Toman's Official Armory✨

MAIN MASTERLIST ♡

SQUID GAME MASTERLIST

HAIKYU!! MASTERLIST

WONDERFUL BANNERS by @uzmacchiato

Yes as I said in my previous post you can navigate through my blog using the masterlist post.

Hello, Hello dear you can start by the master lists😼.

Here i'mma provide the links for you-

MAIN MASTERLIST

SQUID GAME : BEING THEIR GIRLFRIEND WOULD INCLUDE.

HAIKYU!! MASTERLIST.

It's entirely upto you from where wanna you start

One shot

Featuring : Tooru Oikawa x F!Reader. GORE WARNING.

HAIKYU!! MASTERLIST

The Church bells rang with a harmonious melody.

But that was the exact opposite sound by the expressions of horror and screams of fear.

A murder had taken place, of a beautiful bride on her wedding day.

Taken away from her beloved husband -to- be.

By her so called Childhood Best Friend...

Tooru never believed in auspicious sutff like the groom not being allowed to see the bride before the wedding as it is considered bad omen, in fact he just said screw it and secretly slipped away from the groom's room, from the vigil eyes of Iwaizumi to check on you, his lovely bride.

while walking through the opulent hotel corridor he finally took some seconds and admired the lavish decorations and the intricate wall tapestries high on the ceiling.

amidst walking he felt a dreaded gut feeling of something that had terribly gone wrong, so he quickened his stride towards the bridal room where you were residing temporarily and didn't have the thought of knocking like a decent person would have and barged in with heavy breath and what he saw caused him to freeze in horror.

GORE WARNING AHEAD.

He saw Erika, your childhood bestfriend since you both were in diapers. straddling your hips as she was about to pluge the stolen bloodied cake knife from the hotel kitchen,

as if...

the previous 12 strikes werent enough already.

tooru dared to look at you and he felt his stomach lurch at the sight of you.

the sight of your bloodied neck which had so lovingly kissed the previous night before going to bed.

the one that your childhood best friend resented for having such a long slender neck like a swan.

The world narrowed to a single, impossible point: Erika's raised arm, the knife glinting wet and red under the chandelier light, your white wedding dress no longer pristine but a ruined canvas of crimson blooming outward like grotesque petals. Twelve strikes—Tooru counted them in the sick instant his mind could still form numbers—had turned the elegant bodice into something shredded and obscene, fabric clinging wetly to the deep gashes across your chest and stomach. Blood had pooled beneath you, thick and dark, seeping into the cream carpet in a slow, spreading halo. Your neck… gods, your neck. The long, graceful line he'd traced with his lips only last night was now a ragged mess, the final wound still oozing in sluggish pulses. Your eyes—those eyes that had always sparkled with quiet mischief when you teased him, stared blankly at the him, glassy, empty.

Your white wedding dress—once pristine silk and delicate lace, the very one you'd twirled in for him just hours ago with that shy, radiant smile—was now a grotesque canvas of crimson. The fabric clung wetly to your torso where Erika had driven the blade again and again, tearing through bodice and skin alike. Jagged rents exposed pale flesh turned raw and glistening, the wounds gaping like accusing mouths. Blood had pooled beneath you in thick, dark syrup, soaking into the plush carpet in a widening halo that crept toward Tooru's polished shoes. Your arms lay limp at your sides, fingers still curled as if reaching for something—someone—in your final moments, nails chipped and painted the soft pearl shade you'd chosen together.

Erika's hands were slick to the wrists, the knife trembling in her grip as fresh rivulets ran down the blade and dripped onto your ruined collarbone. Her face was a mask of something feral and broken—eyes wide, mascara streaking black rivers down her cheeks, lips parted in a soundless snarl. Strands of her hair stuck to the drying blood on her cheek like obscene decorations.

She hadn't even noticed him yet.

Tooru's breath came in shallow, ragged bursts. The charming, easy grin that usually curved his lips was gone, replaced by something hollow and glassy. His chocolate-brown eyes—usually sparkling with mischief or sharp calculation—were fixed on the ruin of you, pupils blown wide with shock. His perfect hair, swept back just so, had fallen forward in disarray from the frantic run down the hall.

For one endless second, the world narrowed to the wet rasp of Erika's breathing and the distant, mocking toll of the bells.

Then something inside him cracked.

"You…" His voice came out low, almost conversational lowkey unhinged, the way it did when he was plotting a devastating set on the court. But there was no playfulness now, only a cold, trembling edge. "What… did you do?"

Erika's head snapped up. Recognition flickered through the haze of madness, and for a heartbeat she looked almost like the girl who'd once braided your hair and shared secrets under blankets. Then her expression twisted again—jealousy, rage, triumph all at once.

"She took everything," Erika hissed, voice cracking. "She always took everything. You were supposed to be mine, Tooru. We were supposed to be—"

Tooru didn't let her finish.

He lunged.

Not with the calculated grace of a setter, but with raw, animal fury. His long fingers closed around Erika's wrist—the one holding the knife—and twisted hard. Bone cracked audibly. She screamed, the sound high and shattered, but he didn't stop. He wrenched the blade free, sending it skittering across the floor in a spray of red droplets. Erika clawed at him with her free hand, nails raking bloody furrows down his cheek, but he barely flinched.

He shoved her off you with brutal force. She hit the vanity table hard, mirrors shattering in a glittering cascade around her. Glass sliced into her palms and knees as she scrambled to rise, but Tooru was already there.

He dropped to his knees beside you.

His hands—those clever hands that had once mapped every inch of you with reverence—hovered over the carnage of your chest. Blood soaked through his white dress shirt instantly, warm and sticky, staining the cuffs where he'd rolled them up earlier in casual elegance. He pressed his palms to the worst of the wounds, as if pressure alone could force life back into you.

"Hey… hey, cutie." he whispered, voice fracturing. "Come on. Open your eyes for me. You promised you'd walk down that aisle looking like the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen. Don't break your promises now."

Your head lolled slightly toward him. One eye was half-open, glassy and unseeing, the other swollen shut from a brutal blow Erika must have delivered earlier. A thin line of blood trickled from the corner of your mouth, staining your lips the color of crushed roses.

Tooru's fingers trembled as he brushed your hair back, smearing red across your forehead. "Iwa-chan's gonna kill me for sneaking in here," he tried to joke, but it came out choked, broken. "He's probably already looking for me. Yelling my name down the hall like always. 'Trashykawa!' Right?"

Nothing.

Your chest didn't rise.

The room was too quiet now. The bells had stopped.

Erika laughed—low, wet, delirious. "She's gone, Tooru. She's finally gone."

He didn't look at her. His gaze stayed locked on your face, memorizing every detail even as it slipped away: the faint freckles across your nose you'd always hated, the tiny scar on your chin from falling off your bike when you were eight, the way your lashes fluttered when you laughed at his stupid jokes.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached for the fallen knife.

Erika's laughter died.

"Tooru—"

He stood.

Blood dripped from his hands in steady patters. His shirt hung open at the collar, exposing the frantic rise and fall of his chest. The charming mask was gone entirely; what remained was something colder, sharper, more terrifying than any opponent had ever seen on the court.

"You think this fixes anything?" His voice was soft, almost gentle—the same tone he'd used when coaxing you to sleep after a long day. "You think taking her makes me yours?"

He stepped forward.

Erika backed away, slipping in the pooling blood, falling hard onto her back. She stared up at him, eyes wide with sudden fear.

Tooru crouched beside her, knife loose in his grip.

"You were my friend once," he said quietly. "You were her friend. And you destroyed that. For what? Jealousy? Because she had something you wanted?"

He tilted his head, the motion eerily reminiscent of his old teasing smirks, but empty now. Hollow.

"I don't forgive that."

The knife came down once—clean, precise, through her throat. Blood sprayed in a hot arc across his face and chest. Erika gurgled, hands scrabbling weakly at the wound, eyes bulging in shock.

He didn't flinch.

He twisted the blade once, then pulled it free.

She stilled.

Tooru stood there for a long moment, breathing hard, knife dripping at his side. Then he turned back to you.

He dropped the weapon and gathered you into his arms—careful, reverent, as if you might still feel it. Your head fell against his shoulder, blood matting his hair. He rocked you gently, the way he'd held you after nightmares, after losses, after everything.

"I'm sorry," he murmured into your hair. "I'm so sorry I wasn't fast enough. I should've… I should've known."

His rocking grew slower, more desperate, as if motion alone could keep time from moving forward. He pressed his lips to your temple, tasting copper and salt. "You always said I was dramatic," he whispered, a broken laugh escaping him. "Look at me now. Can't even stop shaking. Pathetic, right?"

Footsteps thundered down the hall—heavy, urgent.

