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You didn’t knock.
The door slammed open against the wall with a thud, reverberating through the quiet of the gym offices as you stepped in like a storm on legs. Iwaizumi barely looked up from his tablet, but the hard flicker of his eyes said everything.
“You want to tell me what the hell this is?” You threw the clipboard down onto his desk—hard enough that the pens rattled.
He set the tablet down slowly, deliberately, like he was resisting the urge to match your energy. “You’ll have to be more specific. I get a lot of aggressive paperwork these days.”
You narrowed your eyes. “The new conditioning plan. The one that overemphasizes lower-body strength for half the defensive line—including Yaku, who, if you remember, has two prior knee injuries and doesn’t need another one.”
“It’s a generalized strength cycle,” he said, already starting to sound annoyed. “And Yaku’s cleared. His knees aren’t glass.”
You leaned forward, voice clipped. “And he’s cleared with a note that says he needs flexibility emphasis. You’re pushing reps on a recovering joint. That’s not generalized, that’s reckless.”
His jaw ticked. “I’m not pushing anything he can’t handle. He’s an elite athlete, not a porcelain doll.”
You scoffed, shaking your head, pacing a few steps across the room. “Jesus, Hajime, sometimes I think you forget you’re not just coaching weight numbers—you’re managing people. People with injuries, with thresholds. If he gets benched because you want him to hit a personal best on a squat—”
“—Then that’s on me,” Iwaizumi cut in, standing now, matching your gaze, his voice sharp. “Not on you.”
You turned slowly, cold fury in your expression. “You’re damn right it won’t be on me. Because I’m not signing off on that.”
He stepped around the desk. “You don’t get to unilaterally veto a team decision.”
“You don’t get to override medical flags like you’re some goddamn authority on joint physiology.” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “Your job is to keep them strong. Mine is to keep them playing. If they’re hurt, no one wins.”
The tension hung thick between you both, barely bridled, mouths drawn tight like you were both holding back everything you really wanted to say.
“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered under his breath.
“Right back at you.”
You turned sharply, storming to the door. You needed air. You needed to not strangle a nationally-ranked strength coach in the middle of an Olympic facility.
But when you threw the door open, two bodies fell inward with a crash.
Bokuto hit the ground first, limbs flailing like he’d just been knocked out of a tree. Atsumu came next, barely catching himself on the wall, eyes wide as he winced dramatically.
“Ow—shit—”
“Uh… hi?” Bokuto grinned sheepishly from the floor. “We were just… stretching.”
You stared down at them, blinking once. Then twice.
“Stretching,” you repeated flatly.
“In the hallway,” Atsumu added quickly, brushing himself off. “Gotta stay limber, you would know Doc.”
Your glare could’ve turned them to ash.
Behind you, Iwaizumi groaned under his breath.
“I’m going to kill both of you,” you muttered.
“No need!” Bokuto said, already scrambling back. “We were just leaving! Right, ’Tsumu?”
“Yup. Definitely not eavesdropping. Totally respect privacy.”
They both darted off like startled dogs, leaving behind only the faint sound of snickering down the hall.
You didn’t say another word. You just stepped out, slammed the door behind you, and willed your heart to stop pounding through your ribs.
—
The door had barely stopped vibrating when Iwaizumi let out a slow, audible sigh. He turned back to his desk, ran a hand through his hair, and stared blankly at the clipboard you’d left behind like it was personally mocking him.
God, you were impossible.
And you were right.
He wasn’t about to admit that—not to your face, not in front of a pair of eavesdropping idiots, and definitely not when your voice still echoed in his head like a challenge he hadn’t yet figured out how to win.
“Yo, Iwa.”
Iwaizumi turned, slowly, to see Atsumu leaning against the gym wall with all the subtlety of a spotlight. Bokuto was standing beside him, whispering something that earned him a smack on the arm.
“What,” Iwaizumi snapped. Not a question. A warning.
Atsumu raised his hands innocently. “Nothin’. Just, uh… wonderin’ if we’re still runnin’ through defensive drills. Or if you need a minute to, y’know, recover.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Bokuto grinned, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “’Cause that sounded brutal. Like, she murdered you with words.”
Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Do either of you want to do ten extra sets of burpees?”
“Shutting up!” Atsumu said quickly, throwing a thumbs-up before jogging off toward the court.
Bokuto lingered a second longer. “Hey,”
Iwaizumi looked up again.
“She’s not wrong. Yaku’s been wincing during cooldowns.”
Then he jogged off too, leaving Iwaizumi alone with nothing but the echo of your voice and the weight of the truth.
He grunted under his breath, shaking his head as he walked toward the training area, jaw tight. His athletes were waiting. The whistle was in his hand. He’d deal with you later.
But even as he barked out the next drill set, his mind drifted back to the fire in your voice, the way you jabbed a finger into his chest like you weren’t afraid of anything—not even him.
And for some goddamn reason, that wasn’t just infuriating.
It was distracting.
Worse: it was getting harder to ignore.
Helloooo another request because I absolutely love your Favourite position series! Can you write one about Atsumu because you write him so well. Not just him honestly all the characters you write are so accurate and well written. Take your time and thank your for blessing us with your writing!!🩷🩷
Heheh I've had this one cooking for a long time. Thank you for saying I write him well that makes my day since he's like my husband 😩🩷
Enjoy <333
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Atsumu Miya was a performer.
On the court, in front of a camera, with strangers or friends—he knew how to put on a show. He thrived on reaction, on praise, on the high that came from being watched and admired. And in bed, it was no different.
He liked it when you were loud.
When you praised him with gasps and whimpers, when your nails dragged down his back and your voice cracked saying his name. When your legs trembled, when your thighs clenched, when you said—again and again—that no one made you feel like he did.
But one night, in the quiet hush of your shared bedroom, you laughed—soft, teasing—and said something he couldn’t let go.
“You’re good, Tsumu,” you purred, voice sugary sweet, brushing your lips against his ear. “But I don’t think you’ve ever made me scream.”
He went still. Blinked once. And then he smiled.
Not just any smile. That one. The cocky, infuriating, competitive smile he only wore when he took something personally.
“Oh, is that a challenge?” he asked, voice deceptively light.
You shrugged, smirking. “I’m just saying…”
And that was how you found yourself like this.
Laid on your side, one leg lifted and draped over his shoulder, the other pinned beneath his weight. His hand was anchored under your knee, firm and steady, keeping you stretched open for him, keeping you exposed and exactly where he wanted you.
He was already deep inside you, hips grinding in slow, devastating strokes that had your breath stuttering and your mind unraveling. The angle? Perfect. He hit that spot—your spot—over and over, like he had it memorized, like he could find it with his eyes closed.
But what got you most—more than the rhythm, more than the stretch—was the way he watched you.
Eyes locked on your face. Focused. Determined.
He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t playful. He was proving something.
“Y’re not gonna be able to talk when I’m done,” he muttered, voice thick with effort, lips brushing against your jaw. “Gonna make you scream so loud, the whole fuckin’ neighborhood’s gonna know.”
You gasped, your hand flailing to grip the sheets as his cock hit that spot again, again, again. Every thrust angled perfectly, timed like he was syncing it to the beat of your pulse, to the rhythm of your gasps.
Your voice cracked. “T-Tsumu—”
“Oh, now y’can’t talk?” he chuckled, dark and pleased, hand dragging down to press your belly. “Thought y’had somethin’ smart to say.”
Your leg trembled on his shoulder. Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the way he kept striking that same devastating spot inside you. It was blinding—white-hot heat coiling tighter and tighter, an ache that started deep in your belly and spread like fire under your skin. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through your nerves, your muscles drawn so tight you thought you might snap. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
The only thing you could feel was him—Atsumu, filling you completely, dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips. Your walls fluttered around him, desperate and pulsing, your vision starting to blur at the edges. Tears prickled in the corners of your eyes, pleasure cresting into something dizzying, something raw.
And still, he didn’t let up.
His pace quickened, hips snapping forward with more force, each movement sending a shockwave through your body. The pressure was unbearable, unbearable—and yet, you craved more. You needed more. Your hands clawed uselessly at the bedspread, searching for something, anything, to hold onto.
“Say it,” he growled, voice right by your ear now, his breath hot, cock still driving into you at that perfect, devastating angle. “Say who’s makin’ you scream.”
You barely managed it.
“Atsumu—oh my god, Atsumu—”
You shattered.
Your cry echoed off the walls, louder than you’d ever been before. It ripped from your chest, raw and helpless, your entire body locking up. Back arched, fingers clawing at the sheets, thighs quivering violently as your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Raw. Messy. Loud. It didn’t stop—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, pulsing around him with a force that left you sobbing.
Atsumu groaned, curse muffled into your neck as he fucked you through it, hips stuttering before he came hard, hot and deep inside you, his own orgasm pulled from him with a strangled moan. He rode out every last pulse of it, buried deep, clinging to your thigh like his anchor.
He didn’t move right away.
Just stayed there, your leg still draped over his shoulder, chest heaving against the back of your thigh, his hand still gripping you like he didn’t want to let go. His face nuzzled into the curve of your chest, lips ghosting over the swell of your breast as he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses there—gentle and slow, a quiet contrast to the way he’d just wrecked you.
When he finally leaned back to look at you, his smile was smug, but his eyes were warm—staring down at the wrecked mess he made.
“Still think I can’t make you scream?”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too far gone—eyelids fluttering, mouth parted, body twitching with the aftershocks.
And as he looked down at the wrecked mess of you—eyes glassy, hair clinging to your forehead, body limp and trembling—Atsumu realized something.
This position?
Yeah. It was his favorite now.
You’re not sure when it started. Maybe sometime last week, maybe even before that—but the switch flipped quietly, without warning. One minute you were just a little tired, a little bloated, trying to get comfortable with the weird limbo that is second trimester pregnancy. And the next?
You were staring at your husband like he was carved from marble. Like every movement of his arms under that damn fitted black t-shirt was offensive. Like the way his voice dipped when he answered a work call should be punishable by law.
You hadn’t touched him in days—partly because you were tired, partly because the two of you were still adjusting to the wave of appointments and vitamins and new routines. But now, now your skin feels too tight for your body. You can’t stop thinking about his hands. His stupid smirk. The stretch of muscle across his stomach when he reaches for the top shelf. You keep shifting in your chair at the kitchen table, thighs pressed together as you half-watch him move around the apartment, trying not to combust every time he bends to grab something or stretches his arms over his head like a personal attack.
You're four months pregnant, and your hormones are holding you hostage.
But how the hell are you supposed to say that? Hey honey, I want you so bad it’s making me delusional? You’re turning me on just by walking?
You'd rather burst into flames.
So instead, you sit quietly, pretending to scroll through your phone while your eyes flicker up to him every ten seconds like a heat-seeking missile. You’re trying to be subtle. You really are.
Unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou has known you long enough to spot a mood shift from fifty paces away—and he’s been watching. Smugly. Patiently. Waiting.
The first hint that you’ve been caught comes when he strolls by with a bowl of chopped strawberries, casually plucks one from the bowl, and leans over to offer it to you without a word. You’re caught off guard, lips parting automatically as he feeds it to you. Your teeth graze the tip of his fingers, just barely, and his lips twitch.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you chew. Slow. Calm.
Then, in a voice dipped in dry amusement: “You’ve been staring at me for twenty minutes.”
You blink, swallow. “I haven’t.”
“Mm,” he hums, straightening up. “Sure you haven’t.”
You grit your teeth. Heat burns your cheeks. You can already feel the spiral beginning.
He doesn’t press. Just walks around the kitchen like he didn’t just call you out for mentally undressing him on the spot. His movements are so casual it’s infuriating. He grabs a dish towel, wipes down the counter, opens the fridge, all while your brain is on fire.
You stare down at your phone, eyes unfocused, and will yourself to get it together. You just need to act normal. You’re not gonna combust. It’s fine. It’s just hormones.
“You okay?” he asks, voice far too neutral. You glance up. He’s leaning against the counter now, arms crossed over that broad chest, eyebrow lifted in feigned innocence.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You’re flushed.” His head tilts. “You hot?”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?”
You shift in your seat, pressing your knees together. “Yes.”
Another pause. Then:
“You hungry?”
Your eyes shoot to him instinctively—and that’s when you realize he knows. Not just suspects. Not maybe. Knows.
And worse: he’s enjoying it.
Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. You look away again, hands gripping your phone like it might save you from yourself.
When he crosses the room, you don’t even notice until he’s crouching beside your chair, resting one arm on the armrest, the other hand brushing lightly over your thigh. You freeze.
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice dipped in syrup, eyes glinting with something dangerous, “you’ve been lookin’ at me like you want to climb me.”
You blink rapidly. “That’s not—”
“You sigh every time I stretch.” His fingers trace up to your knee. “You squirm when I talk. You’ve eaten, slept, and had your iron supplements. So unless there’s a sudden new strawberry emergency—”
“Tetsuro.”
“—I think,” he murmurs, leaning closer, “there’s something you’re not saying.”
You bury your face in your hands, groaning into your palms. “This is so embarrassing.”
He laughs softly, warm breath fanning over your shoulder as he presses a kiss to your temple. “It’s adorable.”
“It’s feral, Tetsu. I feel like a monster.”
“Monsters don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice low against your skin. “They don’t whimper every time I bend over.”
You groan louder, but your body leans into him on instinct.
“Say it,” he teases. “C’mon. Say you want me.”
“I hate you.”
“You want me.”
“I’m four months pregnant and deranged, don’t flatter yourself.”
“Oh, baby,” he grins, pulling you gently into his lap, “you’re carrying my kid and horny for me? I’m the luckiest bastard alive.”
Mortified beyond recovery, you squirm your way out of his lap, muttering something unintelligible as you bolt from the kitchen. It’s half an attempt to escape, half a desperate grab for your dignity. You make it three steps into the hallway before you hear him laugh—low and knowing—and then feel his hands at your hips.
“Where d’you think you’re going?” he murmurs, lips brushing the curve of your ear as he tugs you back against him. “You’re not getting away from me after saying all that.”
You fumble for a response, but it vanishes the second his hands find the hem of your shirt, fingertips grazing your skin with unbearable slowness. You tilt your head back without thinking, breath catching.
“Tetsurou—”
“Yeah?” he answers, already kissing down your neck, voice infuriatingly calm. “Say the word, and I’ll stop.”
You don’t. You can’t.
Instead, your hands find his wrists and guide them higher. You melt into him like wax to flame.
“Good girl,” he breathes against your jaw. “That’s more like it.”
Before you can catch your breath, he has you gently turned, your back pressing against the hallway wall. His hands settle firmly on your hips, then slide lower, fingers working with a confidence that has your knees buckling. You gasp when he pops the button of your pants, the sound deafening in the quiet space between your bodies.
“Tetsurou—”
“Shh,” he murmurs, his lips brushing over your collarbone with the lightest graze, voice so low and deliberate it sends a pulse through your spine. His hand dips beneath the waistband of your underwear with a languid slowness, his knuckles dragging along your skin like he wants you to feel everything.
“Let me take care of you, yeah? You’ve been trying so hard to hold it together.”
You inhale sharply as his fingers slide deeper, seeking out the ache you’ve been trying to ignore for days. When he finds it—you—it’s like your body short-circuits. Your breath stutters, hips jolting forward as if your body’s been waiting for this exact moment, this exact touch.
His fingers move with maddening precision—expert and unhurried—stroking you in a rhythm that melts the strength from your knees. He presses you harder into the wall, not with force but weight, anchoring you there while your body twists and trembles under his control. His mouth trails along your neck, slow kisses blooming across your pulse point as you gasp, the sound catching in your throat.
"Just relax, sweetheart," he murmurs, his breath hot against your skin, "Let me make it better."
Your hands cling to his arms, fingers digging into his sleeves as your body arches into him. The tension coils tighter and tighter, strung high by weeks of restrained want, the heat of your own embarrassment fueling the need. He murmurs low praise into your skin—good girl, so soft, so perfect, so fucking sweet like this—and the words alone nearly undo you.
And when you do come, it’s a quiet, raw thing—your body trembling in his hold, face tucked against his shoulder, a muffled cry of Tetsurou slipping from your lips like confession. He holds you steady through it, one arm around your waist, the other still curled low, fingers easing you through every last tremor.
When your breathing slows, when the fog begins to lift, his hand gently slips free and he cradles your face, brushing back damp strands of hair with the same fingers that just unraveled you.
“God, you’re perfect,” he whispers, his forehead resting against yours. “My gorgeous, needy wife. All mine.”
Your breath comes out in short, shaky bursts, still reeling, still trembling in his hands. “I can’t believe I—” you start, but the words collapse in your throat, too breathless, too flustered to finish.
