Pregnancy: Ushijima

Husbandry: Oikawa

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.

Husbandry: Daichi

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.

Rivalry: Akaashi

You had worked your ass off for this promotion.

Late nights, impossible deadlines, last-minute rewrites—you’d done it all. You had sacrificed weekends, spent too many nights hunched over your desk, and powered through mind-numbing meetings, all in the hopes that your work would finally be recognized. And now, with the senior editor position finally up for grabs, it was down to you and Akaashi Keiji.

Akaashi—the picture-perfect editor. Calm, meticulous, frustratingly good at everything. The kind of guy who never looked frazzled, never rushed, never flinched under pressure. It was like stress simply did not affect him.

And somehow, despite working just as hard as you, he always seemed one step ahead.

You wanted to win this. Not just for the raise or the title, but to finally beat him at something. To prove that you were just as good—better, even.

So when your boss called you both into the office, hands folded with a pleased smirk, you thought, Maybe, just maybe, I’ve got this.

Then the words left their mouth.

“Akaashi landed an exclusive with the MSBY Jackals.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Your boss nodded. “Full-length feature. First-hand accounts. Exclusive team coverage. Bokuto introduced him to the players himself—an incredible opportunity. The kind of coverage that puts our magazine on the map.”

You snapped your head toward Akaashi, who sat calmly beside you, hands folded neatly, expression unreadable.

That smug bastard.

This was his play? Getting his old volleyball captain to pull strings for him?

Your blood boiled.

“Oh, come on,” you said, barely keeping the irritation out of your voice. “That’s not exactly fair.”

Akaashi finally turned to you, blinking in that cool, composed way that made you want to shake him. “How so?”

You scoffed. “You used connections to land the interview. It wasn’t based on merit.”

Akaashi tilted his head, looking entirely unbothered. “I leveraged resources available to me. That’s part of the job, isn’t it?”

Your jaw clenched.

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Your boss leaned back in their chair, watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement before raising a hand to cut off the argument. “Enough. If you both want this promotion, you’re both going to prove you deserve it.”

You blinked. “What?”

Akaashi didn’t react, but you saw the faintest flicker of curiosity in his sharp blue eyes.

“You’re both going to work on the feature together,” the boss continued, tapping a finger against their desk. “I want the best piece possible. If you can’t put aside your rivalry long enough to get this done, neither of you will get the promotion. Understood?”

Your fingers tightened around your notepad. This was not what you wanted. The whole point was to beat him, not work with him.

But you couldn’t back down now. Not when the stakes were this high.

“…Understood,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

Akaashi nodded smoothly. “Understood.”

“Good.” Your boss glanced at the clock. “Get started. I expect a solid first draft by the end of the week. And with the deadline, I imagine you’ll be staying late to work on it together.”

You bit back a sigh, already feeling the impending headache.

The moment the meeting ended, you stormed past Akaashi, but before you could make it out the door, his voice followed, low and amused.

“Try not to let your frustration get in the way of our work,” he said smoothly, adjusting his glasses. “It’d be a shame if I had to carry you through this project.”

You turned on your heel, eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t worry, Akaashi. If anyone’s carrying this project, it’ll be me.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “I look forward to seeing that.”

You hated how much fun he was having.

But most of all?