"Tooru! Where the hell are you, you shitty—"

Iwaizumi burst through the door, still in his half-buttoned groom's vest, face flushed from running. He froze.

The room looked like a slaughterhouse.

You, lifeless in Tooru's arms.

Erika, sprawled in a spreading pool of her own blood.

And Tooru—covered in red, eyes distant, cradling what was left of his future like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

Iwaizumi's voice came out rough, broken. "Tooru… what happened?"

Tooru didn't look up.

He just kept rocking you, fingers stroking your cold cheek.

"She took her from me, Iwa-chan," he whispered.

His voice cracked on the next words, raw and small—the way it only ever did when no one else could hear.

"And I let her."

Iwaizumi took a single step forward, boots squelching in the blood-soaked carpet. His face drained of color, but his eyes—always steady, always furious—locked onto Tooru with something close to terror.

"Put her down, Oikawa."

Tooru's arms tightened. "No."

"Tooru." Iwaizumi's voice dropped lower, the growl he used on the court when someone was about to get hurt. "You need to let go. Now."

Tooru finally lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, pupils blown, but the spark that usually lived there—the competitive fire, the sly charm—was gone. Replaced by something vacant and endless.

"I didn't get to say goodbye properly," he said, almost conversationally. "She was supposed to tease me about my hair being perfect. She was supposed to laugh at how nervous I was. I didn't… I didn't even get to see her smile one last time."

Iwaizumi swallowed hard. He moved closer, slow, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal. "She's gone, man. She's gone. You can't—"

Tooru's laugh was sudden, jagged. "Gone? Yeah. I can see that." His fingers dug into the ruined silk of your dress. "But if I let go, then it's real. And I can't… I can't do real right now, Iwa-chan. Not yet."

Iwaizumi reached out, hesitated, then placed a hand on Tooru's shoulder. Firm. Unyielding.

Tooru flinched like he'd been burned.

"Let. Go."

Tooru shook his head, rocking faster now. "No. No, no, no—she's cold. She's so cold. I have to warm her up. She always got cold feet. Remember? I'd put socks on her when she fell asleep on the couch. She hated cold feet."

His voice cracked higher, words tumbling faster. "I should've checked sooner. I should've ignored the stupid tradition. I should've—"

Iwaizumi's grip tightened. "Stop."

Tooru's breathing hitched. "I killed her too. Erika. I… I did that. Does that make me better? Worse? I don't know anymore. Everything's red. Everything's—"

Iwaizumi moved in one swift motion. He hooked his arms under Tooru's, prying them away from your body with brute strength. Tooru fought—wild, desperate, nails digging into Iwaizumi's forearms—but Iwaizumi was stronger, always had been when it mattered.

"No—let me—"

"You have to stop," Iwaizumi grunted, voice thick. "She's gone. You're hurting yourself. Look at your hands. Look."

Tooru's gaze dropped to where his fingers were smeared crimson, trembling uncontrollably. He stared at them like they belonged to someone else.

Iwaizumi pulled harder. Your body slipped from Tooru's grasp, settling gently back onto the bloodied carpet. Tooru made a sound—low, animal, broken—that ripped straight through Iwaizumi's chest.

He collapsed forward, hands scrabbling at empty air where you'd been. "Don't—don't take her—please—"

Iwaizumi caught him before he hit the floor fully, hauling him back against his chest. Tooru thrashed once, twice, then went limp, sobs tearing out of him in ugly, wrenching waves.

"Iwa-chan," he gasped between heaves. "Iwa-chan, I can't breathe. I can't—"

"I know," Iwaizumi said, voice cracking for the first time. He held on tighter, one hand fisted in Tooru's blood-matted hair. "I know. Just… breathe. I've got you."

Tooru curled into him like he was eight years old again, hiding from nightmares. "She was supposed to be my wife," he whispered. "We were supposed to… we were supposed to…"

The words dissolved into more sobs.

Iwaizumi didn't let go. Not when distant shouts echoed down the hall—guests, staff, security. Not when sirens began to wail far below. Not when the room filled with flashing lights and horrified faces.

He just held on.

Because if he let go, Tooru would shatter completely.

And Iwaizumi wasn't ready to lose both of them in one day.

The church bells outside kept ringing, cheerful and mocking.

Tooru laughed once—a hollow, broken sound.

"Bad omen, huh?" he said to no one in particular. "Guess you were right after all."

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in his life, the Grand King let himself lose. Completely. Irreversibly.

One shot

Inarizaki Volleyball Team × Third Year!Manager!Fem!Reader Inclined Shinsuke Kita × Third Year!Manager!Fem!Reader HAIKYU!! MASTERLIST

The Inarizaki High School grounds had never looked so alive.

Strings of fairy lights crisscrossed above the volleyball court like a galaxy someone had stapled to the sky. The net had been taken down and replaced with a makeshift DJ booth (courtesy of the audio-visual club kids who’d bribed their way in with free snacks). Folding tables groaned under mountains of convenience-store onigiri, yakisoba, takoyaki, and suspiciously large bowls of punch that no one was asking questions about. Speakers thumped with a playlist that swung wildly between J-pop bangers, old-school enka remixes, and whatever viral TikTok sound was trending that week. The entire school had shown up—third-years pretending to be too cool to dance, second-years already half-drunk on sugar and adrenaline, first-years running around like escaped zoo animals.

But the volleyball team?

They had claimed the center of the court like it was their kingdom.

You stepped onto the court at exactly 7:42 p.m., and the energy shifted like someone had flipped a switch.

High-waisted black shorts that hugged your hips and ass like they’d been painted on, the waistband sitting high enough to make your waist look even tinier. A deep-V lace camisole in soft ivory that dipped low enough to show the perfect hint of cleavage, the lace edges teasing every time you moved. Over it, an oversized cropped hoodie in mint-green (obviously), sleeves pushed up, hem stopping right above your navel. And the pièce de résistance: sleek black calf-length heeled boots that made your legs look endless and added just enough sway to every step. Your long hair fell in loose, glossy waves down your back, catching the fairy lights like it was made to shine. And perched on your nose? Brand-new teal rectangular box-framed glasses that somehow made your eyes look even bigger, sharper, and more devastating.

The moment your boots clicked against the court floor, half the volleyball team collectively choked on their drinks.

Atsumu was the first to recover (barely). He dropped his yakisoba cup so fast it splattered across Riseki’s sneakers.

“[NAME]-CHAN?!” he screeched, voice cracking into a register only dogs could hear. “What the—when did ya get hot like THAT?!”

Osamu smacked the back of his head without looking up from his onigiri. “She’s always been hot, idiot. You just finally noticed.”

Suna, leaning against a speaker with his arms crossed, pushed his phone down from where he’d already started recording. “Holy shit. The glasses. The shorts. The—everything. I’m framing this moment.”

Riseki, still frozen with yakisoba dripping off his shoe, whispered reverently, “[Name]-senpai looks like a magical girl who’s about to dropkick someone…”

Aran coughed into his fist, ears bright red. “Language, Riseki.”

Ōmimi just stared, arms crossed, then muttered to Ginjima, “I need to sit down.”

Ginjima nodded slowly. “Same.”

Akagi was openly fanning himself with a paper plate. “[Name]-chan, are you trying to kill us? Is this revenge for the headshot?”

Kita, standing near the punch bowl like the responsible adult he was, simply watched you walk across the court. His expression didn’t change, but the tips of his ears were scarlet, and he took one very deliberate sip of punch like it was going to save his soul.

You reached the group with a casual wave, that sweet, imperfect grin on full display. “Hey, boys. Having fun?”

Atsumu recovered first (predictably). He launched himself forward, arms wide. “[Name]-chan! Dance with me! C’mon, one song! I’ve been practicin’ my moves!”

Osamu grabbed the back of his collar like he was leashing a dog. “Over my dead body.”

Suna stepped smoothly in front of Atsumu, blocking him with one long arm. “She’s not dancing with you. You’ll step on her boots and cry when she breaks your foot.”

Atsumu flailed. “Oi! I’m an amazing dancer! [Name]-chan, tell ‘em!”

You laughed, adjusting your glasses with one finger. “You dance like a drunk flamingo, Atsumu. I’ve seen the videos.”

The entire team burst out laughing. Atsumu clutched his chest like he’d been shot. “Betrayal! From my own [Name]-chan!”

Riseki, brave little first-year, raised a timid hand. “Um… [Name]-senpai? Can I—maybe—get one dance? Just one? I promise I won’t step on your boots…”

Akagi elbowed him gently. “Kid, you’re gonna faint before you even touch her.”

Before anyone could answer, the DJ dropped the opening beat of a remix of “Gnarly” (the same song you’d famously twerked to during the cheer uniform bet). The court erupted.