Tetsurou chuckles softly, and before you can even think about collecting yourself, he’s hooking one arm under your knees and the other behind your back, lifting you with effortless strength.
You yelp, arms flying around his neck as he princess carries you down the hallway, your face burning hot against his shoulder. “Tetsu—! What are you doing?!”
He glances down at you, grin smug, eyes molten. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” he murmurs, already walking with you in his arms toward the bedroom. His voice is velvet and heat, wrapped around every word, promising more. “I’ve got you all night, baby. You’re not going anywhere.”
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.”
Your writing is incredible!! You’re so good at being immersive oh my GOSH! (I can’t count the number of times I’ve re-read Jealousy: Kageyama, you characterize him so well 😭)
And the favorite positions series is getting me into characters I didn’t even like reading about before it’s SO good!
If you’re up for it, I’d love to see a favorite position for Kageyama! But regardless, I always look forward to your posts and I hope you’re doing well 💜
Thank you so, so much for this message—you have no idea how much it means to me 🥹💜
The fact that you’ve reread my work and that the Favorite Positions series has you loving characters you didn’t think you would?? That’s literally the dream 🫠
And of course—Kageyama? I had to do him justice. I’m so happy you asked because this one poured out of me lolol Thank you and Enjoy heheh <333
--
Kageyama had always been a little obsessive.
It came with the territory. The long hours spent perfecting tosses, the constant demand for precision, the way his mind clung to rhythm and structure like lifelines. He wasn’t the kind of man who acted on impulse. Every action had intent. Every motion, down to his breathing, felt like it came with weight. Control wasn’t just a habit. It was a necessity.
But when it came to you, all of that discipline started to unravel.
He liked watching you ride him.
More than liked it—he craved it.
Not just because of the view, though that alone could bring him to his knees. Not just because of how warm, how tight, how slick you felt around him. It was because, when you were on top, he could finally let go. Let his body move without thinking. Let his focus shift away from control and into sensation. Into you.
Let go of pressure. Let go of performance. Let go of everything except you.
Tonight, it was slow.
Dim lighting spilled across the room, golden and soft. The sheets were tangled beneath you both, slightly damp from heat and friction. Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs flushed pink with effort. He lay back against the pillows, hands resting on your waist like he was grounding himself, knuckles white from restraint.
His head was tilted back, jaw slack, brows drawn together, his breath hitching every time you sank down onto him. The soft gasps he tried to bite back made your skin prickle.
“F-fuck,” he whispered, voice already hoarse, fingers digging into your waist. "You feel so good."
You moved slowly, intentionally, savoring every second of the way his cock dragged inside you. You could feel every twitch of his muscles beneath your palms, every exhale he let out between clenched teeth. Kageyama couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was transfixed.
Your hands slid up his chest, finding purchase at his shoulders as you rolled your hips just right—and he let out a low, broken moan, his entire body twitching beneath you.
His fingers flexed like he wanted to grab you tighter. Like he wanted to take over. But he didn’t.
He didn’t ask to change positions. Didn’t flip you beneath him. Didn’t thrust up into you like he had so many times before when desperation overtook his instincts.
He just watched.
Like he was memorizing everything.
The way your body moved in the low light. The soft sheen of sweat on your collarbones. The way your lips parted every time you dropped your hips a little faster. The soft gasp you made when you ground your hips down and caught just the right angle that made your thighs tremble.
It was overwhelming.
He was trying so hard to hold back. You could see it—the tension in his neck, the way his abs flexed with every movement, how his grip on your hips kept faltering between loose and desperate.
And then you leaned in.
You kissed his jaw. Traced your lips down to his throat. Murmured something against his ear. Something soft. Something filthy. Something about how good he felt inside you. How wrecked he looked. How badly you wanted to see him come apart.
His whole body jolted.
His eyes fluttered shut. His hips bucked up into you before he could stop himself. His hands grabbed your hips, pulling you down hard onto him—deep, tight, perfect.
That was it.
He came hard.
Breath caught in his throat, head tipping back into the pillows, brows pinched tight as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew. His whole body trembled, thighs flexing beneath you, abs tightening, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you, hot and sudden and overwhelming.
You blinked down at him in surprise, breathless and flushed, still pulsing around him as your own orgasm threatened to catch up to his. The heat between you was dizzying.
His hands softened, moving to cradle your hips gently as he blinked up at you, dazed, skin flushed all the way to his chest.
"Sorry," he muttered, cheeks red, voice thick with apology. “I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off with a quiet laugh, brushing his damp bangs back from his forehead, fingers gentle. "Don’t apologize."
You leaned down, kissed his cheek, and let your forehead rest against his.
His hands ghosted over your thighs, uncertain, still grounding himself.
And that’s when it hit him.
You hadn’t been trying to overwhelm him.
You were savoring it.
The way he looked beneath you—blushed, breathless, barely holding it together.
The way his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to do with all the sensation.
The way he let you have him.
And for the first time in his life, Kageyama realized he liked being the one who lost focus.
The second the double doors of the weight room open, it’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe—a world of metal clanks, low grunts, chalk-dusted air, and the constant thud of iron plates hitting the floor. And now, slicing clean through that rhythmic storm of testosterone and hyper-focus, is you: very pregnant, slightly annoyed, and holding the wallet your husband managed to leave behind on the kitchen counter this morning. You didn’t think twice about walking the ten minutes over from your place. It’s not like you hiked a mountain—you waddled across pavement in sneakers. But by the way the entire Olympic volleyball team turns toward you in unison, you might as well be carrying a live grenade instead of a baby.
“WOAHHH—LOOK OUT! Civilian on the floor!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the room, sweaty hair sticking up, arms mid-air like you’d broken the rules of gravity just by showing up.
Atsumu, flat on a bench press with Kageyama spotting him, twists his head far too dramatically toward you and lets out a long, low whistle. “Ain’t no civilian, Bo. That’s Iwaizumi’s wife. And she’s lookin’ like she’s about to drop that baby right here in front of the dumbbells.”
You don’t even get the chance to sigh before you spot him—Hajime, towel around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm, halfway through barking cues at someone doing squats. His head snaps toward you the second he hears Bokuto’s yell, and his entire body goes rigid. The clipboard hits the bench with a clatter. The towel is forgotten. His mouth moves, but there’s no time for words—he’s already weaving through machines and teammates, practically charging toward you like the floor itself might crumble under your feet.
“You walked here? Alone?” he demands as soon as he’s within a few feet, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s checking for bruises.
“I’m not made of paper, Hajime. I walked from the apartment. Not across a battlefield.” You hold the wallet up between two fingers, giving him a pointed look. “You left this on the counter, by the way.”
He takes it, but barely spares it a glance. His attention is completely on you—his wife, his very-pregnant-wife, standing in the middle of the Olympic team’s weight room surrounded by free weights, kettlebells, unstable mats, and volleyball players who think balance training on BOSU balls is a personality trait.
“This place isn’t safe for you,” he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing at a barbell someone just let crash onto the floor nearby. “You shouldn’t be around this equipment. There’s too many ways you could trip, or get knocked, or—hell—slip on a chalk patch.”
You raise your eyebrows and gesture around you. “I am standing still, Hajime. On flat ground. Wearing shoes. Holding a wallet. This is not a life-threatening activity.”
His lips flatten into a tight line. “You’re thirty-eight weeks. You should be sitting, preferably somewhere padded, with a bottle of water and a snack within reach.”
You blink. “Are you reading off a checklist right now?”
He doesn’t answer.
At that moment, Komori jogs up with his usual bounce, sweat still gleaming on his forehead and a towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “Wait—this is your wife? The one we keep hearing about?”
“He doesn’t talk about her,” Kiryu calls from the dumbbell rack, not even bothering to look up. “He says stuff like ‘my wife made soup’ and ‘my wife needs pickles.’ That’s it. That’s all we get.”
You offer a small, amused smile and rest both hands on your stomach. “Hi. Yes. I’m Soup-and-Pickles. Thirty-eight weeks along. Full of baby. And apparently one bad step away from being put in a medically induced nap.”
There’s a chorus of laughter, though it’s mixed with soft whistles of awe as more of the team gravitates toward you. Aran strolls over with a light smile, while Hinata’s practically vibrating behind him.
“You really came all the way here?” Aran asks.
“It’s ten minutes from home,” you reply, shooting a glance up at your husband who still looks like he’s trying to map the safest escape route out of the gym for you. “I’m pregnant, not cursed.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re standing next to iron weights in Converse. That’s a hostile environment.”
You roll your eyes, adjusting the strap on your bag. “They’re high-tops. Extra support.”
Before he can scold you further, Hinata suddenly leans forward with stars in his eyes. “Is the baby kicking?”
“Oh yeah,” you nod, hand moving instinctively to the right side of your belly. “She’s training for nationals, I think. My ribs are her new personal practice net.”
“Can I feel?” Komori blurts out, his expression open and hopeful.
You’re about to say yes, but Hajime moves before you can answer, shifting his stance ever so slightly to put his body between you and Komori with the quiet intensity of a dad who’s already protective before the baby’s even born.
“She’s not a mascot,” he says flatly.
You place your palm on his chest. “Hajime. It’s fine.”
His eyes flicker to yours. He relents with a small sigh, stepping aside like it physically pains him to do so.
Komori gently places his hand on your stomach, and when the baby kicks, his face lights up like someone handed him a puppy. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”
Kageyama peers over curiously. “Does it feel weird?”
“Like an alien living under your skin,” you say cheerfully. “And sometimes the alien cries when you don’t feed it grilled cheese at exactly 3 a.m.”
“Sounds terrifying,” Sakusa mumbles nearby, adjusting a band on his wrist.
“Iwaizumi,” Yaku calls from where he’s doing banded lunges, “you better give that kid rock-solid calves. I don’t care how. It’s your duty.”
“Oh, we’re starting this already?” you laugh. “Pressure before she’s even out of the womb?”
“Oh, we’ve been taking bets,” Suna says, finally looking up from his phone with the laziest smile. “Due date, hair color, position they’ll play.”
“Definitely not libero,” Bokuto adds, puffing his chest. “That baby’s got outside hitter energy.”
“I swear to god,” Iwaizumi mutters, dragging a hand down his face.
You press a soft kiss to his jaw and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “You love it.”
He doesn’t answer. Just wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, hand resting low and protective on the curve of your stomach. He kisses the top of your head. Quiet. Steady.
You nudge him lightly and lift a brow. “Still mad I walked into the weight room?”
He looks down at you, expression flat. “I am always mad when you walk into a room with flying metal plates and men with the coordination of blindfolded rhinos.”
“I brought you your wallet.”
“And almost gave me a stroke in the process.”
You grin, dig into his pocket, and pull out one of his protein bars. “And I’m stealing your snack.”
“…Unbelievable.”
Kita Shinsuke was a man of routine.
He liked quiet mornings. Crisp sheets. Things folded neatly, put away properly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t lose his temper. Everything he did was thoughtful, measured, deliberate.
And that translated in the bedroom, too.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble. And he wasn’t the type to lose control.
Which is why his favorite position was one that allowed him to stay in control, to keep you close, to feel every single way your body responded to his.
Prone bone.
Your body beneath his. Face turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, your back arching automatically as his hips rutted into you slowly, deeply, at a rhythm that felt maddening. The cotton of the sheets felt cool against your flushed skin, the quiet rustle of the fabric beneath you the only sound aside from your shallow breaths and the soft slap of skin meeting skin.
He didn’t let you move. Didn’t let you squirm or shift or hide your face.
He held you there.
One arm caged around your waist, the other braced at the mattress near your head, his palm anchoring your shoulder blade as he rolled his hips with the kind of practiced precision that only came from a man who paid attention to detail. Every shift of his body was intentional, every breath exhaled against your neck deliberate.
And you never realized how overwhelming that kind of stillness could be until he made you stay in it.
“Shinsuke—” your voice broke, trembling with effort. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, trying to ground yourself as your thighs twitched, as the pressure in your belly coiled tighter and tighter.
His hand was firm between your shoulder blades, his chest flush to your back, the heat of his skin blanketing you, his lips brushing your ear.
“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low, calm, but final.
You gasped as he pressed deeper, the drag of his cock against your walls drawing a cry from your throat. The stretch felt unbearable and addictive all at once. He was slow, precise. Like he was memorizing you. Like your body was a prayer and he intended to recite every line by heart.
“Feel it,” he whispered. "Don’t run from it."
Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut. You tried to hold still. You really did. But the pleasure built too fast, too hot, and your hips jerked again before you could stop yourself.
His hand moved instantly, gripping your hip, holding you in place. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control.
His body pressed more firmly into yours. You felt every inch of him, every beat of his heart in the center of your back, every deep thrust echoing inside your ribs.
You whined into the pillow, your body shaking. “I can’t—”
“You can.”
His voice was soft, but unrelenting. “You want to come?”
You nodded, barely able to form words.
“Then be good. Take what I give you.”
And you tried. You let him take over. Let him keep the pace, keep the rhythm, keep you pressed down while he fucked you slow, deep, steady. The sound of your breathing filled the room—wet, broken gasps punctuated by the muted creak of the bed and the soft drag of his hips grinding into yours.
Your toes curled. Your hands twisted in the sheets. Every thrust pressed you deeper into the mattress, made your body shudder under him, made your moans fall apart into messy, breathless cries.
You were a mess by the time he let you fall apart. Crying out into the sheets, your fingers curling, your body seizing around him as your orgasm crashed through you hard. Your thighs trembled violently. You felt your body clamp down on him, spasming in wave after wave of white-hot release.
He didn’t stop.
Not until your body gave out entirely beneath him, trembling and slack and soaked with sweat. Your mind was blank, every nerve in your body thrumming. Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth parted, completely undone.
Only then did he ease out, brushing his hand along your spine, lips pressing softly to your shoulder. His hand lingered there, fingertips trailing in slow, soothing patterns that made your breath even out bit by bit.
“You did so well,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pulling your boneless body into his chest. “Just like I knew you would.”
You hummed weakly, too wrung out to reply, eyes slipping closed as you melted into the heat of him.
Stillness. Not because he demanded it—
But because after him, you couldn't move even if you wanted to.
Hello!! I just want to say before I request anything that I absolutely ADORE your writing. You’ve quickly become one of my favorite writers! I’m constantly checking to see if you’ve posted LOL please keep it up! <3
if it’s not too much trouble, could I request us doing face-masks with Tsukishima or Akaashi? Either or both is fine, I have zero preference!
Thank you in advance mwa mwa !!
🌱
This is adorable and I am in LOVE. I literally just spat this out lolol Me being a favourite writer of anybody is a dream 🥹 Thank you for enjoying my work!! I'll make sure to post just for you 🥰 I hope you enjoy <333 --
It started with a panda.
Or rather, it started with you, lounging on the couch with a ridiculous animal-print face mask plastered to your face, scrolling through your phone like nothing was out of the ordinary. You wore it like a second skin—completely unbothered, completely at peace.
And then Tsukishima walked in.
He froze halfway through the doorway of your shared apartment, one brow raised as he took in the sight of you in your oversized hoodie, face glistening with a panda-shaped sheet mask.
“...You good?”
“Thriving,” you said simply, not even bothering to look up.
He didn’t respond right away. Just dropped his bag by the door and walked in with that usual lazy gait, eyeing you like you were some sort of cryptid he wasn’t sure how to handle.
“You look ridiculous,” he said eventually, standing behind the couch now, arms crossed.
You peeked up at him with a smirk. “That’s rich coming from someone who used to wear sport goggles indoors.”
He narrowed his eyes at you. You stuck your tongue out.
“Is this one of those self-care things?” he asked, nose wrinkling slightly as he stared at the mask. “Like cucumbers-on-the-eyes and bath bombs?”
“Exactly that,” you nodded. “Except these ones are more fun. They have animals on them.” You pointed to the half-empty package on the coffee table. “You wanna be a tiger or a polar bear?”
He stared at you.
You stared back.
“Absolutely not,” he said flatly.
“You’re doing it.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
You were already peeling one of the masks from its packaging with careful fingers, holding it up like a peace offering. It was orange-striped with little ears on top. Then you reached behind you and grabbed a matching tiger-print headband, complete with pointy ears.
"And this," you said, holding it up triumphantly. "To keep your hair out of your face."
He looked positively scandalized. "There is no way I—"
"Oh, you are," you cut in, already nudging it toward him. "C'mon, Kei. Don't you want the full experience?"
He looked at the headband, then at you, then back at the headband like it personally offended him. But when you wiggled your brows at him and smiled with full confidence, he muttered something under his breath and snatched it from your hand.
"You owe me so much for this."
"Add it to my tab."
He rolled his eyes but said nothing as you helped him unfold the mask and carefully place it over his face.
“Okay, hold still. It has to line up with your eyes… okay, a little to the left—no, my left… there.”