You hated that he always found a way to stay one step ahead.

~~~~

The office was silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of keyboards and the occasional irritated sigh escaping your lips.

You had been here for hours, stuck in the same damn room with Akaashi, going back and forth on revisions, disagreeing on everything.

“That transition is too abrupt,” Akaashi said, his tone calm as he skimmed over your section. “It needs more context.”

“It’s concise,” you shot back, stretching in your chair. “We don’t need extra fluff.”

He exhaled softly, as if reigning in patience. “It’s not fluff. It’s clarity.”

You groaned, leaning back. “You’re impossible.”

Akaashi didn’t look up from his screen. “And yet, you’re still here.”

You wanted to throw something at him.

After another hour of back-and-forth edits, your eyes started to sting from staring at the screen for too long. You rubbed at them, sighing deeply as you slumped in your chair.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered. “We’re never going to finish at this rate.”

Akaashi glanced at the clock. “Then we should stop arguing and be efficient.”

You shot him a glare. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly a team player?”

His lips quirked. “I always was. You just refuse to acknowledge it.”

You groaned again, running a hand through your hair. This was going to be a long night.

Akaashi sighed, leaning back in his chair as well, adjusting his glasses. “We’re making progress. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

You didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. The article was shaping up, the writing crisp, the interviews well-structured. And despite your deep frustration, working with Akaashi wasn’t as horrible as you wanted it to be.

Still, you weren’t going to let him think he had the upper hand.

“We’ll see,” you muttered, turning back to your screen.

Akaashi hummed, watching you for a moment before returning to his own work.

The night stretched on, both of you determined to outdo the other, neither of you willing to be the first to give in.

And just like that, the rivalry continued.

Until Akaashi broke the silence.

"I have extra tickets to the MSBY game this weekend. You should come."

Your fingers froze over your keyboard. Slowly, you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Akaashi didn’t even glance up, still focused on his screen as if he hadn’t just said something completely out of character. "The game. It would be beneficial to see the team in action if we’re writing about them."

You narrowed your eyes. "You could just send me the game footage."

His fingers tapped lightly against his desk before he finally looked at you, gaze unreadable. "That’s not the same."

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"I’m not. I’m being practical."

You scoffed. "Uh-huh. Sure."

Akaashi tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You don’t have to come. I just thought you’d appreciate an exclusive firsthand look. But if you’d rather rely on secondhand reports, be my guest."

Your jaw tightened. You hated how effortlessly he manipulated situations in his favor.

"Fine. I’ll go."

Akaashi nodded, returning to his work as if nothing had happened. "Good. I’ll send you the details."

You stared at him for a second longer before shaking your head, muttering under your breath.

This was getting too weird.

Nanami and Itadori core <3

Writing Prompt #2923

"Come on! Everyone needs a spunky little sidekick!"

"Yeah, and it's super cute and silly until the spunky little sidekick dies because they think they're grown up enough to handle the job I've spent the last 20 years doing. Not. Happening."

HIIII ❤️❤️

Ive been reading around and oh my gosh i’ve been on your page for hours I LOVE THESE SMSMSMSM

I was wondering if you could make a nishinoya yuu x reader jealousy situation of sorts with some other character of your preference 😛

TYTYTY AND HAVE A GOOD DAY

HEYYY ❤️❤️

omggg THANK YOU you're literally the sweetest?? I’m so glad you've been enjoying the writing, that means everything 😭💕

I dug around my heart for this one hehehe enjoy <333

--

Jealously: Nishinoya

The Italian coast had a way of folding people into it.

The small harbor town of Portoscala wasn’t marked on most maps, but it was the kind of place that pulled you in by scent and sound alone—basil, brine, the sharp bark of espresso machines, the hiss of fishing lines cutting into saltwater. The houses stacked up the hillside in sun-washed pastels, terracotta roofs leaning toward one another like gossiping old women, and each morning bloomed in gold, dust, and noise.

Nishinoya had been living there for almost a year.