Atsumu saw his chance. “THIS IS MY SONG!”

He lunged.

Osamu caught him by the hoodie.

Suna grabbed the other sleeve.

They yanked in opposite directions like a tug-of-war rope.

“LET GO, ‘SAMU! SHE’S MINE FOR THIS SONG!”

“Like hell she is, ya tone-deaf disaster!”

Suna, still holding Atsumu’s sleeve, deadpanned over his shoulder at you, “[Name]-chan. Blink twice if you need rescuing from these two morons.”

You were already laughing so hard your stomach hurt, hands on your knees. “Guys—guys—there’s enough of me for one dance!”

Aran stepped in, arms crossed, smirking. “Actually, there’s enough for all of us. Line up, losers. We’re doing this properly.”

Ōmimi cracked his knuckles. “I call first.”

Ginjima immediately protested. “No way! I’ve been practicing the TikTok dance for weeks!”

Akagi raised both hands. “I just want to hold her hand. That’s it. That’s the dream.”

Riseki was vibrating. “I’ll take anything! Even if it’s just standing next to her while she dances!”

Kita watched the absolute circus unfold, then—quietly—walked over and offered you his hand.

The entire group went silent.

Even the music seemed to lower itself out of respect.

You took his hand without hesitation, letting him pull you into the center of the circle they’d unconsciously formed. He didn’t say a word—just started moving with you, slow at first, simple steps that somehow made the chaotic beat feel elegant.

The team lost their minds.

Atsumu wailed. “CAPTAIN?! That’s cheating! You can’t just—!”

Osamu snorted. “He can. He did. Get rekt.”

Suna started filming again. “This is going in the vault. Kita Shinsuke slow-dancing in public. The world must know.”

Aran laughed so hard he had to lean on Ōmimi. “Look at his face! He’s trying to stay serious but he’s blushing like a schoolgirl!”

Kita ignored them all. His hand stayed firm on your waist, the other holding yours, guiding you in a smooth circle that made your high-waisted shorts and cropped hoodie look like they’d been designed specifically for this moment. When the beat dropped, he spun you out, then pulled you back in close—close enough that your chest brushed his, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

You grinned up at him through your glasses. “Didn’t know you could dance, Shinsuke.”

His voice was low, just for you. “I can do a lot of things when it’s with you.”

The team collectively screamed.

Atsumu dropped to his knees. “THE CAPTAIN JUST FLIRTED! IN PUBLIC! I NEED TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER!”

Osamu dragged him up by the collar. “You are the manager of your own dignity and you’re failing miserably.”

Riseki was filming on his own phone now, tears in his eyes. “This is the best day of my life.”

When the song ended, Kita dipped you dramatically—perfect form, steady grip—and brought you back up slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

The court erupted again.

The beat was pounding so hard the fairy lights overhead seemed to pulse in time with it. The remix of “Gnarly” had looped back around for the third time because Atsumu kept yelling at the DJ to “play it again, it’s [Name]-chan’s song!” and nobody had the energy (or the death wish) to tell him no.

You were in the absolute center of the court, surrounded by the Inarizaki volleyball circus, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. The cropped hoodie had already ridden up twice from all the spinning and flailing, flashing your navel and the high waistband of those sinfully tight black shorts every time you moved. Your new teal glasses were slightly crooked from Riseki accidentally bumping into you during his enthusiastic “senpai appreciation twirl,” and your hair was a glorious, sweaty mess that somehow still looked magazine-ready.

The temperature had climbed from the sheer body heat of fifty teenagers jumping around, and you were overheating in the best way.

“[Name]-chan! You’re glowing!” Riseki shouted over the music, eyes sparkling like he was witnessing a deity descend. “Like—literally glowing! Is that glitter?!”

“It’s sweat, Riseki,” Ginjima yelled back, already fanning himself with his own shirt. “She’s a human sauna in those shorts!”

Atsumu, who had finally escaped Osamu’s death grip, slid up beside you with the grace of a drunk giraffe. “[Name]-chan! Dance battle! Me versus you! Winner gets to—uh—keep the loser’s dignity!”

You snorted, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. “You already lost your dignity in the konbini last week, Atsumu.”

The team howled.

Osamu appeared out of nowhere, slinging an arm around your shoulders like a protective older brother. “She ain’t dancin’ with ya. Yer feet are weapons of mass destruction.”

Suna, phone still rolling, leaned in with his signature deadpan. “She’s already carrying the entire team on her back. Literally. Look at Ōmimi using her as a human trophy.”

Ōmimi, who still had you perched on his shoulder like a pirate’s parrot earlier, grinned down at you. “She’s light as a feather. I could carry her all night.”

Akagi swooned dramatically. “[Name]-chan, marry me. I’ll treat you right. I’ll even let you steal my hoodies.”

Aran laughed so hard he nearly spilled his punch. “You’d let her steal your hoodies? That’s your love language? Weak, Akagi. Weak.”

You were laughing too hard to respond properly, the heat and the chaos and the sheer ridiculousness of it all finally tipping you over the edge.

“I’m dying,” you gasped, fanning yourself with both hands. “This hoodie is killing me!”

Atsumu’s eyes lit up like he’d been handed a golden ticket. “Take it off! TAKE IT OFF!”

Osamu immediately smacked him upside the head. “Shut up, pervert.”

Suna didn’t even blink. “Do it. For science.”

Riseki’s face went tomato-red. “[Name]-senpai—wait—uh—maybe keep it on? For—for safety?!”

You didn’t even think.

The hoodie was suffocating, the cropped lace camisole underneath was already doing all the work, and the night air felt too good to resist.

So you did it.

You grabbed the hem of the mint-green cropped hoodie, yanked it up and over your head in one fluid motion, and tossed it into the air like it had personally offended you.

The entire volleyball court went dead silent for 0.8 seconds.

Then it detonated.

The hoodie sailed in a perfect arc and landed directly on Atsumu’s face.

He froze, arms out like he’d been hit with a stun gun.

The rest of the team lost their goddamn minds.

“OH MY GOD!” Riseki shrieked, hands flying to his cheeks. “SENPAI JUST—SHE JUST—THE LACE! THE CLEAVAGE! THE SHORTS! I’M TOO YOUNG FOR THIS!”

Ginjima fell backward into Akagi, who caught him like a fainting Victorian lady. “My heart—my heart can’t take this—someone call an ambulance—[Name]-chan just killed us all!”

Aran’s jaw was on the floor. “Holy… I need to speak to the manager of perfection. Because that’s what this is. Perfection.”

Ōmimi let out the deepest, most reverent “Damn” anyone had ever heard from him.

Suna’s phone nearly slipped from his hand. For the first time in recorded history, his cool cracked. “Okay. Yeah. This is going in the vault. And the Hall of Fame. And probably my funeral slideshow.”

Atsumu finally peeled the hoodie off his face, eyes comically wide, mouth hanging open. “[Name]-chan… the—the lace… the—the everything… I—I think I just ascended.”

Osamu grabbed the hoodie from his twin’s limp fingers and immediately draped it over your shoulders like a protective blanket. “Put it back on before these idiots have a collective stroke.”

You were laughing so hard tears streamed down your face, the deep-V camisole shifting with every giggle, the lace edges fluttering against your skin. “It was too hot! Sue me!”

Kita, who had been quietly observing from the edge of the circle, finally stepped forward.

The team went quiet again. Even Atsumu shut up.

Kita didn’t say a word at first. He just reached out, took the hoodie from Osamu’s hands, and very gently, very deliberately, slid it back over your shoulders himself.

His fingers brushed your collarbones as he zipped it halfway up—enough to cover the cleavage, not enough to hide how good you looked in the lace.

Then he looked at the rest of the team, eyes flat and deadly calm.

“Eyes up here.”

The entire court snapped to attention like they’d been called to formation.

Atsumu gulped. “Y-Yes, Captain…”

Riseki whispered, “I’m looking at the stars. Very interesting stars. Very far away.”

Kita’s gaze swept the group once more, then softened when it landed back on you.

He leaned in, voice low enough that only you (and Suna’s suspiciously close phone) could hear.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured. “But next time you decide to strip in front of the entire school, warn me first. I need time to prepare my murder list.”

You grinned, pushing your glasses up with one finger. “Noted, Captain.”

He gave you one last lingering look—dark, possessive, proud—then turned back to the team.

“Music. Now.”

The DJ, sensing the shift in power, immediately dropped the bass again.

And just like that, the chaos resumed—but softer this time, sweeter.

The fairy lights overhead were starting to blur into golden streaks as the night wore on, the bass from the speakers rattling the temporary dance floor they’d taped down over the volleyball court lines. The entire Inarizaki student body was either jumping like possessed rabbits or pretending they were too cool to move, but the volleyball team? They had turned the center of the court into their own private war zone of limbs, laughter, and terrible dance attempts.

