Favourite Position: Akaashi

HEY! Hii!! How are you? I hope you're doing good!

I have a small question, do you write for Inarizaki characters? Not the Miyas or Suna, I mean like Omimi, Akagi, Ginjima, Kosaku, etc.

That's all I want to know, because I love em (⁠〃ﾟ⁠3ﾟ⁠〃⁠)

I hope you have a good day!!

Heyyy I'm doing fantastically thank you for asking heheh

I'll write anyone if you ask me too! The only difference is with more niche characters I just look up their wiki for ideas on their personalities lolol

I hope you have a good day too!! Thank you lovely <333

Can you do fav positions with meian shugo 😔🥹

Your wish is my command... ~~

At the peak of masculinity, there was Meian Shugo. Not only was he disturbingly handsome, as well as an incredible athlete, he was also responsible, dependable, and one of the kindest people you had ever met.

That said, one of things you never expected him to love so much was eating you out.

Sure, you had been with other guys before, and they always begrudgingly did it, mostly for you to end up reciprocating but with Meian…

“Oh, fuck!” You hissed at a particularly harsh suck at your clit, Meian’s eyes watching you with a keenness, as if he’s analyzing your reactions to perfect his technique. Your hands immediately reach for his hair, grabbing it at the root and giving it a slight tug, to which he groans into your pussy, the vibrations making you shiver.

He doesn’t let up, going from rubbing tight circles with his tongue to giving full licks, you feel your legs tense up, going to squeeze your thighs from the overwhelming sensation. Meian stops this though, his hands going to your thighs and holding them down to make sure you’re exactly how he wants too.

“How do you taste better every time?” He asks in between kissing your inner thighs, and you don’t even have the words to answer him, responding with moans and mumbles. He chuckles at your half-ass response, moving one of his hands from your plush thighs to your twitching hole. His fingers circle it, causing you to take a breath and instinctively arch your back. “Please, Meian…” You panted, wanting him more than ever. He absolutely adored when you called his name, something about the way you said it…

It always drove him wild.

“Such a good girl.” He hissed, feeling the pain of his incredible hard cock pulse. But it wasn’t about him.

It was about you.

With that, he pushes two fingers in your pussy, curling his fingers just right to hit your g-spot. That, paired with a couple sucks of your clit, you were a lost cause.

You cum with a scream of his name, and he proceeds to slurp up every drop of you. After all, Meian loved the way you tasted.

You come down from your high sweaty and exhausted, and you only close your eyes for a second before you feel a strong pull and you and Meian are hip to hip, his hard cock pressing hard against your stomach. “You didn’t think we were done did you?”

hey i wanted to request a fic, but before i request i wanted to say that i really enjoy your fics. there's something about them that makes me read them even when theyre about characters i dont often care much about. also, when i write i often stick to my couple of faves, but your fics have me thinking that maybe it'd do me good to practice writing a variety of different characters.

im not as prolific as you though hahaha

ok and now for my incredibly self-indulgent request because my #1 favorite is Mr. Perfect Kita, can i request a fic about Kita wooing/asking out a Reader who is intimidated by him?? pretty please, and thank you? hehe

i also am curious if there's any character you prefer writing about compared to the rest

have a lovely day! :)

Anon, you are far too kind — thank you so much for your kind words!! it genuinely means the world to me 🥹

Also: you should totally experiment with writing new characters!! it’s legit eye opening (after writing fav positions for Hinata, I can't stop looking at him differently 😭)

Also also, but favourite three characters to write for are Tsukishima (my first love) Iwaizumi and Atsumu for sure. They've stolen my heart ughhh.

ANYWAYS ENJOY <333

--

Anon Ask: Kita

There was something about Kita Shinsuke that made your stomach twist—and not in the butterflies, schoolgirl-crush way you wished it did.

No, it was worse than that. It was the intimidation.

Because Kita was perfect. He was composed, kind, respectful, disciplined. He woke up early, always got top marks, captained the volleyball team with quiet command, and still managed to hold the door open for every single person who walked through it. He was the kind of person who turned in his assignments a week early, whose uniform never had a wrinkle, whose silences were never awkward but intentional.

And you? You were just... there. Always a few steps away. Always too nervous to make eye contact, let alone conversation.

You shared a class with him—sat three rows behind, diagonally to the left—and you could probably count on one hand how many times you'd actually spoken to him. Mostly because every time his steel-gray eyes swept past you, your breath would catch in your throat.

That expression of his—steady, unreadable, unwavering—it made your nerves twist up in knots. It wasn't that he looked mean. It was that he looked like he saw everything.

So when he approached you after school one day, just before he headed off to volleyball practice, your brain completely short-circuited.

He stopped in front of your desk as you were packing up, casting a soft shadow over your notes. When you looked up, he was standing there with perfect posture, his uniform blazer unbuttoned but still crisp, and a small box held gently in both hands.

"Hey," he said, voice quiet but clear. "Can I speak to you a moment?"

You blinked up at him like he’d spoken another language, then scrambled to nod. "Y-Yeah. Of course."

He gestured subtly toward the hallway. You followed him, still clutching your books, your heart thudding in your ears. The corridor was mostly empty now, sunlight from the high windows painting long lines across the floor.

He turned to face you just outside the classroom, gaze even but calm.

Then, gently, he extended the box toward you.

"I put together a few things you might like. I hope that’s alright."

You stared at the box, then at his face, then back again. "Wait... what?"

The box was neat, wrapped in soft brown paper and tied with twine. Inside, you found your favorite snacks, a new set of pens in the exact shade you always used, a mini notebook with the design you'd admired in the campus store weeks ago, and a little envelope with your name on it in his clean handwriting.

You opened it with trembling fingers.

I thought of you, the note read. Simple. Honest.

"I noticed you're always out of ink because you let other people borrow your pens," he said softly, watching your reaction. "And I know you get headaches during long lectures—you press your temples with your thumbs when you're trying not to draw attention to it. So there's some caffeine-free tea in there too."

Your chest tightened. Your mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. He’d noticed all of that?

“I... uh...”

Then he asked it. Calmly, without fanfare, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Would you like to go out with me this Saturday?"

Your brain lagged, your breath stalling in your throat. Your fingers clenched tighter around the box.

"Why?" you blurted. Then quickly, eyes wide, you stammered, "I mean—I didn't even know you were interested in me."

For a beat, he was silent. Then his eyes softened, his posture relaxing just slightly. His thumbs pressed gently along the edge of his sleeves.

"I am," he said. "I have been for a while. You're always thoughtful. You don't speak just to fill space. You listen. You think before you act. I admire that."

The air caught in your chest. You looked down at the box, then back up at him.

He added, voice quieter now, "You don’t have to decide now. I just wanted you to know it wasn’t an accident that I asked. I see you. Even if you don’t always see yourself."

You bit your lip. Your hands were trembling slightly as you clutched the box tighter against your chest. "You're... really good at this," you murmured, your voice barely more than a breath.

"I’m nervous," he admitted, eyes flicking away for just a second. He adjusted the strap of his gym bag over his shoulder. "But I meant what I said. I like you."

Your throat was dry, but your heart was full. Full in a way it hadn't been before.

You nodded slowly, smile shy. "Okay. Yes. I’d like that. Saturday, right?"

A tiny smile curved at the corner of his mouth—small but warm, the kind that made your chest flutter.

"Saturday," he confirmed.

He glanced down the hallway toward the gym, then back at you.

"I have practice now," he said gently, taking a small step back. "But I’ll see you tomorrow?"

You nodded, this time more confidently.