You leaned back to admire your work. Tsukishima, volleyball star, tall and smug and forever exasperated, now sat beside you wearing a bright orange tiger face mask that made his scowl look ten times funnier.
“...You look adorable.”
“I look like a joke,” he said dryly.
You took a photo.
“Delete it.”
“Never.”
Despite all his complaining, Tsukishima stayed there with you for the full fifteen minutes, arms crossed and huffing dramatically every so often. But he didn’t move. And when you started scrolling through your phone again, his thigh pressed just a little closer to yours.
And when the timer went off and you both peeled the masks off with grossed-out noises, you glanced at him with a grin.
“So?”
“So what?”
“Do you feel refreshed and radiant?”
Tsukishima rolled his eyes. “I feel sticky.”
You laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “You’re glowing, tiger boy.”
He shook his head but didn’t push you away. In fact, a small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Maybe face masks weren’t the worst way to spend a lazy evening.
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.
heyy first time requesting from you but i looove your work so if you don’t mind can you please write a timeskip!kenma x female!reader where reader is sick w high fever and kenma takes care of her and everything but two or one n a half day in she starts feeling really needy but is too tired embarrassed to tell kenma but he eventually finds out about what getting her so fussy and moody (other than the fever) and gives her what she longs for🙏🏻🙏🏻 I apologize if this is too long i mean no pressure at all you dont have to do it but i love the way you write fics please make it as long as possible thank youuu<33
I think I've ticked all your boxes hehe NEVER apologize for a request I love every one <333 thank you for your lovely words of encouragement! Enjoy!!!
--
Kenma had never liked seeing you sick.
Not in high school, not now, not ever.
He wasn't the overly expressive type—not with words, not even with touch unless prompted—but he was attentive in the quietest, most precise ways. It was in how he brewed your tea with exactly the right amount of honey, how he remembered which corner of the blanket you preferred, how he adjusted the thermostat a degree lower without being asked. It was in how he never once complained when you sneezed directly onto his hoodie and then apologized like you'd committed a crime against humanity.
You'd caught a fever two days ago. High. Dangerous enough to make him drop his controller mid-stream, tell his viewers he was logging off, and shut everything down without a second thought. His fans could wait. You couldn't.
Now you were curled up in bed, cocooned under three layers of blankets, face flushed and eyes watery. Your hair stuck to your temples in damp strands, and your lips were dry despite the water and juice he kept coaxing you to drink. A warm haze clung to you like a second skin.
Kenma sat on the edge of the bed, gently brushing a clammy strand of hair from your forehead, his brows drawn together with a soft, worried furrow. You looked so small like this. Fragile in a way he hated.
"Do you need anything?" he asked, voice soft.
Your response was a quiet hum—too soft, too weak. Your hand barely moved when you tried to reach for him and gave up halfway through.
He sighed. "I’ll take that as a 'no' then."
He rose and padded barefoot to the bathroom to change the cool compress on your head. When he returned, you winced slightly at the shock of it against your heated skin but gave him the smallest of smiles. That smile was all he needed to stay planted beside you for the rest of the evening.
The first day was simple: fever, rest, more rest. Kenma read to you in a soft voice when you couldn’t sleep, half-watching the screen of his Switch when you drifted off. The second day, the fever didn’t break. Your cough got worse. You started getting whiny—not in a mean way, just more clingy, more fussy. You tossed and turned, grumbled at the blanket for being too heavy and then too thin. Kenma adjusted it each time without complaint, wordlessly refilling your cup when it was empty.
"Don’t leave," you murmured once when he stood up to grab your medicine.
"I’m just going to the kitchen."
"Still. Don’t."
He paused. Then slowly sat back down. "Okay."
You fell asleep not long after, your fingers curled in the fabric of his sleeve like a tether.
By the start of the third day, the fever had started to dip, but something was off. Not worse—just different. You were moody. Restless. Your eyes kept drifting toward him, then away. You fiddled with your sleeves, pulled your legs up under the blankets only to stretch them back out a moment later. You weren’t saying much, but when you did, it was to complain—your pillow was too soft, your tea was too sweet, your shirt was itchy.
Kenma didn’t mind. He never minded when it came to you. But the inconsistency in your behavior pinged in the back of his mind like a notification he couldn’t swipe away.
By mid-afternoon, he closed his game console and leaned forward, placing it gently on the nightstand. His golden eyes watched you with subtle intensity as you fiddled with the edge of your blanket.
"Okay," he said flatly. "You’ve been squirmy and weird all day. Spill."
Your eyes widened, and your face—already flushed from the fever—somehow turned redder. You immediately turned your face into the pillow.
He waited.
You groaned. "It’s nothing. I’m just... tired."
He didn’t buy it. Not for a second. "You’re not tired. You’re needy."
Your breath hitched in your throat.
Kenma blinked, letting the silence stretch for a moment as he watched you squirm. His voice dropped lower, a little softer, more curious than accusatory. "...That it?"
You buried your face deeper into the pillow, voice muffled and near-incomprehensible.
"What was that?"
You turned just enough to peek at him with one eye, your lip trembling slightly. "I just... I wanna be held. But I’m gross and sweaty and disgusting, and I didn’t wanna bother you."
Kenma stared at you for a long beat. Then he gave a soft sigh, scooting closer until his knees bumped the side of the mattress.
"Move over."
Your eyes widened again. "But—"
"You think I care about sweat?"
"I literally sneezed in your hair yesterday."
"You did," he admitted. "And I’m still here."
You shifted slowly, cautiously, your heart fluttering like the fever had sparked all over again. Kenma climbed into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. He was careful not to press against you too hard at first, but once you leaned into him, he wrapped his arms around you with a slow, deliberate tenderness, pulling you close until your head rested just beneath his chin.
You melted.
The warmth of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers settled gently against your spine and started tracing soft, grounding lines—it was everything you hadn’t been able to ask for.
"Better?" he murmured.
Your voice cracked. "Yeah."
He kissed the top of your head, barely a brush of lips against fever-damp hair. "Next time, just say it. I can’t read your mind, you know."
You made a weak, embarrassed sound. "I didn’t want to be annoying."
"You’re always annoying," he mumbled, brushing his thumb against your arm. "But you’re mine. So it’s fine."
Despite the congestion, the soreness in your throat, the heat in your cheeks—you laughed. A breathy, tired little sound that still managed to be real.
He felt your smile against his collarbone.
Kenma held you tighter.
Neither of you moved for a long time. Minutes passed, then maybe an hour. Eventually, you dozed off in his arms, breathing soft and slow, and Kenma didn’t dare shift or get up.
He stayed right there, running his fingers along your back, as the fever began to retreat.
The medicine was working.
But more than that, you had finally let yourself rest in the place you needed most.
With him.
Hey I really love the way you write it’s so fun to read and really fits the characters. I wanted to request you making small drabbles or a series on how the haikyu characters would treat you while youre pregnant. If it’s something you don’t want to write no worries. 🩷
OMGG yesss I love that idea 🙈🙈🙈 It goes so well with my other mini-series ehehe, I'm 100% adding it to the roster!! Thank you for your sweet words, they never fail to make my day.
For you! Gorgeous Human!! Enjoy <333 --
Ushijima has been overprotective since the very beginning.
The second those two lines showed up on the test, it was like a switch flipped in him. He became your personal guard dog, nurse, chauffeur, meal planner, and human forklift all rolled into one stoic package.
It was kind of sweet—at first. The way he’d gently tug your hand away if you tried to carry anything heavier than a spoon. The way he’d Google symptoms with intense focus, like your morning sickness was a tactical challenge he could overcome with enough research. The way he sat through every prenatal appointment like it was the Olympics and he was preparing to win gold in fatherhood.
But by the third trimester?
You’re one more “let me do it” away from committing actual murder.
“I’m gonna change the sheets,” you say, bracing a hand on your lower back as you waddle toward the linen closet.
Before you even touch the doorknob, he’s there. He must have materialized from the floorboards.
“I’ll do it,” he says.
You blink up at him. “Wakatoshi—”
“The mattress is heavy.”
“I’m not flipping it! I’m just changing the sheets.”
Still, he reaches over you and pulls out the linens like it’s already been decided. “Sit down. I’ll take care of it.”
You stare at him, nostrils flaring, lips twitching, but you don’t fight it. Not yet.
Then come the groceries. The laundry. The vacuum you so much as glance at. And every time, he gets to it before you can even try. Every time, he gently insists. Every time, you swallow the urge to scream.
Until now.
You step onto the footstool to reach the top kitchen cabinet—one single bowl, that’s all you want—and he appears in the doorway like a haunted house spirit.
“Don’t,” he says sharply.
That’s it. That’s the moment you snap.
“USHIJIMA,” you explode, flinging your arms wide in a very dramatic but very off-balanced motion. “I am pregnant. Not porcelain. I can do things! I can move and lift and stretch and reach and I would like to do one thing—just ONE THING—by myself without you treating me like I’m going to spontaneously combust!”
He pauses. Blinks. That stoic face giving you absolutely nothing.
“…You were wobbling,” he says.
“I always wobble! I’m basically a giant, sentient bowling pin at this point!”
“I don’t want to take chances,” he says, calm as ever.
“Well I want to do something myself!”
He hesitates. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Eventually, he steps back and says simply, “Okay. Do it.”
Oh. Oh he did not just call your bluff.
You puff out your chest, grab the cabinet door for balance, and go for it. Fingers brush the edge of the bowl, victory within reach—
—and then you realize you can’t quite twist back down. You’re halfway off the stool and stuck. Pride flickers. Stomach tightens. Arms flail just a little.
“…Toshi?” you call, voice small. “I, um. I need help.”
He’s there in seconds.
Strong arms wrap around you, lifting you like you weigh nothing. He sets you gently on the floor like a queen being lowered onto her throne.
“You were saying?” he murmurs, hand on the small of your back.
You scowl. “I hate you.”
“You don’t,” he replies smoothly. “You just hate that I’m right.”
You slump against his chest, bowl in hand, your forehead hitting the middle of his sternum. His hand rubs up and down your spine. You sigh dramatically.
“You’re so annoying.”
“And you’re still holding the bowl.”
“…Shut up.”
The stadium lights burned like stars overhead, casting long shadows across the polished court. The roar of the crowd swelled in waves, a living, breathing force that surged and broke against the walls of the arena. Bokuto Koutarou stood still in the center of it all, his heartbeat syncing with the rhythmic beat of the game.
This was home. It always had been.
He bounced on his heels, palms slapping softly against his thighs, golden eyes flicking up and over the rows of fans packed into the stands. He always did this before a game—scanning. Searching.
Hoping.
You came to one of my games in college once. Said you wanted to support me even if you didn’t know all the rules. You sat in the front row with snacks and one of those handmade signs, grinning like it was the best thing you’d ever done. You were so proud of me. I couldn't stop staring.
It wasn't until the second set that he saw you.
Not in the front row this time. A little higher up, tucked into a row of seats that caught the golden light just right. You looked the same. Soft expression. That familiar warmth that never failed to center him, no matter how chaotic the world got.
But this time, you weren’t alone.
Your fingers were laced with someone else's—a man with kind eyes, a relaxed smile, and a wedding band that mirrored the one glinting faintly on your hand.
Something in Bokuto's chest twisted. An old, familiar ache he had kept buried deep down beneath years of laughter, late-night texts, and every moment you sat beside him without ever realizing what he wanted to say.
But his body knew what to do. The ball was set, high and perfect, and he soared to meet it. Muscles coiled, arms arched, and then—the strike. The ball slammed to the floor on the opposing side like thunder cracking through silence. The crowd erupted.
He didn't hear any of it.
We used to sit on the school rooftop and eat lunch together. I’d talk about volleyball like it was a religion. You’d talk about music, books, strange little thoughts that made no sense but always made me laugh. I think I fell for you the first time you passed me a rice ball and told me to stop overthinking my spikes.
He never told you.
Not once.
There had been chances—so many chances. Late-night calls that lasted too long. Moments when your eyes lingered. When your laughter felt like something he wanted to wrap both hands around and never let go.
But the words never made it past his throat.
He told himself he had time. That he didn’t want to ruin the beautiful, easy thing you had. That being near you was enough.
And now, watching you from across the arena, smiling at someone else the way he used to dream you’d smile at him, Bokuto felt the weight of every second he’d spent silent.
As long as you’re watching, I’m happy.
That’s what he told himself. And maybe, on some level, it was still true. Because you were watching. Eyes bright, expression soft, hands clapping politely after every point. You were here.
You came.
Just not for him.
Even so, he glanced up again, caught one more glimpse of you laughing at something your husband whispered in your ear. His chest ached, but his lips pulled into a quiet smile.
Because even if your heart belonged to someone else, even if he was just a fond memory in a long list of friendships—
He would still play his heart out.
Because if you’re watching, then that means some part of you still remembers. Still cares.
And maybe that was enough.
He wiped sweat from his brow, steadied his breath, and returned to the service line.
Eyes on the ball.
But just for a second longer, heart still caught in the stands—
Watching you.
Kenma Kozume was a man of few words, but when it came to gaming, his focus was unmatched. His world narrowed down to the flicker of the screen, the subtle click of buttons, and the shifting of his fingers on the controller. You had gotten used to this side of him—the way he would disappear into his own world, immersed in a game for hours on end.
But today? Today, you weren’t in the mood to be ignored.
“Kenny,” you murmured softly, standing by the couch where he was seated, his eyes locked onto the TV screen. He didn’t respond, too caught up in whatever game he was playing, his brows slightly furrowed, lips pressed together in concentration. You knew better than to take it personally—Kenma could get lost in his games, completely tuning out the world around him. But after an entire afternoon of watching him battle it out with faceless opponents, your patience had worn thin.
“Kenma.”
Still nothing.
You sighed, your lips curving into a mischievous smile as you decided to take matters into your own hands. If he wasn’t going to pay attention to you willingly, you’d make sure he had no choice. Without another word, you climbed onto his lap, settling yourself comfortably as you straddled him, your arms loosely draping around his neck.
Kenma stiffened for a moment, his golden eyes briefly flickering toward you before shifting back to the screen.
“Babe,” he mumbled, voice low and distracted, his fingers still moving with practiced ease on the controller.
“What?” you asked innocently, tilting your head and pressing your chest just a little closer to his.
“I’m in the middle of a match.”
“Mhm,” you hummed, leaning in to nuzzle your nose against his neck. “And I’m in the middle of needing attention.”
You felt the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hands tensed around the controller as you placed a soft kiss just below his jaw.
“You’re doing this now?” he murmured, trying to sound unaffected, but the way his voice wavered gave him away.
“I’m bored,” you teased, pressing another kiss—this time right where his pulse fluttered, your lips lingering a little longer.
Kenma’s fingers twitched, and for the first time in a while, he fumbled, his character on the screen taking an unnecessary hit. You heard the faint sound of a death notification and bit your lip to keep from giggling.
“You made me miss that,” he mumbled, but there was no real heat behind his words.
“Did I?” you murmured innocently, your lips brushing against his ear.
“You know you did.”
You giggled softly, but you pulled back just enough to look at him, your fingers playing with the ends of his blonde hair. His gaze finally shifted fully to you, and the sight made your heart flutter. His expression was that familiar mix of mild annoyance and quiet affection, golden eyes softened by the warmth that was always reserved for you.
“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his thumb lazily brushing against the joystick, but his movements were slower now, his focus barely on the game.
“And yet you love me,” you quipped, a playful smirk tugging at your lips.
Kenma’s eyes flickered down to your mouth, and you saw the way his resolve crumbled just a little more.
“Yeah,” he said softly, finally setting the controller aside and wrapping his arms fully around your waist.
You beamed, leaning down to capture his lips in a slow, sweet kiss—one that melted away the distance that had been building over the past few hours. His lips were warm, and he kissed you like he had all the time in the world, his grip on your waist pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.
“Missed you,” you murmured against his lips.
“I’ve been right here,” he murmured back, but his hold on you tightened like he was afraid you’d disappear.
“Not the same,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his.
Kenma let out a quiet sigh, resting his forehead against yours.
“I know,” he admitted softly.
The game forgotten, he pulled you closer, his lips trailing soft, lingering kisses down your jaw, across your neck, and back up to your lips. His touch was gentle but insistent, fingers pressing into your sides as he deepened the kiss, his body molding against yours. His hands traced slow circles along your back, each movement pulling you deeper into the moment.
“You’ve been playing all day,” you murmured softly, your fingers threading through his hair, gently tugging as he kissed along your jaw.
“Mm,” he hummed, his lips brushing against your skin.
“And I’ve been sitting here, waiting for you to notice me.”
Kenma’s lips paused, his breath fanning against your neck.
“I always notice you,” he murmured, his voice softer now, filled with something that made your heart flutter.