You were right in the eye of the storm.

The mint-green cropped hoodie was long gone—tossed somewhere into the crowd after the great “overheating liberation” moment—and now you were down to the deep-V lace camisole that clung to every curve like it had been custom-made to cause cardiac events, high-waisted black shorts that left exactly zero room for interpretation about the shape of your ass, and those sleek black calf-length heeled boots that added just enough height to make every spin feel dangerous.

Your hair was a wild, sweaty halo of waves, teal rectangular glasses slightly fogged from the heat, cheeks flushed bright pink, and every time you laughed it came out breathless and a little delirious.

You were at your absolute limit.

And somehow—through sheer chaotic momentum—you ended up chest-to-chest with Kita Shinsuke.

It happened during one of those ridiculous group spins where Atsumu had tried to “lead” everyone in a circle like a drunk conga line. He’d grabbed your hand, Osamu had grabbed his, Suna had latched onto Osamu, Riseki had latched onto Suna, and the whole chain had whipped around until centrifugal force flung you straight into Kita’s steady chest like a magnet finding north.

Your palms slapped against his sternum for balance.

His hands automatically settled on your waist—firm, warm, one thumb brushing the bare skin just above your shorts.

And neither of you moved.

The music kept thumping. The crowd kept screaming. But right there, in the middle of the madness, you and Kita were suddenly in your own quiet pocket of air.

Your forehead bumped his collarbone because of the height difference (even with the heels), lace pressing against his practice jersey, your heartbeat slamming against his ribs like it was trying to break out and run away.

Kita didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

He just… held you.

Steady as always.

You tilted your head up, glasses slipping a little down your nose, eyes wide and glassy from laughter and heat and maybe one too many sips of suspiciously strong punch.

“Sh-Shinsuke…” you managed, voice cracking into a giggle that sounded half-hysterical. “I think… I think I’m gonna pass out.”

His dark eyes flicked down to yours, calm as ever, but the faintest flush colored the tips of his ears and the bridge of his nose.

“Yer fine,” he said quietly, Kansai accent soft and low, just for you. “Breathe slow.”

You tried. You really did.

But then Atsumu’s voice sliced through the bubble like a chainsaw.

“OI OI OI OI WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

He’d finally noticed.

Atsumu skidded to a halt so fast his sneakers squeaked, blond hair flopping into his eyes, mouth hanging open so wide you could see his tonsils. “CAPTAIN?! [NAME]-CHAN?! YER—YER CHEST-TO-CHEST?! IN PUBLIC?! WITH THE LACE?! AND THE SHORTS?! AND THE—THE EVERYTHING?!”

Osamu appeared at his shoulder like a demon summoned by bad decisions, gray eyes narrowed. “Let ‘em breathe, ya moron. Yer screamin’ like a banshee.”

Suna slid up on your other side, phone already up, deadpan as death. “This is the money shot. I’m getting at least three different angles.”

Riseki popped up between them like a meerkat, eyes huge behind his bangs. “[Name]-senpai… Captain… are you—um—are you hugging? Like… hugging-hugging? In front of the whole school?!”

Ginjima clutched Akagi’s arm so hard the libero winced. “I can’t watch. It’s too pure. It’s too powerful. My heart—”

Akagi patted Ginjima’s hand absently, staring openly. “She’s literally glued to him. Look at that. Look at how he’s holdin’ her waist. That’s—that’s husband grip.”

Ōmimi rumbled from somewhere behind the crowd. “If anyone tries to pull ‘em apart, I’m breakin’ fingers.”

Aran crossed his arms, smirking like a proud older brother. “Well damn. Guess the captain finally staked his claim in front of witnesses. Respect.”

You buried your burning face against Kita’s chest, shoulders shaking with laughter that was starting to sound suspiciously like sobs. “Kill me. Just kill me now.”

Kita’s hand slid up your back—slow, steady, protective—until his palm cupped the nape of your neck, fingers threading gently into your hair.

“No one’s killin’ ya,” he murmured against your temple, voice so low and steady it cut through the noise like a blade. “Yer safe. Even when yer actin’ like a fool.”

Atsumu threw both hands in the air. “ACTIN’ LIKE A FOOL?! SHE’S PRACTICALLY CLIMBIN’ HIM LIKE A TREE! AND HE’S JUST—JUST STANDIN’ THERE LIKE IT’S NORMAL?!”

Osamu snorted. “It is normal now, dumbass. Get used to it.”

Riseki started bouncing on his toes. “[Name]-senpai! Captain! Can I—can I get a picture? For the team group chat? Please? It’s for morale!”

Suna didn’t even wait for permission. The flash went off three times in rapid succession.

Kita’s eyebrow twitched—the Kita equivalent of a full-blown glare.

“Suna.”

Suna didn’t flinch. “Already backed up. Cloud. External drive. My mom’s phone. It’s immortal now.”

You peeked up at Kita through your lashes, glasses crooked, cheeks flaming, but still grinning like an idiot. “Yer not mad?”

He looked down at you, expression softening in that rare, devastating way only you ever got to see.

“I’m mad that half the school is seein’ ya like this,” he said quietly, thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. “But I ain’t mad at ya. Never at ya.”

Atsumu wailed dramatically. “STOP BEIN’ ROMANTIC IN FRONT OF US! SOME OF US ARE SINGLE AND SUFFERIN’!”

Osamu grabbed him in a headlock. “Suffer quietly.”

Akagi started chanting softly. “Kita! [Name]! Kita! [Name]!”

The chant spread.

Soon half the court was yelling it.

Riseki joined in with jazz hands.

Ginjima was filming now too.

Ōmimi just stood there like a silent guardian, arms crossed, nodding approvingly.

Aran laughed so hard he had to brace himself on Ōmimi’s shoulder. “Y’all are hopeless.”

And you?

You were still pressed chest-to-chest with Kita, heartbeat thundering against his, laughing so hard tears leaked from the corners of your eyes.

“Shinsuke,” you wheezed, “I think… I think we broke them.”

He exhaled through his nose—the Kita version of a chuckle—then leaned down and pressed the softest, most deliberate kiss to your forehead, right between your glasses and your beauty mark.

“Let ‘em break,” he murmured against your skin. “They’ll survive.”

The chant got louder.

Atsumu finally escaped the headlock and dropped to his knees in mock despair. “I can’t! I can’t handle this much romance! Someone get me a Pocari! I’m dehydrated from all the feelings!”

Osamu kicked him lightly in the ribs. “Get up, drama queen.”

Suna zoomed in on Atsumu’s crumpled form. “New thumbnail. ‘Local setter defeated by captain’s PDA.’”

You finally peeled yourself off Kita’s chest—just enough to breathe—but his hands stayed on your waist, steady, grounding.

“Ya okay?” he asked quietly, eyes searching yours.

You nodded, still giggling, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

“Better than okay.”

He gave one small, satisfied nod.

Then—because the night was already ruined for dignity—he pulled you back in, arms wrapping fully around you, chin resting on top of your head.

The chant reached fever pitch.

And somewhere in the chaos, under the fairy lights and the thumping bass, with the entire school screaming your names, Kita Shinsuke held you like the world could fall apart around you both and he still wouldn’t let go.

Comedy gold?

This was comedy platinum.

And the Inarizaki volleyball team would never, ever let either of you live it down.

KARASUNO EDITION.

SEIJOH EDITION.

NEKOMA EDITION.

INARIZAKI EDITION.

🥇 THIRD YEARS

Shinsuke Kita ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

Kita doesn’t even need to be asked. The second you set your cup down to adjust your glasses / fix your ribbon / wave at someone, he’s already slid his body between your drink and the rest of the room like a human shield. No dramatic movements, no yelling—just quiet, terrifying presence. If anyone even glances at your cup too long he turns his head slowly and gives them the full “I see you and I remember yer face” stare.

When you come back he’s standing exactly where you left him, arms crossed, cup untouched and condensation still perfect.

You: “Shinsuke… you didn’t have to-”

Him (soft Kansai, almost gentle): “Yer drink. Ain’t nobody touchin’ it while I’m here.”

How you thank him : You rise on tiptoes, press the softest kiss right under his jaw where that tiny beauty mark sits, then whisper “Best captain ever” against his skin. His ears go red but he just tightens his arm around your waist and mutters “Don’t wander off again.”

Aran Ojiro ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Aran is the classic “big brother” protector. The moment you step away he grabs your cup, holds it against his chest like it’s a newborn, and glares at the entire radius around it. Anyone who gets within two meters gets the full “you lookin’ at somethin’?” eyebrow raise + the polite-but-deadly “I got this one, thanks” smile.

