Helloo!!

Rivalry: Sakusa

The camera clicks, the flash reflecting off the sheen of sweat on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face as he stares down at you from behind his mask. Even in victory, there’s a sharpness to him, a quiet tension crackling beneath his cool exterior, and it’s aimed directly at you.

“Your defense wasn’t as sharp as usual tonight. Were you struggling to keep up, or was there another reason for the misreads?” you begin, voice steady as your pen glides across your notepad.

The press conference room is thick with anticipation, the air charged with a static-like tension. Reporters lean forward in their seats, pens poised, some shifting uncomfortably while others exchange intrigued glances. The bright overhead lights cast stark shadows on the players, emphasizing the sharpness of Sakusa’s features as he stares you down. They know what you’re doing. More importantly, he knows what you’re doing.

Sakusa’s gaze narrows slightly. Sakusa’s gaze doesn’t waver. "I adjusted to their offense. If that looked like struggling to you, maybe you should take another look at the final score."

You don’t relent. “I'm aware of your team's victory, Sakusa-san. Are you relying too much on your teammates?”

The silence stretches longer this time. You know you’re poking the bear. Sakusa is known for his perfectionism, for his unshakable self-discipline, and you’re prodding at the cracks just to see if they’re there.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. "If trusting my teammates to do their jobs is a problem, then maybe you don’t understand how a team sport works."

The room seemed to inhale at once, a murmur rippling through the crowd. Some reporters exchanged knowing glances, while others scribbled frantically in their notebooks, sensing that this was the kind of soundbite that would be making headlines by morning. Cameras clicked in rapid succession, the bright flashes punctuating the thick tension in the air. A few journalists whispered to each other, gauging the reaction of the MSBY players, but none of them spoke up to break the moment.

Atsumu let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. Bokuto, who had been grinning just moments before, straightened slightly, his golden eyes flicking between you and Sakusa like he had just caught wind of something interesting. Even Meian, typically unfazed by media antics, raised an eyebrow at the way Sakusa’s fingers curled slightly against the table, his entire frame wound tight as if forcing himself to stay still.

You? You simply smirked, tapping your pen against your notebook before lifting your chin slightly. "No further questions."

That pisses him off more than anything. Because he knows—he knows—you got exactly what you wanted.

Sakusa clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring just slightly beneath his mask. It wasn’t just the question that irritated him—it was the way you delivered it, the way you smirked, the way you dismissed him like you had already gotten what you needed and he was no longer worth your time. The fact that you didn’t even look at him again as other reporters jumped in with their far more standard, predictable questions made something coil tight in his chest.

Sakusa forced himself to focus on the next question, but his grip on the microphone was just a little too firm, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of your pen scratching against paper as you took notes from the other players, like he wasn’t even worth your time anymore.

From then he knew who you were.

Knows your name, your face, the way your voice always cuts straight through to him no matter how many journalists crowd these post-match briefings. You’re a nuisance, an irritant, and yet—he never ignores your questions. Never brushes them off with the indifference he grants others.

You challenge him. And deep down, you both know he likes it.

~~

The first time you wrote about Sakusa Kiyoomi, your article had been direct and biting, dissecting his play with ruthless precision. Where others hailed his natural talent, you highlighted the flaws—the inconsistency in his service pressure, the occasional lapse in his blocking reads. Not to degrade him, but because you saw the potential for more. And apparently, so did he.

Since then, every time you covered an MSBY match, there was an unspoken expectation—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. But it wasn’t just that.

Sakusa remembers the very first time he noticed you. The first time you called him out in a press conference, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade, sharp and deliberate. He remembers how his fingers clenched under the table, how the irritation simmered low in his chest—not because of what you said, but because it made him feel something. It should’ve been just another question, just another reporter, but it wasn’t.

And it never has been since.—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. Over time, the rivalry evolved into something else, lingering in the way his gaze would flicker toward you during games or how his answers in press conferences were always a little sharper when you were the one asking the questions. Something neither of you had acknowledged.

The away game had been intense, but MSBY had emerged victorious. The final set had been a test of endurance, forcing the team to dig deep against an opponent determined to push them to their limits. The last point had come from a perfectly executed block—Sakusa reading the setter and shutting down the cross-court spike with a decisive palm. The crowd erupted, the whistle blew, and the scoreboard solidified their win.

Post-game adrenaline still ran through Sakusa’s veins as he walked into the media room alongside his teammates, their jerseys still damp with sweat. The moment they sat down at the press table, cameras flashed, and the room filled with a cacophony of voices as reporters fired off questions left and right.

“Your blocks were key in the third set! How did you adjust so quickly?”

“What do you think made the biggest difference against the opposing team’s hitters?”

“Your receives looked more inconsistent compared to last game. Do you think fatigue played a factor?”

Meian, as captain, answered first, offering the usual post-match reflections on team effort and strategy. Bokuto, beaming from ear to ear, leaned into the microphone and laughed about how ‘every game should be that intense!’ Hinata, still buzzing, nodded along, interjecting whenever he got the chance.

Sakusa answered each question he was asked with measured precision, keeping his responses brief but informative. He had done enough press to know how to maneuver through them without revealing much.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Shinohara was dominating the net in the second set, and you looked like you were scrambling to keep up. Would you say he got the better of you?”

Sakusa’s eyes snapped to the crowd of reporters, and there you were—standing among them, notebook in hand, your expression composed but sharp. The same way it had been earlier, when you had watched him from the sidelines and smirked before scribbling something down.

“Or was it frustration? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were second-guessing your reads more than usual. Did he force you to change your approach?”

The room held its breath, the shift in atmosphere nearly tangible. A few reporters traded quick looks, some leaning forward slightly, eager to see how Sakusa would respond. The usual rustling of notepads and scribbling of pens slowed, all eyes trained on the exchange.

His jaw tightened, fingers pressing into the table with restrained force. "Is that what you saw?" His voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, like a rope pulled too tight. The question wasn’t dismissive—it was a challenge. He adjusted his mask, fingers pressing into the fabric before exhaling slowly. “I was focused. Not frustrated.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind that said you knew exactly what you were doing. That you had dragged him into this, and he had walked right into it. Without another word, you lowered your pen and let the other reporters take over, shifting their questions toward Meian and Bokuto instead.

At the table, Atsumu and Bokuto shared a look.

“Didja see that?” Atsumu muttered under his breath.

Bokuto grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Sakusa ignored them, but he could feel their eyes on him, burning with interest.

The banquet hall is grand, an opulent display of polished marble floors and cascading chandeliers that bathe the room in warm, golden light. The scent of decadent dishes—slow-roasted meats, rich pastas, fresh seafood—intertwines with the subtle notes of fine wine and aged whiskey. Servers weave gracefully through the throngs of athletes, journalists, and executives, their trays balancing crystal goblets and plates laden with gourmet delicacies. The atmosphere is both relaxed and electric, the hum of voices, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain blending into an effortless symphony of post-match revelry. It was a post-match tradition for away games—a chance for players, staff, and members of the media to unwind.

At the MSBY table, Sakusa swirled his drink lazily in his glass, only half-listening to the conversation between his teammates.

“You got grilled again,” Bokuto laughed, nudging him. “Man, she’s relentless.”

“Pretty sure she enjoys making your life difficult,” Meian added, smirking over the rim of his beer.

Hinata grins. “She really goes for you in those press conferences. Think she’s got a thing for you?”

Sakusa scoffs, setting his drink down. “Doubtful.”

Atsumu, who has been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Nah, I think you got a thing for her.”

Sakusa tenses, shooting him a glare. “Shut up.”

“Oooh, he didn’t deny it,” Bokuto teases, laughing as he throws an arm around Hinata’s shoulders. “Kiyo, you like the attention, don’t you?”

Meian shakes his head. “I’d believe that if he wasn’t always so pissy after talking to her.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just doing her job.”

Atsumu grins. “So are you, but ya sure get all riled up when she’s around.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. Not one he wants to say out loud, anyway.

His teammates exchange looks, sensing that the teasing has gotten under his skin more than usual. But before any of them can make another comment, Sakusa stands abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hinata asks, blinking up at him.

Sakusa doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flickers across the room—to the bar, where you’re seated, nursing a drink while scrolling through your phone. His fingers tighten around his glass.

Atsumu follows his line of sight and grins. “Ah. Interesting.”

Sakusa ignores him and walks off.

You notice him before he even reaches the bar, that unmistakable presence making your pulse pick up just slightly.

He slides onto the stool beside you, his mask now tucked under his chin. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You’re hovering."

He mirrors your words from earlier, tone dry. "I haven’t said anything yet."

"You’re about to."

Sakusa exhales through his nose, gaze flickering briefly toward the drink in your hand before settling back on you. The air between you is thick, the usual sharpness in his stare now laced with something else—something unreadable.

You tilt your head slightly, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before speaking again. "You seemed irritated earlier."

"I wonder why."

You smirk. "I’d say it’s part of my job, but you already know that."

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans back against the bar, fingers tapping idly against his glass. "You enjoy it, don’t you? Getting under my skin."

"If it gets me the truth, then yeah."

His jaw tightens slightly at that, and for a second, you think he might say something else. But instead, he just watches you, eyes dark, expression unreadable.

You swirl the last of your drink in your glass, tilting your head as you watch him. Then, with a half-smirk, you say it—mostly as a joke. "You know, if you’re that desperate to defend yourself, I could offer you a private interview."

You don’t expect anything to come of it. In fact, you’re already preparing for him to scoff and dismiss the idea entirely.

But instead, Sakusa blinks, his fingers pausing on his glass. "When?"

That one word nearly makes you choke on your own drink. You open your mouth, close it, then recover with a casual shrug. "My recorder’s upstairs."

His gaze sharpens. "You’re still looking for an angle."

You shrug. "I’m looking for an answer."

Sakusa exhales, slow and measured, before finally nodding. "Fine. Let’s go." Neither of you move for a second. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, you both stand at the same time. The air between you tightens with something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name yet.

Across the room, Meian lets out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that."

Atsumu elbows Bokuto, barely able to contain his excitement. "Oh my god, Kiyoomi is getting some."

You weren’t expecting him to agree so easily, but you mask your surprise, finishing your drink before sliding off the stool. The walk out of the banquet hall is silent, the tension between you threading tighter with every step. You don’t look at him as you press the elevator button, and he doesn’t look at you when the doors slide open.

But the weight of his presence lingers, undeniable and electric.

The two of you walk toward the elevators in silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s charged, simmering beneath the surface. Neither of you say a word, but every step forward feels deliberate, like a move in a game neither of you are willing to lose. The walk is silent, tension threading between you, thick with something unspoken.

The moment the door to your hotel room clicks shut behind you, the atmosphere shifts—becomes something heavier, charged. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts elongated shadows along the sleek, modern furnishings, bathing the space in an intimate warmth. The distant murmur of the city beyond the window seems inconsequential compared to the weight of the silence stretching taut between you and Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately. He lingers near the entrance, his hand still resting lightly on the door handle, as if debating whether he should turn around and walk away. A flicker of hesitation ghosts across his face—so brief that most wouldn’t catch it, but you do.

Why is he here?

The easy answer is the interview. But deep down, he knows that’s not the truth. It hasn’t been for a while. You get under his skin in ways no one else does, and despite how much it infuriates him, he’s still here, standing in your hotel room, waiting for a reason not to be.