“Then prove it,” you teased, leaning back just enough to meet his gaze, your eyes gleaming with playful challenge.
A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips as his hands slid up your sides, his thumbs brushing lightly over the fabric of your shirt.
“You’re really testing me today, huh?” he murmured, his golden eyes darkening with something deeper—something that made heat pool low in your stomach.
“Maybe,” you whispered, tilting your head slightly.
Kenma’s lips captured yours again, but this time there was more urgency, more hunger. His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you even closer until there was barely any space left between your bodies. His kisses grew more insistent, his lips trailing down the column of your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.
“I’ll prove it,” he murmured softly, his voice a low promise against your skin.
You felt the heat rising between the two of you, your heart pounding in anticipation. And as his hands roamed your body, his touch both familiar and electrifying, you knew that Kenma was more than ready to remind you just how much he noticed you—in every possible way.
“Good,” you whispered, a satisfied smile tugging at your lips as you leaned in to capture his mouth again.
And in that moment, with his arms around you and his focus finally where it belonged, everything felt perfectly, wonderfully right.
Haii this is the first time I ever make a request but I really liked your content <3 can you make like sex w Kiyoomi after his gf (afab) opened up about being insecure about her flat chest? Please 🙏 I don't know how specific I should be, but I imagine him like touching and kissing more in that area after that, or just worshipping her body in general. I hope I'm not too greedy if I also ask for raw lol 😭. Also, I'm taking the opportunity to ask you: do you prefer people to be more specific with their prompts or just leave it up to you to decide? Okay that's all. I hope you're having a great day! :] and sorry if I made a mistake in my writing 🙏 (english isn't my first language). Take care, muah <33
Hiii!! 🥺💕
First of all—thank you so much for sending in your first request, that means so much to me!! And your English is absolutely perfect, don’t worry at all 💗 I totally understood everything you meant!
Also?? Your idea??? So beautiful and gentle and emotional—yes. I adore how you imagined him paying extra attention and offering that soft, grounding kind of reassurance. It fits him so well.
You’re not being greedy at all!! It’s all ready for you lolol 🫶 I hope it makes you feel warm and loved. And to answer your question: I love when people share specific ideas like this!! But I’m also totally happy to run wild with a vague prompt too—whatever’s most comfortable for you!
Thank you again for trusting me with such a tender piece, muah 💋💞 --
There’s a tremble in your voice when you say it, quiet and shy beneath the warmth of his sheets. You’re curled against his side, wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts, sleeves too big, hem hanging just past your thighs. The room is quiet. Gentle. Dimly lit.
“I know it’s stupid, but... sometimes I wish I had more. There.”
Your fingers hover near your chest like they don’t belong to you, like you’re embarrassed for even bringing it up. You don’t look at him when you say it.
But Sakusa looks at you.
More than that—he sees you.
He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t dismiss it with a compliment or try to fix what isn’t broken. He waits. Lets you say it all. And then, after a beat of silence, he shifts.
“Can I show you something?” he asks, voice low, tender. When you nod, he leans in—soft, reverent—and kisses your collarbone first. Then just above your heart. Then lower.
His hands find the hem of his shirt you’re wearing, and when you give him permission, he pulls it off slowly, like unwrapping something fragile.
He kisses the top of your chest, then the dip between, then lower still, mouth brushing over skin with careful intention.
“I like this part of you,” he murmurs. “I always have.”
You shiver. He’s not in any rush. His lips explore everything slowly, reverently, thumbs smoothing over your ribs, fingertips grazing soft skin like he wants to memorize you.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, not like a compliment, but a truth he’s always known.
When he finally presses himself to you, everything is slow. Heated, but gentle. He’s raw tonight, in the most intimate way. There’s nothing rushed or rough about it. Just skin, warmth, the low rasp of your name in his mouth.
And when he looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, breath shaking, he says it again.
“You’re more than enough.”
Over and over again, with every kiss. Every touch. Every slow, deep thrust of his hips. Until the only thing you can feel is the weight of his love and the heat building between you, quiet and unrelenting.
He holds your hands. Nuzzles into your neck. Cradles you like you’re everything.
And you are.
To him, you always have been.
It always starts slow with Aone.
Not because he’s hesitant—no, he knows what he wants—but because he treats you like you’re something he’s afraid to break. Like you’re porcelain in his calloused hands, delicate and precious. Every movement he makes is calculated, controlled, like he’s memorizing the way your skin feels under his touch.
He looms over you, body heavy and warm, eyes so intensely focused it makes you squirm beneath him. But he doesn’t move until you nod, until you reach up and brush your fingertips along his jaw, silent permission passed between you.
Then he breathes.
Like he’s been holding it in this whole time.
His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer, gentle but firm, fitting your hips against his like puzzle pieces that only ever made sense when pressed together. And the second he’s sheathed inside you, it’s like the entire world stills.
“You okay?” It’s the first word he’s spoken since his mouth met yours.
His voice is rougher than usual—breathless, already wrecked—and the weight of his body above you is grounding. Comforting. You nod, and he leans down to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to calm himself down.
You can feel how tense he is. Not from discomfort, but from restraint. He could take you fast. He could chase his own release and be done in minutes. But he never does. He moves slow. Deep. His strokes drag like honey, hips rolling into yours with deliberate pressure, drawing out your pleasure with an intensity that’s overwhelming in the best way.
And all the while, he never stops looking at you.
“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.
It’s not like him to speak, but tonight there’s a flush high on his cheeks, a fire behind his eyes that he can’t hold back. His forehead presses to yours. His nose brushes along your cheek. His fingers find your hand and lace between them, anchoring you to him as if he's afraid you'll disappear.
“Don’t look away,” he says softly, thumb stroking over your wrist.
Like he wants to memorize the way your face twists when you moan, the way your eyes flutter when he hits that spot just right. And when your breath hitches and your legs tremble around his waist, he doesn’t pick up the pace—he slows down. Drags it out. Holds you tighter, kisses you deeper.
It’s not just sex with Aone.
It’s connection. It’s adoration. It’s devotion.
And when you finally come undone, back arching, nails clawing at his shoulders, he doesn’t let you fall apart alone. He follows seconds after, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he needs to hide the sound of his own release.
The silence that follows is warm. Safe.
He doesn’t pull away.
Just rests his weight on you, arms locked around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let go.
“You’re okay?”
The same question again, but this time it’s softer. Sleepier.
And when you nod, tangled up in his arms, you hear the smallest, faintest exhale.
Like he’s home.
Kenma didn’t mind most positions.
He liked slow sex. Quiet sex. Something easy, something lazy—skin against skin while the rest of the world went quiet. He didn’t like being overwhelmed, didn’t like chaos, didn’t like the kind of intimacy that made him feel too seen. Too vulnerable. Too much.
But then there was you.
And you liked control. You liked watching him blush, watching his breath hitch, watching his hands tighten on your thighs as you rolled your hips just right. You liked when his focus shifted from the glowing screen in his hands to the way your body responded to him. You liked riding his face.
At first, Kenma thought he wouldn’t enjoy it. Not because he didn’t want to please you—he always wanted that—but because he assumed he wouldn’t be good at it. That he wouldn’t know what to do with his hands, or how to breathe, or how to make you come apart just from his mouth. He overthought it, worried he’d be awkward or freeze up.
But the first time you sat on his face? Something changed.
He liked the weight of you on his tongue, the pressure of your thighs trembling around his head, your hands fisting in his hair as you got louder, needier, completely undone. The way you moved, desperate and trembling, grinding down into his mouth like you couldn’t help it—it awakened something in him.
It felt powerful.
It felt intimate in a way he didn’t expect.
And that’s what made it his favorite.
Tonight, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his monitor left on in the background, some menu music humming quietly in the silence. The air was warm, still, thick with tension as you straddled his chest, slowly shifting forward until your thighs framed his face.
Your knees hovered above him, thighs already trembling from anticipation, slick dripping down onto his waiting tongue as you tried to hold back—tried to be gentle with him.
Kenma wasn’t having it.
His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you down, anchoring you right where he wanted you.
You gasped, spine arching, one hand flying back to the headboard to steady yourself. “K-Kenma—!”
He groaned into you, eyes fluttering shut, tongue lapping firm, slow stripes from your entrance to your clit, flicking it with just enough pressure to make your hips buck.
“Sit,” he murmured, voice muffled against you. “Don’t run.”
You whimpered at the command. The heat pooling in your core flared violently, and you dropped your weight onto him with a moan. His fingers tightened in approval, guiding you to rock your hips slightly, grinding into his mouth at a pace he set.
That was what he wanted.
He didn’t need to see your face. Didn’t need to speak. He wanted your thighs around his head, your breath hitched and stuttering, your body twitching every time he dragged his tongue in just the right way. He wanted to hear the way you lost yourself.
You gripped the headboard harder, panting, your thighs starting to quiver. "Kenma, f-fuck, I can't—"
He moaned into you, nose nudging against your clit as his tongue moved faster, more deliberate, savoring every whimper you gave him. The vibrations of his groan made your hips jerk, your eyes fluttering shut as you got closer.
You were close. He could feel it.
Your thighs tensed, hips jerking, and suddenly your fingers were yanking at his roots, grounding yourself as you cried out, back arching. Your body bucked against his face, and Kenma didn’t stop. Not even when your orgasm surged through you, not even when your voice broke from how hard you were panting. He kept going, working you through it, tongue relentless, until your thighs twitched around his head.
Only when your hips tried to lift away did he ease up, licking you through the aftershocks like he was savoring dessert, mouth sticky with you, breathing heavy but content.
Your entire body was trembling.
You collapsed onto the bed beside him, flushed and panting, eyes glazed over and lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath.
Kenma wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gold eyes flicking over to meet yours.
“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse but laced with quiet amusement.
You nodded quickly, still catching your breath, then whimpered when your thighs twitched again. Your skin was buzzing, hypersensitive, your body limp with exhaustion and pleasure.
Kenma smirked faintly, eyes soft but smug. “Good. You were loud.”
You let out a breathy laugh, covering your face with one hand, still dazed. “Shut up.”
He pulled the blankets over you, kissed your cheek softly, and curled in beside you like he hadn’t just ruined you with his mouth.
Lazy. Soft.
Still your favorite gamer boy.
But now?
He had a favorite position, too.
Oikawa Tooru had always thought of himself as adaptable.
He prided himself on his precision, his control, his ability to read people. It was what made him an incredible setter, what gave him the edge both on and off the court. He could analyze, adjust, anticipate—always one step ahead.
And when it came to the bedroom, it was no different.
He had tried every angle, every pace, every way to make you fall apart beneath him. He loved variety, experimentation, keeping you on your toes, teasing you with the unexpected.
But tonight, when he had you on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist, his body flush against yours—
Everything clicked.
It started when he shifted just slightly, adjusting his hips, driving deeper into you.
You gasped—sharply, loudly—your entire body tightening around him, your fingers clawing at his back.
Oikawa’s rhythm faltered, his brows lifting in surprise. Then, his smirk curled, slow and knowing. "Oh?" His voice dripped with amusement. "That was cute."
You barely had the brainpower to glare at him, the pleasure crackling through your veins making it impossible to do anything but tremble beneath him.
Oikawa’s grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as he rolled his hips again, aiming for that exact spot.
Your reaction was immediate—a choked, broken moan spilling from your lips, your legs twitching around his waist.
"Bingo," he murmured, eyes darkening with something dangerous, something addictive.
And then he did it again.
And again.
Harder. Deeper. Hitting that perfect spot every single time.
Your breath hitched, turned into a gasp, then into something close to a sob, pleasure tightening inside you too fast, too strong, too much. Words spilled from your lips before you could stop them—nonsensical, desperate, completely unfiltered.
"Tooru, oh my god—fuck, fuck, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—right there, right there, please—"
His lips curled at your rambling, reveling in how unrestrained, how utterly gone you were.
"You really do like this, huh?" he teased, his voice honeyed, smug, but laced with something raw. "Didn't expect my pretty girl to get this desperate for me." His hips snapped forward, drawing another cry from your lips, your fingers tightening against his back. "Fuck, baby, you're shaking."
"T-Tooru—" your voice cracked, barely coherent.
"Mmm, that’s it," he murmured, watching you come undone beneath him, completely lost in the way your body trembled, the way your breath stuttered, the way you clung to him like you needed him to hold you together.
"Fuck," he continued, voice low, satisfied. "I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight, twitching every time I move—" he groaned, rolling his hips even deeper, grinding against you, drawing out another strangled moan. "I think…" He exhaled sharply, his cock twitching inside you at the way you fluttered around him, "I think this is my new favorite."
You barely had a moment to process that before he angled his hips just right, pressing deeper, harder—
And you shattered.
Your body arched beneath him, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, wracking through you in sharp, uncontrollable bursts.
Oikawa groaned at the feeling of you pulsing, tightening, coming undone around him. His head tilted slightly, breath catching at the sheer need in your voice, the way you were rambling, unraveling beneath him.
"God, you sound so fucking cute," he muttered, voice strained, watching your lips part, words tumbling out in gasping whimpers. "Didn’t know you’d lose it like this, baby."
And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he angled his hips just right, dragging out another broken moan from you. "Keep talking for me," he whispered, grinning as your words blurred into helpless sounds. "I wanna hear every little thing you feel."
His pace turned relentless, his hands gripping your thighs, his body pressing into yours so perfectly, so devastatingly right.
You couldn't think—your body a livewire of sensation, drowning in the heat of him, the way he filled you, the way he knew exactly how to break you.
"Tooru—" your own voice was a wrecked, incoherent mess as he drove you toward another peak.
"Hmm?" he hummed mockingly, watching your blissed-out expression, the way your nails raked down his back. "That close again? Fuck, you’re so easy like this, aren’t you? Falling apart every time I move."
You were trembling, every thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your already-sensitive body. Your head tipped back, vision hazy, mouth open in silent cries as he pushed you over the edge again, even harder than before.
Oikawa groaned as you convulsed beneath him, your body milking him as he buried himself deep, a sharp groan breaking past his lips as he came with you, spilling inside, his grip tightening, holding you down, grounding you as your bodies unraveled together.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just the sound of ragged breaths, the faint trembles of your body still reeling in the aftermath.
Oikawa was the first to break the silence, his lips pressing lazily against your jaw, grinning against your damp skin.
"Looks like I just found my sweet spot."
The celebratory buzz of victory still lingered heavy in the air, blending seamlessly with the steady hum of the dimly lit bar. Neon lights glowed softly overhead, reflecting off half-empty glasses and illuminating faces flushed from laughter and excitement. The MSBY Jackals had just secured another victory, and the night was young—filled with endless possibilities for celebration.
You excused yourself briefly, slipping away to the bathroom to freshen up, confident Atsumu would manage fine for a few minutes without you. After all, he was your boyfriend, and everyone on the team knew it.
But apparently, not everyone in the bar did.
Returning a few moments later, your eyes instantly zeroed in on your boyfriend, who was leaning against the bar, drink in hand, politely nodding at something a pretty brunette was enthusiastically telling him. Her gestures were exaggerated, her smile bright and flirtatious, eyes gleaming with undisguised interest.
Atsumu, ever the people-pleaser, was wearing his usual easy smirk, clearly indulging the conversation while keeping it just polite enough to not be rude. He wasn’t uncomfortable—just looking for the right opportunity to leave without making a scene. You, however, were not nearly as patient.
The sharp twinge of jealousy that shot through your chest was unexpected, hot, and immediate, intensifying further when the girl boldly reached out, her delicate fingers lingering on his bicep as she laughed at something he said. Your eyes narrowed sharply, irritation prickling beneath your skin, making your pulse quicken.
You moved forward before you fully processed it, steps deliberate, chin held high. Without hesitation, you reached Atsumu’s side, sliding your arm firmly through his and pressing yourself close, your chest intentionally brushing against him. You felt him tense slightly in surprise before relaxing instantly when he recognized your touch.
"Hey, babe," you purred softly, voice dripping honey as you leaned up, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just beneath his jawline, lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. Atsumu stiffened again, but this time it was from something entirely different, a shiver rippling down his spine as you let your lips linger just a bit longer than necessary.
Pulling back with a possessive little smile, you turned your attention to the woman whose hand had fallen awkwardly away, eyes wide in stunned silence.
"Oh," you said innocently, tilting your head just slightly. "Who's your new friend, 'Tsumu?"
Atsumu cleared his throat, clearly biting back an amused grin. "Honestly, I didn't catch her name."
The woman laughed awkwardly, cheeks flushing pink as she waved a hand in embarrassment. "Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you were... together."