He also narrates everything to the cup like it can hear him: “Don’t worry, lil’ guy, nobody’s gettin’ near ya.”

You return and he hands it back with both hands like he’s presenting tribute.

You: “Aran-senpai, you’re so sweet—”

Him (Kansai drawl, sheepish grin): “Ain’t sweet. Just don’t like sharin’ what’s yours. Drink up ‘fore it gets warm, [name]-chan.”

How you thank him : You loop both arms around one of his and lean your cheek against his bicep for a long second, murmuring “My favorite wall.” He freezes, then awkwardly pats your head while his face burns.

Ren Ōmimi ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Ōmimi doesn’t speak much, but his presence is a 190 cm wall of “try me.” He simply picks your cup up the second you turn away, holds it at chest height in one massive hand, and stares straight ahead like a sentinel statue. If someone approaches he doesn’t even turn his head—just slowly tilts his face toward them until they back up. Zero words needed.

When you come back he lowers the cup into your hands without breaking eye contact.

You: “Ōmimi-san… thank you.”

Him (deep Kansai rumble): “Ain’t nothin’. Nobody touches what’s yours.”

How you thank him : You step right into his space, press both palms to his chest, rise on your toes and kiss the underside of his jaw. He goes statue-still, then one giant hand settles on the small of your back like he’s afraid he’ll break you if he squeezes.

Michinari Akagi ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Akagi treats your drink like it’s a national treasure. He snatches it up instantly, cradles it close to his body with both hands, and starts narrating threats to the room in a cheerful voice: “Oi oi, anybody thinkin’ about spikin’ this? I’ll know. And I’ll remember. And I got a mean dig if ya try.”

He also keeps turning the cup so the condensation stays even (libero instincts).

You return and he beams, handing it over like he just guarded the emperor’s crown.

You: “Akagi-kun, you’re the best—”

Him (bright Kansai): “Anything for [name]-chan! Can’t have ya gettin’ anything weird in there. Drink safe, yeah?”

How you thank him : You grab his wrist, tug him down to your level, and plant a loud, dramatic kiss on his cheek. He turns beet red and starts stammering about “libero reflexes” while the whole team teases him.

🥈 SECOND YEARS

Atsumu Miya ★★★★☆☆☆☆☆☆ (4/10)

Atsumu grabs your drink the second you turn away… then immediately starts drinking from it. “Just testin’ it for poison, [name]-chan!” He also gets distracted easily—starts showing off to some random third-year girl, forgets he’s holding your cup, and almost hands it to her before Osamu yeets it out of his hand.

You come back to him yelling “I was protectin’ it with my life!” while Osamu holds your cup hostage.

You: “Atsumu… seriously?”

Him (whiny Kansai): “I was gonna give it back! Promise! I only took one sip—okay two—but it was quality control!”

How you thank him (after snatching your drink back): You flick his forehead, then kiss the same spot. He immediately melts and starts whining for another one until Osamu literally kicked his right asscheek hard and it ended in a sibling brawl.

Osamu Miya ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

Osamu doesn’t even hesitate. Your cup disappears into his hand the instant you look away. He holds it like it’s one of his premium onigiri—careful grip, angled away from everyone, constantly scanning the room like a hawk. If anyone gets within arm’s reach he just shifts his body and gives them the “I will end you and use your bones to season rice” stare.

When you return he hands it back without a word, but his ears are pink.

You: “’Samu… thank you.”

Him (quiet Kansai): “Ain’t lettin’ nobody mess with yer drink. Ever.”

How you thank him : You step into his space, slide both arms around his waist under his jacket, and press a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. He freezes, then wraps one arm around your back and mutters “Yer dangerous” against your temple.

Rintarō Suna ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Suna just picks your cup up and holds it next to his phone like it’s part of the selfie. He doesn’t say anything—just stares at anyone who gets too close until they leave. Occasionally he takes a fake sip to “test” it (he’s actually just smelling it).

When you return he hands it over without looking up from his screen.

You: “Suna, you’re the best.”

Him (lazy Kansai drawl): “Yeah yeah. Nobody touched it. You’re welcome.”

How you thank him : You lean over his shoulder, push his phone down, and kiss the corner seam of his lips. He blinks once, slowly, then smirks with that smoldering fox eyed gaze of his. “Do that again and I’m keeping yer drink forever.”

Yūto Kosaku ★★★★★★☆☆☆☆ (6/10)

Kōsaku is earnest but clumsy. He grabs your cup and holds it with both hands like it’s a baby chick, constantly looking around nervously. “I-I got it, [name]-san! Nobody’s touching it on my watch!” He almost spills it twice because he’s so tense.

You return and he thrusts it at you like it’s on fire.

You: “Thanks, Kōsaku-kun.”

Him (nervous Kansai): “N-No problem! I-I guarded it with my life!”

How you thank him : You pat his head and kiss his cheek. He turns bright red and short-circuits.

Hitoshi Ginjima ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Ginjima is surprisingly intense. He snatches your cup, tucks it against his side, and glares at anyone who even breathes in its direction. “This one’s off-limits. Move.”

When you come back he hands it over with a small, proud smile.

You: “Ginjima-kun, you’re so reliable.”

Him (shy Kansai): “Just doin’ what I’m s’posed to. Ain’t lettin’ nobody mess with ya.”

How you thank him : You hug him tight around the waist and kiss his cheek. He freezes, then awkwardly hugs back while mumbling “Y-Yeah… anytime…”

🥉 FIRST YEARS

Heisuke Riseki ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Riseki treats your drink like it’s sacred. He holds it with both hands, stands ramrod straight, and literally salutes anyone who gets close. “This is [name]-senpai’s! Back off!” He’s so earnest it scares people away.

When you return he practically bows as he hands it over.

You: “Riseki-kun, you’re amazing.”

Him (teary Kansai): “I-I’d die before I let anything happen to it, senpai!”

How you thank him : You ruffle his hair, pull him into a hug, and kiss the top of his head. He bursts into happy tears on the spot.

Final rankings (protective drink guardian tier list):

S-tier: Kita & Osamu (10/10 unshakeable)

A-tier: Aran, Akagi, Riseki (9/10)

B-tier: Suna, Ginjima, Ōmimi (8/10)

C-tier: Kōsaku (6/10)

D-tier: Atsumu (lmao-)

(4/10 but he tries really hard)

Your drinks have never been safer❤️🙏.

KARASUNO EDITION.

SEIJOH EDITION.

NEKOMA EDITION.

🥇 THIRD YEARS

TETSURŌ KUROO — ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

You slipped off to freshen up, the frat lights flickering gold across his cheekbones. Kuroo didn’t just guard your cup — he caged it with one hand, lounging back but eyes sharp.

A shady punk hovered too close.

Kuroo didn’t move at first. Then he leaned forward, voice dropping low:

“Try it. I dare you.”

The punk fled.

When you came back, cheeks flushed and pretty, you touched his wrist in thanks. He dipped his head, lips brushing your temple slowly.

“For you? Always. I’m not letting anyone mess with what’s mine.”

NOBUYUKI KAI — ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Kai stood beside your drink like it was a sacred relic. Calm. Quiet. Deadly.

A punk tried to reach for the table.

Kai simply looked at him. Just… looked.

The punk apologized and walked away.

You thanked him softly, and Kai smiled, gentle fingers brushing your shoulder.

“I’ll always keep you safe. Don’t worry about a thing tonight.”

MORISUKE YAKU — ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10 BUT ACTUALLY 12)

Your drink was untouched. Why? Because Yaku had already chased away three shady guys while you were gone.

One punk tried stepping closer—

Yaku: “The hell do you think you’re doing?”

The punk ran like Yaku had a bat.

When you came back and thanked him, he huffed, embarrassed.

“Oi… stop looking at me like that. I’m just doing my job, okay?”

But he let you kiss his cheek anyway.

🥈 SECOND YEARS

TAKETORA YAMAMOTO — ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

He had both hands on either side of your cup like he was protecting a baby bird.

A shady guy tried to slip closer—

Yamamoto puffed up like a lion.

“BACK OFF! That belongs to my girl!”

The punk stepped away immediately.

When you thanked him, Tora went red and scratched his neck.

“Y‑yeah… yeah! I’ll keep your stuff safe anytime!”

He was wagging emotionally.

KENMA KOZUME — ★★★★★★★☆☆☆ (7/10)

One hand on his phone. Other hand holding your drink like a precious artifact.

The punk leaned in— Without looking up, Kenma muttered:

“If you try that, I’ll break your fingers.”

The man evaporated.

You returned and kissed his cheek in thanks. Kenma blinked, stared at you, and whispered:

“…again.”

SHŌHEI FUKUNAGA — ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Silent demon.

The punk approached your drink. Fukunaga tilted his head with a tiny smile.