But you don’t give him one. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately, just lingers near the entrance, as if deciding whether he regrets agreeing to this. You, on the other hand, are already setting your recorder on the desk, flipping open your notebook with practiced ease. There’s no hesitation in your movements, no indication that you’d been thinking about the way he reacted back in the press conference.

But he knows you have.

He watches as you click your pen once, twice, before finally meeting his gaze. "Take a seat, Sakusa-san."

His jaw flexes, but he steps further into the room, pulling out the chair across from you with just a little more force than necessary. The scrape of the wood against the floor is sharp, punctuating the air between you. He doesn’t slouch, doesn’t let himself sink into the seat—no, he sits with his back straight, arms crossed, like he’s bracing for impact.

You hit record.

"So, let’s start with the game," you begin, voice even, measured. "Despite your win, Shinohara’s attack percentage was noticeably higher than yours. Do you think his presence on the court pushed you to your limits?"

Sakusa exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tensing. "He’s a strong player, but I wouldn’t say he ‘pushed me to my limits.’ I adjusted accordingly."

"You adjusted, but his success rate didn’t drop. So was the issue with your defense, or was he just the better player tonight?"

A pause. A sharp inhale from Sakusa. The muscle in his jaw twitches again.

"I don’t recall losing."

You tilt your head slightly. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Sakusa’s fingers curl against his arms, his nails pressing into the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes narrow, but there’s something else there too—something almost like intrigue beneath the irritation.

"If you’re looking for a soundbite, you’re not getting one."

You smirk, tapping your pen against your notebook. "Oh, I already got one."

His eyes flicker over your face, scanning, analyzing, before his irritation shifts into something else. Something darker. More intent.

The recorder sits between you, capturing every word, but neither of you are really thinking about the interview anymore. The weight of the tension settles thick in the air, lingering in the space between your crossed arms and his unwavering stare.

Sakusa exhales through his nose. "Next question."

You hesitate.

It’s barely a second—just long enough for your fingers to falter on your notepad, for your breath to catch as you take in the weight of his stare. And he sees it.

That single moment of doubt.

It fuels him more than anything else.

But you both know—this interview isn’t ending the way it was supposed to. He leans against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“So,” you start, keeping your voice even. “How do you think the game went?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You saw it.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Sakusa leans forward slightly. “You always want to hear it from me.”

You smile. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. “That’s my job.”

“Is it?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your notepad. There’s something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. “You tell me.”

For the first time, his mask is completely gone—not just the physical one, but the carefully measured distance he keeps between himself and the world. His gaze dips to your lips for half a second before snapping back up, something sharp and intent in his expression.

And then, he’s moving.

That night, nothing else matters. Not the rivalry, not the press, not the game. Just Sakusa Kiyoomi and the way he finally lets go—just for you.

Hey so I really like your writing. Your fics are so inspiring...! Can I pretty please request a fic about Kita catching Reader off guard with a blunt love confession?? 🙏 I'd love to see what you come up with!

Aw inspiring?!! That is so sweet!! I love that I am what people were for me when I started writing (about 5 years ago!) so never give up and be proud of any work you make!! I hope you enjoy <333

--

Confessions: Kita

The thing about Kita Shinsuke is that he never does anything without purpose.

He speaks with intention, moves with care, and rarely—if ever—lets emotion get the better of him. He is dependable to a fault, calm even in the most chaotic situations, and as predictable as a rising sun. Which is why, when he turns to you one spring afternoon and says, "I’m in love with you," you nearly choke on your drink.

The two of you are sitting beneath the shade of a wide camphor tree near the back of the school, where the grass grows a little taller and the breeze feels like a secret only you two share. The breeze is soft, the air warm and sweet with the scent of new blossoms. You’d come out here to eat lunch together—something that had become a quiet ritual between you and Kita. No crowds, no noise. Just the two of you, sharing space, swapping stories, occasionally falling into long stretches of silence that never felt awkward. He always brings homemade bento boxes, neatly packed, and you bring snacks or something small to share.

You blink at him, unsure if you heard right. "Sorry—what?"

Kita is still looking at you, expression as steady and unreadable as ever. He’s holding a rice ball in one hand, his bento sitting neatly in his lap. "I said I’m in love with you."

There’s no hesitation. No blush. Just the plain delivery of truth—as if he’s pointing out the weather, or commenting on the quality of the rice today.

You nearly drop the bottle of tea in your hand. "Kita," you breathe, searching his face for a trace of humor or a tell that he’s messing with you. But he’s not. Of course he’s not.

Your heart stutters. "You can’t just say things like that out of nowhere, you know."

He tilts his head slightly. "Why not?"

"Because—" You flail for a second, grasping for something clever to say, something to make sense of the heat rising to your cheeks. "Because it’s—surprising."

Kita hums, thoughtfully chewing. "I didn’t think it would be. We spend time together. You bring me pickled plums even when I don’t ask. You save the last piece of tamagoyaki for me, even though it’s your favorite. You walk me to the gate every day, even when you’re running late. I thought maybe you felt the same."

You sputter, caught between the instinct to deny and the overwhelming realization that he’s right. You do all those things, and more. You always look for him in a crowded room. You always listen when he speaks, no matter how quiet his voice. You think about him in between classes, after practice, before bed. He’s right.

He continues, voice soft but sure. "You don’t have to say anything right now. I just thought it was time I told you."

And with that, he turns his gaze back to the tree branches swaying above you, like he didn’t just tilt your entire world on its axis. He takes another bite of his rice ball, completely composed, like he hadn’t just carved a confession into the air and left it hanging between you.

You sit in stunned silence for a moment longer, the breeze tugging gently at your sleeves. Everything feels quieter now. The breeze, the rustling branches, the distant sound of other students laughing in the courtyard—it all fades into a soft, blurred background. Your fingers tighten slightly around the tea bottle in your lap.

You steal a glance at him. He’s not looking at you. He’s perfectly calm, patient, and somehow that makes your chest ache more than if he’d confessed with nervous laughter or flushed cheeks. There’s no doubt, no need for reassurance. He meant it.

You reach over, plucking a stray leaf from his shoulder. You don’t know why—it just gives your hands something to do.

"You’re unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head.

He glances at you, eyes curious but unbothered. "Is that a good thing?"

You let out a soft laugh, one that feels lighter than it should considering your heart is still racing in your chest. "I don’t even know. You really just said that like you were telling me we had PE next period."

He shrugs. "I meant it. I don’t think it needs to be complicated."

And you know he’s right again. Kita doesn’t dress things up. He doesn’t make things harder than they need to be. He doesn’t hide behind games or fear or doubt. He just is.

You look down at your lunch, your appetite forgotten. You can’t stop thinking about the things he said. The way he noticed your little habits. The way he didn’t need you to answer right away. The way he didn’t waver.

When you finally meet his eyes again, there’s a warmth blooming in your chest—slow and full, like sunlight rising through clouds.

"I’m in love with you too, you idiot," you say, and your voice is so quiet, so soft, that you almost expect him to miss it.

But he doesn’t.

Kita Shinsuke turns to you fully then, and for the first time all afternoon, he smiles.

Really, truly smiles.

And just like everything else he does, it’s quiet, intentional, and completely disarming.

He reaches for your hand—not suddenly, not dramatically, but gently, deliberately—and your fingers lace together like they were always meant to. You sit that way for a long time, the afternoon stretching endlessly before you, the breeze curling around your ankles, the scent of spring growing thicker with each passing minute.

Neither of you says much after that. You don’t need to.

Some things are better left to the quiet.

And Kita, as always, knows exactly what silence means.

You Can't Be Serious NSFW (Reader x Iwaizumi)

High school is an extremely short era in people's lives. The choices you make don’t really matter, and the friends you made in that time usually wash away in the memories that overtake you in the cruel hours of early morning.

For most people at least.

In life, you’d guess that the world was split in two with these drastically different, but equally true opinions. But for you, it’d definitely be the first one. Had you not randomly joined the Seijoh High School boys' volleyball club on a whim as manager in your first year, you were very sure that your life would be completely different than it is right now.

You wouldn’t have four best friends that you keep in contact and chat with almost every day, and even more so, you wouldn’t being engaged at this very moment.

Yes, you were in fact engaged to your first crush and one of your very best friends. You weren’t high school sweethearts, and it wasn’t love at first sight, but more of a gradual thing that had started by the start of college and grown into something that you wouldn’t trade for the world. The ring adorning your left hand was a weight you’ve gladly grown accustomed to, having the ability to make you smile whenever the glimmer of the diamond caught your eye.

Of course, smiling to yourself in a random café was a little embarrassing, but hell if you couldn’t stop yourself. Instead, your smiling turned from the ring to the man you called out your name. You wouldn’t' be surprised if the people sitting in nearby tables thought that the man coming towards you, seemingly intimidating with the number of piercings and tattoos he had, however canceled out with the lazy grin slapped on his face, was your husband-to-be. But you both knew better.

“Hey there, Iwaizumi-san.” Matsukawa’s voice is light and teasing as he approaches your table, with you standing to greet him properly, head shaking slightly at his antics. You give him a quick hug, smiling up at him.

“You don’t have to call me that Issei. Though I will admit it does have a nice ring to it.” He hums as you both go to sit at the table again. “Also, you’re twenty minutes late. What’d you do, crawl here?”

Matsukawa clicks his tongue.

“I came here as fast as I could. It takes a lot of effort to look this good you know.” His arm raises to gesture at himself, jacket slipping down a little ways down his wrist where you could see the beginning of his most recent tattoo that you were against him getting. (What, 14 aren’t enough for you?) You snort.

“Believe me, I know.” He raises his pierced brow at you.

“Hey, it's just chance Hajime got to you first. I could’ve had you if I wanted you.” Its’ your turn to raise a brow.

“Issei... You’re gay.” His response is immediate.

“And he’s goddamn lucky I am. You would’ve fallen for me in an instant if I turned it on back then.” If this wasn’t considered a nice place, you’re sure he would’ve put his feet up on the table, confidence and pride just oozing off him, in the way you admittedly loved.

“Really now? Well, I’m sure my personal trainer fiancé would love to hear that.” A beat of silence hits the table.

“You play dirty.”

You shrug. “Where’s the fun in playing fair?”

“You gotta point.” You chuckle, finally looking at the menu given to you when you were first seated at the table. Matsukawa had actually invited you to lunch, for what you had assumed would be a mini celebration of yours and Hajime’s engagement, but only problem is...

Hajime wasn’t invited. In fact, you were told not to tell him you were going at all.

And, to your knowledge, he was a supposed to be a pretty important aspect of the celebration. When you had initially asked the reason to this impromptu lunch, and why you were told to keep it a secret from your fiancé, Matsukawa had been danced around the question, saying something along the lines of ‘What, I can’t ask one of my best friends to a random lunch? What is up with this society?’

Needless to say, you were suspicious.

You conspicuously look up from your menu, watching Matsukawa as he read his casually. As though this meeting was truly innocent, like there was nothing up his sleeve.

You’d known this man much too long to think for any second he’d do anything with innocent intent.

A server comes and takes your orders quickly and tells you that your food should arrive shortly. In this time, you figure out a proper strategy to try and find out what the hell this man is planning.