"Oh, no worries," you smiled sweetly, your eyes glittering with playful sharpness. "He’s a pretty polite guy, isn’t he? Almost too nice for his own good sometimes." You chuckled lightly, your fingers tracing gentle circles along his arm. Then, as if remembering something, you turned to Atsumu, voice light and casual, "I think I’m done for the night. Wanna head out?"
Atsumu barely hesitated before flashing you a lazy grin. "Yeah, sounds good."
You turned back to the woman, still smiling as she swallowed thickly, her face now a shade darker. "Are you a fan? It's always lovely to meet his fans."
The woman opened her mouth—then closed it, nodding mutely.
"Well, we’re heading out. Hope ya have a great night!" you chirped before steering Atsumu toward the exit, satisfied with how quickly the situation had turned in your favor.
The second she was out of sight, Atsumu glanced down at you, eyebrows raised, a mischievous grin slowly spreading across his lips. "Ya okay there, sweetheart?"
You sighed, lips pursed in annoyance. "I’m fine."
His grin widened knowingly. "Ya sure? Seemed a little territorial back there."
"I was not territorial," you huffed defensively, fingers tightening unconsciously around his arm.
Atsumu chuckled warmly, leaning in until his lips brushed teasingly against your ear, breath warm as he whispered, "Sure felt like it."
Heat spread across your cheeks as you shoved at his shoulder lightly, embarrassment mixing with lingering irritation. "Shut up. You weren’t exactly doing a good job of making her leave."
He laughed, the rich sound rumbling through his chest as he wrapped an arm securely around your waist, guiding you gently toward the exit. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever helps ya sleep at night."
Rolling your eyes fondly, you leaned into him, smiling despite yourself. "You're impossible."
"Mhm," he hummed, pressing a teasing kiss to the top of your head, his voice dropping to a low, amused murmur. "But ya love it."
Then, in a lower, rougher tone, he added, "And, not gonna lie, kinda turned me on."
You blinked, heat spreading to your ears now as you gave him a side glance. "Are you serious?"
Atsumu smirked, tugging you just a bit closer as his lips barely grazed the shell of your ear. "Wanna head home and find out?"
The weight of his words settled between you, thick and charged. You exhaled softly, your fingers brushing along the hem of his jacket. "You’re really impossible."
"Mhm," Atsumu hummed, mischief dancing in his golden eyes as he leaned down, lips hovering just over yours. "But I’m yours."
Kuroo’s grandparents’ house was packed. The warm hum of conversation filled every corner, blending with the occasional burst of laughter and the distant sound of kids squealing as they ran through the hallways. His entire family had gathered for his grandfather’s birthday, a rare full-family event that happened maybe once a year.
The kitchen was a flurry of activity, aunts swapping recipes and gossip over steaming dishes while his uncles gathered around the dining table, engaged in heated debates over sports. Kuroo’s grandmother had you both cornered earlier, asking—no, demanding—when you two planned on giving her great-grandchildren, and before you could even attempt an answer, Kuroo had expertly steered the conversation to something else, saving you from the relentless interrogation.
You had smiled, nodded, played your role as the perfect daughter-in-law, but after hours of dodging prying questions and smiling at distant relatives whose names you barely remembered, you were in desperate need of a break. The stuffy warmth of the crowded living room and the persistent hum of voices pressing in from all sides made escape your only option.
So, you slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you with a quiet sigh, pressing your hands against the sink. A deep breath, a few moments to yourself—that was all you needed. A little peace, a little space, a moment where you weren’t being eyed like a future baby-making machine.
Then, a few minutes later, the door clicked open again.
You barely had time to turn before Kuroo slipped in, shutting it behind him.
Your eyes widened. "What are you—"
"Let’s fuck."
You blinked. "Wow. How romantic. You really know how to set the mood, Tetsurō. Maybe light a candle next time? Play some soft jazz?"
His smirk was slow, lazy, dangerous. "Oh, I’d play something, alright. But I don’t think you’d be able to focus on the music."
You scoffed, folding your arms. "Tetsurō, we’re at your grandparent’s house. At a family event. With people literally roaming the halls. But sure, let’s add public indecency to our marriage résumé. That'll really impress your grandma."
He leaned in, pressing his hands against the sink behind you, caging you in. “And?”
Your heart pounded. “And it’s a terrible idea.”
Kuroo tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You remember that bet we made a few weeks ago?”
Your stomach dropped.
Of course, you remembered. Some stupid, petty argument over who could name more world capitals or something equally dumb. You lost.
And Kuroo? He said he’d save his favor for the right moment.
This was apparently it.
“Tetsurō.” You crossed your arms, trying to look firm despite the way your pulse hammered in your throat. “Absolutely not.”
He grinned. “You agreed to the deal.”
“I didn’t think you’d cash it in like this!”
He hummed, tilting his head. “Well, it’s the perfect time. No one even notices we’re gone.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but the second his hands slid down to your waist, his fingers pressing into your hips, his body heat radiating against yours—
Your resolve crumbled.
“You wouldn’t.”
Kuroo leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Oh, I would.”
And with the way he was pressing into you, his hands gripping you like he’d already won— you weren’t entirely sure you wanted to stop him.
His fingers trailed lower, teasing, playful, pressing into the fabric of your dress just enough to make you gasp. “You know, I was gonna save this for something special, but…” he exhaled against your neck, his voice dark, teasing. “I think you’d rather pay up right now, wouldn’t you?”
Your breath hitched, hands coming up to push against his chest—half-heartedly. “Your Mother is outside.”
His smirk deepened. “And? No one’s paying attention.”
“Tetsurō—”
“Shhh,” he murmured, fingers curling beneath your chin, tilting your face up. His lips hovered over yours, barely brushing, mocking. “You’re acting like you don’t want this.”
Your skin burned, and you cursed how easily he could unravel you. The worst part? He knew it. He knew you’d fold for him, knew exactly how to make your body betray you.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” he murmured, lips pressing just beneath your ear, his breath hot and slow.
You swallowed hard. “Tetsu—”
His hands slid further down, gripping your hips, pulling you against him. “Say it, baby. Say you don’t want me to touch you.”
You couldn’t.
Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, your resolve slipping further with every second.
Kuroo chuckled, the sound low and full of satisfaction. “That’s what I thought.”
His hands slipped beneath the hem of your dress, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing along the sensitive skin of your thighs. “You’re already getting warm, baby,” he whispered. “You sure you wanna keep resisting me?”
You clenched your jaw, trying to fight the way your body shuddered under his touch.
You parted your lips, ready to say something—anything—but the moment his fingers pressed just a little higher, your breath hitched, and you knew you were done for.
Kuroo’s smirk widened. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
And then, he kissed you.
Deep, slow, devouring.
Your back hit the bathroom counter, your arms winding around his neck as he took his time, teasing you, making you fall apart without even trying.
“We have to be quiet,” he whispered against your lips.
And with the way he was dragging you under, drowning you in heat, in want, in him— you knew that was going to be impossible.
But instead of answering, you simply nodded, your breath uneven, your body already melting against him. His eyes darkened at your silent surrender, and before you could process it, you were kissing him again—deeper, more desperate, all hesitation gone.
His hands moved instantly, slipping further beneath your skirt, his fingers tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing, waiting. "That's my girl," he murmured against your lips, his grip tightening as he pressed you harder against the counter. "Now, let's see how well you can keep quiet."
His fingers slid between your thighs, parting them just enough before slipping under your underwear, skimming over your warmth with a featherlight touch. You sucked in a sharp breath, your hands gripping the sink behind you as he chuckled low against your lips. "Already so warm for me, baby."
You bit down on your lip as his fingers pressed in, slow but firm, stretching you just enough to make your legs shake. He worked you open with practiced ease, his other hand wrapping around your hip to hold you still as your body responded to every precise curl of his fingers.
A whimper nearly escaped your lips, but you slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes widening as you remembered where you were.
Kuroo smirked, dark and wicked, his fingers moving faster, his thumb circling that sensitive spot that had your stomach tightening. "That’s it," he whispered, nipping at your jaw. "Keep quiet for me. You don’t want anyone to hear, do you?"
You shook your head, muffled sounds slipping between your fingers as your thighs trembled around his hand. He was relentless, teasing, playing, knowing exactly how to push you to the edge without letting you go over.
Then, just as your breath hitched, just as your body started to tighten around his fingers, he withdrew.
You let out a desperate, choked sound, but before you could protest, you felt the unmistakable press of him against you. Hot. Hard. Teasing.
He groaned as he rubbed himself against your entrance, just barely pushing the tip inside before pulling away.
"Shit—you're shaking, baby," he whispered, his voice rough, strained with control. "You want it that bad, huh?"
Before you could answer, he grabbed your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the sink. The cool porcelain against your skin sent a shiver up your spine, but it was nothing compared to the way he slotted himself between your legs, teasing you further as he lined himself up.
"Hold on to me," he muttered, voice thick with hunger.
Your arms wrapped around his neck just as he pushed inside, slow but deliberate, stretching you inch by inch. A strangled moan built in your throat, but you barely bit it back, eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out, filling you completely.
His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place as he started to move, deep and steady at first, but quickly growing more desperate. His breath was hot against your neck, each groan rumbling through his chest as he thrust into you, the wet sound of skin against skin mixing with your ragged breathing.
Your legs tightened around his waist, pulling him in deeper, chasing the edge that was already creeping up on you. His hand snuck between your bodies, fingers finding that sensitive spot, circling, pressing, sending white-hot pleasure straight to your core.
"T-Tetsu—" you gasped, one hand flying to your mouth as your body trembled around him.
"That’s it," he groaned, fucking into you harder, faster. "Come for me, baby. Let me feel it."
You were right there, so close, when—
Knock. Knock.
Your eyes shot open, panic freezing you in place.
"Tetsurō?" came the unmistakable voice of his older sister from the other side of the door. "Are you in there?"
Kuroo barely faltered, grinning like the devil as he stilled inside you, pressing his forehead against yours.
"Yeah, be out in a sec," he called back easily, voice steady despite the fact that he was currently buried inside you.
His sister huffed. "Hurry up, it's time for cake. Also, where’s your wife?"
Your breath caught, but Kuroo? Unbothered.
"Dunno," he lied smoothly, thrusting into you just once, slow and teasing. "Maybe she got lost."
You bit your lip, glaring at him, nails digging into his shoulders.
His sister sighed. "Whatever. Just get your ass out here."
The second her footsteps faded down the hall, you swatted his arm, chest heaving.
"You are unbelievable."
Kuroo grinned, pulling back only to slam into you again, harder this time, forcing a muffled cry from your lips. Your arms tightened around his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin as your entire body clenched around him.
"That’s right," he whispered against your ear, his pace unrelenting, each thrust sharp and punishing. "You're shaking so much—gonna act like you don’t love this? Like you don’t get off on almost getting caught?"
You tried to glare at him, but with the way his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you, all you could do was shudder, mouth parting in helpless gasps.
"Yeah, that’s what I thought," he taunted, watching the way your body twitched under him, the way you clung to him like you needed him to keep you from falling apart.
His fingers slid back between your legs, finding your swollen, desperate clit, rubbing it in slow, teasing circles. The sudden sensation sent a jolt of pleasure up your spine, and you bit down hard on your own hand to keep from crying out.
"That close already?" he murmured, feeling the way your walls fluttered around him, the way your legs trembled around his waist. "Bet you love this, don’t you? Letting me fuck you like this when anyone could walk in."
You tried to protest, but all that came out was a broken moan, breathless and wrecked.
Kuroo chuckled, breath hot against your cheek. "No snarky comeback? No sarcasm? Baby, you’re too far gone to even argue, huh?"
His words only pushed you further, the tension inside you winding impossibly tight. His thrusts grew sharper, his fingers working you relentlessly until you finally shattered, your entire body convulsing as pleasure crashed over you.
Your orgasm triggered his, his rhythm stuttering as he groaned low against your skin, spilling deep inside you.
For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom was your combined heavy breathing, the weight of what just happened settling between you.
Then, Kuroo smirked, pressing one last slow kiss to your jaw. "See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?"
You barely had the strength to lift your head, your breath still coming in heavy, uneven pants. Swallowing hard, you managed to rasp, "Never again."
Kuroo only chuckled, brushing his lips against your temple before pulling back. "Come on, there's cake."
You groaned, still trying to reassemble your thoughts, your body tingling with the aftershocks of pleasure. With shaky hands, you reached down, pulling up your panties—now soaked with his release—and quickly adjusted your dress, trying to look at least somewhat composed before stepping back out into the party.
Kuroo, the smug bastard, was already fixing his shirt, completely unbothered, his smirk not fading for even a second as he reached for the door handle. "Think Grandma will notice how wrecked you look?"
You swatted at him, glaring. "Shut up, Tetsurō."
But as you stepped out, legs still wobbly, Kuroo just shot you a knowing grin. "Too late. You already look guilty."
Iwaizumi was good at controlling himself.
He had to be—he worked in a gym, surrounded by athletes, lifters, and fitness junkies who all looked like they were carved from stone. He’d seen enough shirtless guys flexing in mirrors to be immune to it.
Or at least, he thought he was immune.
Until today. Until this guy.
Some shredded gym bro with veins popping, abs tight, sweat glistening just right under the gym lights, standing at the bench press and calling for you.
Not him. Not any of the other trainers. You.
“Hey,” the guy said, voice smooth, cocky. “Think you can check my form?”
You—being the professional, non-suspecting menace that you are—nodded immediately. “Sure thing.”
Iwaizumi didn’t react at first. Just kept his eyes on you from across the room, his towel draped over his shoulder, fingers twitching slightly against the water bottle in his hand.
Because he already knew what was coming.
He knew what this guy wanted.
And so did you.
But that didn’t stop you from walking over, from crouching beside the guy, adjusting his grip, your fingers brushing against his forearm, his bicep, your voice sweet and focused.
Iwaizumi exhaled sharply through his nose.
You weren’t even flirting. You were genuinely coaching him. Adjusting his wrist placement, explaining the mechanics of the movement, giving clear, professional advice.
But the guy? He was milking it.
“Oh, like this?” he asked, purposefully getting it wrong again.
You frowned slightly, stepping closer, placing your hands lightly on his arms to guide him. “Not quite. Here, you should feel tension through your chest, not just your shoulders.”
You gave him a quick tap on his tricep, then his pec. “Feel that?”
The guy grinned. “Not really. Maybe I just need a better pump.”
Iwaizumi rolled his neck, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
You, ever the dedicated trainer, didn’t immediately clock the bullshit. Instead, you pressed lightly against his bicep, checking the engagement. “It should activate here—”
The guy flexed slightly, purely for show.
And that’s when Iwaizumi had enough.
He made his way over, casual but not really, and stopped beside you, tilting his head slightly.
“Boss is looking for you,” he said, voice low and impossible to argue with. “I’ll take over.”
You blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait, what—”
But he was already guiding you away, firm but careful, not giving you a chance to protest before turning back to the guy.
“Alright, man.” Iwaizumi cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s see that form.”
The guy nodded, picked up the bar—
And immediately, his form was perfect.
Not a single issue.
Iwaizumi just stared. “Huh.”
The guy hesitated, shifting awkwardly. "Uh… well, I just need a spot."
Iwaizumi nodded slowly, expression unreadable. "Oh. Yeah? No problem."
As he stepped into position behind the bench, you decided to check if your boss had actually needed you. You made your way toward the reception desk, leaning over slightly. "Hey, did the boss ask for me?"
The receptionist frowned, shaking their head. "Nope. Haven't seen them call for anyone."
You paused, then huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head to yourself. "It’s alright."
Turning around, you smiled knowingly.
By the time you returned, Iwaizumi was finishing up with the guy. "Yeah, your form is practically perfect now. Looks like that advice really helped."
The dude muttered a quick "Thanks" before grabbing his towel and heading toward the lockers, a little too quickly.
You raised a brow at Iwaizumi. "Boss didn't need me for anything."
He didn’t even flinch. "Huh. Weird."
You stared at him, lips twitching. "Super weird."
His smirk was casual, smug. "Well, he really did improve, didn’t he?"
You hummed, stretching your arms overhead before tilting your head at him, eyes playful. "If only I had someone to improve my form..."
Before you could take another step, his hand was on your waist, firm, warm, pulling you back against him. His other hand slid down, palming your ass with a slow squeeze that made your breath hitch.
He leaned in, voice low and rough. "Just wait until we get home."
Koutaro loved being a father. He loved everything about it—the giggles, the tiny hands reaching for his, the way his child clung to his leg like a koala when he tried to leave for practice. He loved the sleepy, drooling cuddles, the way they cheered for him at games even when they barely understood what was going on, the pure adoration in their big, bright eyes.
He loved his family. He loved the life he had built with you.
But damn, he was dying to fuck his wife.
At first, it wasn’t so bad. The newborn stage had been exhausting, but you’d found your moments, stolen kisses between diaper changes and late-night feedings. But now? Now, his kid was everywhere.