The guy backed away like he’d seen a horror movie character.

When you returned and whispered thanks, Fukunaga grinned, eyes sparkling.

“Mm.” (Translation: Anything for you.)

TAMAHIKO TESHIRO — ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Teshiro politely blocked the table with one arm.

“I’m sorry, that spot’s taken.”

The punk tried insisting.

Teshiro didn’t raise his voice — just dropped the smile.

“I said the spot’s taken.”

The guy nearly tripped over himself backing away.

You returned, touched his arm, and thanked him. He looked down, embarrassed but pleased.

“It’s no trouble. Your safety matters.”

🥉 FIRST YEARS

LEV HAIBA — ★★★★★★☆☆☆☆ (6/10)

He protected the drink with his whole giant body… Accidentally bumped it… Nearly dropped it…

But when a punk reached over, Lev roared:

“THAT’S [Your Name]-SENPAI’S DRINK!!”

LOUD. VERY LOUD. EFFECTIVE.

You thanked him, and he lit up like a sunbeam.

“I DID GOOD, RIGHT?!”

Sweet chaos.

SŌ INUOKA — ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Pure loyal puppy.

He held your drink high above his head so no one could reach it.

A punk tried— “Nope! This is [Your Name]-senpai’s! Sorry!”

You hugged him when you returned, and he practically vibrated with joy.

YŪKI SHIBAYAMA — ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Tiny but mighty.

He physically shielded your drink with his back.

Punk: “Is this seat—” Shibayama: “P‑PLEASE DON’T TOUCH IT—!!”

Pure terror defense. It worked.

You thanked him, and he blushed so hard he couldn’t look at you.

Summary

Third Years: Kuroo is sly, territorial danger in a smirk.

Kai is the quiet wall no one gets past.

Yaku is small but absolutely lethal.

Second Years: Yamamoto is loud, loyal chaos with fists ready.

Kenma is soft but terrifying when someone threatens you.

Fukunaga is silent menace energy.

Teshiro is polite but can snap like a guillotine.

First Years: Lev is huge, dramatic, and overprotective.

Inuoka is sunshine who turns into a guard dog instantly.

Shibayama is shy but razor-alert when it comes to your safety.

KARASUNO EDITION.

SEIJOH EDITION.

SEIJOH EDITION.

🥇 Third Years

Tōru Oikawa

Protection Level: ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

He watches your drink like a hawk, subtle but utterly terrifying if anyone even thinks about touching it.

Will follow you to the restroom without being obvious, just in case.

If someone tries to spike your drink, he’s calm at first — a charming smile masking sheer menace — then he corners them, lets them sweat, and makes it very clear the consequences would ruin their life.

You thank him with a small squeeze on his arm or a soft “thank you” whispered in his ear; his grin widens and he’s internally over the moon.

Hajime Iwaizumi

Protection Level: ★★★★★★★★★ (9/10)

Hands-on type: he literally hovers over your drink and will tackle anyone who comes too close.

If a shady punk approaches, he doesn’t even talk first. He steps in, chest out, voice booming, giving them one chance — and if they push it, boom.

You thank him by hugging him tight, burying your face in his chest. He secretly loves it more than the physical intimidation itself.

Takahiro Hanamaki

Protection Level: ★★★★★★★★ (8/10)

Prefers subtle manipulation over brute force: he’ll charm potential threats into leaving you alone first, reading the room like a pro.

If charm fails, he’s more than capable of scaring them off — snarky comments escalating into slaps if necessary.

Your thank-you is usually a teasing smile or playful nudge, which he finds incredibly satisfying.

Issei Matsukawa

Protection Level: ★★★★★★★ (7/10)

Straightforward brute: he doesn’t hide his protective nature. He sits near your table or keeps a hand on your drink at all times.

Threaten your drink? He’s the first to confront, swinging fists or yelling, and anyone near him knows trouble’s coming.

Your thank-you is a grin and casual praise; he secretly craves recognition for being the “loud scary protector.”

🥈 Second Years

Shigeru Yahaba

Protection Level: ★★★★★★★ (7/10)

Sly, observant, and surprisingly patient: he’ll notice shady behavior before anyone else.

If someone tries anything, he calls them out in front of the crowd, creating humiliation as his weapon.

You thank him with a wink or small laugh — he loves the attention and the acknowledgment of his cleverness.

Shinji Watari

Protection Level: ★★★★★★ (6/10)

Keeps quiet but stays close. Less intimidating physically, but people sense a “don’t mess with her” aura.

If someone tries to mess with your drink, he blocks them subtly, but if it escalates, he’s surprisingly vicious with words or a quick shove.

You thank him with a gentle touch on the shoulder or a soft smile; he’s humble but secretly melts inside.

Kentarō Kyōtani (Mad Dog)

Protection Level: ★★★★★★★★★ (9/10)

Unpredictable chaos incarnate: he doesn’t need a reason to crush anyone who threatens you.

The moment someone gets near your drink with ill intentions, he’s on them immediately. No hesitation. Total physical dominance.

You thank him by leaning into him or whispering a quiet “thanks, Kyotani,” which makes him grin like a maniac. He loves knowing someone trusts him completely.

🥉 First Years

Yūtarō Kindaichi

Protection Level: ★★★★★ (5/10)

Nervous but loyal: he stays near you, watching for trouble.

If someone tries to spike your drink, he panics, but Hajime or Oikawa quickly cover him; otherwise, he’s ready to shout loudly and scare them.

Your thank-you is a small compliment or playful tease; he beams like he just won a medal.

Akira Kunimi

Protection Level: ★★★★★★ (6/10)

Calm, observant, and deceptively capable. He doesn’t need to yell; he gives the right look, and trouble usually backs off.

If someone escalates, he handles it efficiently, without theatrics — a quiet but brutal threat.

You thank him with a soft pat on the arm or a subtle smile. He appreciates the quiet trust you place in him.

Summary of Dynamics

Oikawa & Kyotani: Absolute apex predators. Subtle charm vs pure chaos — both terrify anyone thinking of crossing you.

Iwa & Hanamaki: Brute force and charm combined; hands-on, unapologetic, reliable.

Matsun & Yahaba: Loud protection and clever intimidation; steady but less flashy.

Watari, Kindaichi, Kunimi: Quiet, observant, subtle, but effective if things go wrong.

You: Their beloved, absolutely protected, and they all compete, in some way, to keep you safe — with you always aware, always grateful, and mischievously acknowledging the chaos they cause for your sake.

KARASUNO EDITION.

NEKOMA EDITION.

KARASUNO EDITION.

🥇 Third Years

Daichi Sawamura — Protection: ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

Moves like a silent tank; the moment you leave to the restroom, he positions himself so anyone even looking at your drink regrets it.

If a shady punk leans toward it, Daichi’s stare alone is enough to make them rethink their life choices. One step closer and he’s physically blocking the table, with that thousand yard deadass captain stare.

If it comes to physical confrontation? He’s not just brute force; he’s precision. One swift motion, drink saved, punk knocked into next week.

You thank him with a soft touch on his shoulder with “Thank you, Daichi” whispered and a sweet kiss on the cheek planted on his cheek —he grins boyishly, eyes warm, heart quietly melting because your gratitude is everything to him.

Kōshi Sugawara — Protection: ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Flawlessly charming and lethal. He hovers subtly near your drink, polite smiles masking the fact that if anyone touches it, he’ll turn into a hurricane of fury they don't call him Mr. Refreshing for nothing.

Uses his smooth talk first: “Excuse me, that’s not yours with that angelic smile of his,” while a flick of his wrist signals his friends to surround the offender.

If the punk doesn’t comply, Sugawara’s smackdown is surgical—either verbal annihilation or a precise shove that topples them out of the way.

You latch onto his side and ar sweetly very much grateful and hand—he practically glows, delighted by your sweetness,blushing away into the night.

Asahi Azumane — Protection: ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Gentle giant vibe… until someone touches your drink.

He’s slow to react in social settings but once he’s aware, he’s a storm. Eyes darken, body tenses, hands ready to strike.

Punk reaches for your cup? Asahi slams his palm on the table, moving the drink safely toward him, muttering nasty threats under his breath.

You hug him tightly, soft “Thanks, Asahi” into his chest, and he melts, mumbling “Don’t mention it dear…”

Kiyoko Shimizu — Protection: ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

Cool, collected, untouchable. She doesn’t need to raise her voice.

One glare, one step forward—punk instantly regrets existence.

She subtly positions herself and you so the drink is never alone, like chess pieces moving silently around the table.

You also hold her hand sticking by her side thanking her shyly—she barely acknowledges it outwardly, but inside? Pure satisfaction.

🥈 Second Years

Ryūnosuke Tanaka — Protection: ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

Chaos incarnate. If anyone touches your drink, Tanaka goes full berserker.