He liked the simplicity. The rhythm. He fished in the early morning when the water was still like glass and the mist clung to the backs of boats. He traded with the locals for olives, lemons, sun-warped tomatoes. He learned to speak enough Italian to argue over coffee but kept to himself when he could. That is—until the morning he saw the shop.

It was tucked quietly between buildings like it had grown there, ivy tumbling down the stucco in lazy loops. Not flashy. Just a wide, sun-fogged window and a crooked, hand-painted sign that read: “STAMPE DI PESCI – Art of the Sea.”

He might have passed it—would’ve passed it—if not for what he saw in the window.

A fish. Flattened. Inked. Pressed onto thick, textured paper with no signature, no flourish. Just the clean, solemn truth of its shape. It hit him like a wave. Not the artwork—though it was stunning—but the memory it dragged up from deep inside him.

Gyotaku.

He hadn’t seen it in years. Not since Japan. Not since he was a kid trailing behind his grandfather at the docks, watching weathered hands lift up fish with reverence. Not since he learned the words “This is how you honor the catch.”

He didn’t hesitate. He walked straight in.

The bell above the door jingled. The smell inside was rich and unfamiliar—sumi ink, sea salt, rosemary from the windowsill. The walls were lined with delicate scrolls, prints hung to dry on twine lines, their outlines crisp and real, as if they might still swim.

And there you were.

Barefoot, sleeves rolled to the elbows, brush in hand. You were crouched over a long table near the back, smoothing the belly of a halibut with fingers stained black at the tips. Your hair was tied up but loose in places, ink streaked across your cheek in a streak you hadn’t noticed yet.

You looked up at the sound of the bell, blinking once before smiling. “Can I help you?”

He opened his mouth, paused, then blurted, “Where’d you learn to do that?”

You stood, wiping your hands on your apron. “Gyotaku? From an artist in Hokkaido. I lived there for a few months.”

“I’m from Miyagi,” he said. “My jii-chan showed me once. Said it was… respectful.”

You nodded. “It is. It’s also beautiful.”

He stepped closer, eyes flicking over the work laid out on your table. They weren’t just prints. They were preserved motion. Like each fish had whispered something to you, and you'd sealed it in ink.

“I fish,” he said suddenly. “A lot.”

That made you laugh. “Lucky me.”

From that day forward, he brought you fish. Not for money. Not for trade. Just… because.

You specialized in gyotaku: honoring a fish's form by inking it and pressing it into rice paper. Some saw it as odd, but Nishinoya understood it immediately. "You're printing souls," he’d said once, eyes wide. "You're like... a fish priest." You laughed so hard you smudged your sleeve in ink.

Sometimes he brought tuna. Sometimes eels. Once, a marlin.

“Found this guy giving me attitude,” he said, setting the marlin down with a triumphant grin that practically gleamed in the sunlight. His shirt was half-untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and there was a visible scrape down one forearm you suspected had a very fishy origin. “I spotted him darting through the current like he thought he could out-swim me. I told him, ‘No chance. You’re going straight to her studio.’ It was like he knew you’d been looking at other marlins.”

You squinted at him, folding your arms. “Wait. Are you saying you chased down a marlin because you were jealous of hypothetical fish?”

He looked at you with complete sincerity. “He was flashy. Had that whole deep-sea bad boy look. I wasn’t taking chances.”

You stared. “Yuu. Did you wrestle a marlin because you got jealous of how it looked?”

He shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “I mean, I won. So… not that weird, right?”

What he didn’t know was that your manager, back in Tokyo, had recently started sending rare fish your way for commissioned prints. They were oddities—deep-sea rarities with exotic fins and unusual shapes, packed in sleek crates with dry ice and impersonal paperwork. It was nothing personal. Just a business arrangement. Your agent insisted the pieces would catch the eye of collectors and museums. You weren’t even sure you liked it. The fish felt clinical. Shipped from a catalogue. Still, you printed them, because sometimes art meant compromise.

One morning, you were laying a freshly defrosted anglerfish onto your press table, arranging the fins just so, when the studio door creaked open.

“That’s not mine,” Nishinoya said flatly.

You glanced up, brush poised midair. “No. It’s from my manager. Special commission.”

He didn’t respond. Not immediately. He just crossed his arms, standing there in the doorway like he'd been slapped with a cold towel. His brows furrowed hard enough to crease the space between them, and his eyes flicked between the anglerfish and you like he wasn’t sure which of you he felt more betrayed by.