Hina wanted to play all the time, wanted to be glued to your side, wanted to co-sleep every damn night. If he so much as kissed you for too long, tiny hands would push between you both, demanding attention. And the worst part? You loved it. You’d always been so patient with her, smiling when she pulled you away from him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before going to settle her back into bed. Meanwhile, Koutaro was left aching, frustrated, and wound up tighter than a spring.
The longing was getting unbearable. He needed you. Needed to feel your hands on him, your nails digging into his back, the press of your body against his without interruption.
So when he saw his chance—his first real chance in weeks—he pounced.
Hina was absorbed in her favorite cartoon, settled comfortably on the couch, giggling at the screen, completely distracted. And you? You were in the kitchen, slicing up fruit, completely alone.
Koutaro didn’t hesitate.
He moved in fast, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, burying his face against your neck, groaning dramatically. "Baby, I’m starving."
You laughed, not missing the way his hands wandered, sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your stomach. "I’m literally making you a snack right now."
"Not that kinda hungry," he murmured, lips grazing your ear, pressing his hips firmly against your ass so you could feel exactly what he meant.
You inhaled sharply, the knife in your hand faltering for just a second. "Koutaro—"
"C’mon, babe," he whined, rocking his hips just a little, making you shudder. "We can sneak upstairs. Just real quick. Ten minutes. No—five! I swear, I can be fast."
You snorted. "You’re never fast."
He grinned against your skin, his hands moving higher, palming your breasts, kneading them just the way he knew made you weak. "Fine, twenty minutes. But you have to be quiet."
You let out a soft, breathy moan, pressing back into him just enough to feel the hard, teasing drag of his body against yours. Your breathing picked up, your fingers gripping the counter as you leaned into his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach. "You’re terrible," you murmured, but there was no real bite to your words. Koutaro smirked against your neck, his hands squeezing your waist. He knew he had you.
Then—
"Mama! I want my fruit!"
Koutaro froze.
You quickly smoothed down your shirt, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear, forcing yourself to look composed.
Tiny feet pattered into the kitchen, and suddenly, Hina was wedging between you and Koutaro, tiny hands tugging at your shirt.
"Mama! I want fruit! And Daddy, come watch my show with me! My favorite episode is on!"
Koutaro exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for a long moment. Defeated.
You sigh, turning and pecking him on the cheek, grinning. "Guess duty calls, Daddy."
With a deep, exaggerated sigh, Koutaro stepped back, ruffling his child’s hair before lifting her into his arms. "Alright, alright. Let’s go watch your show."
As he walked away, he heard your muffled laughter from the kitchen, making his frustration spike. His fingers flexed against Hina’s back as he carried her, already thinking about revenge.
By the time he settled onto the couch with her, she was already chattering excitedly about her favorite episode, eyes glued to the screen. Koutaro, however, was fuming.
He turned back, just before disappearing into the living room, throwing you a desperate, betrayed look.
This wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
---
Later that night, he was sure he was getting what he wanted.
Koutaro had planned it perfectly. He'd worn Hina out all day—a long walk, hours at the park, a warm bath, and a bedtime story that left her knocked out cold in her own bed. No way she was waking up tonight.
With a victorious smirk, he made his way to the bedroom, already anticipating the way you’d melt under his touch.
He stepped inside to find you standing by the dresser, slipping into one of his old shirts for bed. Your hair was slightly damp from your shower, skin soft, glowing in the dim light of the bedside lamp.
You turned at the sound of the door clicking shut, raising a brow as he stalked toward you. "Where’s Hina?"
"In her own bed," he murmured, voice low, confident. "Sleeping like a log."
Before you could react, his hands were on your waist, pulling you against him. He kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in months—deep, needy, filled with everything he’d been holding back.
You gasped softly, but you didn’t hesitate, your arms looping around his neck as you pressed back into him, matching his intensity, his hunger. His hands roamed your body, fingers trailing down your spine, squeezing at your hips, touching you like he was trying to make up for lost time.
His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, and he groaned as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, moving lower, lower—
Knock, knock.
A tiny, tearful voice called from the hallway. "Mama? Daddy?"
You and Koutaro froze.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, still tangled together, his breath heavy against your skin.
Then, he pulled back just enough to stare at you, eyes filled with sheer, soul-crushing defeat.
You smirked, barely able to contain your amusement. "Like a log, huh?"
His expression darkened, and you couldn't help it—you burst into laughter.
Groaning, Koutaro dropped his forehead against your shoulder, completely deflated.
Another knock. "Mamaaa…"
With a deep sigh, you both quickly fixed yourselves up before Koutaro trudged to the door, opening it to reveal Hina standing there, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, sniffling.
"Had a bad dream, baby?" you cooed, crouching down to brush her hair back gently.
She nodded, sniffling again before reaching up toward Koutaro. "Can I sleep with you and Mama?"
He glanced over at you, looking so damn resigned, so utterly defeated.
You grinned, shrugging. "Guess duty calls again, Daddy."
Letting out the most dramatic sigh of his life, Koutaro scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. He flopped onto the mattress, his dream of having you to himself completely shattered as she snuggled between you both.
As you reached over to turn off the light, you caught Koutaro’s stare from across the pillow—his desperate, betrayed look that all but screamed: This isn’t over.
But hours later, it was still keeping him awake.
He laid there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his body tense with frustration. Every single attempt at having you to himself had been shut down, and now, with his daughter nestled comfortably between you both, it felt like the final nail in his coffin.
Except—he wasn’t giving up. Not tonight.
Slowly, he turned his head, glancing at Hina. Her breathing was steady, deep, completely out. Koutaro stayed still for a few more moments, just to be sure, before carefully, painstakingly, peeling himself away from the bed.
You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but he was already leaning in, brushing his lips against your ear. "Baby… come with me."
You blinked groggily, barely registering his voice. "Kou…?"
"Shhh," he whispered, his hand warm against your waist. "Come on. Just trust me."
Still half-asleep, you let him pull you up, letting him lead you quietly, carefully out of the bedroom. As soon as you both stepped into the dimly lit living room, you rubbed at your eyes, yawning. "Koutaro… what’s going on?"
But he didn’t answer with words.
Instead, he tilted your chin up, trailing soft kisses down your jaw, your neck, whispering against your skin. "We just need to be quiet."
Your breath hitched, your drowsiness evaporating in an instant as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him.
You gasped softly, but the second his mouth found that sensitive spot just beneath your ear, you melted into him. "Koutaro, you’re insatiable…"
He grinned, his fingers already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt as he guided you toward the couch. "Missed you too much, baby. Can’t wait anymore."
And as he pressed you down onto the cushions, settling between your legs, he whispered again, "Just keep quiet for me, yeah?"
You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slipped between your legs, fingertips tracing along your inner thigh, teasing, taking his time. You shivered, your legs instinctively parting wider for him, and he let out a quiet, pleased hum.
"That’s it, baby," he murmured against your ear, his fingers brushing over your underwear, pressing against the heat already pooling there. "You’re already so wet for me. Missed this, huh?"
You bit your lip, nodding as you arched into his touch, barely suppressing a gasp when he slid his fingers under the fabric, stroking you slow, deliberate.
"Koutaro—"
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, his other hand coming up to gently cover your mouth. "Gotta stay quiet, remember?"
Your head tipped back against the couch as he slid a finger inside, curling just right, dragging along that spot that had you nearly choking on your moans. When he added a second, his pace deep and unrelenting, your thighs clamped around his hand, body trembling under his touch.
"Feel good?" he asked, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. "Bet you’ve been needing this just as bad as I have."
You could barely nod, barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps as he worked you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
"Wanna come for me, baby?" His voice was low, coaxing, filthy. "I can feel you squeezing me—go ahead, let go. Just be quiet."
You whined against his palm, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashed over you, your walls pulsing around his fingers as you came, thighs shaking.
Koutaro groaned, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he helped you ride it out.
"Good girl," he whispered, nuzzling against your temple. "That’s my girl."
Before you could fully come down, he was shifting, gripping your hips, lining himself up.
"K-Koutaro—"
He pushed in, slow, deep, deliberate, and you nearly sobbed at the overwhelming pleasure. Your walls clenched around him, so tight, so warm, making his breath stutter against your skin.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching as he bottomed out, his size stretching you perfectly. The sensation was too much, so intense it sent tears flooding your eyes.
Koutaro kissed them away, murmuring against your skin, "Needed this, baby. Needed you. So bad."
His thrusts were slow, deep, each roll of his hips pressing right where you needed him most. You were drowning in the feeling, in the weight of him, in the way he moved inside you like he was savoring every second.
You wanted to cry out, to let him know just how good he was making you feel, but his hand was quick to cover your mouth again, muffling your desperate whimpers.
"Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice strained, nearly breaking from how good you felt around him. "Can’t have Hina hearing, right? Just be good for me, just take it—"
And you did. You took all of him, his slow, aching thrusts sending you spiraling, pulling you under, dragging out every bit of pleasure until you couldn’t hold it anymore.
"Koutaro—oh god—"
"I got you," he whispered, gripping your waist tighter, his hips stuttering as he felt you clamp down around him. "Come with me, baby. Let go."
The second your body tensed, walls pulsing around him, he followed, groaning as he spilled deep inside you, burying his face against your neck as he let go completely.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just the sound of ragged breathing, the quiet hum of the house, the lingering warmth of each other.
Then—
A soft shuffling noise. A tiny, sleepy voice.
"Mama? Daddy?"
Your entire body locked up, heart stopping, breath catching in your throat.
Koutaro went completely still, eyes widening in horror.
Another rustling noise. "Mamaaa… where’d you go?"
You whipped your head around, eyes darting to the hallway, panic surging through you. Koutaro’s mind raced, searching for an escape, an excuse, anything.
Then—quick as lightning—he peeked his head up over the couch, calling out in the most casual voice he could muster—
"Just helping Mommy look for something, sweetheart! We’ll be back in bed soon!"
Your face burned.
Hina yawned, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, looking far too tired to question anything. "Okay… hurry up, ‘kay?"
"We will, baby," you managed to choke out. "Go back to bed, we’ll be right there."
She sniffled, nodded, and padded back down the hall.
The second she was gone, you collapsed against Koutaro’s chest, smacking his shoulder. "You absolute menace."
He groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I can’t live like this."
You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair. "That’s why I asked my parents to take her for the weekend."
Koutaro froze.
Then, slowly, he lifted his head, staring at you like you’d just given him the greatest gift of his life.
Without another word, he nuzzled into you, wrapping you up in his arms like he never wanted to let go. "I love you so much."
You smiled, cuddling into his warmth, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I love you too."
Sugawara Koushi had always been attentive. He had a way of reading you—of knowing exactly what you needed before you even asked. But tonight, you were the one who made the first move.
It started as a simple suggestion, whispered against his lips as you straddled his lap, your fingers curling into his soft, silver-streaked hair. "I want to try something different tonight, Koushi."
He tilted his head, amusement flickering in his brown eyes. "Different how?"
When you told him, his smile widened—slow, intrigued, dangerous.
"Yeah?" His voice dropped, hands squeezing at your waist. "Alright, sweetheart. Let’s try it."
And that was how you ended up here, tangled together, your legs draped over his shoulders, his mouth hot and greedy against you while you did your best to keep up.
It should have been a fair exchange, an even give-and-take. But Koushi wasn’t playing fair.
The second his tongue flicked against you, a slow, precise glide that sent sparks up your spine, you realized you were already at a disadvantage. His grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as he held you still, fully at his mercy.
You tried to focus, to keep up, your hands gripping him, stroking in time with the slow rock of your hips. You wanted to take him apart the way he was ruining you. But then—
He moaned.
The deep, reverberating sound vibrated against your core, and your body jolted, betraying you.
Koushi chuckled against your skin, smug and knowing. "Oh? That got to you?"
You whimpered, trying to suppress the way your thighs trembled around his head. But he felt it. Of course he did.
"You’re so sensitive tonight, sweetheart." His voice was teasing, but there was something else beneath it—something hungry. "I wonder how long you’ll last?"
Your breath hitched as his tongue worked you over with slow, devastating precision. Each flick, each swirl, each deliberate pressure against your clit sent you spiraling higher, faster than you wanted to admit. He was taking his time with you, making sure you felt every second of it.
You tried to fight back, to make him feel just as wrecked. You wrapped your lips around him, sinking down slow, letting your tongue drag along his length in a way you knew drove him insane.
It worked—his breath hitched, his hips twitching against your mouth. A sharp, shaky inhale.
But then, as if reminded of the game you were playing, he groaned into you, deep and unrestrained.
The sound wrecked you. Your grip on him stuttered, your rhythm faltering, a high-pitched whimper slipping from your lips. And just like that—
He knew he had you.
His hands squeezed at your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer, his tongue delving deeper, flicking faster, sucking just hard enough to send you spiraling.
You couldn’t focus anymore. Couldn’t even think.
"K-Koushi—" Your voice broke, your body arching against him as he worked you to the edge with ruthless patience.
"That’s it, sweetheart," he murmured against you. His voice was warm, coaxing, wrecking you. "Let go. I’ve got you."
And you did.
Pleasure crashed over you like a tidal wave, your whole body shaking, tensing, completely unraveling. A sharp cry spilled from your lips, your fingers digging into his thighs as your climax washed over you, leaving you trembling in his grasp.
But Koushi—Koushi wasn’t done.
As you gasped for breath, he didn’t let go. Instead, his hands guided you, adjusting you so you could move freely while still hovering over his face.
"There you go," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Ride it, sweetheart. Don’t be shy."
Your breath hitched as his tongue pressed against you again, your body twitching from overstimulation.
"I—I can’t—"
"You can," he reassured, hands firm on your thighs, keeping you steady as you ground down against him, chasing the pleasure all over again.
The change in position made it even worse— or better, depending on how you looked at it. You had more control now, more leverage, but the more you rocked against his mouth, the deeper the sensations coiled inside you.
Desperate for something to ground yourself, you let your hands trail down his stomach, wrapping your fingers around him from this angle, stroking in slow, teasing motions as you took him deeper into your mouth.
Koushi groaned into you, his grip on your thighs tightening, fingers digging into your skin as his body tensed beneath you.
His breath turned ragged as your hand moved faster, your grip tightening. He was close.
"Koushi—"
Your voice cracked as you came again, pleasure ripping through you, your whole body trembling in his grasp. The feeling of you tensing, shaking, completely wrecked above him— it pushed him over the edge.
A deep, shuddering groan left his lips as his body tensed beneath you, spilling into your hand as he finally let go, undone by the way you lost yourself above him.
You felt the tremor in his thighs, the way his fingers dug in just a little harder as his breath stuttered, his whole body shaking through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Just ragged breaths, aftershocks still rippling through you both, your limbs tangled, your bodies completely spent.
Then—a soft chuckle.
Koushi pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your thigh before murmuring against your skin, "Think that might be my new favorite."
You let out a breathless laugh, still too wrecked to even open your eyes.
Just as you started to relax, his fingers brushed along your skin, soft, teasing, lingering.
"You alright, sweetheart?" His voice was sweet, too sweet.
You nodded weakly, still coming down, not yet realizing the danger.
Then, his lips curved against your thigh, and he murmured—
"Good. Let’s go for three."
Oh. You were in trouble.
Kenma Kozume had never been good with change.
He liked things predictable. Safe. Video games had taught him that if he kept his strategy consistent, if he memorized the patterns and played smart, he could survive anything. Life was just another game to him—one where he preferred to stay in the background, keep things stable, and avoid unnecessary risks.
But nothing about this felt stable. Nothing about this felt safe.
Because you were leaving.
Kenma sat on the floor of your apartment, legs crossed, a cardboard box in his lap. Around him, the room looked smaller than it used to, packed with boxes stacked high, shelves stripped of their usual clutter. The air smelled like old books, packing tape, and a faint trace of your perfume, and for the first time since he had known you, your space didn’t feel like home anymore.
Maybe because it wasn’t. Not for much longer.
You had been a part of his life for so long that he barely remembered what it was like before you. Since childhood, you had been there—first as a quiet presence at his side in elementary school, then as the only person who could sit with him for hours, gaming in comfortable silence. You never questioned the way he was, never pushed him to be anything other than himself. And as the years passed, you became his constant, his safe place, his person.
And now, you were leaving.
“So, you’re really going, huh?” His voice was quiet, neutral, but even he could hear the strain in it.
You looked up from where you were sorting through a pile of miscellaneous things—old letters, tangled earbuds, random trinkets you had shoved into drawers over the years. You smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. It’s happening.”
Kenma’s fingers curled around the edges of the box. He had known about this for weeks now, ever since you told him about the job opportunity in another city. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He had told himself it wouldn’t change anything. That you would still text him, call him, visit when you could.