He gave one final lingering look—eyes lingering not on your face but the way you held the box close to you like it meant something—and then turned and walked away, each step measured and light.

You stayed rooted in place.

Blushing, stunned, your arms wrapped tightly around the little box as if it might disappear. You stood there for what felt like ages, listening to the echoes of his footsteps until they faded down the stairwell.

And when you finally looked back at the note in your hand, reading I thought of you one more time, your heart bloomed in your chest.

Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t so scary after all.

hey!! I have a genuine question. Do you, by any chance use Ai to write??

No but I sometimes use it to help me flesh out ideas. Usually I just have a concept but it can be hard to see where it goes. It’s a great tool to really see out your ideas!!

But no the writings all me :D

Confessions: Tsukishima

By third year, you'd think you and Tsukishima would've grown out of it—that exhausting little game you two played. Bickering like it was a sport, tension so thick the rest of the team had stopped trying to intervene. Kageyama used to flinch when you raised your voice. Yamaguchi had once tried to play mediator until Tsukishima shut him down with a look. Now everyone just let it happen. It was routine. Expected. Like the sun rising or Hinata yelling.

But even routines fray when they go unchecked.

Practice had been winding down when Yachi leaned in closer, her voice hushed just enough not to carry over the sound of the guys drilling serves. You were both by the bench, pretending to organize water bottles, but really—you were gossiping.

"I mean… he’s cute," she said, trying to hide her smile behind her clipboard. "And he’s nice. The captain of the basketball team asking you out isn’t nothing—you could give it a shot, right?"

You rolled your eyes, glancing toward the court—though your gaze snagged on a tall blond figure for half a second too long. "Yeah. Maybe. He’s handsome, smart, polite."

It was a lie.

You didn’t want nice.

You wanted someone else.

Someone whose voice grated on your nerves, who always had a snide comment for everything you did, who knew exactly how to provoke you and never held back.

You wanted someone who made you feel something.

Now the gym was quiet. Yachi had left twenty minutes ago, and you were the only one left locking up.

Or so you thought.

The doors creaked.

You turned, already annoyed. "I'm about to lock up—"

Tsukishima.

He stood in the doorway like he owned the place, one strap of his bag over his shoulder, golden eyes steady. Annoyingly calm. He didn’t even flinch at your tone.

You rolled your eyes. "Forgot your headphones again? Or do you just enjoy making my job harder?"

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze sharp. Too focused.

Then he said it. Like it wasn’t the most jarring thing to say after a week full of snipes and insults.

“Don’t date him.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said,”—he stepped closer—“don’t date him.”

You stared, mouth parting. You hated the way your pulse jumped. Hated it more because it was him.

“…Are you serious right now?”

His jaw clenched, but his voice stayed even. “Yeah.”

You laughed. Sharp. Bitter. “What, you get to talk shit to me every day and then play jealous boyfriend when someone else shows interest?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it, Tsukishima?”

Silence.

And then, finally, something cracks in his expression. Not a smile. Not exactly. More like surrender.

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered. “But you’re all I think about.”

That shut you up. Just for a second.

He looked away first. “I’m not asking you to like me back. Just… don’t date him.”

You folded your arms, heartbeat loud in your ears. “That’s a shitty confession.”

He glanced back, and for once, his smirk was small. Almost nervous. "Would you have taken it seriously if I said it any other way?"

You paused.

“…Maybe.”

He scoffed lightly, shaking his head. "And Captain of the basketball team? Even you know you could do better. Guy probably thinks a free throw line is romantic."

There was bite in it. Smugness too—the kind that always laced his voice when he thought he had the upper hand. But underneath the jab was something messier, unspoken. Something that sounded too much like 'I care' for either of you to ignore.

But you laughed, and as you stepped past him, you caught a fistful of his collar and yanked him down just enough to crash your lips against his—firm, unrelenting, like every argument you two had ever had boiled down into a single moment.

His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away.

You broke the kiss just as abruptly, brushing past him with heat still prickling at your cheeks.

“Just take me out this Saturday, asshole.”

Rivalry: Atsumu (Pt.2) NSFW

You barely remembered the trip home. Your body moved on autopilot, the mortification from earlier fogging your brain to the point that you couldn't focus on anything else. The second you made it through your bedroom door, you slammed it shut behind you and slid down against it, your legs giving out as you collapsed onto the floor.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

The words came out in a strangled whisper, as if saying them too loudly would make the situation even more real. You pressed your hands to your face, groaning into your palms as every moment replayed itself in your head like a sick joke. The shouting, the insults, the way he kissed you like he was trying to win—as if any of this was a game.

And worse? The way you kissed him back.

You wanted to blame the heat of the moment, the sheer exhaustion that had worn you thin, the suffocating tension that had been building up for years. But that didn’t excuse the fact that you had wrapped your legs around him, pulled him in, let yourself get so lost in him that you had completely forgotten where you were.

You smacked your forehead against your knees. "I am such an idiot."

The embarrassment made your skin crawl. You had let Atsumu Miya kiss you. And not just kiss you—practically devour you in a damn supply closet. You had been seconds away from—

No. No, you weren’t even going to think about that.

You forced yourself to stand, limbs still shaky as you shuffled toward your dresser, pulling out your sleepwear. Maybe if you went to bed and didn’t think about it, this entire thing would disappear from your memory by morning.

Right. Because that’s how trauma worked.

You peeled off your shirt, letting out a sigh as you tossed it into the laundry pile. Your fingers ran absentmindedly through your hair, eyes barely focusing on your reflection in the vanity mirror—

And then you saw it.

Your entire body went rigid.

There, on the side of your neck, just below your jawline, was a hickey.

Not just any hickey—a big, obnoxiously dark mark staining your skin, bold as fucking day. The kind that wasn’t going away anytime soon. The kind that was going to be impossible to cover up without half the school noticing.

Your eye twitched. Your pulse spiked.

That bastard.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, a fresh wave of fury searing through your veins.

"I’m gonna kill him."

___

The moment you stepped into the school building, your body was on edge.

You had taken extra time getting ready, draping a scarf around your neck despite the warm weather, just in case. The last thing you needed was for anyone to see the evidence of last night’s catastrophe.

But the second you stepped through the gym doors, you could feel him watching you.

Atsumu was already there, leaning lazily against the lockers, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk already in place.

“Yer all bundled up today,” he drawled, golden eyes flickering to the scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. “Ain’t it a little warm for that?”

You didn’t respond. You marched straight toward him, grabbing him by the arm before he could react and dragging him toward the back of the building, away from prying eyes.

“Oi—what the hell?” he complained, but he didn’t resist, letting you pull him along with a smug chuckle.

The second you were alone, you spun around, fire in your eyes. “You have a lot of goddamn nerve.”

Atsumu raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Me? What’d I do?”

You ripped off the scarf and pointed at your neck. “Care to explain this?”

His gaze flickered downward, and when he saw the mark, his smirk grew into something far too pleased for your liking. “Huh.”

“Huh?! That’s all you have to say?!”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “What? Looks good on ya.”

Your blood boiled.

“Where did you find the gall and the nerve to mark me like some sort of animal?!” you seethed. “Do you even care?!”

Atsumu sighed dramatically, rubbing the back of his head. “Aww, sweetheart, didn’t know ya were that ashamed of me.”

Your eye twitched.

“Ashamed?! Oh, please—”

“Oh, so ya liked it?”

Your breath caught, your brain short-circuiting just long enough for him to chuckle. “I knew ya weren’t as immune to me as ya act.”