He literally shouts, leaps over tables, and corners the shady punk like a wild animal.

Threats are a combination of loud, profane, and theatrical—enough to terrify anyone with a pulse.

You thank him by playfully nuzzlimg his chest or calling him “my wild protector,” and he beams like he just won the lottery.

Yū Nishinoya — Protection: ★★★★★★★★★★ (10/10)

Ninja-mode. Moves around the table faster than anyone can see.

Your cup is always within his reach; if a hand goes near it, he’s there before gravity even notices.

Punk tries to be slick? Noya’s already behind them, startling the fool with terrifying eye contact and growls.

You clap or squeal in delight clearly drunk and out of your mind—he loves that reaction more than anything.

Chikara Ennoshita — Protection: ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Quiet but firm. He positions himself near your drink with calm authority.

If a shady punk makes a move, he steps in, voice low but terrifyingly serious, giving a warning like a hawk before strike.

Will physically block or redirect without fuss.

You smile and offer a soft “Thanks, Chikara” —he’s proud but slightly flustered by the attention.

🥉 First Years

Shōyō Hinata — Protection: ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Poor Baby sunshine , he's excitable and alert, bouncing like a spring. Constantly eyes your drink.

If someone gets close, Hinata leaps forward, shouting, flailing arms, maybe spilling his own drink in the process—but your cup is safe.

You hug him or tease, “Thanks, Shoyo!” —he almost explodes from happiness, squealing with joy.

Tobio Kageyama — Protection: ★★★★★★★★★☆ (9/10)

Silent, lethal, calculating. Eyes locked on potential threats like predator mode.

Punk thinks about touching your drink? He’s already blocking them before they realize he exists.

Can be cold and intimidating—doesn’t need to yell, just looks. That stare terrifies more than punches.

You give him a little grin or playful nudge; he barely reacts, but the crimson flush on his cheeks say otherwise.

Kei Tsukishima — Protection: ★★★★★★★☆☆☆ (7/10)

More sarcastic than scary, but don’t underestimate him.

Keeps a casual watch, deadpan comments: “If anyone touches it, I’ll call their parents… and break their kneecaps.”

Punk may scoff—then realize the ice in his voice isn’t joking.

You thank him with a smirk, teasing, “Thanks, Tsukki,” and he rolls his eyes but his corner of the mouth twitches upward.

Tadashi Yamaguchi — Protection: ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Gentle, careful, quietly observant. Keeps eyes constantly on your cup.

Subtle protective measures—shifts it closer to you, stands nearby, monitors suspicious movement.

If someone tries something? He flares up, voice and knees trembling but firm:

“Don’t even think about it.”

You hug him from behind whispering a sweet thanks into his defined back—he’s elated, glowing with pride knees shaking but for other reasons now.

Hitoka Yachi — Protection: ★★★★★★★★☆☆ (8/10)

Highly nervous, but devoted. Every glance is calculating, every step positions your drink safely.

She alerts the group if danger approaches, hands waving like semaphore signals.

Punk tries to spike your cup? She screams, calls out, maybe trips them accidentally—your drink remains untouched.

You smile warmly at her holding her hand gently , saying “Thank you, Hitoka-chan.” and she nearly floats away, heart pounding from excitement.

💥 Summary:

Third years: Daichi & Kiyoko are absolute gods of protection. Suga is deadly elegant. Asahi is gentle fury.

Second years: Tanaka & Noya are chaotic wolves, Ennoshita is calm but firm.

First years: Hinata & Yamaguchi are reactive angels, Kageyama is lethal calm, Tsukishima is cold sarcasm, Yachi is anxious devotion.

SEIJOH EDITION.

NEKOMA EDITION.

Oneshot

Featuring : Jeon Jae-jun x F!Foreigner!Reader.

Summary : As a Foreigner you had heard of this place many times and you decide to finally visit it during your stay in South Korea, CC Golf Resort and Siesta.

The velvet buzz of Seoul nightlife hummed low through the bar’s glass windows, the sky bruised dark over the skyline. Lights kissed the streets below like melted stars. Inside, the air was warm with jazz, whiskey, and hushes of conversation.

It was your second week in Korea. Still too early to feel settled, too late to keep being the mysterious foreigner who didn’t know how to order soju properly.

But you weren’t here for soju.

You were here for him.

He hadn’t spoken to you yet—not truly—but he always noticed. Those amber eyes flicked toward you behind tinted glasses whenever you walked in. The same way a wolf watches the edges of the forest.

Tall, sharp-jawed, devastating in that sleek dark shirt rolled to his elbows—he was the reason this bar didn’t need advertising. Word spread when a man like Jeon Jae-jun owned the place.

He wasn’t the kind of host who handed out menus. But he had a ritual: one drink each night, delivered personally to a single guest. You watched him do it with the precision of a king picking his knight.

Tonight, it was your turn.

You knew it before he even moved.

His cologne hit first—smoke and something decadent—as he walked over, whiskey in hand, the glass sweating in his grip. He paused in front of you, cocking a brow.

“Foreigner,” he said in that low, deliberate tone, “you don’t look like someone who drinks sweet cocktails.”

You tilted your head with a lazy grin. “And you look like someone who judges people for ordering them.”

He chuckled—just once. Deep. Rich. “You’d be right.”

He slid the glass across the bar to you. Amber poured over ice.

“Whiskey. No twist. On the rocks,” he said. “Like your expression the first night you walked in.”

“Thought I was just jetlagged,” you replied, swirling the drink. “But maybe I was just trying not to stare.”

He leaned in, arms on the bar, eyes gleaming beneath the dim light.

“You failed, by the way.”

A beat passed.

“You noticed?”

“I always notice,” he replied smoothly, “especially when someone doesn’t belong. The trick is figuring out if they’re just passing through… or if they’re dangerous.”

You took a slow sip, savoring the burn. “What am I, then?”

He looked at your lips as they left the rim of the glass. “You don’t seem the passing-through type.”

A corner of your mouth lifted. “And if I’m dangerous?”

He leaned in even closer. “Then I’ll pour your next drink personally… and let you prove it.”

—

That night, you left with a smirk, his number scrawled on your napkin in bold handwriting—along with one word underneath:

“Call me Sweetheart ♡.”

And a promise.

Oneshot

Featuring : Hwang Jun-ho x F!Reader.

Summary : You were only thinking of making Jun-ho the best meal you could ever think as a surprise after he finally returned from his island mission but what you didn't mean to find a cute baby staring at you wrapped up in a green oversized jacket with the number 222.

The sun had dipped low, casting soft golden beams through the curtains of your modest apartment. You fumbled with the keys, bags of groceries in both arms, already thinking about what to cook for dinner. Maybe that spicy kimchi stew Jun-ho liked when he was in a mood—or something light, since he said Woo-seok might join him for drinks.

You pushed the door open with your shoulder and kicked it shut behind you. “Jun-ho, did you forget your phone again—?”

Your words stopped mid-air.

There, in the middle of the living room, on the soft cream rug you both picked out together, was a baby.

Tiny. Quiet. Wide, curious eyes staring up at you like you were the entire galaxy.

You froze.

No crying. No sound. Just those blinking dark lashes and the slow, gummy smile forming on her face.

You looked around—no Jun-ho. No note. Just a wrapped baby, clean, fed, and… wearing a Green jacket.

Player 222.

Your heart dropped. You set the groceries down slowly, hands trembling. “Oh my god…”

And then she squealed softly. A high-pitched, bubbly noise that made your eyes sting.

—

At that exact moment, Jun-ho was laughing quietly for the first time in weeks. He sipped soju across the table from Choi Woo-seok at a small, tucked-away bar. They’d talked about Gi-hun, about the island, about all the mistakes. They’d even shared a toast for the fallen.

“You should smile more,” Woo-seok had said.

Jun-ho chuckled. “That’s your fourth glass talking.”

But halfway through their conversation, Jun-ho’s phone buzzed with a notification.

[Unknown Number] She’s with you now.

His body went still. Woo-seok watched the shift in his expression—cold clarity flooding in.

“Jun-ho?”

“I need to go home.”

—

You sat on the floor with her, heart racing, fingers gently brushing her soft little head. Her little hand latched onto your finger, gripping with surprising strength.

“I don’t know who you are, or how you got here…” you whispered, voice catching in your throat. “But you’re safe now. We’re gonna keep you safe.”

The door opened behind you.

Jun-ho stepped in, breath short, face stunned as he saw the child in your arms. You turned toward him, eyes wide. “She was just here. Waiting. I don’t—”

He walked slowly, kneeling beside you. “Jagiya...” he murmured.

You blinked. “Yes?”

“He… He trusted me. After everything. After what we did to him.”