“Yuu?” you asked, already hearing the shift in his silence.

“So now you’re just taking fish from whoever sends them?” he muttered, voice sharp around the edges but too controlled to be casual. There was disbelief there—wounded pride dressed up in sarcasm. His posture was all puffed-up defensiveness, hands tucked under his arms, one foot tapping absently against the tile.

You blinked. “It’s for a commission. I didn’t pick it. They just send them.”

“Uh-huh,” he muttered, still eyeing the fish like it had personally flirted with you.

“Yuu—”

“I just thought I was your fish guy,” he said, louder now, pacing a few steps forward before turning on his heel. “Guess I got replaced by some frozen deep-sea glow stick.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried not to laugh. You really tried.

“A glow stick?”

He shot you a look, scowl deepening. “With teeth. Look at it! That thing’s got more spikes than a sea urchin in a blender.”

You set the brush down and crossed the room, reaching out to tug gently at his sleeve. “Yuu. Come on.”

He let you pull him a little closer, though he kept his head turned stubbornly to the side.

“You are my fish guy. My ridiculous, dramatic, jealous fish guy. Who once named a swordfish after me and then told the whole pier she was impossible to catch.”

He sniffed. “To be fair, she was very stubborn. And she slapped me. Right in the nose.”

You bit back a grin. “Exactly my point.”

His eyes flicked to you finally—brown and bright and still a little hurt, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit how much the whole thing had gotten under his skin.

Without a word, you reached beneath your worktable and pulled out a wrapped scroll, tied carefully with twine. “I was saving this for your birthday, but… now seems like a good time.”

He took it hesitantly, brow furrowed, and began to unroll it.

The moment the marlin came into view, he froze. The print was bold—ink sweeping across the paper in clean, elegant lines. Powerful. Still. The exact shape of the fish he’d caught for you weeks ago. You’d captured its spirit perfectly, the curve of its body frozen in motion like it was still alive.

“I made this for you,” you said softly. “I couldn’t hang it in the studio. It didn’t feel right. It’s yours.”

He stared down at the paper like it was something sacred. His fingers tightened around the edges.

“You’re not crying, are you?” you teased gently.

“No,” he said quickly, voice higher than usual and cracking a little at the end. “I just got fish guts in my eye or something.”

You laughed, and he stepped forward to pull you into him, one arm wrapping tight around your waist, the other holding the scroll safely behind your back like it was too precious to wrinkle.

“I’m still your number one fish guy, right?” he murmured into your shoulder.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Always.”

He pulled back just enough to grin, the edges of it crooked and boyish. “Even if I name the next one after your middle name?”

“Yuu.”

He laughed into your neck. “Fine. But she better be as stubborn as you.”

hello lovely!! I hope ur doing well! I’ve been to gobbling up all your writing recently and I just wanted to say that you’re so talented! Your ability to accurately characterize, well, the characters is so important and it’s just overall fantastic. Please keep up the good work!! <33

I wanted to request Sugawara — possibly taking care of the reader when they’re sick? Or maybe period pains? Either works, I really don’t mind! There’s not a lot of Suga writing on tumblr as a whole (that I’ve been able to find), and I’d like to see you work your magic! Thank youuu!

Hi sweet anon!! 🥹💛 Thank you so much for your kind words — They genuinely mean the world to me. I’m so happy you’re enjoying the writing!! Hopefully this is want you pictured in your head hehe

Enjoy<333

--

Anon Asks: Sugawara

The door creaked open before you could even lift your head from the couch.

"Hey, you should be resting," came Sugawara’s voice—soft, teasing, but edged with concern. The sound of it washed over you like a balm, even as your body rebelled against every small movement.

You grunted in response, curling deeper into the fortress of blankets you'd made for yourself. Every inch of your body ached with a dull, persistent throb. Your head pounded in time with your heartbeat, and your stomach twisted and cramped unpleasantly, making you feel heavy and brittle all at once.

Koushi set the grocery bag down with a soft thud, the rustling of plastic filling the room as he moved around. You cracked one eye open to find him methodically unpacking supplies: herbal teas, a box of your favorite crackers, a heating pad, a fresh bottle of painkillers, and—to your complete and utter dismay—a small bouquet of daisies.