Your fists clenched, the fury behind your eyes nearly burning holes through him. “I swear to god, Miya, if you don’t wipe that smug look off your face, I’ll—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice low and taunting. He took a step closer, invading your space. “Ya gonna hit me? Scream at me? Oh, wait—ya already did plenty of screamin’ last night.”

Your stomach twisted into a violent knot. “Go to hell.”

Atsumu smirked, tilting his head. “Only if you join me, sweetheart.”

Red. All you saw was red.

Your hand shot out, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely stumbled, his smirk widening as if he’d expected it—wanted it. His eyes burned, dark and taunting, daring you to push him further.

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shaking with rage. “Stay the hell away from me.”

Atsumu let the silence hang, watching you, unreadable—until his lips curled, voice dropping to something dangerous, something hungry.

“That’s not what I was gettin’ last night.”

Your breath hitched, your entire body locking up.

He leaned in just a fraction, enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. His voice was nothing but a rough murmur. “In fact, from where I was sittin’… ya couldn’t get enough of me.”

You snapped. Without thinking, your hand whipped out, aiming to smack that cocky look off his face—but he caught your wrist before it could land. His grip was firm, tight, and the moment your skin met his, something flared in the space between you. A live wire, electric and burning.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your chest heaved, his fingers tightening around your wrist, his golden eyes locked onto yours, daring, challenging, waiting for your next move.

And then, just as quickly, he released you, stepping back with that damn smirk still in place. “See ya at practice, sweetheart.”

He turned and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms.

You hated him. Hated him.

And you hated the fact that your skin still burned where he touched you.

__

The moment you stepped onto the court, the entire atmosphere had shifted. The usual lightheartedness was replaced by something else—something charged, something that even the others could feel. The tension between you and Atsumu was palpable, filling every space between you like static before a storm.

You did everything you could to ignore him, keeping your focus locked on the drills, on making sure everything ran smoothly as usual. But even as you busied yourself with tasks, taking inventory, filling water bottles, making sure the practice schedule was followed, you felt him. His presence, his gaze. And every single time you so much as glanced his way, you caught it—that smug, infuriating smirk, the one that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

Osamu was the first to crack. “She's even more pissed off than usual. What’d ya do to her?”

Atsumu’s head snapped toward his brother, jaw tightening. “Why do ya always assume I’m in the wrong?”

Osamu raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Dunno, maybe ‘cause ya usually are?”

Atsumu scoffed, gripping the volleyball tighter in his hands before tossing it up and setting it with too much force. “Fuck off, ‘Samu.”

Suna, from across the court, watched the exchange with mild interest, his usual lazy expression barely concealing the amusement behind his eyes. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. The shared glance between him and Osamu said enough.

Even Kita had noticed. “Focus,” he called out flatly, directing the attention of the team back to practice. “Don’t need anyone actin’ stupid today.”

Your jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the clipboard in your hand. The fact that it was so obvious was frustrating enough. You’d hoped that whatever happened between you and Atsumu could be contained, that it wouldn’t seep into practice, but it was everywhere—in the way his passes came off just a little harder, in the way your own movements felt stiff and mechanical. In the way your stomach twisted whenever you so much as thought about the night before.

The second the whistle blew, signaling the end of practice, you didn’t hesitate. You were gone, out the door before anyone could stop you, barely pausing to acknowledge the rest of the team as they wrapped up.

You didn’t care. You just needed to get away.

You tried to go about your day. You really did. You sat through your classes, eyes locked on the board, scribbling down notes that you knew wouldn’t make any sense later. You went through the motions, completing assignments, answering when spoken to, doing everything you were supposed to do.

And yet, despite all of it, your mind refused to let you be.

It kept circling back to him.

The way he looked at you. The way his hands had felt gripping your waist. The heat of his breath against your skin. The smugness in his voice when he threw your own reactions back in your face, like he knew he was getting under your skin. Like he thrived on it.

You shook your head, frustrated, dragging a hand down your face as you sat in the back of the library, books open in front of you but nothing sinking in. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And the worst part? He knew it.

Because Atsumu Miya was the absolute worst.

And you hated that, deep down, he knew it too.

It was like an itch under your skin, a pressure in your chest that refused to ease. No matter how much you told yourself you could push it away, forget it, move on—it lingered. Every time you blinked, you could still feel the way his hands had gripped you, how his breath had ghosted over your skin, how he had smirked like he had won.

You weren’t going to let him take up another second of your time.

Fuck this. And fuck him.

Jaw tight, you yanked your phone out of your pocket, fingers moving faster than your thoughts as you typed out a message to Kita.

Not feeling well. Can’t make it to afternoon practice.

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a split second before pressing down. As soon as the message was out, a weight lifted from your chest. There was no way in hell you were going to spend another hour in that gym, breathing the same air as him, pretending like everything was normal when it wasn’t.

You tossed your phone onto the table, running both hands down your face, exhaling slowly. You needed to clear your head. You needed space. One day—just one day—where Atsumu Miya wasn’t in your fucking mind.

A small vibration broke the silence, and you glanced at your phone again.

Kita: Okay. Feel better.

You stared at the message for a second before locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket.

You weren’t sick. But he sure as hell was making you feel like you were.

__

After spending the rest of the day trying to distract yourself—hanging out with friends, grabbing food, doing anything to keep your thoughts away from him—you finally made it home. The moment you stepped inside, the silence was welcoming, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

Your parents were gone for the weekend. No one was home. Just you, an empty house, and, finally, some peace.

You exhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders as you set your bag down by the door. The tension in your chest had begun to fade, little by little, replaced by the relief of knowing you didn’t have to see him, didn’t have to deal with his bullshit. You could relax, unwind, maybe even—

A knock at the door shattered the peace into a million fucking pieces.

Your head snapped toward the door, heart lurching into your throat. No way. It couldn’t be—

A second knock.

You stood frozen for half a second before irritation overtook any disbelief. Of course, it was him. Of course.

You stomped forward, already feeling the irritation claw its way back up your spine. The second you yanked open the door, your glare could’ve burned holes through his head.

Atsumu Miya, standing on your doorstep, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Your instincts kicked in immediately. Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved to slam the door shut.

But his foot jammed in before the door could close, wedging itself into the gap, keeping it wide open. He stepped forward, forcing his way into your space with that same smug arrogance he always carried. You glared at him, voice low, venomous.

“I didn’t invite you in.”

Atsumu turned, stuffing his hands into his pockets, completely unfazed by your hostility. “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t.” You crossed your arms tightly, shifting your weight as if physically bracing yourself for whatever ridiculous excuse he was about to pull from his ass.

He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing in determination. “I think we do. This whole thing between us? It’s screwin’ with the team.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “And whose fault is that?”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is fixin’ it. And I got a solution.”

You narrowed your eyes, already regretting even entertaining this conversation. “I swear to god, if this is some dumbass idea—”

“Let’s just fuck and get it outta our systems.”

Silence. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

Your brain stalled for a moment, your mouth parting as if waiting for an explanation that would somehow make his words less ridiculous.

“…Excuse me?”

Atsumu leaned against the doorframe, completely relaxed, completely serious. “You heard me.”

You blinked. Then a sharp, disbelieving laugh tore from your throat. “You are actually out of your goddamn mind.”

“Think about it,” he continued, as if he were suggesting something completely logical, completely normal. “All this pent-up tension? It ain’t gonna go away on its own. We fight like hell every time we’re near each other, and it’s makin’ shit hard for the team.”

You scoffed, arms crossing even tighter. “Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

His smirk sharpened. “You sure it’s just mine?”