“So...” You start, fingers lightly circling the wooden table separating you two. “Mind telling me why you brought me out here so suddenly and why I was sworn to secrecy?” Matsukawa looks to you with half lidded eyes like he usually does, smile light and playful. Truly, an amazing poker face. Had you known him any less you

would’ve been none the wiser, but thankfully, you knew him all too well.

“I can’t take some time out of my very busy work life to see my favourite person in our ragtag group? Do you trust me that little?” You deadpan.

“Yes, I trust you that little. And what busy work life? Takahiro literally just told me you went out and bought as many RubberDucks with sunglasses you could find two days ago. For fun.” He scoffs.

“Well, excuse you, my work is very tiring. I need to find some ways to relax.” You can’t stop the roll of your eyes.

“You work at a funeral home and part time.”

“One could argue I’m doing the Lord’s work.” You fail to mask your face with the veil of annoyance, letting your smile take away any intensity you might’ve had. Chats with Matsukawa definitely didn’t get old.

“Then being the Lord’s helper, don’t you think you could cut the bullshit and tell me what it is you want from me?” He snickers, then goes silent. His face turns deadly serious in an instant, and his eyes meet yours. His stare was so intense you started to get a bit frightened. Was there actually something going on?

“I’m pregnant.” The tightening you felt in your chest was lifted as your tired sigh filled the air surrounding you. You wonder if this lunch was actually worth your time, in the moments that Matsukawa tries to contain his laughter to small chuckles.

“Issei...” He raises his hands in the air in surrender.

“Fine, fine. I brought you out here because I wanted to give you a little engagement present.” Your mood significantly lightens up at his words, mostly because the tiny anxieties in the back of your head of something bad really happening was finally put at bay. The sound of a ruffled paper bag hits your ears as he pulls your present from under the table and on top. (Really, how did you not notice it earlier?)

But you were still a little confused.

“And Hajime couldn’t know because?” Your question trails on as you grab the bag, peering over the table to a smaller white box in the bag. The box was unmarked, and you wondered what it could be.

“He’d beat the shit outta me.” Matsukawa said matter of factly. “He told us no gifts, remember?” Come to think about it, you do remember that. After he announced that you two were engaged to Matsukawa, Hanamakki, and Oikawa you vividly remember Oikawa over video crying about the things he could send from Barcelona, and Hajime saying that’d he punch him the next time they met if he did.

Hajime didn’t really like gifts all that much and it was understandable. He was the kind of guy who appreciated your company more than materialistic objects, which is something you did find really sweet. And he wasn’t alone in his opinion either, since you didn’t really like gifts either, but your reasoning was much shallower; In all honesty, having to remember who gave what and try to reciprocate the level of quality that person had given you before is a hassle.

You’d rather just be given money and be done with it.

But you would be lying to say that it didn’t feel nice to have someone go through the trouble of doing this.

“Aw, Issei... You didn’t have to...” He smiled again, slightly more genuine than the last. “It’s not a problem.” You thanked him, before enthusiastically looking at the box, attempting to open it.

“Actually, I’d refrain from opening it now.” He stops you dead in your tracks, and you look up confused.

“Huh? Why?”

“Let’s just say it's something you definitely wanna open alone.” Your expression makes him laugh but he doesn’t say anything further. You have half the nerve to throw caution to wind and open it anyways, but something deep inside your conscience tells you to listen to him. You hold your slightly concerned gaze, as you gently place the box back into the bag.

“Alright then...” You say cautiously, putting the bag next to your chair. “Can you at least tell me what it is?” His grin turns Cheshire.

“I’m bound by the law of my own unwillingness, and it has extremely strict regulations. So, unfortunately, I’m unable to tell you at this current moment in time. You’ll just have to see for yourself.” He says causally as he watches you slump back in your seat like a child with a laugh. You give him a side glance.

"So, you really just called me out here to give me this?”

“Yup.”

“With no other allterior motive?”

“Nope.” You sigh again, right as your food is being delivered. You both give a quick thanks.

“And you couldn’t have told me this over the phone?”

“What fun is that?” He says, mouth now full of food. You scoff as you begin to eat

your own, still slightly annoyed for being worried over seemingly nothing. Matsukawa notices.

“Aww, are you mad? What can I do for you to forgive me?” His mock pleading voice makes you smile again despite yourself. You click your tongue.

“You can start by treating me.” And with that you drop it. _________________________

The rest of the meal was quite pleasant, with Matsukawa paying for your meal just like you asked and congratulating you once again. You make plans to have lunch again with him and Hanamakki sometime soon, then finally leave for home.

During the meal, you mostly forgot about the present Matsukawa got for you. Sure, the delivery was weird, but Matsukawa was just weird in nature, so you didn’t really think much of it. You loosely held the bag in your hand as you took the train ride home. Your walk back was calm, and everything was ordinary until you returned to the small one-bedroom apartment that you and Hajime shared.

“I’m home!” You called out, taking off your coat and shoes. You hear no response. You crinkle your nose. Hajime should be home by now. You walk into the living, looking for your fiancé, to find a small note on the little table you have your meals on.

Had to pick up someone's shift at the gym, so I’ll be home late tonight. Don’t worry about food I’ll get some on the way. Love you, Hajime

You feel warmth race through you at the note. You always teased him about stuff like this, saying that he should text you instead, but he still did it anyways.

Not that it matters anyways, he knows you like it.

You let a little exhale as you place the note back down. Looks like you're on your own for the rest of the evening. You decide that today would be the perfect time to do nothing but lazy around, since you haven’t done that in a long time and it’s a Friday night damnit. Living an adult lifestyle can be so tiring sometimes, and you deserve a break.

You nod to yourself and prepare for a day of relaxing, throwing your clothes into your hamper and taking the necessary items for a long hot shower. You take your time, letting the warm water ease your tense muscles, and calm you down entirely.

By the time you finish, the bathroom is full of steam, and you know that you’re going to cringe at your water bill this month, but at the moment you didn’t care. You wrap

yourself with your towel and exit filled with bliss. Mind free of all ailments. At least until your eyes land on that paper bag.

You stare at it, and you swear it stares back at you. Every second that passes, you feel your curiosity peak more and more until you can barely stand it.

“Let’s just say it's something you definitely wanna open alone.”

Matsukawa’s words bounce around in your head, and it is his words that make you grab the bag and move to your bedroom, setting it on the bed before removing the unmarked box from its confinements.

You’re eager yet weirdly cautious as you open the box, seeing nothing but coloured tissue paper on the surface. Removing that you find a smaller package. Picking it up you instantly recognize it as the weight of clothes.

Seems normal enough. Why would I not want to open this in public?

You rip the packaging open, to be met with the reason as to why he didn’t want you opening this in public. Your jaw dropped.

It was the sluttiest lingerie set you’d ever seen, in fact, lingerie would be an overstatement.

Lingerie had more fabric than this monstrosity.

It came with a thick light pink collar, and you wish that the was the worst of it. The top was completely pink mesh, made to show everything except the nipples, which even then didn’t do that job correctly because you knew there was no way that would be covering anything properly with this material. The panties, if you could even call them that, were just three pink strings, not even covering what underwear was supposed to cover.

And of course, there were some thigh highs. Because why not add more to this shitshow.

Your face grows more and more red as you stare at the ‘clothes’ in your hands. You stare and stare, and stare... Until your embarrassment of holding such an item turns to pure rage and bitter resentment towards the person that is Matsukawa Issei.

You dial his number in anger and shame, getting more pissed for every ring you hear. Finally, he answers. You don’t even give him time to say hello.

“You perverted son of a bitch.” There’s a pause.

“Hi, you’ve actually reached the boyfriend of the aforementioned ‘perverted son of a bitch’. Can I be of service to you?” Hanamakki’s tone is mockingly serious, amplified over the crispness of the phone audio, and you’re really not in the mood.

“Where the hell is Issei?”

“I’m afraid he’s occupied with a couple dozen RubberDucks and a bath. Perhaps I can solve your issue?” You scoff.

“My issue is that your boyfriend is a sick fuck.” You practically spit. There's another pause.

“Didn’t we establish this? Like a long time ago?” You let out an exasperated sigh. You don’t know why you’re even bothering at this point, there are two peas of the same pod; they were practically made for each other.

“Takahiro, I’m serious. You won’t believe what that rat bastard gave me as an ‘engagement present’.” You use the term present lightly. Like anyone would ever want this.

“Yeah, I know. Can you believe I owe his dumbass a 1000 yen now?” Your eyes narrow in confusion, letting out another scoff unintentionally.

“You knew?”

“Please, I was the one who picked it out.” You tried multiple times to make sensible sentences, but your frustration was getting the better of you. Hanamakki listens to you stumble over your sentences patiently. You take a couple of deep breaths, not wanting your blood pressure to rise.

“Why?” You stress, after realizing that you wouldn’t be able to form anything coherent.

“I’ve actually prepared a whole presentation on this subject matter. It mostly concentrates on, ‘Why the hell not?’” He snickers.

You could swear you saw read.

“Takahiro.” Your tone is clearly conveying your current emotions because you swore you could hear Hanamakki gulp nervously. “Look, it was only a gag gift. No harm, no foul. If you don’t want to use it-” You cut him off with another of your scoffs.

“I’m sorry, ‘Use it’?! What on earth would I use this abomination for?!” There's a beat of silence between you two.

“...Do we really need to have this conversation?” Your nose unintentionally wrinkles.

“You’re not really saying, that either Hajime or I would enjoy this?” You raise the items in your hand, as though Hanamakki could see.

“You, maybe not. But Hajime, most definitely.” You blink, once, twice, slowly.

It’s you who doesn’t say anything for a while, as you stare at the lingerie in your hand.

Hajime would like this? Really?

You could hear Hanamakki sigh on the other end.

“I can practically hear you contemplating your life choices. I am actually sorry if it made you uncomfortable.” You narrow your eyes.

“Are you really?”

“No, this conversation has been really fun. But,” You roll your eyes. “What I’m telling you is true. That thing is maddening I’ll say that much.”

“Yes, because your advice on me and my fiancés' sex life is much appreciated.” You hear his laugh.

“I’m only saying that if Issei came out in something like that, we wouldn’t be leaving the house for days-”

“Ew, ew, I’m hanging up now.” You abruptly end the phone call upon the images of your best friends doing things in certain outfits infiltrate your mind.

You sigh heavily, all the work you put into relaxing dissipating into nothing after a single phone call. You lay back on your bed, eyes trailing to the fabric still in your hand.

That thing is maddening I’ll say that much.

You wince at the fresh memory bouncing in your head, unable to think about anything else.

You sit up straight, a newfound sense of frustration and throw fashion’s version of the spawn of Satan back in its box.

You had more self-respect than this. You had more pride than this.

You would never, ever, put yourself in a position where someone could ever see you like that. It was gross, weird and something you’d never do.

Never, ever.

_________________________

You can’t believe you’re doing this.

Your head is bowed in shame as you slide the thigh highs on your legs. For as shady as it looked, the material felt surprisingly good.

Whether you liked it or not, Hanamakki knew his shit.

You gave the socks one final tug before standing up and slowly looking at yourself in the mirror, full of fear and distaste that you caved into the words of your idiotic friends.