“You didn’t have to,” you croaked, voice hoarse.

He shot you a look over his shoulder, eyebrow arched in a way that immediately made you feel silly for even suggesting it. “You’re right,” he said lightly, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

You huffed, burrowing deeper into the blanket, trying—and failing—to hide the way your face flushed. Whether it was from embarrassment or overwhelming gratitude, you weren’t sure.

Sugawara padded over, kneeling down so you were eye-level. His hand, warm and slightly calloused from years of volleyball, brushed against your forehead. Gentle, steady.

“Still warm,” he murmured, his brows knitting together in a tiny frown. “Poor thing.”

You cracked a weak smile, the motion tugging at the ache in your temples. “I’m fine, really,” you mumbled.

“Mmhmm,” he hummed, clearly not believing a word of it.

Without asking, he cracked open one of the heat packs, giving it a firm shake until it warmed to life. He slipped it under the blanket, pressing it against your lower abdomen with slow, careful movements. A soft, involuntary sigh slipped past your lips as the warmth seeped into your cramping muscles.

He smiled at that, eyes crinkling in that boyish, heart-melting way he had.

“There’s my girl,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it over the gentle thrum of the rain starting outside.

Sugawara busied himself preparing tea—the comforting clatter of the kettle, the soft clink of a spoon stirring honey into a mug—all while stealing glances at you every few moments. Watching. Making sure you didn’t strain yourself.

When he returned, he slid onto the couch beside you, coaxing you upright just enough to press the steaming mug into your hands.

“Easy,” he murmured, one hand steadying the cup with you. “Small sips.”

You obeyed, too tired to argue, the warmth from the tea and his touch making the ache behind your eyes begin to loosen.

Once the tea was safely set aside on the coffee table, he didn’t retreat back to his corner. Instead, he carefully pulled you into his arms, arranging you across his lap with an ease that made your heart ache. His hands found your lower back almost immediately, working slow, tender circles into the tense muscles there.

The world outside faded. The rain against the windows softened into a background hum. Your muscles remained sore, but the sharp edges of your pain dulled—replaced by the steady, grounding beat of Koushi’s heart against your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing, the feeling of being wrapped up in something—someone—solid and sure.

Your hands tightened weakly in the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline.

“Thank you,” you whispered back, voice cracking from the weight of everything you were too tired to say properly.

He only squeezed you tighter, thumb stroking lazy, soothing patterns across your hip.

“Always,” he murmured.

And as your eyes fluttered closed, your body giving in to the exhaustion at last, you realized: with Koushi here, you could finally let yourself rest.

Truly, completely, safely rest.

Favourite Positions: Ushijima

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.”

Broken Telephone Pt.1

You talk too much and have no shame. You later find out Kugisaki can’t keep a secret.

Chaos ensues.

It was a normal day.

Well, as normal as it could be at a school for sorcerers.

You’d just finished a long, obscene amount of useless classes that in no way would help you in the future as you sat on the steps of the school’s entrance, feeling the sun hit your face. The spring weather was nice, sun shining and heat settling in, with cool breezes of wind to neutralize it. The sound of the wind through the trees was calming.

Even though you couldn’t hear any of it due to Kugisaki’s talking.

You didn’t mind it though. In a school with a shockingly small amount of students, and an even smaller first-year class, you liked the empty spaces to be filled with noise. Kugisaki and Itadori did that well.

The silence was boring anyway.

“-I swear he’s so childish, there’s a reason why girls don’t like him you know.” You zone in on her irritated voice, taking a sip from the drink you bought from the vending machine.

Ah right. She was complaining about Itadori. What about him, though, you couldn’t remember. Maybe it was about the sudden revival from the dead, but honestly, it’s a toss-up at this point.

“Girls don’t like him? I mean he’s childish sure, but they’re are plenty of girls who like that.” Despite the fiery personality of Kugisaki, you, on the other hand, were much the calmer side, more cool-headed you could say. Of course, there are moments where you lose said cool, but for the most part, you’d consider yourself a pacifist.