Your fingers twitched, itching to strangle him. “Yes, Miya. It is. And I don’t know what kind of delusional fantasy you’ve been living in, but I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it.”

Atsumu’s grin widened. “Oh yeah? That’s not what it felt like the other night.”

Your blood boiled instantly. “I hate you.”

“Good,” he said, voice dropping slightly, gaze darkening. “Makes it easier.”

You hated that your breath caught. Hated that there was something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something that sent a sharp, electric pulse straight through your stomach, tightening like a vice, making your breath come just a little too short. He was standing too close, the heat radiating from him brushing against your skin, tangible, suffocating. It was infuriating—how he took up space, how he filled every damn inch of it like he belonged there, like this moment was inevitable.

Your mind screamed at you to slam the door in his face, to push him away, to tell him to go straight to hell where he belonged. But you knew, deep in the marrow of your bones, that it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d still be there, in your head, smirking, taunting, winning.

Because he was right about one thing.

The tension? The energy? The pull between you? It wasn’t going away. It had been festering, simmering beneath every argument, every pointed glare, every sharp-edged word exchanged over the years. It had always been there, a wildfire waiting for a spark.

You sucked in a sharp breath, trying—desperately—to rein in the rage, the irritation, the heat that was threatening to consume you whole. Every logical part of you screamed to shove him out, to not give in, to refuse him like you always had. But the rest of you? The part that was tired of the fight, of the push and pull, of resisting something that never truly went away? That part just wanted relief. “You’re serious about this?”

His smirk faded slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “Dead serious.”

A battle waged inside you, every single nerve in your body screaming for you to shove him out, to tell him to rot in hell.

And yet, somehow, the words never left your lips.

Instead, you held his gaze for a long moment before exhaling sharply, tilting your chin up in defiance. "Leave your shoes near the door," you said, voice firm, unwavering. Then, without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked toward your bedroom, every step deliberate, controlled—as if daring him to follow.

Behind you, Atsumu's smirk widened. He toed off his shoes without hesitation, stepping inside with the confidence of someone who had already won.

Every rational part of you screamed that this was a terrible idea, that giving him even this was playing into exactly what he wanted. But another part of you—the part that had felt the full force of his mouth on yours, the part that still burned from the way he had grabbed you,—told you this was inevitable.

The moment the bedroom door shut, the air thickened, charged with something electric, something volatile. Hands clashed in a war of dominance, tearing at clothing like this was less about passion and more about proving a point. Fabric hit the floor in a frenzied, heated mess, discarded in a battle neither of you planned to lose. His grip was rough, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt before yanking it up and over your head with no patience, no hesitation.

You weren’t any gentler. Your hands fisted his hoodie, dragging it up his torso with force, exposing tanned skin and hard muscle, your nails scratching over his ribs just to hear the sharp breath he sucked through his teeth. It was satisfying, watching his composure waver, watching him react to you instead of the other way around. But his eyes burned when they met yours, something dark and dangerous flashing through them as he let the hoodie drop to the floor and stepped closer, pressing you backward, swallowing any satisfaction you might have felt.

His lips found the base of your throat, hot, biting, a stark contrast to the cool air against your flushed skin. He kissed like he fought—ruthless, demanding, relentless. His teeth scraped over your pulse point, lips dragging along the sensitive skin before sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“When are your folks gonna be home?” he muttered against your throat, voice rough, half-amused, half-starved.

The question barely registered, your mind already dizzy from the way his hands slid down your sides, gripping at your waist like he was staking a claim. “Monday,” you managed to breathe out, your voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Atsumu grinned against your skin, that cocky smirk pressing into your flesh, making you want to shove him away just as much as you wanted to pull him closer. “Good.” His breath was hot against your ear as he dragged his lips to your jaw, his voice dropping lower. “Means you can be loud.”

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, pressing against your throat just enough to make you dizzy, gripping your waist hard enough that you were sure you'd feel it tomorrow. His smirk never faltered, even as his rhythm stuttered when you clenched around him, even as you matched his energy, dragging your nails down his back, leaving marks that would remind him exactly who he was dealing with.

Before you could register it, he pushed you back, guiding you toward the bed with a roughness that sent a pulse of heat down your spine. Your knees hit the mattress, and as you fell back, you reached behind you, flicking open the clasp of your bra and letting it slide off your shoulders. Atsumu's gaze darkened, his hands immediately finding your bare skin, his thumbs swiping over your nipples in a slow, testing motion.

A sharp breath escaped you, and before you could bite it back, he grinned. "Sensitive, huh?" His voice was low, teasing, full of wicked amusement as he leaned in, dragging his tongue over the already aching bud before his teeth grazed it—just enough pressure to make you arch slightly.

The sting made you hiss, your hand shooting up to tangle in his hair, yanking hard. He groaned, the sound reverberating against your skin, but instead of annoyance, his smirk only widened. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips curving against your breast as he let out a breathy chuckle. "That all ya got?"

Heat crept up your neck, a flash of irritation mixing with something else—something dangerous. You could feel the smirk against your skin, smug and insufferable, and without thinking, you decided to wipe it off his face.

Your hand shot down between you, fingers deftly working at his belt, yanking it open with a confidence that made his breath hitch. The sound was satisfying, nearly as much as the way his smirk flickered for half a second when you popped the button on his jeans and dragged the zipper down in one smooth motion.

His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, and the second you wrapped your fingers around him, Atsumu let out a ragged groan, his forehead briefly pressing into your collarbone.

You shouldn’t have looked. You should not have looked. But curiosity got the better of you, and the moment your eyes flickered down, something inside you stuttered.

Fuck. He was bigger than you thought.

Atsumu felt you hesitate. You knew he did because when he looked up, there was something knowing in his gaze, something amused and all too smug.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he drawled, voice thick, teasing. "Bit off more than ya can chew?"

Your grip tightened instinctively around him, wiping the smirk off his face just as quickly as it had returned. But inside, your thoughts were spiraling.

Then, without missing a beat, you scoffed, tilting your head as your fingers gave an almost lazy stroke along his length. "Please," you murmured, voice dripping with defiance, "don’t flatter yourself."

Atsumu’s jaw ticked, the teasing glint in his eyes sharpening into something darker, something more challenging. But before he could throw back one of his usual cocky retorts, you surged forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was all teeth, all aggression, all sheer willpower to stay in control. Your hand still worked him over, slow but deliberate, and you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

For once, he wasn’t smirking.

And that was exactly what you wanted.

His breath came heavier now, his body betraying him even as he tried to maintain his usual smug composure. You didn’t give him time to recover. Your hand kept working over him, stroking slow and firm, and you could feel the way his cock twitched against your palm, how his muscles tensed beneath your touch. He let out a low groan into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, like he was trying to steady himself.

But you weren’t done proving a point.

Atsumu’s grip tightened, and in one swift movement, he pushed you back onto the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The sudden shift sent a shiver through you, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through hooded eyes as he reached for the waistband of your pants, fingers toying with the fabric.

He paused, gaze flicking up to meet yours, almost as if he was waiting for you to protest.

You didn’t.

His smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "Knew ya wanted this," he muttered, more to himself than you, and then he hooked his fingers into your pants, dragging them down along with your panties in one slow, torturous motion.

The cool air hit your skin, and that was when it fully sank in—how wet you were, how badly you had needed this despite every ounce of denial you had fed yourself. Atsumu’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, that self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth again.