Your eyes widened at what you saw. You quite literally couldn’t believe it was you.

The bra seemed to fit you perfectly, and you had half a nerve to call up Hanamakki and ask him how he got it so accurately, but a part of you felt it was better to not know the answer. The underwire fit directly into the contours of your breasts, knowing exactly how to push them up and close, creating more cleavage than you’d ever seen on your self. Of course your nipples were showing from the transparency of the fabric, and sheer lack of it showed the bumps of your buds, leaving nothing to the imagination. The underwear hugged tugged your hips downward in the magical ratio of accentuating your waist, really showing off your figure. The string that went directly down your ass also somehow managed to make it look nicer, and you aren’t even sure how.

All in all, you were shocked to say the least. You couldn’t take your eyes off yourself, and you completely understood what Matsukawa and Hanamakki were talking about.

But obviously that didn’t mean showing this to Hajime. You have no idea how he’d react, and honestly, you’re too much of a coward to try and find out.

But apparently, you wouldn’t have much of a choice.

You jump from your trance at the sound of a door opening and closing, your heart jumping up to your throat in pure anxiety.

“I’m home.” You hear Hajime call out from the living, and you immediately start to panic, the sound drying up in your throat. Truth be told you weren’t the best at handling things under pressure, and while there were dozens of possible solutions to your problem, none were coming to mind.

Your name is called in question, your fiancé used to having you welcome him home. You squeak, stumbling to the door.

“I’m in our room, Hajime! I’m just trying something on!” You yell out, all the while

hopping on one foot trying to remove the socks as quickly as possible.

“Oh? You went shopping?” Your heart sinks. On any normal occasion, you’d show him what you’d bought if you did go shopping, so it’d look even more suspicious to hole yourself in your room.

“Oh trust me, this isn’t something I’d ever buy. Ever.” You chuckle nervously.

“What is it?” His voice was clearer now, you could tell he was on the other side of the door. For some reason, you stop undressing.

This thing is maddening I’ll say that much. There’s a pause, but before you know it words are flowing out of your mouth. “Nah, you don’t want to know...” Hajime hears you mumble, embarrassed. He was intrigued.

“Then why would I ask?” A silence follows, consisting of you finding the courage to actually show him this abomination. “You have to promise to not get mad, okay?” Hajime raises a brow.

“...Alright?” You take a minute to get the nerve.

“Issei and Takahiro got us a gift for the engagement-Well, not really it was more of a joke, a gross joke-But I just got curious and-“ You realize that it’d be more embarrassing to explain it rather than show it, so you take a deep breath, hike up your socks and slowly turn the knob. You cautiously open the door to find Hajime standing there, eyes widening the second you came into full view, his breath stuttering. You couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Please don’t laugh.” You sigh out, defeated.

He didn’t say anything, not being able to see his face but peeking high enough to see his Adam’s apple bob.

A couple of seconds felt like hours, and when there was absolutely no response, with your anxiety rising, you quickly tried to diffuse the situation.

“This was clearly a mistake. I’ll just go take it off—“ As you go to turn around, Hajime grips your arm.

Almost desperately. Without a single word spoken. You turn back around, scared and confused.

“Hajime?” You’re barely able to get his name out before he kisses you. Hard enough to make you stumble back into your shared bedroom, almost falling over. He’s quick to catch you though, hands immediately reaching to grab your ass, pressing so firmly

you’re sure it’ll leave marks. His mouth hasn’t left yours, completely dominating you as his tongue licks yours, making your whole body shiver. Your bodies are pressed firmly against each other, with everything happening so fast you don’t realize he had pushed you to the bed.

When his lips finally leave yours, they don’t go very far, travelling down your neck only to lick and bite at it. You could already feel the bruising happening, trying to get a word out before his fingers rubbing over your thinly clothed nipples rendered you unable to talk, only letting out surprised moans and whimpers. He plucks at them until they’re at straining attention, so sensitive you can’t stop the quakes going through your body. You start to feel hot, feeling his warmth come off in sudden waves as you feel the pressure of his chest against your stomach, realizing that he’s travelling downwards.

You aren’t given any warning before the flat of his tongue licks you. You jump up, yelping your fiancé’s name, immediately gripping his hair. This only seems to spur him on, a growl ripping through his throat, vibrating against you as he licks and sucks at your clit with such intensity. You can barely hold yourself together, grip only getting tight and you only getting louder. When he started to point his tongue to make figure eights on your pearl, you swear you began to see stars.

“Hajime—“ You whined, not being coherent enough to say anything else, beginning to feel yourself get closer to climax. With Hajime most likely sensing this, he stops, giving you the first proper look at him.

He looked crazed. More crazed than you’ve ever seen him.

His hair was destroyed (mostly your doing), eyeing you like you were a piece of meat waiting to be devoured, his mouth covered in the essence of you.

“I didn’t say you could cum.” His voice was coarse, his adam’s apple bobbing intensely and you felt yourself shiver.

Something tells you you’re going to be sore in the morning. _________________________ Hours had passed, and the two of you had finally gone to bed. At around 6 in the morning when you both had been fucking since 8 pm.

Needless to say, you were both sleeping rather soundly, in each other’s arms as the afternoon sun shone through your bedroom windows, when Hajime stirred awake from a buzzing,

Groaning, he blinked his tired eyes as he annoyedly searched for the source of the noise, finding your phone on the nightstand, buzzing in a rhythmic tune, and seeing a rubber duck appear on the screen.

Immediately, he knew who it was.

He reached over you, grabbed the phone and answered, only slightly pissed off.

“What do you want?” Issei chuckled. “Man, your morning voice is really rough [Name],” Hajime only grumbled. “You woke me up and almost woke her up. What do you want?” He repeated. Course, Issei only asked the questions that were bound to annoy Hajime. A specialty of his.

“It’s almost 1 pm, what’re you guys doing sleeping in this late?” Hajime went to answer, before going red, looking down next to you sleeping peacefully, covered in hickeys and blemishes. All caused by him.

His silence was all Issei needed.

“Enjoying our gift? Maybe we’ll grab you guys a different pair for your honeymoon?” Hajime turned red, but of course he didn’t want Issei to know that.

“Shut up.” Was all Hajime said before hanging up. Issei chuckled, looking back to Takahiro, also very amused. “I told you they would. You owe me.”

Cursed Fate: Chapter 1

"You’re not alone, you know."

Kaito’s eyes flickered open, the memory of that night drifting back into her mind like an unwanted visitor. She was small again—too small—sitting curled up in the corner of a room that wasn’t hers, in a world that still didn’t feel real. Even though she was saved and brought to Jujutsu High, she still felt the cold grip of fear in her chest, like she was being watched.

And, of course, she was. She could always feel them, even now—lingering just beyond her sight, in the shadowy corners of her vision. The forms. The things that had followed her since… since forever.

"They’re still there, aren’t they?" a voice broke through the silence, softer than usual. It was Panda, sitting cross-legged beside her on the floor, much smaller than he was now, his black-and-white fur glowing faintly in the dim light.

Kaito didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Panda always knew when something was wrong, even if she didn’t say a word. She felt his round eyes on her, not prying but patient.

"You don’t have to talk about it," Panda said quietly, leaning back on his paws. "But, you know, I get it."

Kaito’s eyes shifted slightly, her brows furrowing. She doubted that. No one could understand what it was like to always be haunted by… them. The cursed forms that had attached themselves to her. They never left her alone. Not for a second.

But then Panda continued, as if sensing her disbelief. "I’ve got them too, you know."

Kaito’s gaze finally moved toward him, narrowing. 

"What?"

"My siblings," Panda said, tapping his chest lightly with a paw. "They’re not like most people’s brothers and sisters. They’re inside me. I can feel them all the time, just like you can feel…" He trailed off, not pressing further, but Kaito knew what he meant.

"You mean they’re part of you," Kaito muttered, her voice a little sharper than she intended. She didn’t mean to sound rude, but the comparison felt off. Her… whatever they were… didn’t feel like family. They felt like threats. Like she was constantly one bad moment away from losing control.

Panda just shrugged, his easygoing smile never faltering. "Yeah, they are. But they’re still with me, always. It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. I think it’s like that for you too."

Kaito scowled. "It’s not like that." Her fists clenched at her sides, frustration bubbling up. "They’re not… they’re not like siblings."

Panda didn’t flinch at her tone. He just nodded, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Maybe not exactly. But they’re still part of you, right? And that means you’re in charge. No matter how loud they get, you’re the one calling the shots."

Kaito scoffed, but deep down, she wanted to believe him. How could he make it sound so easy? He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, to live with something inside you that you couldn’t control.

But the way he said it—like it wasn’t a curse, but something normal—made her chest feel a little less tight.

"It’s not about them controlling you," Panda added gently. "It’s about you making them part of your strength. You’re stronger than you think, Kaito."

She didn’t answer, but her fists slowly unclenched, the tension in her body easing just slightly. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was about more than control.

"You don’t have to do it alone," Panda said, his voice soft but steady. "You’ve got me, and Yaga-sensei. And hey, I’m your big brother now, so I’ll help you with whatever’s going on in that head of yours."

The words sunk in slowly, their weight sitting with her as she sat in the quiet. Panda, despite being younger than her in terms of creation, always had a way of making her feel safe, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

Kaito exhaled slowly, the heavy knot in her chest loosening just a little. She wasn’t ready to believe everything he said, but it was the first time in a long while that she didn’t feel completely lost.

---

“Kaito!”

The door to her room slammed open with a loud crash. Kaito groaned, already knowing exactly who was responsible before she even opened her eyes. She threw a hand over her face and mumbled into her pillow, "Is it too much to ask for a normal wake-up call?"

Panda’s heavy footsteps stomped into the room, his towering figure making the space feel smaller as he leaned over her bed, his grin as wide as ever. "I tried knocking last time, remember? You threw a book at me."

"I missed on purpose," Kaito grumbled, rolling over to face the wall, making it clear she wasn’t ready to start the day.

Panda flopped onto the edge of her bed, clearly not getting the hint. "Yaga’s sent me to get you. And you know how he gets when someone doesn’t show up on time."

"Yeah, yeah. What’s the grand lecture about this time? Do I need more ‘self-discipline’? Or maybe it’s about how I ‘lack focus’? Really looking forward to hearing that for the hundredth time." Kaito’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but she sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was used to Yaga’s never-ending lessons about responsibility and discipline—it was practically a tradition by now.

"Actually, no lecture this time," Panda said, leaning in with an exaggerated whisper. "You’ve got a mission."

Kaito’s eyes opened fully, now interested. "A mission? What kind of mission?"

Panda shrugged, still grinning. "Something about cursed objects. Yaga didn’t give me the full details, but he seemed serious about it."

Kaito sighed and dragged herself out of bed, grabbing her jacket off the chair. "Great. If Yaga’s serious about it, then it’s probably not good news."

Panda bounded to the door, waiting for her. "Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine! I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?"

Kaito gave him a withering look as she pulled on her boots. "You know you’re never supposed to say that, right? You’re just begging for something to go wrong."

Panda chuckled, completely unbothered. "What can I say? I like living dangerously."

"Yeah, well, let’s just hope I don’t regret getting out of bed for this," Kaito muttered, more to herself than to Panda, as they made their way to the main hall.