But now, with everything packed up and your walls bare, the reality of it all settled like a weight in his chest.
He had never thought about a life where you weren’t here. Where he couldn’t just send a message and have you show up at his door an hour later with takeout, where you weren’t sitting beside him on his couch, watching him play through whatever new game he was obsessed with that week. Where you weren’t just…
Here.
You sighed and flopped onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m kind of freaking out,” you admitted, voice light, almost playful. “New place, new people, new job. It’s exciting, but also terrifying.”
Kenma swallowed. He should say something. Something encouraging, something that made it sound like he was happy for you, like he wasn’t falling apart inside.
“You’ll be fine.”
You turned your head to look at him, and for a second, he thought you could see right through him. That you could tell he was barely keeping it together. But then you smiled—soft, familiar, warm.
“Thanks, Ken.”
He nodded, looking away. He focused on the box in his lap, on the way his hands clenched the cardboard just a little too tightly.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had never needed to say anything before. He thought you just knew—that you had always known. That there was no rush, no deadline, no moment where he would run out of time. Because you were always here.
But now, you weren’t going to be.
And Kenma realized, too late, that he had never even given himself a chance.
The packing took hours, and Kenma stayed through all of it. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, and he didn’t want to be anywhere else, anyway. He helped you sort through things, separate what you were keeping from what you were leaving behind. Every item had a story, a memory attached to it. The hoodie he had lent you once and never got back. The game controller he had bought for you so you could play co-op with him. The tiny cat figurine you had won at a festival and insisted looked just like him.
All these little things that made up you.
All these little things that reminded him of what he was losing.
He wasn’t good with words. He never had been. He wasn’t like Kuroo, who could charm his way through anything, or Bokuto, who could wear his heart on his sleeve without fear. Kenma had always been quiet, reserved, hesitant. But when it came to you, his feelings were loud, screaming inside him, demanding to be acknowledged.
But he had never said anything.
Because what if he did, and you left anyway? What if it changed everything? What if losing you as a friend hurt worse than losing you to distance?
“You should take this,” you said at one point, holding out an old, well-loved game case. “We never finished it together.”
Kenma stared at it, then at you. “Then take it with you.”
“I don’t have my console anymore. Sold it.” You grinned sheepishly. “New city, new start.”
His grip tightened on the game. He didn’t like that answer. He didn’t like any of this. He had never been an emotional person, but right now, something bitter sat at the back of his throat, something wrong.
You were leaving. You were letting go of all these things, of this life, of him—and you were acting like it was just something that had to happen.
Kenma had spent years convinced he had all the time in the world. But time was up. And for the first time, he didn’t know what to do about it.
It was late by the time everything was packed. The apartment looked empty now, stripped of everything that made it yours. You stretched, yawning, then turned to him with an expression that was far too casual for what this moment felt like.
“This is it, huh?” You nudged his arm lightly. “One last night before I go.”
Kenma’s stomach twisted. He forced himself to nod. “Yeah.”
“Hey.” You tilted your head, watching him. “Are you okay?”
No. No, he wasn’t. Because this wasn’t fair. Because he should have said something sooner. Because he didn’t know how to deal with the fact that tomorrow, you wouldn’t be here anymore.
“Yeah.”
You frowned, unconvinced, but you let it go. Instead, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. Kenma stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, before his body reacted on instinct, arms lifting to hold you back just as tightly.
“I’m gonna miss you, Ken.”
The words hit him harder than he expected. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to memorize this—the feel of your arms around him, the warmth of you against his chest, the way your head fit perfectly against his shoulder. Trying to ignore the aching thought that this might be the last time.
He wanted to say don’t go. Wanted to tell you to stay, that you didn’t have to leave, that he—
But he didn’t.
Instead, he whispered, “Me too.”
And he held on for as long as he could.
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.
Suna Rintaro was patient. Too patient.
He liked to take his time, to watch, learn, memorize—every reaction, every sharp inhale, every way your body responded to his touch. He was never in a rush. Never let his ego get ahead of him. But this?
This was new.
You were pinned beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, your body shaking as he pushed into you—deep, slow, relentless. His hands were firm against your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted. The feeling of your warmth wrapped so tight around him sent a slow, burning pleasure through his spine, but what really had him losing his mind was you.
The way your breath stuttered every time he rolled his hips. The way your nails scraped at his arms, your legs twitching as he stretched you out. The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you knew.
And then it happened.
The moment he angled his hips just right, just deep enough to press against that sweet spot—
Your breath hitched—
Your entire body tensed—
And then, you came.
Fast. Hard. Too hard.
Suna felt it, the way your walls squeezed him tight, the way your legs locked up, a choked cry breaking past your lips. The way your hands clawed at his back, searching for anything to hold onto as you shattered underneath him.
He stilled—just for a second—his sharp eyes flicking up to watch you completely fall apart beneath him.
Oh.
Oh, yeah. This was it.
A slow, wicked smirk stretched across his lips. He liked that.
"Didn’t even last a minute," he murmured, voice low, teasing, smug.
You barely registered his words, your body limp, your mind foggy with the aftershocks. But Suna wasn’t done.
He let you catch your breath for a second, his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles over your thighs. But then—
He pressed his weight into you, rolling his hips again—deeper, slower this time, dragging out the pleasure until you gasped, your body twitching from oversensitivity. And he felt it. The way you clenched involuntarily, still on edge, still sensitive.
"Oh?" His grip on your thighs tightened, his smirk deepening as his voice dipped into something darker, lower. “Still sensitive?”
A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as you whimpered, your nails digging into his arms. He was going to have fun with this.
One of his hands left your thigh, sliding up the length of your body—slow, teasing, purposeful—before wrapping around your throat, his thumb brushing over your pulse. His mouth hovered just above yours, his breath warm, teasing, his words coated in amusement.
"That was too fast, baby," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching your dazed expression with something like satisfaction. "Guess that means this is my new favorite."
His thumb pressed against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His dark, lidded gaze roamed over your features, soaking in the flush on your cheeks, the parted lips, the way your chest heaved. You were wrecked. And that made something primal twist in his stomach. He wanted to see it again.
So he moved.
Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.
The pace was different this time—no teasing, no holding back. He wanted to feel you come apart again. Wanted to feel your walls flutter around him, to watch you drown in the sensation. He wanted to chase that reaction again and again until it was burned into him.
"Too much?" he mused, his voice dripping with false innocence as his thrusts got sharper, pushing you right back toward that edge.
Your response was lost between a gasp and a moan, and Suna grinned.
"Nah, I think you can take it," he murmured. "You were made for this, weren't you?"
You barely had time to process his words before he angled his hips just right again— and that coil in your stomach snapped.
Your head tilted back, a cry tearing from your lips as pleasure flooded through you, crashing over you even harder than the first time.
Suna groaned, feeling your body clamp down around him, squeezing him so tight that his rhythm stuttered for half a second. His grip on your throat loosened, his hand sliding down to grasp at your waist instead, holding you steady as you shook beneath him.
"Fuck," he muttered, watching the way your body trembled, the way your fingers scrambled at the sheets. He let his hips slow, dragging out your high, letting you feel every second of it.
And when you finally collapsed, boneless and wrecked beyond belief, Suna pressed a kiss to your jaw, his smirk returning as he murmured—
"Yeah... definitely my favourite."
The rain comes down in steady sheets, tapping against the windows in a soothing rhythm. The streets outside glisten under the glow of streetlights, the occasional car passing by leaving behind a faint hum of noise. It’s the perfect kind of evening—the kind meant for staying in, wrapped up in warmth, with nowhere to be and nothing urgent pressing on your mind.
Daichi is already settled on the couch, a soft throw blanket draped over his legs, the remote lazily balanced on his stomach. The TV is on, playing some crime drama, but his attention isn’t fully on it. Instead, he glances over at you, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips as you walk into the living room carrying two mugs of tea.
“You’re the best,” he says as you hand him one, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. His hands are warm, even against the ceramic.
“I know,” you reply, sinking onto the couch beside him. The heat from the tea seeps into your fingers as you take a slow sip, savoring the way the warmth spreads down your throat.
Daichi shifts, draping an arm over your shoulders and pulling you close, his body solid and reassuring against yours. You relax into him easily, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His thumb moves absentmindedly over your arm, slow and steady, and you exhale, feeling the tension of the day melt away.
On the screen, the detective is interrogating a suspect, voice low and serious. Daichi lets out a quiet scoff. “That’s not how real interrogations work.”
You smile against his shoulder. “Oh? Care to enlighten me, Officer Sawamura?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s just unrealistic. No one confesses that easily. And look at how he’s holding that report—like he’s never actually read one in his life.”
You chuckle, shifting so you can look up at him. “You say this every time we watch crime shows.”
“Because it’s true every time,” he argues, but his voice is light, teasing. “It’s a shame, really. They should just hire me as a consultant.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure the Tokyo police force would love for you to moonlight as a TV consultant.”
He grins, taking a sip of his tea. “I’d be good at it.”
“You’d be insufferable.”
“And yet, you’d still watch with me.”
“You’re lucky I love you,” you say, laughing softly.
Daichi shakes his head, eyes narrowing at the screen as the detective makes a sweeping accusation that somehow miraculously leads to a confession. He scoffs, growing more animated now. “That’s not even how questioning works. There’s a whole process! There’s procedure, and paperwork, and—why does this guy always get away with breaking protocol?”
You watch him, amused, as he continues to rant, his brows furrowed, hands gesturing as he lists every inaccuracy he can spot. His passion is endearing—adorable, even. And before he can go on any further, you reach up, cupping his jaw and pressing your lips to his mid-sentence.
Daichi stills for a moment, surprised, before he leans into the kiss, his earlier frustration forgotten. When you pull back, his brown eyes flicker with something softer, more intrigued, but you don’t stop there. You press another kiss to the sharp line of his jaw, then lower, trailing down the side of his neck.
His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, waiting.
You smile against his skin before slowly pulling away. Rising from the couch, you peel off your shirt, letting it drop to the floor as you make your way toward the bedroom. Just before disappearing through the doorway, you glance back at him.
“Still pissed at the show?” you ask, voice teasing.
Daichi exhales sharply, setting his mug down without even looking. “You’re good.”
You giggle, knowing full well he’s already getting up to follow you.
Akaashi Keiji was always composed.
He prided himself on control—measured movements, careful touches, a steady rhythm that never wavered. But right now? Right now, control was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he was powerless to stop it.
Because you were in his lap, your back pressed flush against his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around your waist. He was buried deep inside you, the warm, slick heat of you squeezing him so perfectly that his breath kept hitching, his hands tightening against your skin as he tried—tried so hard—to keep his pace slow.
But he was losing it.
"Keiji…" Your voice was soft, breathless, and he could feel it everywhere—your body shifting against his, your pulse hammering under his fingertips.
His forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath heavy against your skin. "Feels too good," he admitted, voice strained, nearly shaking. "I—"
He swallowed hard as you rolled your hips, and a groan ripped from his throat.
Fuck. Fuck.
Akaashi had never felt like this before—this weak, this desperate, this close to breaking apart. He’d always been able to focus, always been able to last as long as he wanted. But this? This position?
With you like this, stretched out against him, your body molding so perfectly to his—
It was wrecking him.
"You’re shaking," you murmured, fingers reaching back to tangle in his dark hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He groaned at the sensation, his hips jerking up involuntarily, forcing himself even deeper into you. Your breath caught, and the way you clenched around him made his vision blur.
Shit.
"I can't—" He exhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening, his muscles tensing as he felt himself teetering on the edge. "I don't think I can—"
You turned your head slightly, pressing a teasing kiss to the side of his jaw. "You don’t have to hold back."
Akaashi cursed under his breath, his composure unraveling completely.
His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, his thrusts turning needy, frantic, desperate. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his moans muffled against your skin as he fucked into you—
Hard. Deep. Sloppy.
He was unraveling with every motion, every clench of your body around him, every little sound you made that sent fire through his veins.
"Fuck," he gasped, his voice raw, his rhythm stuttering. "I'm—" He sucked in a breath, his entire body shaking, trembling, losing control.
You reached back, dragging your fingers through his hair again, your voice a whisper. "Let go, Keiji."
And that was it.
The coil in his stomach snapped so violently he almost blacked out.
A deep, shuddering groan tore from his throat as pleasure crashed through him like a tidal wave. He spilled into you, hips jerking as his entire body trembled, the overwhelming intensity making him bury his face deeper into your neck. His breathing was ragged, erratic, completely wrecked.
He had never come that hard before. Ever.
For long moments, he just held you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his body still shaking from the aftershocks. His fingers traced absentminded patterns against your waist, his breath slowing, but his mind was still reeling.
What the hell just happened?
You shifted slightly, and he groaned at the oversensitivity, his arms instinctively tightening around you, keeping you still. You giggled softly, your voice laced with exhaustion and satisfaction. "I think you liked that, huh?"
Akaashi swallowed hard, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder before murmuring—"Didn't know I could feel like that."
His grip on you softened, fingers brushing against your thigh. He exhaled a slow, shaky breath, the realization settling in.
This was his favorite.
And now that he knew?
He wasn’t sure he could ever have you any other way again.
Ushijima Wakatoshi had never paid much attention to positions before.
He had always focused on precision, control, endurance. He knew his own strength, the way his body worked, the way he could move with purpose. Most of the time, he stuck to the same tried-and-true motions, favoring what was familiar and effective. But tonight, you had looked at him with those eyes, voice soft and teasing as you asked, "Wakatoshi, can we try something different?"
He hadn’t expected much of a difference. A position was a position, right? But when he had you pressed against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly—
Everything changed.
The first deep thrust had your breath hitching. The second had you whimpering, nails clawing at his shoulders. And by the third—
You were gone.
Your body tensed up so fast, so hard, that Ushijima nearly stopped, his brow furrowing as he felt you clench down tight around him, your head dropping back against the wall, mouth open in a silent moan.
His grip on your thighs tightened instinctively, muscles flexing as he kept you lifted, held, pinned completely at his mercy.
And then he felt it.
The sharp, desperate way you squeezed him. The way your entire body shuddered, overwhelmed and trembling.
Ushijima’s breath caught.
“Already?” His deep voice was laced with something close to wonder.
You gasped, hands gripping his broad shoulders, nails pressing into his skin. Your thighs quivered around his waist, your body limp from the force of your release. Overstimulated, wrecked—completely unraveled.
A slow, deliberate breath left him as realization settled in.
This position had made you lose control.
His jaw clenched, something dark flickering behind his usually calm expression. He wanted to see it again.
His grip on your thighs adjusted, his large hands spreading your legs wider, securing you against the wall like you weighed nothing. And before you could even recover, before the aftershocks of your first orgasm had fully settled, he started moving again.
Deep. Steady. Unforgiving.
His pace was measured, controlled, devastating. Each thrust pressed you tighter against the cold surface, the contrast of his warmth and the chill of the wall making your senses blur. Your body twitched in response, oversensitive and already on the edge again.
Your breath hitched, your back arching against the wall, and Ushijima watched.
His sharp eyes took in everything—the way your lips parted, the way your hands clawed at his skin, the way you gasped his name between every movement. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your thighs as he picked up the pace just slightly, enough to make you shudder.
“You like this.” His voice was calm, deep, but something about it felt different now. Like he was coming to terms with something new. Something he didn’t know about himself before.
Something dangerous.
The way your body reacted to him, the way you broke apart so quickly in his arms— he liked it.
A lot.
His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping even lower. “I like it too.”
Your head tipped forward, forehead pressing against his shoulder as your nails raked down his back, the pressure inside you tightening so fast it was unbearable.
You whimpered, the sensation of being lifted, stretched, completely at his mercy making your head spin. Ushijima could feel it. The way you clenched down around him again, the way your thighs trembled in his grip.
He exhaled sharply, holding you even tighter.
“Cum,” he ordered, voice like gravel and heat.
Your entire body obeyed.
Pleasure slammed through you like a tidal wave, your moan caught somewhere between a cry and a gasp as you shattered all over again, trembling in his grasp, body locking up completely. The force of it left you whimpering, completely spent, completely undone.
Ushijima groaned at the feeling of you convulsing around him, his pace unwavering as he rode you through it, relishing in how easily he could pull you apart.
When you finally collapsed, head lolling back against the wall, Ushijima didn’t move.
He kept you pinned against him, breathing deeply, grounding himself in the sensation of you still trembling in his arms.
His lips ghosted over your jaw, warm and firm as he pressed a kiss to your temple—but he wasn’t finished.
With a sharp inhale, he pulled back slightly, shifting his grip on your thighs before his hips snapped forward, hard. A strangled cry tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at his back as the sudden force sent pleasure crashing through your system all over again.