“Well, well,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement as his fingers trailed along the inside of your thigh, not touching where you needed him most, just teasing. “Guess I’m not the only one enjoyin’ this.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, an involuntary reaction you hated, and Atsumu caught it instantly, his smirk deepening with the kind of satisfaction that made your blood boil. Your breath came out sharper than you intended, but you refused to let him get the upper hand.

Grinding your teeth, you quickly recovered, tilting your head with a defiant glare. "Just shut up and fuck me."

Atsumu’s smirk faltered for a split second, and you caught it—the flicker in his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his grip on your thigh tightened ever so slightly. He tried—tried—to act unfazed, but the way his cock twitched against your leg told you everything you needed to know.

You only smirked, fingers reaching up to drag through his hair, tugging him down until his mouth crashed against yours. If he wanted to act like you weren’t affecting him, you’d just have to prove otherwise.

But then he pulled back, breath ragged, eyes dark with something unreadable. Without a word, he reached for his discarded pants, fishing in the pocket before pulling out a condom. He tore it open with his teeth, rolling it on with a practiced ease that had your stomach flipping.

Atsumu’s gaze flicked to yours as he crawled back over you, spreading your legs apart with both hands, his touch firm, demanding. The tension crackled between you, heavy and intoxicating, his gaze drinking you in like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

And then, finally, finally, he pressed into you—slow, deliberate, stretching you inch by inch until you could feel every bit of him. The sensation was overwhelming, a deep, aching stretch that made your breath falter, your fingers tightening around your sheets as your body adjusted. It felt impossibly slow, like time had deliberately decided to crawl just to make you feel every single inch of him sinking into you, filling you more than you had anticipated, more than you had prepared for.

Your walls clenched involuntarily, the pressure making your body thrum with a mix of pleasure and tension. A choked sound escaped you, something between a gasp and a whimper, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck, pooling behind your eyes as the sheer fullness of it sent a shiver down your spine. Tears pricked at the corners of your vision, unbidden, unexpected, as if your body was trying to process how completely he had taken over your senses.

You almost didn’t dare to look at him. You expected his usual cocky smirk, a teasing remark, some smug comment about how he knew you’d struggle to take him. But when you forced yourself to peek up at him, what you saw made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

Atsumu was wrecked.

At first, you thought he was in pain. His whole body was trembling, jaw locked so tight you could see the tension ripple through him. You blinked, suddenly unsure, shifting slightly beneath him, instinctively moving to push at his chest, to tell him to stop if it was too much—

But the second you moved, Atsumu let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a curse, his hands clamping down hard on your thighs as he all but growled, "Don’t move."

You froze, lips parting in confusion. "Why—"

Then, you saw it.

The way his forehead dropped against yours, the way his entire frame shook with the effort of keeping himself together. His breath was ragged, his nails digging into your skin, his control hanging by a thread so thin you could almost see it snapping.

He wasn’t in pain.

He was holding back.

Holding back from cumming.

The realization sent another wave of heat through you, something dark and wicked unfurling in your chest. He was barely holding on.

And something about that made the heat in your stomach coil tighter, deeper. Seeing him like this—wrecked, struggling, trying so damn hard to hold himself together—was intoxicating. You had spent so long thinking of him as smug, as unshakable, as someone who never let anything get to him. But now? Now he was unraveling above you, and it was because of you.

Your breath caught, and you swallowed hard, trying to shove the thought down as far as it would go. That’s so ridiculously hot.

No. No, you couldn’t let yourself think that, couldn’t let yourself dwell on it, couldn’t let yourself enjoy it. Not with him. Not like this.

You forced yourself to focus, to ease the tension in your body, to relax just enough so it wasn’t as tight, wasn’t as overwhelming for either of you. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, feeling the way his grip tightened just slightly, like he was waiting, like he was barely managing to hold himself back.

And then, without warning, he thrust into you.

A sharp, unrestrained scream tore from your lips, your entire body jolting at the sudden movement. The sensation of being stretched even further sent a shockwave through your system, a mix of pleasure and sheer overwhelming fullness that made your breath stutter. Your back arched instinctively, hands flying up to cover your mouth, eyes blown wide in disbelief at the abruptness of it.

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, your pulse roaring in your ears. The shock took precedence over everything else, and before you could think better of it, you swung your hand out and smacked his shoulder—hard.

“Maybe let me know when you start?!” you half-yelled, voice sharp, breath tumbling out in a shaky exhale as you tried to regain some semblance of composure. Your body was still reeling, trying to adjust to him, and the last thing you needed was to be caught off guard like that.

Atsumu only grinned, completely unbothered by the slap, looking down at you with that insufferable, golden-eyed amusement. His breath was uneven, his jaw tight, but that cocky smirk still curled at his lips like he had all the control in the world.

“What? Thought ya liked surprises, sweetheart,” he teased, voice thick, a little wrecked despite his best efforts to hide it.

As he spoke, he started moving—slow at first, but deep, each thrust deliberate and unrelenting. Whatever sharp remark you had locked and loaded in your brain was lost instantly, the words dying in your throat as a broken moan escaped instead. Your fingers dug into his arms, gripping hard enough to leave marks, your body already responding despite every stubborn effort to resist.

His smirk widened, golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "What was that?" he taunted, his pace steady, unhurried, like he was enjoying watching you struggle to hold yourself together.

You tried—tried—to find your voice, to glare at him, to force something cutting past your lips, but all that came was another breathy moan, your head tilting back against the pillow as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach.

Atsumu chuckled, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear. "Guess ya don’t got much to say now, huh?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers twitching, half a second away from smacking him again. Smug bastard.

But if he thought you were just going to lie there and take it, he had another thing coming.

Your walls clenched deliberately around him in retaliation, squeezing tight just to throw him off his rhythm. The reaction was instant—his breath hitched, his smirk faltering as his jaw clenched hard enough to make his muscles twitch. You felt the tremor that ran through him, the way his fingers dug just a little deeper into your hips, his control barely holding on by a thread.

A satisfied smirk flickered across your lips as you rolled your hips up to meet his thrusts, matching him, challenging him. If he wanted to play smug, you could play harder.

"Fuckin’ hell," Atsumu groaned, voice strained, his movements stuttering before he caught himself. His golden eyes, usually filled with amusement and arrogance, were darker now, hazed over with something dangerously close to desperation.

He exhaled sharply, trying to recover, trying to push past the way you were throwing him off, but you knew. You could see the effort it was taking him to keep control, to not let it slip, and that only made you push more.

His thrusts picked up in response, deeper, more desperate, like he was trying to wrestle back the upper hand. But even he was struggling now, and when he tried to open his mouth for some cocky remark, all that came out was a low, broken moan.

The tension snapped like a live wire between you, the push and pull combusting into something raw, something reckless. His movements grew sharper, more relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to drag both of you under with him. The heat pooling in your stomach grew unbearable, white-hot pleasure licking up your spine, making every nerve in your body hum.

Your head tilted back, lips parting as the sensation overwhelmed you. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, the words tumbled from your lips, breathless and pleading.

"Tsumu... harder."

Something inside him snapped.

A sharp curse tore from his throat, his control completely disintegrating as he buried himself deeper, his rhythm shifting from teasing to ruinous. His pace turned brutal, driving into you with a force that sent you arching into the sheets, your fingers clawing at his back, nails dragging down his skin as you lost yourself to the sheer intensity of it.

Every thrust sent you spiraling higher, the coil in your stomach twisting impossibly tight, your entire body trembling from the mounting pleasure. It was too much, too good, each snap of his hips pushing you closer to the edge until—

You shattered.