This is ironic considering your livelihood at the moment is killing curses.

Maybe that’s why you and Kugisaki got along so well. Well, that and the fact that you two were the only girls in first-year, and like she said, ‘Us girls gotta stay together. Can’t have the boys running the show’ which you do agree with. In the jujutsu world there aren’t many respected female sorcerers, and Kugisaki intends to change that. Along with Maki-senpai.

You found it admirable. But you personally wouldn’t go through the trouble. Fame and demanded respect from others you didn’t care about wasn’t something you were exactly interested in.

“Hah? Really? Well, would you date him?” You go to respond, but pause. She had a good point. Now, you didn’t have any problems with Itadori, even though he swallowed a special-grade cursed object, that was a little weird.

Okay, a lot weird.

But for the most part, he was just a friend. You did care a lot for him surprisingly when he ‘died’ you were sadder than you expected yourself to be, and a lot angrier when he was found alive, but honestly…

He simply didn’t do it for you.

“Nah, he isn’t my type.” You say causally, taking another sip of your drink. Kugisaki quirks her brow.

“What is your type then?” She asks, slyly studying you, probably trying to make sure that you don’t lie. Your form stays relaxed as you think about it. A person immediately pops in your head and without thinking you blurt it out.

“Someone like Fushiguro. How about you?” The sentence makes the chill atmosphere, or as chill as it could be with someone like Kugisaki, break in an instant.

“What?! You can’t just drop a bomb like that and try to pass it off!” Your eyes widen as she gets inches away from your face. The flame in her eyes was so close you could practically feel the heat coming off them.

“Fushiguro?! You like him?!” You start to sweat a little at the accusing tone in her voice, the pressure making your heart suddenly beat ten times faster. You could imagine this is how criminals feel when being interrogated.

“Uh… Yeah? I mean, what’s not the like? He’s attractive, smart, and puts himself before others.” You start to list off, stopping when you hear a ‘tch’ of disapproval. Honestly, you could’ve listed dozens of other reasons. Though you’ve only known him for a couple of months, you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t fallen hard, probably more than you’re letting on right now. You blush slightly at your thoughts, but Kugisaki doesn’t seem to notice.

“And I here I thought you had good taste. You’re into guys who act all high mighty, and who probably likes to light oil slicks on fire or kick stray cats when no ones watching. I can’t trust anyone these days.” Her voice turns dramatically sad, and you snort at the strangely detailed insult.

“I’m not saying I’m in love with Fushiguro, I’m just saying that he’s not bad to look at. That’s all.” Also wanting to be around him constantly, and get to look at him whenever I want.

Now, you don’t know whether this was a good trait or a bad trait, honestly, it was a gamble at times, but you’re comfortable, you’re absolutely shameless. And while it can be good in some situations, you’ll realize soon enough that this would be your downfall.

Kugisaki starts to make a lot of choked sounds, and before she dies of a heart attack, you decide to take the conversation off you. “Ok then, if I have shitty taste and you’re the queen in choosing partners, what’s you’re type?” Like a cartoon, her mood flips in an instant, and you listen to her ramble about her standards and how most people probably aren’t good enough for her. It was entertaining, to say the least, but when the sun started the set and the cooling breeze got uncomfortable, you both decided to call it night.

You didn’t think much of your confession, for lack of a better word. But little did you know that this ‘confession’ was going to bite you in the ass.

Jealousy: Oikawa

Barcelona was always golden in the evening.

Sunlight spilled between buildings like warm syrup, painting the cobblestones in hazy orange light, alive with motion and music and voices raised in too many languages to count. The streets pulsed with energy, and Oikawa moved through it all like he belonged there—because he did.

You walked beside him, fingers laced loosely through his, sunglasses pushed up into your hair as you studied a nearby plaza, smiling at the crowd. You'd only stopped for a quick drink before heading home, but somehow a ten-minute rest turned into lingering.

Which was exactly how it happened.

He came out of nowhere—tall, handsome in that slightly too-smooth way, and a native speaker who clearly wasn’t shy about using his charm. He was friendly, casual, and you—being you—were nothing but warm in return. Oikawa was used to it. You made friends everywhere. Waiters, baristas, strangers on trains. He wasn't usually the jealous type.