“Too much?” His deep voice rumbled against your skin, deceptively calm despite the way his movements turned unrelenting.
You barely managed a response—your mind too fogged, your body too overwhelmed as he pounded into you, each thrust deeper, harder, perfectly precise.
The intensity coiled tight inside you, every nerve on fire as you felt it creeping up again—fast, uncontrollable.
His grip on you tightened as he felt it too. The way your walls fluttered, how your legs trembled around him. He knew.
“You’re going to cum again.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—a promise.
And he made sure of it.
Another deep thrust, another perfectly timed roll of his hips, and your vision whited out. The pleasure hit like lightning, your entire body jerking, shaking, completely wrecked as you gushed around him, soaking his thighs, the sound obscene in the air.
Ushijima groaned, his jaw clenching as the feeling dragged him over the edge with you. His hips stuttered, his pace faltering as he drove in one last time, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural moan, his fingers bruising into your skin as he held you against the wall, his.
For a moment, neither of you moved—just the sound of ragged breaths and the faint, aftershocking trembles of your body in his grip.
Then, slowly, his lips brushed your jaw once more, voice deep, steady, satisfied.
“We'll have to do that again.”
The first thing you register upon waking up is warmth. A steady, lingering heat against your back, an arm draped lazily over your waist, the rhythmic rise and fall of a chest pressed flush against you. The scent of something familiar—clean linen, faded cologne, a hint of salt from the sea breeze slipping through the open window—fills your senses. Oikawa’s grip tightens instinctively as you shift, pulling you impossibly closer, his face buried against the curve of your shoulder.
“Tooru,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.
A muffled groan is his only response. His body is heavy against yours, limbs tangled in a way that makes movement difficult. You try once more to shift, but his arms only tighten around your waist.
“Nope,” he grumbles, his voice rough from sleep. “No getting up yet. It’s illegal.”
You huff, already knowing how this is going to go. Sunlight spills in through the sheer curtains, painting the walls of your shared apartment in soft golden hues. The distant sound of life beyond the bedroom—muffled chatter from the streets below, the occasional car passing by, the faint melody of a street performer’s guitar—reminds you that the world is awake, moving. And yet, Oikawa remains completely unfazed, as if time doesn’t exist beyond the warmth of your shared bed.
“I have things to do,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Lies,” he mutters against your skin. “You have exactly one obligation today, and that’s to stay right here in bed with your incredibly handsome husband.”
You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Is that so?”
“Mhm,” he hums, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “It’s scientifically proven that getting up too early makes you ten times more cranky.”
“More cranky?” you repeat, raising a brow. “Are you saying I’m cranky now?”
He hesitates.
“…No?”
You elbow him lightly, and he lets out a dramatic wheeze, flopping onto his back as if you’ve mortally wounded him. “Oh my god, the betrayal,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I let you into my home, my heart, my bed—and you stab me in the stomach.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re already smiling.
“I’m wounded.”
“You’re fine.”
He peeks at you from under his arm, brown eyes still hazy with sleep but glinting with amusement. “You’re not even going to check?”
“I know you’re fine.”
He lets out another exaggerated groan before reaching for you again, pulling you back into his embrace. This time, you let yourself sink into his warmth, the sound of the city fading into the background. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your arm, absentminded, soothing. The morning breeze flutters through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street, mingling with the salt-tinged air of Barcelona’s coastline.
“You really don’t wanna stay in bed with me?” he asks after a while, voice softer now, more genuine.
You sigh, pressing your cheek against his. “I do, but I also don’t want to waste the whole day.”
Oikawa scoffs, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s not wasting if we’re spending it together.”
“You always say that when you want me to be lazy with you.”
“Because it’s true,” he argues. “C’mon, just a little longer? Please?” He tilts his head, lips brushing against your jaw as he whispers, “For me?”
You groan, knowing you’re done for. Oikawa is many things—dramatic, annoying, way too smug for his own good—but he’s also incredibly hard to say no to, especially when he’s warm and sleepy and clinging to you like this.
“Fine,” you mumble. “But only for a little longer.”
A victorious grin spreads across his face as he pulls you flush against him, tangling your legs together under the sheets. “See? I always win.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me.”
You roll your eyes but don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let yourself relax into his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the hum of the city outside, the quiet comfort of being wrapped up in him. The world can wait a little longer.
Maybe, just maybe, staying in bed with him isn’t the worst way to spend the day.
The crisp morning air hit you the moment you stepped outside, your cheeks still flushed with residual heat from the sheer embarrassment of what had just transpired. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, tugged your coat tighter around your body, and walked. Faster than necessary, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the unmistakable ache in your legs that served as an unrelenting reminder of last night.
What the hell did I do?
The question looped in your mind as you trudged down the sidewalk, each step bringing another humiliating flashback. The way his lips had trailed down your throat, the rasp of his voice murmuring your name like a prayer, the heat of his breath against your ear.
The way you begged for him.
You groaned out loud and shook your head violently as if you could physically shake the memories loose. This was bad. This was so bad.
By the time you reached your apartment, your heart was still hammering in your chest, the adrenaline of your walk of shame still rushing through your veins. The second your key turned in the lock and you pushed the door open, a familiar weight landed against your legs.
“Hey, buddy,” you murmured, bending down to scoop up your cat, pressing your face into his fur for a moment of comfort. He meowed in response, blinking up at you with wide eyes before batting at the collar of your coat.
At least he wasn’t judging you.
You set him down and made a beeline for the shower, peeling off your clothes as fast as you could. You needed to wash off Kuroo Tetsurou, scrub away any remnants of his touch, his scent, his presence.
But no matter how hot the water was, no matter how much you lathered soap against your skin, it didn’t leave you. The heat of his hands, the press of his body—it was all still there, lingering like an impossible-to-ignore memory.
You groaned, pressing your forehead against the shower tiles, letting the water cascade down your back. Why him? Of all people, why Kuroo?
The man drove you insane. Always teasing, always pushing, always so damn smug. You’d spent years butting heads with him, rolling your eyes at his antics, gritting your teeth at his unrelenting wit.
And yet…
The minute he touched you, something inside you had snapped. You’d met his fire with fire, let yourself get lost in the burn of it.
And worst of all?
You wanted to do it again.
You sucked in a sharp breath and shut the water off, gripping the edge of the shower door for stability. No. No, no, no. This was a mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment.
You would not let yourself fall into this trap.
By the time you were dressed, your cat had curled up on the couch, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you ran a towel through your damp hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I know I made a bad decision.”
He flicked his tail, unimpressed.
You threw the towel into the laundry hamper and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, mind still racing. You had to go back to work on Monday and pretend nothing happened. You had to look Kuroo in the eye and act like you hadn’t had his name spilling from your lips over and over again.
You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply.
This was going to be hell.
__
The weekend blurred by in a haze of distractions. You tried everything—burying yourself in errands, binge-watching dramas, even deep-cleaning your apartment twice—but nothing worked. The memory of Kuroo was burned into your brain, lingering at the edges of your mind no matter how hard you tried to shove it away.
You could still feel his fingers digging into your hips. The sharp scrape of his teeth against your neck. The husky, teasing laughter in your ear as he dragged you down with him into the mess of tangled sheets and breathless whispers.
You growled at yourself, shaking off the heat pooling in your stomach.
Before you knew it, Monday morning arrived, and the reality of facing him hit you like a freight train.
You stepped into the office, coffee in one hand, your other gripping the strap of your bag tightly, as if that alone would keep you grounded. You could do this.
Thankfully, Kuroo was nowhere in sight. A quiet sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you made your way to your office, eager to lose yourself in work and push all thoughts of him aside.
Settling into your chair, you opened your laptop, sipping your coffee as you began typing out emails, reviewing contracts, and approving documents. The mundane rhythm of work was a welcome distraction, something solid and predictable to keep you from spiraling back into the humiliating thoughts of the weekend.
That relief, however, was short-lived.
Just as you started drafting a compliance report, your office door swung open without a knock. You glanced up, already annoyed, only to find your boss standing there, arms crossed, an expectant expression on his face.
"Good job getting that campaign finalized," he said, nodding as if you had done something worthy of recognition. "There's a shareholder meeting this week to discuss it. You need to be there."
Your stomach dropped.
Shareholder meetings were always a pain, but that wasn’t the real issue. No, the real issue was that Kuroo would be there. You’d have to see him sooner than you thought.
You quickly straightened in your chair, trying to compose yourself. “Sir, I have a full schedule today, a backlog of approvals, and several reports to review—surely someone else from legal can attend?”
Your boss gave you a flat look, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, don’t even start. You’re the one who finalized this campaign, so you’re the one explaining it. Be in the meeting room in half an hour.”
You barely had time to protest before he turned on his heel and left, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Half an hour.
Your pulse quickened as you slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You had been hoping—no, praying—for more time before you had to see him again. But now, in thirty short minutes, you’d have to sit across from him in a professional setting, pretend nothing happened, and endure whatever smug, knowing looks he threw your way.
You inhaled deeply, rolling your shoulders back as you forced yourself to think rationally. Kuroo might have the upper hand in teasing, but that didn’t mean he had the power here. You were damn good at your job, and if he thought he could waltz in and fluster you with a few smirks and carefully placed jabs, he had another thing coming.
Straightening in your chair, you pulled up the campaign documents, reviewing them with meticulous attention. You weren’t just going to walk into that meeting unprepared. No, you were going to walk in with confidence, fully armed with every technicality, every regulation, every damn reason why you knew what you were doing.
You checked the clock. Fifteen minutes left.
With one last steadying breath, you closed your laptop, grabbed your notes, and stood, smoothing out your outfit. He’s just another coworker. Nothing more. If Kuroo wanted to play games, fine. But you weren’t going to lose. Not this time.
Squaring your shoulders, you stood, grabbed your notes, and marched toward the meeting room, determination outweighing the lingering heat in your face. You weren’t going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.
Fuck him. I have nothing to be ashamed of.
Yet, the moment you stepped inside, you instantly regretted everything.
Kuroo was standing near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with a few of the shareholders, his usual easygoing charm on full display. His sharp suit was tailored perfectly, the slight smirk on his lips too damn self-assured. And then, as if he could sense you, his golden eyes flicked toward the door, locking onto you instantly.
His knowing smile deepened, and you had to physically fight the urge to turn around and leave.
“Ah, there she is,” Kuroo announced, casually gesturing toward you. “My partner on this campaign.”
Your stomach clenched at the word. Partner?
The older gentleman Kuroo had been speaking to turned, his expression brightening. “Oh, so you’re the legal mind behind all of this! I’ve heard good things. Very impressive work.”
You forced a polite smile, waving a hand dismissively. “It was a team effort.”
But Kuroo, of course, wasn’t about to let you downplay your role.
“Don’t be modest. She kept me in check the whole time,” he added, his tone dripping with amusement.
You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the urge to shove him into the nearest chair. He knew exactly what he was doing.
Before you could formulate a response, he gestured to the seat beside him. “Come on, have a seat.”
You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here. That wasn’t even enough time to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable disaster that was seeing Kuroo again.
You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here.
More people trickled in, the sound of chatter filling the room as the shareholders settled into their seats. Small conversations broke out, professionals exchanging pleasantries while waiting for the meeting to begin. The air in the room was light, easy, full of smooth laughter and the clinking of pens against notepads.
For everyone except you.
You turned to Kuroo, lowering your voice in a hiss. “Partner?”
He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, voice full of teasing amusement. “Would you have preferred I introduce you as my handler?”
Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt beneath the table, nails pressing hard enough to leave marks. You were already regretting every single interaction you had with him. Smug bastard.
You narrowed your eyes, about to snap back, but before you could, the meeting was called to order.
Kuroo led the discussion with practiced ease, his voice smooth and effortlessly engaging. He was sharp, confident, weaving through each point with that natural charm of his, drawing in the room like he belonged there. And the worst part? The shareholders loved him.
You mostly kept quiet, answering questions when necessary, keeping your responses measured and precise. You weren’t about to let him run circles around you. Still, you had to admit—grudgingly—that he was good at this. Too good. His ability to present information with just the right balance of authority and ease was frustratingly effective. It made you irrationally angry, watching the way he commanded the room with nothing but a few smirks and a well-placed joke.
And he knew it. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he could feel your irritation thrumming beneath the surface.
Bastard.
Just as you thought you were in the clear, your boss spoke up. “We were actually discussing another campaign that needs some serious revisions. Given how well this one turned out, we’d like the two of you to work on it—on short notice.”
Your breath caught. No. No, no, no.
Panic shot through you like a live wire, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You had barely survived the last time you worked with him—mentally, emotionally, professionally. And now they wanted you to do it again?
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. You had told yourself the project was a one-time thing, an unfortunate alignment of responsibilities that you had somehow, miraculously, endured. You had barely made it out of the last collaboration with your sanity intact, and after what happened between you two, the very thought of working with him again made your stomach churn.
It wasn’t just about the way Kuroo existed to push your buttons. No, it was the fact that you had let him get under your skin—too far under, past the point of irritation and into something more reckless, more dangerous.
And now, you were supposed to do it all over again?
Your fingers clenched under the table, nails pressing hard into your palm to stop yourself from blurting out something unprofessional. This isn’t fair. This isn’t my fault. You had done your job perfectly. If Kuroo hadn’t gone out of his way to be Kuroo, none of this would even be an issue. Now, because of his antics, because he couldn’t help himself, you were getting roped into another late-night headache with him.
Your pulse thudded in your ears, drowning out the rest of the boardroom as your mind scrambled for a way out. Any excuse. Any way to get literally anyone else assigned to this instead.
But you knew your boss. He didn’t care. He had made up his mind. And Kuroo—that smug bastard—had probably already figured that out too.
You straightened in your seat, carefully choosing your words. “Of course, but we’d need extended work hours to meet such a tight deadline—”
Kuroo, the bastard, cut you off effortlessly. “No need. We’ll just work on it after hours, like last time.”
The room barely reacted, but you felt the shift like a blade pressed against your skin. The way he said it—so casually, so naturally—it was almost as if the two of you had some kind of established dynamic. Like you were some seamless, perfectly functioning duo.
Which, you absolutely were not.
Your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists beneath the table. And then, just to drive the knife deeper, he added, “In fact, let’s get started tonight. Over dinner.”
Your head snapped toward him, but he didn’t even have the decency to look at you. He was still facing forward, still completely composed, as if he hadn’t just publicly tricked you into agreeing to spend more time with him.
Your teeth ground together as your boss nodded approvingly. You had no choice but to nod along, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”
You could feel Kuroo’s eyes on you, the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin like an irritating heat you couldn’t shake. Your fingers curled around your notes, grip tightening as you fought the very real urge to smack that insufferable smirk right off his face. This bastard.
The shareholders murmured their satisfaction, the meeting officially winding down as the final notes were made. The conversation naturally shifted to small talk as people began gathering their things, but you were barely listening. Your mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the past minute over and over.
Another project. On short notice. With him.
And worse—
Over dinner.
You inhaled sharply through your nose, schooling your features into something neutral, something capable, because the last thing you needed was for Kuroo to see the way your pulse had spiked at the mere thought of spending another evening alone with him. You could already hear the smugness that would drip from his voice. The lazy, self-satisfied amusement. The way he’d push your buttons just enough to make you snap—because that’s what he did.
You should have argued more. Should have demanded proper work hours. Should have reminded your boss that he had hired you for legal work, not to babysit the marketing team. But instead, you sat there, forcing a strained smile while Kuroo all but preened beside you like a cat that had just caught a canary.
A chair scraped back beside you. He was standing. Stretching. As if he hadn’t just successfully trapped you into another night of torture disguised as collaboration.
“Looking forward to it, partner.”
The way he said partner made you want to throw something. Preferably his overpriced watch right out the nearest window.
He strolled past you, his confidence almost offensive, and you knew—you knew—that he was expecting a reaction. A flustered glare, a sharp retort, anything to fuel his amusement. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
You took a slow, calming breath and gathered your papers, pressing them together with deliberate patience. Kuroo was still lingering, just at the edge of your vision, but you refused to acknowledge him. If he thought you were going to give him what he wanted, he had another thing coming.
You stood, keeping your expression perfectly schooled, smoothing out your skirt like this was just any other normal meeting, like he hadn’t just completely thrown you off balance. Then, just as you turned to leave, you made the mistake of glancing up.
And there he was. Watching you.
Golden eyes, sharp and waiting. The barest trace of a smirk still pulling at his lips.
Something inside your stomach twisted—not in anger, not in frustration, but something dangerous. Something reckless.
You gritted your teeth, ignoring the traitorous warmth creeping up your spine, and turned sharply on your heel, storming toward the exit without a word.
Kuroo chuckled under his breath behind you, the sound deep and far too amused.
You were never going to survive this.