A choked cry ripped from your throat, pleasure slamming through you in waves, body tensing, back arching, your walls clamping down around him like a vice. The sensation ripped a strangled groan from Atsumu, his movements growing erratic as he chased his own release, barely holding himself together before he followed, spilling into the condom with a deep, shuddering moan.

For a long moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing, heavy silence, the lingering heat of everything that had just happened wrapping around you both like a smothering fog. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours, the weight of him grounding you in the aftermath of the storm.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you exhaled shakily and muttered, "Well... what now?"

All shits and giggles till you start to feel the shits

Favourite Positions: Asahi

Asahi Azumane hadn’t meant to fuck you like this.

At least, not at first.

From the beginning, he had always treated you like you were something precious. Maybe it was because of the way you fit against him—smaller, delicate in his arms, easily lifted and carried. Maybe it was just who he was. But every time he touched you, it was careful, reverent—like he was holding glass, terrified of pushing too hard, of cracking something he could never replace.

He’d started slow, careful—just like always. His hands had been gentle, his mouth sweet against your skin, his body heavy but controlled as he eased into you between tangled sheets and soft, broken kisses.

You’d wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to the broadness of him, the way his body caged you without feeling suffocating. And for a while, he moved like he was afraid—afraid of breaking you, afraid of being too much.

But the second you pulled your knees higher, the second you whimpered into his mouth and squeezed around him like you couldn’t stand even an inch of distance—

Something in him snapped.

And now you were folded beneath him, legs hooked over his shoulders, arms pinned above your head with one of his big hands wrapped around your wrists, completely at his mercy.

The angle was brutal. Deep. Overwhelming.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The thick weight of him drove every thought out of your head with each slow, devastating thrust that had your thighs trembling and your toes curling in the air.

“Asahi—” you gasped, but it was barely a sound. Your voice broke halfway through, your fingers twitching against his grip.

His other hand wasn’t idle—it skated down your waist, gripping your thigh, your hip, like he didn’t know where to hold you first. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in sharp, desperate bursts, his body trembling from the effort of keeping it together.

“You feel—” he choked out, driving deeper, harder, the wet sounds of your bodies colliding echoing off the walls, “—so good, sweetheart. So fucking good.”

You whined. Couldn’t help it. Your whole body was screaming for him, clenching around him like you never wanted him to stop.

And Asahi, sweet, gentle Asahi, fucked you through it with a quiet ferocity that stole the air from your lungs.

He wasn’t rough. He wasn’t violent. But he was relentless—thrust after thrust angled to wreck you completely, his body pressing you deeper into the mattress with every snap of his hips.

You sobbed out his name, back arching off the bed despite his weight holding you down, and he groaned—low, broken, primal—when he felt how close you were.

“That’s it,” he panted, hips grinding in deep, “Come on, baby, come for me. Let go—I’ve got you.”

And you did.

The orgasm tore through you like a violent wave, pulling the breath from your lungs, your body spasming helplessly under him. You clamped down around him so hard he almost folded, his jaw locking as he cursed under his breath, fucking you through it even as your nails raked helplessly at his shoulders, even as you sobbed his name again and again.

He wasn’t far behind.

You felt the way his rhythm faltered—the way he ground into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt, as he came with a low, broken sound against your neck.

His entire body shuddered above you.

For a long time, neither of you moved. Just the sound of heavy breathing, trembling limbs, and water rushing faintly in the bathroom beyond the door.

Slowly, Asahi lowered your legs from his shoulders, pressing kisses to your knees, your thighs, anywhere he could reach, like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you for even a second.

You whimpered when his mouth brushed over the sensitive inside of your thigh, another tremor ripping through you.

He smiled against your skin—small, wrecked, overwhelmed.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, dragging his lips up to your hip. “Got a little carried away.”

You shook your head, still gasping, still stunned. Still full of him.

Asahi chuckled, low and breathless, and kissed your stomach, your ribs, your sternum—slow, grounding kisses that made your overstimulated body twitch and shiver with every touch.

“I’ll take care of you,” he murmured, lips brushing your pulse. “I’ve got you.”

You barely managed a broken whimper in response before he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like you were something he couldn’t afford to lose.

And in that moment, you knew: He hadn't just fucked you like he was afraid of breaking you. He fucked you like he was afraid of losing you.

Rivalry: Shirabu

"You’re insufferable."

That was the last thing you hissed at Shirabu Kenjirō before the attending physician turned, red-faced and barely breathing through his nose, and barked loud enough to make half the emergency department flinch:

"Both of you—out. Now."

But that wasn’t how the day started.

It started with an argument.

“0.25 milligrams,” you said evenly, eyes flicking from the tablet to the patient. “He’s seventy-two. With a documented history of hepatic impairment. We’re not doing a full dose.”

Shirabu didn’t look up from the vial in his gloved hand. “He’s metabolizing fine, vitals are steady, and the attending’s notes—”

“—don’t override the risk of oversedation,” you cut in, sharper this time. “We need to adjust it. I already cleared it with Pharmacy.”

He glanced at you then, that cool clinical stare that always made your blood boil. “I triple-checked the chart. We’re wasting time.”

“You’re going to put a seventy-two-year-old man into respiratory depression.”

“And you’re going to let him seize while we argue.”

Your mouth opened, ready to fire back—and that’s when it happened.

The patient’s monitor screamed.

A violent shudder rocked through his body, limbs jerking, back arching off the gurney.

“Shit!” you both snapped in unison.

“Code blue!” you shouted into the hallway. “We need Ativan, now!”

The room exploded into motion. Nurses poured in. A crash cart slammed into the doorframe. Someone started chest compressions. And you—helplessly gripping the IV tubing you hadn’t primed—stood frozen beside Shirabu, both of you silent, horror pooling in your throats.

The attending shoved through seconds later, eyes wild. “Get the hell out!”

__

Now.

“You’re done here for today,” the attending had spat, voice blistering. “Go help the nurses. Clean linens, supply runs, sit with waiting patients—I don’t care. You’re both liabilities right now.”

Shame swirled in your gut. Not because you were wrong—no, you were right about the dosage—but because you’d let Shirabu get under your skin. Again. And someone paid for it.

You stormed out of the trauma bay, white coat flaring behind you like a war banner, and Shirabu followed half a step behind, not saying anything yet, which was somehow worse. The moment you passed the threshold into the hallway, you whirled on him.

“You’re unbelievable,” you snapped. “I told you the dose was too high—”

“And I told you I triple-checked the chart,” he said coolly, not even looking at you. “But of course, you think you’re always right.”

“Because I usually am. You never listen to anyone, you just go with your arrogant little gut—”

“My gut?” He turned then, sharply, eyes like frost over steel. “You mean the one that finished top of its class in diagnostics and surgical prep?”

“Oh, congratulations,” you snarled, hands tightening into fists at your sides. “You got a gold star while you ignored the actual patient in front of you.”

"You don't know how to read the room half the time," he snapped. "You’re so busy being morally superior, you forget we’re on a clock. You want to argue philosophy while someone’s bleeding out? Grow up."

You could feel your pulse in your teeth. Heat flooded your face. You weren’t even sure when the two of you had gotten so close—but now he was right in front of you, all sharp lines and cold fire, his jaw tight, breath shallow, his stupidly pretty mouth parted like he had one more insult on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re a condescending prick, you know that?” you hissed. “Always acting like you’re the only one with a functioning brain.”

“And you’re a self-righteous control freak who can’t take being challenged.”

“You don’t challenge, Shirabu. You bulldoze.”

“And you let your emotions run the whole goddamn room.”