__

By the time Kaito reached the main hall, Panda had disappeared to do whatever it was Panda did when he wasn’t annoying her. She dragged her feet a little as she approached Yaga, already preparing herself for whatever this "mission" was.

"Finally," Yaga said, arms crossed as he watched her approach. "You’re late."

"Technically, Panda’s late," Kaito said, raising a lazy hand as if to make a point. "I blame him for being a terrible alarm clock."

Yaga’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she could tell he wasn’t in the mood to argue. He waved a hand dismissively. "We don’t have time for your usual excuses, Kaito. This isn’t a lecture. I’m assigning you an important mission."

Kaito raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "No lecture? Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Should I call Gojo to check your temperature?"

Yaga’s expression didn’t waver. "Keep the jokes to a minimum. You’re going to retrieve a cursed object—a finger of Ryomen Sukuna."

Kaito’s sarcastic smirk faded instantly. Sukuna? The King of Curses. She’d heard the stories, knew how dangerous even a piece of him could be. And now Yaga wanted her to go after one of his cursed fingers?

"Wait, wait, wait," Kaito said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "You’re sending me to get a finger from the King of Curses? Isn’t that like… serious cursed energy business? Don’t you usually send, I don’t know, someone who doesn’t skip morning runs for stuff like that?"

Yaga’s gaze remained steady. "You’ve been training for this, Kaito. You’re more than capable of handling the retrieval. Fushiguro will be accompanying you."

Kaito snorted. "Fushiguro? Great. Can’t wait for him to stare at me with that deadpan face while I’m trying not to die."

"Fushiguro is a capable sorcerer," Yaga said, ignoring her joke. "You’ll work well together."

"Yeah, if I don’t fall asleep mid-conversation," Kaito muttered under her breath, though the knot in her stomach tightened. Sukuna’s finger wasn’t just some random cursed object—they were talking about one of the most dangerous relics in existence. And she wasn’t sure she was ready for something like that.

"So, let me get this straight," Kaito continued, her sarcasm now a thin veil for her growing anxiety. "You want me, your most undisciplined, least reliable student, to go pick up a piece of the literal King of Curses? Do you really think that’s a good idea?"

Yaga’s expression softened, just a fraction. "You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Kaito. I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think you could handle it."

Kaito shifted her weight, rubbing the back of her neck, but Yaga wasn’t finished.

"You’ve come of age," Yaga said, his tone steady but not without a hint of pride. "You’re sixteen now, and that means you’re officially enrolled in Jujutsu Tech. You’re no longer the kid we took in—you’re a sorcerer in training. It’s time for you to start taking on missions like this."

Sixteen. That word hit Kaito harder than expected, but not in the way Yaga probably intended. Sixteen meant officially a part of Jujutsu Tech. Sixteen meant she was supposed to have things figured out—be someone reliable. Instead, all she could think about was how long she’d been stuck here, training, being told she was getting stronger, but never really feeling it.

She thought back to when Yaga and the others took her in, back when she was just a mess of anger, confusion, and too much cursed energy for her own good. She hadn’t wanted their help then. Hell, she didn’t even like them at first. She’d been dragged into Jujutsu Tech like a problem that no one could fix. And, if she was being honest, she still felt like that sometimes—like the chaotic mess they hadn’t managed to iron out yet.

And now Yaga was saying she wasn’t that kid anymore. Like she’d somehow become this competent sorcerer-in-training overnight just because she’d hit a milestone. As if being sixteen made her any less of a wreck.

Kaito crossed her arms, her voice dropping as she glanced away. "I don’t know… it’s been quiet lately. Too quiet." She didn’t say it outright, but Yaga knew exactly what she meant. Her cursed forms—she hadn’t heard from them in months. And the silence was getting to her.

"I haven’t felt anything from them," she muttered. "No sign, no noise. It’s like they’re waiting for something… I don’t know if I’m ready for this."

Yaga stepped closer, his voice calm but firm. "The silence isn’t a warning, Kaito. It’s a sign that you’re gaining control. They aren’t running the show anymore—you are."

Kaito’s throat tightened. She wanted to believe him, but the silence felt too eerie, too unnatural. "Or it means they’re waiting for the perfect moment to throw me under the bus."

Yaga shook his head. "You’re in control. Don’t let your doubts get the better of you."

Kaito glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her arms still crossed tightly. "I don’t know, Yaga… What if they take over at the worst possible moment?"

Yaga’s hand landed on her shoulder, and she reluctantly met his eyes. "They won’t. You’ve trained hard for this. You’re ready."

Kaito let out a slow breath, the sarcasm slipping from her voice. "If you say so…"

Yaga stepped back, his usual serious expression returning. "You leave in an hour. Fushiguro’s already been briefed. This is a retrieval mission—get in, secure the object, and get out. If things escalate, you know what to do."

Kaito nodded, though the weight of the task still sat heavily in her chest. "Got it."

But as she turned to leave, she couldn’t help herself. "I guess I’ll just let Fushiguro do all the talking. If he doesn’t creep everybody away."

Yaga sighed but didn’t comment.

__

Kaito walked across the sun-dappled training grounds of Jujutsu Tech, the early morning chill still lingering in the air. Her hands were buried deep in her jacket pockets, and though the weather was crisp and clear, her mind felt far from it. The weight of the mission Yaga had just dropped on her made each step feel heavier than the last.

Ahead, under the shade of a large tree, sat Megumi Fushiguro. He was leaning back against the trunk, his usual stoic expression fixed in place, a folder of mission notes open in his lap. Even from a distance, Kaito could tell that nothing had changed about him—his sharp, serious gaze, the way he seemed to hold himself as though he carried the world on his shoulders. He’d always been like that, ever since middle school, though he used to have a rougher edge back then. Kaito had seen the transformation firsthand—the delinquent who ditched class for fights now carried the weight of a sorcerer’s responsibility, his once reckless nature now channeled into something far more disciplined.

She approached him slowly, hands still shoved into her pockets, and smirked as she sat down beside him on the grass, kicking her legs out in front of her.

"You look like someone who actually cares about this mission," she said, her tone light but teasing.

Fushiguro didn’t look up from the papers in his hand. "You’re late."

"Huh, why does everyone say that?" Kaito replied, rolling her eyes with a grin. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a personal vendetta against clocks."

"You'd be late even if you were the one setting the time," Fushiguro muttered, still focused on the pages.

"Always so dramatic," Kaito said, lying back on the grass and folding her arms behind her head. "Anyway, you ready for this mission, or should I give you a pep talk?"

Fushiguro finally looked up from the papers, giving her a long, slow glance before turning his attention back to his notes. "I think I’ll survive without your motivational speeches."

Kaito snorted softly, looking up at the blue sky through the leaves above them. "Yeah, you would. You’d probably outlive all of us with that stone-cold attitude of yours."

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments, the rustling of leaves in the breeze filling the space between them. Kaito could feel the tension coiled tight in her stomach, but Fushiguro’s calm presence next to her, however serious, was oddly reassuring.

"So," Kaito said, finally breaking the quiet, "Yaga told me we’re dealing with Sukuna’s finger. Gotta say, wasn’t expecting that when I woke up this morning."

Fushiguro’s brows knit together as he closed the folder and rested it on his lap. "It’s not the first time we’ve encountered cursed objects like this, but Sukuna’s fingers are on another level. The cursed energy they radiate has already started to affect the surrounding area."

"Rural, right?" Kaito asked, recalling what little Yaga had mentioned about the mission’s location.

Fushiguro nodded. "It’s been causing disturbances there for days. We need to get in, secure the object, and get out before more curses gather around it."

Kaito exhaled slowly, her breath fogging in the cool air. She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest as she stared at the ground. "Right. Just retrieve one of the most dangerous cursed objects in existence. Simple."

Fushiguro glanced at her sideways, his expression neutral but observant. "You’ve been on missions before."

"Yeah, but not like this," Kaito muttered, her fingers absently picking at the grass beneath her. "This is Sukuna we’re talking about. And to make it worse, I haven’t felt anything from… you know… them."

Fushiguro didn’t need her to explain. He knew what she meant—the cursed forms that lived within her. He’d seen glimpses of their destructive potential before, but hearing that they were dormant was… strange. "You mean they’ve been quiet?"

"Too quiet," Kaito said, frowning. "It’s like they’re lying in wait. I don’t like it. Silence like this makes me paranoid."

Fushiguro was quiet for a moment, processing what she’d said. Then, in his usual matter-of-fact tone, he replied, "It’s probably a good thing. If they’re quiet, it means you’ve been keeping them in check."

Kaito chuckled dryly, shaking her head. "That’s a popular opinion. Tends to be the thing most people choose over the possibility of them waiting for the perfect moment to screw me over."

Fushiguro didn’t respond immediately, his dark eyes scanning her face as if assessing whether she believed what she was saying. "You’ll handle it," he said after a pause, his voice steady. "You always do."

Kaito raised an eyebrow, surprised at the hint of reassurance in his words. She’d known Fushiguro for years—first as the delinquent who never seemed to take anything seriously, and now as the no-nonsense sorcerer who could keep his cool in the worst of situations. It was strange, hearing him say something so… supportive.

"Look at you," she said, smirking as she nudged him with her elbow. "Who would’ve thought the kid who used to skip class to pick fights would turn into this? All grown up and serious now."

Fushiguro barely reacted, though Kaito could see the flicker of something—amusement, maybe—in his expression. "People change."

"Yeah, they do," Kaito replied, tilting her head slightly. "But you were way more fun when you had a rebellious streak. Where’s the guy who used to get into trouble?"

Fushiguro gave her a pointed look. "I don’t miss those days, and neither should you."

Kaito laughed, shaking her head. "Yeah, okay, Mr. Responsible. But admit it, you miss the days when I used to make fun of you for being a troublemaker."

"I don’t," Fushiguro said flatly, but the faintest hint of a blush tugged at the tips of his ears.

Kaito leaned back on her hands, her eyes tracing the outlines of the clouds above them. "Well, either way, I’m glad you’re coming on this mission with me. I’d rather not face Sukuna’s cursed energy alone, and I’m sure you’ll keep me from doing something stupid."

"I’ll do what I can," Fushiguro replied, though his voice was as neutral as ever. "But we should keep the focus on retrieving the object. The longer we’re there, the more dangerous it gets."

"Ironic," Kaito muttered, thinking about the cursed energy buildup Fushiguro had mentioned. "I haven’t been out to the country in ages, but I’m guessing this won’t be a sightseeing trip."

Fushiguro stood, brushing off his pants as he did. "We’ll head out in an hour. The mission should be straightforward if nothing unexpected happens."

"Yeah, because nothing ever goes wrong on these things," Kaito replied sarcastically, standing up beside him. "But sure, let’s keep it simple. In, grab the finger, out. Easy peasy."

Fushiguro gave her a long, steady look. "Just follow the plan."

Kaito smirked, tossing her hands behind her head. "Oh, you know me—I’m great at sticking to plans. You just better keep up."

"Right," Fushiguro said dryly, but he didn’t seem too concerned. He started toward the gate, and Kaito followed, her steps feeling a little lighter now that she had something to focus on.

As they walked toward the exit, she couldn’t resist one more jab. "So, what is the plan? You let your shikigami do all the work while I stand back and look cool?"

