. 

“Tsk,” his pointer dipped just slightly, pressing your slick inwards. “Already this wet? Don’t tell me you’re this easy.” Even in the heat of the moment he was being condescending; which warranted a punch. But you’d be lying if that didn’t hasten the throb between your legs. And you’d be even more of a prevaricator if you didn’t admit that Sanemi could feel it. “If you’re going to be such a distraction,” his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, breath soft against the lobe of your ear. “The least you could do is relieve the pressure you fucking curse other people with.” 

Without warning his thumb dipped in the confines of your walls, an agonizing stretch that forced a whine out of your throat. It was cruel, really. The way Shinazugawa had seemed to completely dismiss the notion of benignity in intercourse. Yet, once again, your body betrayed you — hips bucked in the air, palms pressed flat against his haori. “You like the pain?” Your head nodded innately. “That idiot definitely wouldn’t have known that.”

Idiot?

“Huh, w—” Your query was cut short as he replaced his thumb with his middle finger, curling it ever so slightly until it pressed against the pattern of your gummy tissue — the very spot that made stars speckle across your vision. “Nemi’ hold — nghhh — on.”

You didn’t mean to give him a nickname. But you could hardly form a coherent sentence; a shortened version of his title seemed reasonable enough to get your point across. Yet Sanemi stilled. His once rhythmic pace overshadowed with a faint twitch. “What… What did you just call me?” 

“... Nemi’?”

Sanemi groaned in pleasure at the sound of your voice; forehead pressed to your collarbone as he continued to thrust his fingers with intense precision. And if it wasn’t clear before; this was why he created distance. The exact reason why he avoided you. Because he couldn’t contain himself; too aware that a slight change of your tone would have you trapped beneath him as he pummeled himself to ecstasy. But here you were — served on a platter for him in the shared room. 

Plus, how could he let your crude imaginations be entwined with the man who happened to stumble upon you this afternoon? 

The very commoner who almost asked you out on a date. Pathetic.

Shinazugawa’s eyes blurred with hatred; the idea of another person fueling your pleasure was a complete disgrace to him. So what if he ignored you? So what if he wasn’t your boyfriend? You still belonged to him. And any inclination of another man’s touch vindicated rage. 

Which was why you practically shouted as something much… bigger unexpectedly slipped deep within you. A frustrated blow to your walls that bordered pain more than pleasure. Oh how oblivious you were to the unclasping of his belt, the way he fumbled with his pants while his right hand continued to create some sort of relief for the tightening knot deep within your abdomen. “Such… a fucking — aghhh,” Sanemi’s breath became ragged the more he moved his hips. “Distraction.” 

Moans spilled from your throat, the occasional cry of agony etched in between the sounds of rapture as his nails dug into your hips, keeping you stationed to withstand the increasing brutalized pace he began to set. “Who do you think about?” 

His words were almost lost. Your muddled brain too focused on the near snap of the knot. Not to mention the squelches of wetness and slaps of skin that reverberated off the cramped corridor. “W-what?”

“Alone,” his right hand made its way to your throat, tightening ever so slightly as his thumb and pointer cupped your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him. “Fuck — who do you think about… alone at night?” 

You shouldn’t have answered. Shouldn’t have admitted the occasional late night pleasure that came from him. But you were too drunk on bliss to think of reason. “You.” 

And that was all it took. The single word that made him snap his hips in an agonizing way until he got to observe a stream of tears spill from your eyes; cheeks painted in a rosy shade of pink. But still, Sanemi needed more. He needed to hear your sniffles, observe as your eyes rolled back with each shaky sob.

He needed to witness the effect he bestowed on you. Something no one else could ever dream of achieving.

He shifted his right hand down to your thigh, hoisting it over his shoulder to deepen his momentum. Your irises bulged, the feeling of his length deep in your stomach prevalent. It was plain from the get-go that Sanemi was showing zero mercy for you, your eyes consistently brimming with salty tears that leaked with every thrust. “Shit, you’re so…” he grunted, tongue dragging his lower lip and brows creased in concentration. “Tight.”

“Nemi’.” You whined, nails clawed deep within the kakebuton beneath you. There was no way in hell you were going to last another thirty seconds — not with the way his tip pummeled against your g-spot. “You’re gonna make me… nghhh.”

But what came next was a surprise. Or, more accurately, a slip-up of Sanemi's true intentions. “Maybe I should get you pregnant, hm?” A moan caught in your throat, your breath jagged while you stared wide-eyed at the Hashira. And normally, you would’ve screeched in horror at his erratic statement. The absurdity of the comment so outlandish it warranted nothing more than a scolding. Yet right now? The idea of him stuffing you full was more important than anything else — the ache in your abdomen something that could only be fulfilled with his warmth. “Then… oh fuck — no one will look at you.”

It was wrong. The way his declaration took you over the edge, fingers grasping at the fabric beneath you while your sclera took over for your rolled back irises. And the flutter against his dick? The string of thoughts that allowed everyone to know you were his? Yeah, that fucked him

He cursed under his breath, doubling-over and tightening his grasp around your neck as his rhythm stuttered, his hips carelessly hitting your ass as he spilled inside. His groan was gruff, teeth clenched together to bite back the overwhelming wash of ecstasy that overcame the months of pent-up tension. 

“If one more person looks at you. I’m seriously going to get you pregnant. Got it?”