You stared at him, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if you’d just sprinted across the hospital. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Cold. The kind of person who drove you absolutely insane. And yet—

His mouth was moving again, eyes still sharp—but all you could think about was how close he was. How flushed his skin had gotten. How your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since that patient flatlined. The adrenaline still burned in your chest like a furnace. And how long had it been since anyone had touched you, really touched you—looked at you like more than just a coat with a badge and a clipboard?

When was the last time I had sex?

The thought shot through your brain like a live wire. The frustration, the tension, the sheer exhaustion of existing inside a pressure cooker like this day after day—it all exploded behind your eyes.

Sixteen-hour shift. A missed lunch. A mistake that rattled your bones.

Fuck it.

You grabbed the front of his coat, yanked him forward, and shoved him—hard—into the nearest door. It flew open with a groan, revealing the dim, cramped supply closet, the air inside cold and sterile and completely indifferent to what was about to happen.

You shoved him inside.

He barely had time to stumble backward before you stepped in after him, kicked the door shut with a sharp slam, and crashed your lips to his.

It was a mistake. It was impulsive. It was heaven. A desperate, furious kind of salvation.

Shirabu froze for half a second—just long enough for you to think oh god, what have I done—before he growled low in his throat and kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this, like he had been burning too. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into your hips like he wanted to leave bruises, like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

You gasped when he walked you backward, guiding you with rough, hurried steps until your back hit the shelves. The plastic bins and paper-wrapped gauze rattled with the force of it.

“This,” he rasped against your jaw, breath hot and uneven, “is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, clawing his lab coat open. “I don’t want to hear your voice right now.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to use it.”

You dragged him down again.

The kiss deepened, turned frantic, messy. Teeth. Tongue. Hot breath and sharp nails. The smell of antiseptic and the sting of fluorescent lighting faded into nothing. The only thing you could feel was the press of his mouth, the grind of his body against yours, the heat blooming low and hungry in your belly.

He yanked your scrub top up, pushed it out of the way with impatience, and bit down along your collarbone like he meant to leave a mark. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. You wanted him closer. You wanted him rougher. You wanted to feel anything but the burn of regret and the echo of the code blue.

And you let him.

Because you’d been burning for too long.

And because, for once, Shirabu Kenjirō had finally shut the hell up.

Rivalry: Atsumu

It had been years of this.

Years of Atsumu Miya being an unrelenting, aggravating presence in your life.

From the moment you met, he had been insufferable. Smug, fiercely competitive, and persistently irksome, he thrived on pushing every button you had. Every interaction with him was a battle—whether it was a disagreement over training schedules, a critique of his technique, or a casual observation about his erratic setting. He never let anything slide, twisting every word into an argument, every comment into an opportunity to outmaneuver you.

The worst part? You never backed down.

If he provoked, you retaliated. If he smirked, you sneered. He could infuriate you faster than anyone else, and he knew it—and he reveled in it.

And now, in your third year as the Inarizaki team manager, you had mastered the art of tolerating Atsumu Miya—

Until tonight.

Tonight, he’d finally gone too far.

The entire team had long since caught on to your dynamic.

Atsumu didn’t merely annoy you—he made a sport out of it.

If you walked into practice? He was already waiting, arms crossed, a cocky grin stretching across his face as he prepared some quip guaranteed to get under your skin.

“Yer late, manager,” he’d say, despite the fact that you never were.

If you so much as tried to correct something? He’d smirk, feigning surprise. “Oh? Maybe I should just hand ya my setter position, huh?”

And the worst part? The others loved it.

Osamu, Futakuchi, and even Kita occasionally leaned back and observed your fights like a live-action drama, amused by how predictably you two clashed.

“Ya know, at this point, I think ya like the attention,” Atsumu teased one afternoon, casually tossing a volleyball between his hands. “Yer always gettin’ worked up over me.”

You scoffed, arms crossed. “Oh, please. The day I enjoy anything about you is the day hell freezes over.”

Futakuchi nudged Osamu. “Tension’s thick today.”

Osamu smirked. “Give it five minutes. They’ll be yellin’.”

And five minutes later, Atsumu had said exactly the right thing to set you off, and the shouting commenced.

Practice had gone as usual, with only a few sharp remarks exchanged between you and Atsumu before it was over. You were exhausted, your muscles aching from running errands for the team all day, your patience wearing thin. All you wanted was to head home, collapse into bed, and forget that Miya Atsumu existed for a few blessed hours.

The team packed up in the club room, their chatter filling the space as they slung their bags over their shoulders. You barely noticed that Atsumu wasn’t among them as they filed out, too focused on getting the final tasks done so you could lock up and leave.

But when you walked into the gym, your plans crumbled.

Atsumu was still there, alone, setting balls into the air with effortless precision. His expression was intense, brows drawn together in concentration, jaw tight, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. The only sounds in the gym were the rhythmic thud of the volleyball meeting his hands and the slight squeak of his sneakers against the polished floor as he adjusted his stance.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. Of course. Of course he couldn’t just leave like a normal person.

His shirt clung to his body, damp with sweat, emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders and the way his forearms flexed every time he made contact with the ball. He moved with precision, power behind every motion, muscles tensing and releasing like a well-oiled machine. As much as you hated to admit it, he was good. Infuriatingly good.

But you didn’t care about that right now.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and sighed. "Seriously, Miya? Go home."

He barely looked at you before responding. "Suck my dick."

You scoffed. "You wish. Now pack up, or I’m locking you in here."

He ignored you, setting another perfect ball into the air. That was the last straw. Marching onto the court, you grabbed the nearest volleyball and chucked it at him. He caught it effortlessly, smirking.

"You gonna help, or just be a pain in my ass?" he taunted.

You turned on your heel and stormed toward the supply closet, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. The overhead light buzzed faintly as you stepped inside, the scent of disinfectant and old volleyballs filling your nose. Without hesitation, you grabbed a laundry basket full of towels and shoved it into Atsumu’s chest the moment you returned.

“You’re gonna help clean up tonight,” you said sharply, your voice edged with exhaustion and frustration.

Atsumu scoffed, letting the weight settle against his chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You stayed late to practice, and I have the keys to the gym. That means you’re packing up before I lock up for the night.”

Atsumu smirked, that lazy, infuriating smirk that made your blood boil. "But you're so much better at those kinds of things, ya know? We all have our strengths."

“Oh? And what's yours?”

He shrugged. “I score points.”

You wanted to strangle him. “I mean off the court, Miya. You brainless egomaniac.”

That smirk widened. "Damn, sweetheart, say it like ya mean it."

Your entire body tensed. If there was one thing—one thing—that set your blood boiling faster than anything, it was that nickname. The way he said it, like it was his own personal joke, a word meant to patronize, to needle at you in a way that no one else dared. It was never affectionate, never playful—not in the way others might say it. No, when Atsumu called you sweetheart, it was dripping with arrogance, a smirk wrapped around syllables meant to get under your skin.

And god, did it work.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, jaw tightening so hard it ached. "Don't. Call. Me. That."

His smirk only grew, as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction. "What? Don't like it? Thought ya might warm up to it by now."

"I'd rather set myself on fire."

Atsumu chuckled, slow and smug, like he'd already won this round. "Now that is dramatic."

You threw a towel at his face, and he caught it effortlessly, his smirk widening. "Temper, temper," he taunted, shaking his head like you were the one being unreasonable. "Y'know, if ya wanted me to get all sweaty cleanin' up, ya coulda just asked nicely." You only roll your eyes in disgust.

“Take those to the supply closet. And don’t start with your usual bullshit, just do what I say for once.”