Fushiguro glanced at her, his expression unchanging. "Has anyone ever told you you’re not funny?" Kaito’s expression also didn’t change. 

“Yeah.”

Fushiguro said nothing, though Kaito thought she caught the faintest smirk as they headed off toward the dorms. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as bad as she’d thought. Or maybe that was just her convincing herself.

hi! could i request a managerial duties fic with the fukurodani team?

Hello :D You can!

I wrote this in a silly goofy mood, if you can't tell lolol

Enjoy <33

--

Managerial Duties: Fukurodani

Being a manager for Fukurodani Academy’s boys’ volleyball team was a bit like being the conductor of an orchestra that had no intention of following the sheet music. Between Bokuto’s mood swings, Konoha’s snark, and the constant low hum of chaos that seemed to follow Komi like a shadow, your days were never dull.

But somehow, it worked.

Maybe it was Akaashi’s unshakeable calm, or Washio’s quiet reliability. Maybe it was the way Sarukui knew when to reel Bokuto back with just a look, or how the other two managers—Yukie and Kaori—had learned to tag-team any brewing disaster before it hit critical mass. The team was loud, ridiculous, occasionally impossible, and you wouldn’t trade them for anything.

You’d been with them long enough now that their habits were second nature. You knew who needed water before they asked, who always forgot their kneepads, who preferred warm-ups in silence and who needed to scream themselves into the zone. You’d taped ankles, refereed arguments, restocked first-aid kits, and once used a mop handle to redirect a rogue serve mid-flight.

So naturally, the one time you stepped out of the gym to speak with a teacher, chaos found its way in without you.

The package arrived during warmups. A small cardboard box, scuffed at the corners, with your name written neatly on the top in permanent marker. No return address. No label.

Kaori found it by the entrance and placed it on the bench, assuming you’d handle it when you got back.

But Bokuto saw it.

He was mid-warmup, mid-laugh even, when something square and cardboard caught his eye from across the gym. Like a hawk sighting prey, his eyes zeroed in and he made a beeline for the bench.

Before anyone could react, he was already crouching in front of the package, fingers hovering over the taped seam.

“Bokuto-san, don’t—”

Smack.

Kaori’s hand came down on his faster than lightning, swatting his fingers away just before he could peel back the flap.

Bokuto yelped, more offended at being stopped than anything else, still pointing dramatically at the box like it had personally challenged him to a duel. He cradled his hand with exaggerated care, rubbing it as if he'd just been grievously injured. "Oww, what was that for?" he whined, lower lip jutting out. 

“It’s not yours,” Yukie said immediately, sliding in front of it like a bodyguard.

“Aw c'mon!” Bokuto cried, jogging over. “What if it’s important?! Or fragile?! Or snack-related?! I mean—it was sent to a manager, so it’s stuff for us, right?!”

“Then she’ll open it when she gets back,” Konoha muttered, clearly unimpressed.

“But what if she wants us to open it for her?”

“She doesn’t,” Kaori said flatly.

“You don’t know that!”

“You don’t know that she does,” Akaashi chimed in, walking past with a towel draped over his shoulders. “And opening someone else’s package is literally a crime.”

Bokuto paused, scandalized. “Wait. Really?”

“Federal offense,” Akaashi confirmed, not even stopping.

“Yeah, that’s like... a serious thing,” Sarukui added.

Komi nodded enthusiastically. “You could totally get arrested.”

“Or banned from deliveries for life,” Konoha threw in with a shrug.

“I think that’s made up,” Washio said, but no one contradicted him.

Bokuto groaned. “This system is broken.”

“I bet it’s mysterious,” Komi offered, grinning. “Like something cursed. Or magical. Or both.”

“It’s probably just more athletic tape,” Sarukui said.

“No, no, no,” Bokuto shook his head. “It could be owls.”

“Why would someone send owls to the school gym?” Washio asked.

“Why wouldn’t they?” Bokuto countered.

The entire team was crowded around the bench now, forming a semicircle of ridiculous anticipation. The box sat there, untouched, radiating unearned power.

Kaori had her arms crossed. “No one’s opening it.”

Yukie nodded. “Not unless you want to explain to Coach why you’re committing petty theft.”

“And a federal offense,” Akaashi added as he passed.

Yukie groaned. “Right. And a federal offense.”

Just then, the gym doors opened.

You stepped in, unaware of the tension until twelve pairs of eyes swiveled to you at once.

“What did I miss?” you asked slowly, eyebrows raised.

Everyone pointed.

“Box,” Bokuto said gravely.

“Highly suspicious,” Komi added.

Akaashi sighed. “Please tell them it’s not cursed.”

You blinked at the package. “Oh. That’s just the kneepads my uncle donated.”

Silence.

Bokuto looked devastated. “It’s what?”

“Kneepads.” You opened the box casually, pulling out a neat stack of new gear. “He runs a sports supply store. Said he had extras.”

“You’re telling me,” Bokuto said slowly, “I waited fifteen minutes to NOT see a magical owl?”

“Yes?” you replied, mildly confused.

“…I mean, that’s cool too, I guess,” he muttered, thinking about it for a second. Then, as if deciding he could live with the outcome, he gave a small nod, still pouting a little. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay with this.”

Washio nodded. “I like kneepads.”

You grinned. “Good. Because there’s enough for all of you.”

One by one, you handed the kneepads out, and the team eagerly grabbed their pairs, excitedly comparing colors and sizes before jogging off to try them on over their uniforms. Bokuto was already halfway across the gym, yelling something about testing them with a jump serve.

You turned to find Yukie and Kaori standing off to the side, arms crossed.

“So,” you said, raising an eyebrow, “they were debating what was in the box, and the majority vote was a magical owl?”

Kaori rubbed her face with both hands. “Don’t even ask.”

Jealousy: Kyotani (Mad Dog)

The bar was crowded—not uncomfortably, but just enough that the air pulsed with low music and the warm scent of whiskey and fryer oil. The lights were low, warm and golden, casting soft shadows over tables cluttered with drinks and peeling coaster edges. Glass clinked softly in the background, a lazy rhythm to the Friday night energy building in waves.

You were leaning against the bar, waiting for your drinks, while Kyōtani had ducked away to use the bathroom. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, but you ignored it, eyes on the bartender shaking cocktails two seats down.

Which was, in hindsight, the exact moment the universe decided to test your patience.

“Hey there,” came a voice to your left—slurred, low, and too close. You caught the sour tang of beer on his breath before you saw his face.

You didn’t turn immediately. You’d felt it coming—like a storm you could smell in the air.

“I been watchin’ you from across the bar,” the man said, a lazy, drunken confidence in his voice. “You look like you could use some company.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “I’m good, thanks.”

He chuckled. “C’mon. Don’t be like that. I’ll buy you a drink, sweetheart.”

You turned your head, offering a cool, unimpressed stare. His eyes were glassy, cheeks blotched red from too much alcohol, and his grin was the kind of smarmy that made your skin crawl.

“You don’t wanna do that,” you said flatly.

The guy blinked. “What? Buy a pretty girl a drink?”

“No.” You shifted your weight, voice firm. “Hit on someone who’s taken.”

He raised a brow, like he thought you were bluffing. “Taken? Don’t see anyone here. You ditched him already?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You need to back off.”

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Men like that never did.

Instead, he laughed—loudly, like he’d just heard the best joke of the night. “Relax, baby. You’re hot. I’m just tryin’ to show some appreciation.”

You turned back toward the bar, trying to signal the bartender, but the guy didn’t take the hint. You felt him step closer, invading your space. Then his hand brushed your arm—too familiar, too bold.

That was when you felt it.

The air shifted. Like the pressure dropped.

A presence behind you—heavy, hot, and unmistakable.

Kyōtani.

A shadow passed over the drunk guy’s face, but he didn’t turn fast enough.

Kyōtani didn’t speak. He didn’t posture. He didn’t warn.

He just swung.

A blur of movement exploded at your side—a crack, loud and sharp, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. The guy lay sprawled across the scuffed floorboards, groaning, his hand cupping his jaw as shocked silence rippled through the nearby tables.

Kyōtani stood over him, jaw clenched, one hand still curled into a tight fist, his broad chest rising and falling as he stared down at the guy like he was debating whether to throw another punch for good measure.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

You just looked down at the groaning man and said, with a shrug and a sip of your half-warm drink, “Told you so.”

Kyōtani turned to you, golden eyes burning with residual fury, scanning your face and arms like he needed confirmation you were untouched. “He touch you?”

“Barely,” you muttered. “He tried.”

Kyōtani grunted low in his throat, gaze snapping back to the guy on the ground. “You’re lucky I stopped at one.”

The bartender said nothing. No one did.

You grabbed your second drink off the bar, rolling your eyes. “Guess I need a new gin and tonic now.”

Kyōtani huffed, throwing a protective arm around your shoulder, steering you away from the scene. “Let’s go. I hate this place anyway.”

“You hate every place.”

“Not true,” he muttered, hand tightening at your waist. “I like the ones where people don’t talk to you.”

You laughed under your breath as the two of you disappeared into the cooler night air, Kyōtani’s hand never leaving you for a second.

And as you walked, he leaned in, voice low and unrepentant.

“Next guy that touches you,” he growled, “I’m breakin’ his ribs.”

You smirked, leaning your head against his shoulder. “I know.”

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 3

The morning sunlight streamed through the cracked window, golden rays spilling over the tangled mess of sheets and the scattered remnants of the night before. Outside, birds chirped in the early quiet, their songs a stark contrast to the utter wreckage inside the room.

You groaned as consciousness pulled you from the depths of exhaustion, a dull, persistent ache spreading through your body. Every muscle protested as you attempted to move, soreness radiating from the very core of you. Fucking hell.

Shifting slightly, you became aware of the steady rise and fall of someone else's breathing beside you. Your gaze flickered to your left, and sure enough—Atsumu Miya, sprawled out, snoring like a chainsaw, one arm flung over his head, the other lazily draped across your waist.

That smug bastard.

You blinked, your brain still foggy, your limbs still heavy with exhaustion, and then—

Oh. Right.

Your eyes darted around your bedroom, the aftermath of last night coming into focus. Condom wrappers littered the floor, some torn open in haste, others carelessly discarded. Tied-off condoms rested in evidence of just how many times you had let him ruin you. The air was thick with the lingering scent of sweat, sex, and something undeniably Atsumu.

You clenched your jaw. You let this happen. Multiple times.

Your body throbbed in agreement. Yeah. No shit.

Gritting your teeth, you slowly pushed his arm off of you and began the excruciating process of getting up. The second you sat up, white-hot soreness shot through your thighs, your stomach tightening from the sheer ache of overuse. A hiss escaped you as you gingerly swung your legs over the bed, muscles screaming in protest.

"Goddamn it, Miya," you muttered under your breath, wincing as you stood. Your legs wobbled dangerously, knees threatening to buckle before you caught yourself on the edge of your desk.

That cocky asshole fucked you stupid.

You cursed him again, more viciously this time, before dragging yourself toward the bathroom, muttering a string of colorful profanities as you went. A hot shower was the only thing that might save you now.

The sight in the bathroom mirror was humiliating.