Jun-ho touched the baby’s cheek, voice raw. “This was Gi-hun’s final act… she’s the last one. The only one who didn’t lose.”

You looked at the tiny girl, then at him.

“What do we do now?”

Jun-ho swallowed hard. Then his eyes lifted to meet yours. Not afraid. Just real. “We raise her.”

And in that quiet, sunlit room, with the world behind you both burning down—you kissed his temple, curled into his side, and the three of you simply existed.

No more running. No more fear.

Just beginnings.

Meanwhile....

Outside the apartment, hidden across the street in the shadow of a rooftop, the Front Man stood still. His black mask was off now—tucked into his coat pocket. His face, scarred with time and regret, was bare to the night air.

Hwang In-ho watched silently.

The window glowed warm with soft lamplight. He could see Jun-ho kneeling beside you, your arms curled around the baby who had once been Player 222—now something more, something sacred.

You were whispering gently, rocking her as she began to drift off. Jun-ho’s fingers threaded into your hair, pulling you close. And then… he pressed a kiss to your temple.

A slow, aching motion. One filled with so much tenderness, it made something in In-ho’s chest twist.

Jun-ho held you both, his chin tucked into your shoulder, protective and present. The man In-ho once knew was still there—scarred but intact, not hardened by revenge, but softened by love.

And that baby... she smiled in her sleep.

A memory rose in In-ho’s mind—his own wife, her laugh, her belly round with life. A life that never came. A life he could never save.

But maybe Jun-ho could.

He exhaled quietly, backing away from the edge of the rooftop. No more games. No more watching.

Tonight was the last time he would look in from the outside.

He had chosen his path—and Jun-ho had found his redemption.

And in that fleeting, fragile moment of warmth and family, In-ho disappeared into the night.

For good.

The rain had started to fall softly, the droplets pattering against the window as the city lights flickered in the distance. Inside, the apartment was still—bathed in the amber hush of evening.

You lay nestled into Jun-ho’s side on the couch, your head against his shoulder, the baby cradled between you both. Her tiny fingers twitched in sleep, wrapped around the edge of your sweater. Jun-ho's hand rested protectively on her back, his other arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer like he never wanted to let go again.

You tilted your head up, eyes searching his face.

“Do you think we’ll be okay?” you whispered.

He looked down at you—eyes tired, heart bruised, but beating with something new. Not just survival. Not just duty.

Hope.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But we’re together.”

You leaned up and kissed his scar—softly, reverently—just above where his brother’s bullet once tore through him.

Outside, the rain fell harder. But inside, it was warm.

In another lifetime, he’d lost everything.

But this one?

This one was different.

It wasn’t just someone saved.

It was…

HEADCANONS

PLAYBOY PROPHECY

Karasuno

Seijoh

Nekoma

ONESHOTS

GONE WITH THE WIND

Featuring : 1940s!Keiji Akaashi x F!Reader.

TILL DEATH DO US PART (Literally)

Featuring : Tooru Oikawa x F!Reader.

UNDER THE FAIRY LIGHTS OF INARIZAKI

Featuring : Inarizaki Volleyball Team × Third Year!Manager!Fem!Reader.

Inclined Shinsuke Kita × Third Year!Manager!Fem!Reader.

SCENARIOS

SEAT SHEANIGANS

Featuring : Karasuno, Nekoma, Seijoh, Inarizaki.

HOW HAIKYU!! CHARACTERS WOULD PROTECT YOUR DRINK AT A FRAT PARTY

Featuring : Karasuno, Nekoma, Seijoh, Inarizaki.

MISCELLANEOUS

KILLING ME SOFTLY WTH HIS SONG

Featuring : All TEAMS.

FICS

Your Fault

Featuring : Rintarō Suna x F!Reader

Rintarō Suna x F!Reader

@multi-fandom-fanfic i got you!

PARTS : I

💔🎤 "The Hangover of Regret" – Rintarou’s Descent

Three months.

It had been three whole months since you walked out of his penthouse, your sweet perfume lingering like a ghost in every room.

The velvet curtains still smelled like your hair.

The balcony still held your windchimes.

And the studio… the studio was completely silent.

No humming. No laughter. No You.

Rintarou Suna had become a shell of himself.

---

The headlines screamed stardom:

"SUNA'S SOLO TOUR A HIT"

"The Silent God of Strings Returns Darker Than Ever"

But they didn’t see the truth.

They didn’t see the empty whiskey bottles lining the marble counter of his loft.

They didn’t see him sleep on the cold studio floor because the bed still smelled like you.

They didn’t hear him whisper your name in his sleep, night after night, soaked in regret.

---

And as for your best friend—the one he betrayed you with?

He cut her off.

Completely.

One night she came by again, in a silk slip dress, red lipstick smudged like she belonged. He opened the door, a drink in one hand and a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said, voice low, eyes bloodshot.

“Rin… you haven’t returned my calls. I was worried,” she pouted.

But his voice turned ice cold. “Worried? Now you remember guilt?”

She stepped closer, "It was a mistake, but—"

He dropped the glass. It shattered, amber spilling across the tiles.

“I loved her,” he growled. “I still fucking do. And I lost her because I was a coward and you were—”

He didn’t even finish. He slammed the door shut in her face.

That night, he broke his own guitar. The one he used to play when you danced in your pajamas around the studio.

The fans didn’t know the truth behind the lyrics.

But you would’ve.

You would have known that “Moonlight Smile” was about your round cheeks and that imperfect grin.

That “Venus in Brown Eyes” was an apology he’d never have the courage to send.

That the bridge wasn’t just a height—it was a shrine.

He refused to sleep with anyone else.

Refused to touch the ring you’d left on his nightstand.

Refused to let go.

One night, at a rooftop bar in Shibuya, Atsumu found him slumped over a table.

“Still drownin’ in whiskey, huh?” Atsumu muttered, pulling out a chair.

Suna didn’t look up. “It helps me see her.”

Atsumu exhaled. “You could still fix it… maybe not win her back, but at least tell her the truth.”

Suna’s voice cracked for the first time in months.

A HAIKYUU MASTERLIST

KARASUNO EDITION.

SEIJOH EDITION.

KARASUNO EDITION.

SEIJOH EDITION.

Let’s stir up the Nekoma locker room Here's a hilarious headcanon set where Taketora Yamamoto decides to be that guy and gets caught red-handed by the Libero General himself—Yaku Morisuke:

🐾 "Playboy Panic: Nekoma's Locker Room Incident" Headcanons

🕶️ Taketora Yamamoto's Brilliant (and Terrible) Idea:

Taketora thought it would be "peak senpai culture" to introduce the first-years to the "wonders of adulthood"—via a vintage Playboy magazine he borrowed from his uncle’s drawer.

He gathers Lev, Inuoka, and Shibayama during lunch break in the locker room and dramatically pulls it out like it's some kind of holy relic.

"Alright, young bloods… this is art. Culture. Honor it."

📖 The First-Years' Reactions:

Lev Haiba: “OHHH SHE'S SHINY—wait is this legal!?” (immediately loud, absolutely useless at being subtle)

Inuoka Sō: His eyes are wide, but he's blushing redder than his Nekoma jersey. “W-We shouldn't be seeing this! What if we get cursed!?”

Shibayama Yūki: Closes his eyes and turns around like he’s being purified by the sun. “I didn’t sign up for this. I'm a Libero. Not a sinner.”

😨 Yaku Morisuke Enters the Scene:

Yaku walks in holding a towel and instantly senses something unholy.

He sees the circle of sins around the magazine like it’s a dark ritual.

Yaku: “What the actual—Taketora, are you corrupting the first-years!?”

The silence is deafening.

The magazine hits the floor dramatically.

Shibayama screams.

Lev tries to hide it behind his long legs—failing miserably.

Inuoka pretends to faint.

Taketora: “IT WAS FOR EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES I SWEAR.”

💥 Yaku's Legendary Rage:

Yaku delivers a Libero Roundhouse Kick of Justice™ to Taketora’s side, yelling, “YOU WANNA BE A PLAYBOY OR A PLAYER, HUH?!”

Then proceeds to give all the first-years a “respect and decency” lecture like a disappointed mom.

Lev: “So… I shouldn’t tell Kuroo-san about this?”

Yaku: "YOU ABSOLUTELY SHOULDN'T—"

Kuroo does end up hearing. Laughs so hard he almost drops his phone while texting Kenma, “Guess who got caught with boobs in the locker room? 👀🐯”

📚 Aftermath:

The magazine mysteriously disappears.

Yaku finds it later... in Kuroo’s backpack. Classic.

Taketora isn’t allowed within five feet of any printed media unless supervised.

The first-years now refer to Yaku as “Guardian of Innocence.”