Atsumu tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something sharp. “Bossy.”

You inhaled sharply, jaw clenching. The way he looked at you—like he thrived on how easily he could rile you up—made your skin prickle. “Miya, I swear to—”

“Fine, fine,” he drawled, rolling his eyes as he slung the towels over his shoulder. His smirk deepened as he eyed you, a flicker of amusement dancing behind those infuriatingly sharp eyes. "Must be exhausting bein’ so uptight all the time. Ya ever tried just... relaxin'? Oh, wait, guess that'd require ya to actually remove that stick from  yer ass."

Your blood boiled instantly, a sharp sting of irritation spreading through your chest. Exhaustion and frustration swirled together into something combustible, something that snapped your already frayed patience. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you fought the urge to throw something harder than a towel at his smug, insufferable face. Without thinking, you stomped past him, heading into the supply closet, letting out a frustrated breath as you grabbed another piece of equipment to throw at him if necessary.

"Maybe if your setting was as reliable as your big mouth, I wouldn’t have to waste my breath on you,” you spat, voice cold and cutting.

Atsumu went rigid. His smirk flattened into something unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, burning eyes—flashed with something dark, something livid.

In an instant, he was storming after you. Before you could react, he followed you into the supply closet, his movements sharp and full of barely restrained anger. The door slammed behind him, the echo bouncing off the walls.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" His voice was low, lethal, his usual teasing edge completely gone.

You whirled around, arms crossing over your chest. "You heard me, Miya. Maybe if you focused on actually being consistent instead of running your mouth, you wouldn't have to work overtime trying to convince people you're the best."

His nostrils flared, jaw clenched so tight you could practically hear his teeth grinding. "You think I got this far by bein' inconsistent? By bein' a fuckin' joke?"

"I think you got this far because you talk so much shit, people actually start to believe it," you bit back. "But I'm not like the rest of your fangirls, Miya. Your act doesn’t work on me."

Atsumu let out a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer. Too close. "Ya really think you know me, huh?" His voice was dangerous now, quiet and sharp like a blade pressed just beneath your skin. "Yer full of shit."

"And you're full of yourself."

The air was thick, charged with something volatile, something unstable. His hands were curled into fists, his breath coming in sharp exhales. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his fury rolling off in waves.

You scoffed in disgust, shaking your head as a bitter smirk pulled at your lips. "You're pathetic."

Atsumu’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening dangerously, but you were already turning away, reaching for the door handle to get as far away from him as possible.

Then your stomach dropped.

The knob refused to turn.

Atsumu frowned. "The hell are ya doin’?"

You twisted the knob again, harder. Still nothing.

Your throat went dry. "The door is locked."

Atsumu snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure it is." He reached out, confidently twisting the handle—

Nothing.

Atsumu frowned, twisting harder. Still nothing.

Silence.

Then, without missing a beat—

“Yeah, like I didn’t try that,” you deadpanned.

Atsumu’s scowl deepened, his frustration crackling in the air between you. "You’ve gotta be fuckin' kidding me. This is all your fault."

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. "Oh, right, because I totally planned to lock myself in a closet with you of all people."

"Yer mouth sure makes it sound like ya did." His voice was low, edged with something sharp. "Maybe ya just wanted me all to yourself."

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Please. If I wanted something all to myself, it sure as hell wouldn’t be you."

Atsumu took a step closer, his presence closing in on you like a storm. "Keep talkin’, princess. Let’s see if ya can keep that smart mouth runnin’ when we’re stuck in here all night."

"Oh, fuck you, Miya," you snapped, stepping forward to meet his glare head-on. "You are without a doubt the most infuriating, self-obsessed asshole I have ever met."

His lips curled into a sneer. "And you’re the most uptight, high-strung pain in the ass I’ve ever met."

"Oh yeah? Well, at least I don’t have to spend every waking second convincing everyone I’m the best. News flash—if you actually were, you wouldn’t have to try so hard."

His eyes darkened, his entire body stiffening at your words. "You wanna talk about trying too hard? How ‘bout ya take a fuckin’ look in the mirror? Always actin’ like ya hate me, but yer always up in my business. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think ya like this."

You scoffed, tilting your head in disbelief. "God, you’re delusional."

"And you’re a fuckin’ hypocrite." He was even closer now, his breath hot, his voice tight with rage. "You always act like ya can’t stand me, but here ya are, pushin’ up against me like ya wanna make this somethin’ else."

The worst part?

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

Your chests were nearly brushing, your ragged breaths intermingling. Your skin was burning, your hands clenched at your sides, every inch of you wound too tight. The anger, the frustration, the way he always got under your skin—it was all-consuming.

And then, suddenly, neither of you were talking anymore.

Atsumu’s mouth was on yours before you could process it, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was just as furious as your fights. You yanked him down by the collar, fingers tangling into the damp fabric of his shirt, pulling him in hard enough to hurt. He groaned into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you back against the closet shelves as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was years of pent-up aggression and frustration, a battle neither of you wanted to win. Teeth clashed, hands grabbed, nails dug into skin. The heat between you was unbearable, suffocating, and neither of you had the willpower to pull away.

Atsumu nipped at your bottom lip, his breath hot against your mouth as he muttered, "Knew ya wanted me."

Shut up, Miya." You bit back.

And then you kissed him again, drowning out whatever cocky response he had left.

Atsumu wasn’t satisfied with just kissing you. His frustration, his irritation, his hunger bled into every movement as he pushed forward, backing you up until your spine hit the cold surface of the supply closet door. The impact barely registered, not when his hands were gripping at your waist, fingers digging into your sides like he was trying to mark you, claim some kind of dominance even here.

You gasped against his mouth, the moment of vulnerability only spurring him on. His lips left yours for half a second—just long enough for him to smirk. “Told ya,” he murmured, voice husky, breath hot against your skin. “You just needed me to shut ya up properly.”

You barely had time to react before he was kissing you again, harder, more desperate. Your hands found their way to his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck and pulling—a move that ripped a deep, guttural groan from his throat. The sound shot straight down your spine, heat pooling in your stomach, making your breath hitch.

His hands slid down, gripping the backs of your thighs, and without a second of hesitation, you wrapped your legs around his waist. He held you effortlessly, as if supporting your weight meant nothing to him. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, making you shudder. He lingered there, his teeth scraping before his mouth latched onto your skin with deliberate pressure. You barely registered the sensation, too caught up in the heat of the moment, too focused on the way his body pressed against yours. But his smirk against your neck said otherwise—like he knew exactly what he was doing, leaving his mark before trailing his lips back to yours.

The warmth of his touch burned through the thin fabric of your clothes, his fingers pressing into your skin in a way that made your head spin. His hands started to wander, moving up beneath your shirt, his touch searing—

And then the door burst open.

Atsumu lost his balance. With a startled grunt, he stumbled forward, dragging you with him as you both spilled out of the closet and onto the hard gym floor.

“What the hell?!”

You barely had time to register the situation before a voice rang out above you.

“The fuck are you two doin’ in here?”

Your eyes shot up to see the janitor, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, face twisted in the most unimpressed expression you had ever seen.

Silence.

Neither you nor Atsumu moved. You were still on top of him, his hands still on your thighs, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders. The position was beyond compromising.

The janitor raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t cleanin’ up after this.”

Atsumu let out a breathless chuckle beneath you, his smirk returning full force. “Guess we got caught, huh, sweetheart?”You shoved him off you so hard he hit the floor with a thud, scrambling to your feet, face burning with embarrassment. “Shut up, Miya!”