Your hair was a tangled disaster, barely clinging to the remnants of the ponytail you had thrown it into at some point last night, stray strands sticking to your forehead and neck. Tugging the elastic free, you ran your fingers through the knots, hissing slightly as you tried to tame the mess. And then your gaze caught the deep, bruise-like hickey from your very first encounter, still staining the side of your neck, dark and undeniable.

Fucking fantastic.

Rolling your eyes, you reached for the shower handle, twisting it until steam began to rise. The second the warm water hit your skin, your muscles sighed in relief. You let out a breath, resting your forehead against the cool tile as last night replayed in your head.

How the hell had this happened?

More importantly—why the fuck had it been so good? It had been so long since you’d had genuinely good sex, since someone had touched you like that, made you come apart so completely. And it just had to be him. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Atsumu Miya.

Your lips pressed into a thin line. He had been too good—an irritatingly smug bastard with a filthy mouth and a body that knew exactly how to work yours. He had torn you apart, left you in shambles, ruined you, and the worst part? You wanted more.

Shaking your head, you rinsed the suds from your hair, trying to push the thought away as you finished up. When you stepped out, fresh and clean, you felt marginally better—until you walked back into your room.

He was still there. Still sprawled out, still snoring, dead to the world like he had no intention of moving anytime soon.

You scowled.

The audacity of this man.

Rolling your eyes, you stepped up to his side, glaring down at him. With a sharp flick to his forehead, you muttered, "Hey, this isn’t a bed and breakfast. Go home."

Atsumu groaned, shifting slightly but refusing to open his eyes. His golden hair was an absolute mess, strands sticking up in chaotic tufts, evidence of how thoroughly you had pulled at it throughout the night. His broad shoulders flexed lazily as he rolled onto his stomach, the curve of his back leading down to the sheets pooling dangerously low at his waist. The way his muscles shifted with the movement sent an unwanted spark of heat through you—fucking unfair.

His voice, thick with sleep and laced with satisfaction, rumbled through the room. "God, for how well I fucked you, you’d think you’d be less of a bitch," he mumbled, barely lifting his head before burying his face into your pillow, exhaling deeply like he had all the time in the world.

Your nostrils flared. Oh, hell no.

With zero hesitation, you ripped the blanket off of him, exposing his very naked form to the cool morning air. He let out a disgruntled noise, blindly reaching for the covers, but you had already thrown his underwear at his face.

"Get dressed and get out before your brother starts wondering where the hell you’ve been."

Atsumu groaned into the mattress, arms tucked under his head like he didn’t have a single care in the world. "S’too early for this," he grumbled.

Your glare intensified. "Miya. Get. Up."

He peeked at you from beneath his lashes, that lazy smirk creeping onto his face like he knew exactly what he was doing. "Y’know, sweetheart, ya didn’t seem too eager for me to leave last night. If I remember correctly, ya were beggin’ me to stay inside ya."

You saw red.

Lunging forward, you smacked him upside the head with a pillow, sending him coughing into the sheets. "Shut the fuck up and put your pants on!"

Atsumu wheezed out a laugh, rubbing his head as he sat up, his toned body stretching with a satisfied groan. "Aight, aight, I’m goin’—no need to get violent."

You rolled your eyes as he slid into his clothes, his stupid smirk never leaving his face. As soon as his shirt was on, he strolled up to you, eyes raking over you in nothing but your towel.

"Y’know," he mused, cocking his head, "I could just stay. Help ya recover."

Your eye twitched. This man had no shame.

Grabbing his hoodie from the floor, you shoved it into his chest. "Out."

He chuckled, stepping through the doorway before pausing, glancing over his shoulder.

"See ya at practice, sweetheart. Try not to miss me too much."

You crossed your arms. "Oh, suck my dick."

Atsumu’s smirk widened instantly. "I’ll do that next time."

Your face flamed as his words registered, but before you could react, he was already laughing, dodging your attempt to shove him as he disappeared down the hall, leaving you standing there, breathless, flustered, and ready to launch something at his retreating figure. That bastard.

~~

The morning sun had risen higher by the time Atsumu finally dragged himself out of your house, stuffing his hands into his hoodie pocket as he walked back home. The crisp morning air did little to clear his head. His body ached—not in a bad way, but in that thoroughly-used, completely-spent kind of way, muscles sore from hours of exertion. Every step sent a reminder of exactly what he had been doing all night, and with whom.

And his mind?

It was a fucking mess.

He wasn’t dumb. He knew exactly what this was. You hated his guts, and he gave you just as much shit in return. That wasn’t changing anytime soon. You were bossy, relentless, always looking for a way to put him in his place—and goddammit, it infuriated him.

But last night?

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face as flashes of you—your legs tangled with his, the way your breath had hitched every time he pushed deeper, how you had fought him for control—flooded his mind.

Fuck.

He could still feel you, phantom traces of your nails scraping down his back, the warmth of your body, the way your thighs had locked around him like you were daring him to stop. And that look on your face when you finally gave in? Yeah, that shit was burned into his memory.

And damn it all, it was the best sex he’d ever had.

Atsumu wasn’t naive—he’d been with girls before, and sure, he liked to think he was good in bed. No one had ever complained. But with you?

It was different.

Not just the sex—though, fuck, it was phenomenal—but the build-up. The tension, the aggression, the way you had fought him every step of the way, and still melted under him just the same. It made his blood run hotter, his instincts sharper, like every second with you was some kind of battle he was dying to win.

And now? Now he had fucked you senseless, and instead of feeling satisfied like he normally would, his body was already itching to do it again.

He exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as his house came into view. His entire body felt heavy, spent, and the only thing on his mind now was crashing into his bed and sleeping for the next eight hours. Maybe then he could stop thinking about the way your breathy moans had completely wrecked him.

"Shit."

The front door creaked open as he stepped inside, toeing off his shoes. The kitchen was quiet, but a note caught his attention, stuck to the fridge with a volleyball magnet.

Went to grab groceries. Be back later. Try not to destroy the house.

Atsumu huffed a small, tired laugh and crumpled the note in his fist before heading down the hall, desperate for the sleep he hadn’t gotten. His bed was calling him, and he could already feel the exhaustion creeping up his limbs, finally ready to crash.

But the second he stepped into his bedroom, a familiar voice made him pause.

"I covered for you last night, you know."

Atsumu barely spared his twin a glance, too tired to argue. "Uh huh. Thanks."

Osamu was sitting up on his own bed, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "So, you’re just not gonna tell me where you were last night?"

Atsumu groaned, running a hand through his already-messy hair before flopping face-first onto his mattress. "Samu, I swear to god, I’m too tired for this."

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the headboard, watching his twin like he could see through his bullshit already. "That so? ‘Cause ya look like ya got hit by a truck."

Atsumu grunted into his pillow. Yeah. A truck named you.

Osamu let the silence stretch between them before sighing. "Was it a girl?"

Atsumu tensed for half a second before he forced his body to relax, rolling onto his side, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Does it matter?"

"It does when yer actin’ all weird about it." Osamu's tone was far too knowing for Atsumu's liking. His twin wasn’t one to pry, but he was also damn observant, and Atsumu had no doubt that if he wasn’t careful, Osamu would piece everything together before the day was over.

Atsumu exhaled heavily. "Can ya just let me sleep?"

Osamu narrowed his eyes, something clicking into place behind them. "Wait a second... You were actin’ weird as hell yesterday, and the manager didn’t even show up to practice in the afternoon..."

Atsumu forced his expression to stay neutral, shoving down the immediate impulse to react. "What? You think I was with her?" He scoffed, shaking his head as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Relax, Samu. It was just some girl from class—Airi Sakamoto."

Osamu didn’t say anything for a second, but Atsumu felt him still watching. Weighing his words. Judging his reaction.

"Huh." Osamu finally leaned back against the headboard. "Didn’t think ya liked Airi."

Atsumu shrugged, doing his best to sound unaffected. "Nothin’ serious. Just some fun."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

The way Osamu said it made Atsumu’s skin itch. Like he wasn’t entirely convinced, but he also wasn’t going to push—yet. His twin was perceptive as hell, but thankfully, he wasn’t nosy unless something really bugged him.

Atsumu exhaled slowly, trying to let his body relax. Good. This’ll blow over.

Osamu didn’t push any further, but Atsumu knew better than to assume this was over. His twin had that look, the one that said he wasn’t entirely buying it but was willing to let it sit for now. Atsumu could only hope that was enough to keep him from digging further.

But as he finally closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling at his limbs, the image of you still wouldn’t leave his head.

This was gonna be a problem.

~~

Monday morning arrived far too quickly, the weight of the weekend still lingering in your muscles, your thoughts, your everything. The cold air bit at your skin as you made your way toward the gym, your feet dragging slightly despite your best efforts to act normal. You had spent the entire weekend trying—desperately trying—to push everything that had happened with Atsumu to the back of your mind. But now, with practice looming ahead, it felt like all of it was crawling right back up your throat.

How the hell were you supposed to pretend like nothing had happened?

It had been two days. Forty-eight hours since you had let Atsumu ruin you, and now you had to walk into practice and act like you hadn’t spent half the weekend moaning his name. Like he hadn’t touched you in ways you could still feel.

Fucking fantastic.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you took a deep breath. It was fine. You just had to do what you always did—be civil enough to get through practice without anyone suspecting a damn thing. You could ignore him. You could pretend that nothing was different.

You had to.

But it wasn’t just about ignoring him. No, that would have been too easy. Because the thing with Atsumu was that he wasn’t the type to just let things go. He was an asshole, a relentless one at that, and you had no doubt that the second he saw you, he was going to say something. He was going to look at you with that stupid fucking smirk, that self-satisfied, cocky-ass grin, and you were going to have to find a way not to strangle him in front of everyone.

Up ahead, you spotted Kita unlocking the gym doors, his usual composed demeanor unchanged. He glanced up as you approached, his sharp eyes immediately settling on you as he gave a small nod in greeting.

"Mornin'. Feelin' better?" he asked casually.

You froze mid-step. What?

Your brain went completely blank for a solid second before the realization slammed into you.

Oh. Right.

You had told Kita you were sick to get out of afternoon practice on Friday. Shit.

You forced your face into neutrality, schooling your features as quickly as you could. "Uh—" you blinked, then cleared your throat. "Yeah. Head cold."

Kita gave a small, approving nod, his expression unreadable. "Good. Glad you’re back."

You exhaled, relieved that he didn’t press further, though the reminder of your flimsy excuse only added to the pile of things to stress about today.

The real problem wasn’t Kita.

It was stepping into that gym and seeing Atsumu again.

You could already feel it, the weight of his presence, the way the air would shift the second you walked in. You knew him too well. You had been fighting with him for years. And now? Now you had to pretend like his hands hadn’t been all over you, like you hadn’t spent the weekend letting him fuck you in every way imaginable.

And the worst part? You had no idea how to handle it.

With one last deep breath, you squared your shoulders, plastering the most neutral expression you could manage onto your face, and followed Kita inside.

The gym was empty, still wrapped in the early morning quiet, save for the distant hum of the overhead lights flickering to life as Kita stepped ahead, checking the locks and switches with his usual efficiency. You made a beeline for the storage room, the familiar echo of your footsteps bouncing off the polished floors, each step grounding you in the routine—a routine you needed now more than ever.

Pulling out the cart of volleyballs, you set about your usual tasks, rolling out the net, setting up the poles, unfolding the mats in the corner of the gym—all movements embedded in your muscle memory, allowing your mind to drift even as your body worked.