Usually.

But today? You were laughing a little too softly. Tilting your head a little too far. And the guy? Oh, he was leaning in like he had a damn chance.

Oikawa didn't say anything right away. He just sipped his drink and watched, sunglasses shielding the slow burn building behind his eyes. Your fingers were still in his, but even that wasn’t grounding him tonight. Not when the guy started complimenting your accent. Not when he gestured toward the nearest bar with an easy smile and said,

"If you're looking for local recommendations, I could show you a few places."

That was when you felt it.

Oikawa's hand tightened slightly around yours, his thumb no longer stroking circles over your skin but now still, firm.

You turned toward him innocently, blinking up at his too-perfect face with a feigned sweetness that you knew drove him insane.

"Tooru," you said, voice syrupy, "he says he can show us some local spots. Isn't that nice?"

Oikawa set his glass down with a clink, but instead of stepping in front of you—he stepped behind. His arms slid smoothly around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back as he dipped his head low, his lips brushing just below your ear when he spoke.

"You’re playing dangerous games," he whispered, voice like silk and warning all at once. The way his breath fanned across your skin made you shiver, your back unconsciously arching into him. He chuckled against your neck, low and warm, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

The guy took a half-step back, visibly caught off-guard now as his eyes darted between you and the very obviously possessive arms wrapped around your waist.

Oikawa turned his head, resting his chin on your head, and finally spoke aloud—his tone still pleasant, still polite, but tinged with something sharper.

"Oh, you didn’t know?" he said, gaze locking with the man’s. "She’s very much taken. Tragic, I know. Don't worry though, I've lived here for years."

The guy blinked, awkward laugh faltering. "Ah—right. My mistake. Sorry, man. Just being friendly."

"Of course," Oikawa said with a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Happens all the time." The guy took the hint and left, vanishing into the crowd, and you finally let the smile stretch fully across your face.

"You're so dramatic," you hummed, stepping closer, chest brushing his as you leaned into his space.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes, even as his arms slid around your waist.

"Do I really need to wear a sign?" he muttered.

You batted your lashes. "Maybe. Or just keep doing that thing where your voice gets all cold. It's kind of hot."

His brows lifted.

"You're doing it on purpose."

You grinned. "Maybe."

Oikawa sighed, burying his face in your neck, lips brushing the skin there.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"Mmm. But I’ll make it fun."

Broken Telephone Pt. 4

A full week has passed since your dignity had been ripped to shreds, and since then you could say that it had been somewhat restored.

Emphasis on somewhat.

Now that the whole group was in on your dirty little secret, they refused to let it go. Well, just Itadori and Kugisaki, the second years didn’t really care all that much (Though they joined in on the fun sometimes). They would make sly comments whenever given the chance; always to the point that left your blood boiling and eyebrows twitching. You prayed that they would eventually forget about it, but with the way it’s going currently…

You’d say it’s pretty slim.

And to make matters even worse, you could tell that Fushiguro was beginning to notice the looks, the snickers and the inside jokes. With every jab at you, his suspicions would rise, along with your stress levels and blood pressure.

You could say with ease that your mental health was starting to take a nose dive when a certain someone decided to stop by for a quick chat.

“[Name]! Do you have a minute?” You turn from your book to see your teacher walking towards you with a huge smile on his face. You immediately took caution. You had seen enough of your questionable teacher to know what his smiles meant. And it was never good.

He was either going to bother someone or bother a group of people. It seems today the main target was you.

“I don’t have your shirt. I gave it to Kugisaki.” You return to your book, hoping he will take the hint and leave you alone.

But he doesn’t take it. Then again, he never does.

“I’m not here about that. I just wanted to check up on you.” You pause, looking up slowly with heavy disbelief, sighing, and closing your book already knowing that you weren’t going to get to it any time soon. “You? Wanted to check up on me? You?” Your voice is laced heavy with suspicion. Gojo only smiles.