But your thoughts weren’t cooperating.

Each small motion felt heavier today, like every act of normalcy was forcing your mind to ignore the very obvious elephant in the room: Atsumu fucking Miya.

The past weekend had unraveled something you weren’t ready to confront. The sharp, burning pull of hatred, desire, competition, frustration—it was still there, coiling beneath your skin like a live wire. How were you supposed to erase the feeling of his body against yours? The way he had looked at you in the dim light of your bedroom, golden eyes dark with something you refused to name? The way he had made you come undone over and over until you had lost track of time?

Your fingers curled around the net, gripping it too tightly.

You had to get a grip.

You gave your head a sharp shake, forcing the thoughts down, deep, deep down where they wouldn’t interfere with practice. Because that was all it was—practice. A normal morning, a normal routine. You just had to act normal.

And more importantly, you had to act like Atsumu didn’t still linger in the ache between your thighs, in the phantom press of his fingers along your waist, in the way your pulse picked up just thinking about him.

You scowled at yourself. Pathetic.

Straightening, you grabbed a volleyball from the cart, tossing it idly from one hand to the other, trying to reset your mind. The doors would open soon. The team would pile in. Atsumu would walk through that door.

And you needed to be ready.

It wasn’t long before the distant echo of voices signaled the arrival of the team, the usual mix of early morning grumbles and lighthearted banter filling the space as the gym doors swung open. You kept your focus on the net, adjusting its tension with a practiced ease, but it was impossible to ignore the way their presence shifted the atmosphere—the way his presence shifted the atmosphere.

A few of the guys greeted you as they passed, their voices casual, unaware of the storm inside your head.

"Hey, you feeling better?" one of them asked, pausing briefly near the cart of volleyballs.

You nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Yeah. Just a head cold."

"Glad you're back. Kita was worried."

That surprised you. Kita worried? You glanced toward the captain, who was already overseeing warm-ups with his usual composed expression. He must have noticed your hesitation because he gave a small nod of acknowledgment, as if to confirm the statement. Huh.

But then, you made a mistake.

Your gaze drifted across the gym, landing on him.

Atsumu had just stepped inside, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled as if he hadn’t bothered fixing it properly before rolling out of bed. The second your eyes met, he smirked.

Not just any smirk.

That smirk. The one that sent heat rushing up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, the one that made you clench your fists just to stop yourself from reacting. It was lazy, self-satisfied, and undeniably knowing—like he could still feel you on him, like he could still hear the way you moaned his name in the quiet of your room.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

A rush of heat, a sudden tightening in your core, a traitorous pulse between your legs that sent panic flaring through your mind. No. No, no, no.

You locked up, fingers tightening around the net’s frame, every ounce of rational thought crumbling beneath the weight of that goddamn smirk.

"Uh—earth to manager?"

You jolted slightly, blinking rapidly as Suna waved a hand in front of your face, his sharp eyes flickering with mild amusement. Shit.

"You good? You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I—" You cleared your throat, willing yourself to snap back to reality. "Yeah. Just—distracted."

Suna’s gaze lingered for a second too long before he shrugged, rolling his shoulders. "If you say so."

You exhaled sharply, heart still hammering against your ribs as you forced yourself to focus.

Practice was starting. You needed to get it together.

The drills started off as routine as ever, the rhythmic sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, volleyballs slamming against the net, and voices calling out sets filling the gym. You went about your usual duties, keeping water bottles filled, retrieving stray balls, observing. Everything was exactly as it should be. Almost.

Because you were noticing things you had never noticed before.

Atsumu had always been an impressive player. You knew that. His skill was the reason he was the starting setter of Inarizaki, the reason scouts were always eyeing him for future prospects. But you had never let yourself notice him like this before.

The way his muscles flexed every time he set the ball, the way his strong arms held complete control over the game, the sheer power behind every calculated move—it all felt too familiar. His body was built for this sport, lean but strong, his movements fluid and commanding, just like that night.

You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze to shift anywhere else. No. Absolutely not.

And yet, your thoughts kept circling back to him, back to the way he had moved over you, with the same precision, the same power. Your thighs clenched involuntarily, and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to snap yourself out of it. This was insane. This was Atsumu. The same Atsumu who had spent years annoying the shit out of you, pushing your buttons, picking fights just to rile you up.

You needed to leave. Now.

The second practice ended, you grabbed your things and bolted, moving toward the exit before anyone could stop you. The last thing you needed was more time around him. You just had to make it to class, shake off whatever the hell was happening in your head, and forget—

A hand grabbed your wrist, pulling you back into the shadow of the gym just as the rest of the team filtered out. Warm, calloused fingers wrapped around your skin, familiar and firm.

Atsumu.

You barely had time to register his presence before he was speaking, voice low enough that no one else could hear.

"My place'll be empty tonight," he said, his tone so damn casual you could have punched him. "Samu's got a project."

You scowled, immediately tugging your wrist from his grasp. "And why should I care?"

Atsumu didn’t answer right away, just raised a brow like he knew something you didn’t. Like he knew exactly what was going on in your head. And then, with that insufferable smirk, he said, "Come over after practice."

And then he walked away, leaving you pissed—because you knew in your heart that you were going.

Favourite Positions: Sakusa

Sakusa Kiyoomi had never liked mess.

He wasn’t fond of anything sticky, anything uncontrolled, anything that demanded he surrender to chaos.

And sex, by nature, was a little chaotic.

But with you—it wasn’t. With you, it was something else. Something he could control, savor, memorize.

And when you sat on his face?

It became his favorite thing in the world.

You’d asked him, once—quietly, maybe even shyly—if he wanted to try it. You’d been hesitant, even as you knelt over him on the bed, thighs trembling with anticipation. But Sakusa hadn’t hesitated.

He had only looked up at you with those dark, focused eyes and said, “Sit.”

And now?

Now, your thighs were trembling around his head.

His hands were firm around them, fingers digging into your skin, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth. His curls were damp with sweat and slick. His jaw worked with slow, punishing precision.

Every time his tongue dragged up between your folds, he flattened it against your clit and flicked—just once, just enough to make your body twitch—and then he did it again.

And again.

And again.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Your hands were buried in the sheets behind you, hips tilted forward as he held you steady, held you still, held you open.

"Kiyoomi—" you gasped, but it was barely a whisper.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His mouth was too busy—working you apart, slow and relentless, tongue curling, lips sealing around you with devastating pressure. He sucked you down, drew another sharp moan from your throat, and when you twitched above him, tried to lift off just a little—

His grip tightened.

“Don’t move,” he rasped against you, voice low, strained, and muffled by the heat of your cunt. "I’m not done yet."

Your breath caught.

You could barely hold yourself up. Your legs were shaking violently, muscles screaming, your entire body flushed with heat. You were soaked. You could feel it dripping down your thighs, clinging to his cheeks, smearing against his lips.

And he was loving it.

He groaned into you, hands pulling you down harder, deeper, locking you into place as his tongue fucked into you—slow, deep, precise. He was savoring you.

You sobbed. Loud, wrecked, desperate.

“I—I can’t—Kiyoomi—”

His only response was a low moan, like he was addicted to the taste of you, to the way you sounded. His nose was pressed against your clit, tongue working deeper, messier now, grinding slow and firm until your thighs were twitching with every stroke.

Your vision blurred. The knot in your stomach pulled tighter, tighter, too tight.

And then—

You broke.

You came with a scream, hips jerking, grinding into his face as your orgasm crashed through you in one white-hot wave. Your whole body locked up, the pleasure too intense, too much, almost unbearable.

But Sakusa didn’t stop.

Not even when your thighs started to shake uncontrollably.

Not even when you whimpered, “Please,” so softly it was barely sound.

He shifted the angle of his mouth, focused entirely on your clit now, his tongue flicking rapidly, pressure sharp and steady. His hands held you down as your entire body jolted with overstimulation.

You cried out again, voice cracking, hands flying forward to claw at his hair, at the headboard, anything you could reach.

He was going to make you come again.

And he did.

The second orgasm was worse. Sharper. It tore through you like lightning, and you couldn’t even scream this time—you just gasped, mouth open, eyes wide, legs clamping tight around his head as you sobbed through it.

And still—he didn’t stop.

Your body shook. Collapsed. Melted into his mouth.

Only when your hips bucked too hard—when your voice gave out entirely, when your whole body spasmed in his hold—did he finally relent.

He kissed your inner thigh once, slow and deliberate, then another kiss to your slick, swollen folds, almost reverent. You slumped forward, collapsing onto the bed, shaking.

Sakusa pushed himself up slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, curls stuck to his forehead. His face was soaked. His lips were flushed, chin wet with you, and he looked completely ruined.

And satisfied.

He crawled up beside you, his hand gentle on your hip.

“Still breathing?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You could only nod, barely.

He leaned down and kissed your shoulder, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your spine.

“You’re going to do that again,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a question.

And in that moment, you knew he’d found his favorite position.

Favourite Positions: Kuroo

Of all the ways Kuroo liked to fuck you, reverse cowgirl had to be his favorite.

Not just because of the way your body looked—though, fuck, he could watch you like this forever. The curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the way your ass bounced each time you dropped down onto his cock. It was hypnotic, the way you moved, rolling your hips slow and deliberate at first, teasing yourself as much as him.

No, what really did it for him was the control. Or, more accurately, the moment you lost it.

"You always start off so cocky," Kuroo mused, voice dark with amusement. His fingers pressed into the flesh of your thighs, stroking, teasing. "Think you’re in charge just ‘cause you’re on top, huh?"

You shot him a look over your shoulder, lips parted, eyes hazy with pleasure. A challenge.

His smirk sharpened.

"Alright, baby, let’s see how long that lasts."

Before you could brace yourself, Kuroo’s hands slid up, gripping your waist, and slammed you down onto his cock. The sudden force had you gasping, your balance breaking as pleasure shot through you like lightning. His grip tightened, holding you still, making you take him deep, making you feel him.

"You good?" he asked, voice low, teasing.

You nodded, already breathless. Already wrecked.

Kuroo chuckled, slow and satisfied. And then he started thrusting up into you.

Hard.

Your hands scrambled for support, nails digging into his knees, a choked cry falling from your lips as he fucked up into you with purpose. There was no rhythm to it, just rough, fast, needy. The sound of skin meeting skin filled the air, your moans turning high-pitched and desperate.

"Yeah, that’s it," he groaned, eyes locked onto the way you shuddered. "Not so cocky now, huh? Feels too fucking good, doesn’t it?"

You tried to say something—tried to hold onto whatever control you thought you had—but all that came out was a whimper, a broken moan of his name.

Kuroo grinned, loving every second of it. Loving the way you completely fell apart for him.

And when he reached between your legs, fingers finding your clit, rubbing quick, tight circles—

You shattered.

Your whole body tensed, a cry ripping from your throat as you clenched down around him, dragging him right over the edge with you. He groaned, deep and guttural, burying himself inside you, grinding up as he came.

For a moment, all that was left was heavy breathing, the rise and fall of your bodies pressed together, the warmth between you both.

Then, Kuroo let out a breathless chuckle, trailing lazy fingers up your spine before giving your ass a playful slap.

"See? Told you I’d win."

"Shut up."