“What’s wrong with a teacher checking up on a student?”

“Nothing wrong with it. It’s just that it’s You.” You watch your 28-year-old teacher pout. You start to feel a headache coming on.

“Why does everyone assume the worst in me?” You raise a brow.

“Because it’s You. There’s an ulterior motive in everything you do. Now what do you want?” Your teacher tsks, leaning against the rails of the stairs you were sitting on.

“I don’t want anything. I just wanted to congratulate you.” Your face morphs into confusion, then clear disdain and disgust.

“You congratulating me is creepy.”

“Why is it creepy?”

“Because it’s-“

“Don’t you have anything more original than ‘it’s you’? When you first got here you were witty, you know.” You only hum.

“Seems your classes have dumbed me down.”

“That’s a little better. Like a solid 4.” You roll your eyes. “Why are you congratulating me?” Gojo’s smile widens, and you can feel your heart sinking to your stomach. Oh, you didn’t like where this was going.

“On winning my blessing.” His voice is filled with pride, and you feel your soul bunch up in dread. You feel a lump start to form in your throat as you formulate your words.

“For what?” You almost didn’t want to ask with the way he’s acting. Gojo’s grin stretches a mile wide now, and you’ve quite literally never been more terrified.

“You and Megumi to start dating.”

And there it was. The thing you’ve been secretly hoping to never happen. The thing that kept you up at night, could cause sweat to cover your entire body in seconds.

Gojo knew about your crush.

You immediately start choking on your own spit, the shock of his words causing your entire brain to shut down for a second. You could hear the blood pounding in your ears as you stared at your worst nightmare materialized before your eyes Gojo's grin remained plastered across his face, clearly loving your reaction. You couldn’t play this off now, you couldn’t feign ignorance or confusion. He caught you off-guard and there was no denying it.

Fucker had you right where he wanted you.

You quickly realized that you quite literally had nothing to lose, seeing that everything was about to collide and go down the shithole. So, while seething, you asked through clenched teeth. “Who told you?” You wanted to, no, needed to know. Because that person was going to be put into a world of pain.

You would spare no expense.

“Call it a teacher’s intuition,” He chuckled, leaning back in absolute glee in your misery and anguish as if he had just achieved the greatest victory in the world. You could feel your face burning, a mixture of embarrassment, frustration, and betrayal churning inside you.

"Teacher's intuition? More like teacher's nosiness," you retort, trying to regain some semblance of composure despite feeling like the ground had opened up beneath you.

Gojo's grin only widened at your response. "Now, now, don't be too hard on your friends. It's not easy keeping secrets in a place like this." He seemed to revel in the discomfort he'd caused, thoroughly enjoying the situation.

You clench your fists, fighting the urge to march off or, better yet, fling some retort that might wipe that smug look off his face. Instead, you force a tight-lipped smile, trying to think quickly about damage control.

"So, what now? Planning our marriage?” The sarcasm dripped from your words.

Gojo laughed heartily, leaning closer as if sharing a conspiratorial secret. "Oh, no, not at all. I just wanted to be the first to offer my congratulations. And perhaps give you a little push in the right direction." His wink made you shudder.

"Right. Because that's what I needed today, more unsolicited advice," you mutter, feeling the weight of this revelation pressing down on you.

"Just think about it," Gojo teased, patting your shoulder before strolling off, leaving you in a whirlwind of emotions.

You slump against the railing, replaying the scene in your mind, trying to figure out who might've spilled the beans. The suspicion fell on Itadori and Kugisaki, the ones who had made your secret a running joke. But then, Fushiguro's recent observations made you wonder if he had caught on and confided in Gojo.

The idea of confronting anyone felt daunting. You didn't want to expose your vulnerability any further. You longed for a moment of peace, a chance to gather your thoughts without feeling like everyone was in on your personal struggles. Taking a deep breath, you straighten up, determined not to let this revelation completely unravel you. You gather your belongings, trying to focus on your studies despite the turmoil brewing within. The day had taken an unexpected turn, and navigating through it without feeling like your whole world was spinning out of control seemed like an impossible task.