Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

this is how i imagine the reader's hair looks but ofc you can leave it to your imagination! :)

The gym looked smaller now. Or maybe it was the years—pressed between dusty bleachers and faded memories—shrinking it down to something less intimidating, less magical than it once was. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow on the polished floor that still bore scuff marks from volleyball matches long past. The air was tinged with the faint scent of lemon cleaner and nostalgia.

Your heels clicked smartly as you stepped through the entrance, each step echoing like punctuation in the hush that followed. A banner sagged above the doorway: “Welcome Back, Nekoma Class of 20XX!” in peeling red paint and wrinkled vinyl. You barely resisted the urge to laugh—it felt like stepping into someone else's scrapbook.

All heads turned.

It wasn’t just the dress—though it clung to your curves in all the right places, dark and sleek like spilled ink, with a slit that kissed your thigh when you walked. It wasn’t just the jewelry either—silver, minimal, catching the gym lights with a subtle flash.

No, it was the hair.

Short. Sharp. A pixie cut that carved along your cheekbones like a blade. Sleek on the sides, tousled just enough to be artful on top. It transformed your face, drew all eyes to your lips, your neck, the confident angle of your jaw.

“Is that really her?” someone murmured near the snack table.

“She used to have long hair, right?”

“Damn… the cut actually suits her.”

You smiled politely, eyes skimming the crowd. You hadn’t even reached for a drink yet, but already you felt it—that stare. Intense. Focused. Like heat blooming beneath your skin.

And then—there he was.

Morisuke Yaku.

Leaning against the far wall like he owned it. One arm crossed over his chest, the other cradling a drink he hadn’t taken a sip of. His shirt, black and buttoned just tight enough to show the tension across his chest, looked like it was doing a poor job keeping all that strength contained. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms deliciously veined and tan, hands twitching slightly—whether from nerves or control, you couldn’t tell. A tie around his neck done too quick, too loosely.

His jawline was sharper than you remembered, traced now with the faintest scruff. His strawberry blonde hair still the same length, a little fluffier. His nose—still proudly straight. But his eyes?

Still the same.

Amber-brown, intense, smoldering beneath thick lashes, staring at you like you’d walked straight out of a dream. Like you had no right to look that good. Like he couldn’t believe it was you.

He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move.

Just watched, lips parting slightly like he wanted to say your name but couldn’t remember how.

You pretended not to notice, making your way over to the drink table instead. A classmate spotted you and let out a laugh—surprised, but more envious than warm.

“Oh my God, (Y/N)! It’s been years,” she gushed, eyes scanning you up and down like you were a designer bag she wasn’t sure she could afford. “You went off to study in America after high school, right?”

You gave a polite little smile, already bracing. “Yeah.”

Here we go.

“Wait—didn’t you marry that hotshot surgeon?”

You tilted your glass, letting the ice swirl with practiced ease. “Divorced now.”

“Oh—damn. Sorry.”

You smiled slowly, sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t be. Marriage is boring anyway.”

She didn't smile back. Your eyes dropped to her hand—big diamond glinting on her ring finger.

Oops.

You took a sip, eyes flicking away from her and up—just for a second.

Yaku was still staring.

But this time, his jaw was clenched a little tighter.

And you? You didn’t look away.

But you didn’t go to him either.

Not right away.

You let the night breathe a little—let him simmer across the room while you chatted with old classmates, your laughter low and smooth, your posture relaxed and poised. The pixie cut had transformed you—sharpened your edges, exposed your neck, gave your little smile a dangerous tilt.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

Kuroo, of course, noticed.

“Damn,” he drawled, sidling up into a seat at you table beside you with a drink in one hand and that signature smirk curving his lips. “You look... dangerous.”

You tilted your head, grinning. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

“Little of both.” His eyes dragged across your frame, lingering just a second too long. “Though I gotta say, kinda tragic about the hair. I liked it long. Real nice to pull on, y’know?”

You laughed softly, unbothered, lifting your drink to your lips. “And here I thought you liked women with a little bite.”

“Oh, I do.” He leaned in just enough to brush against you, fingers lifting to twirl a piece of your short hair around his finger—lazy, teasing. “This’ll still do, I guess.”

You raised an eyebrow, but before you could clap back, a shadow slid into your peripheral.

Yaku.

He moved like a quiet storm—deliberate, confident, heat simmering beneath the surface. His smile was polite, even pleasant, but his eyes? Locked on Kuroo with a message that didn’t need words.

Kuroo. Move.

Kuroo chuckled under his breath, hands raised in surrender as he stepped back. “Alright, alright. Territorial as ever, huh, Morisuke?”

Yaku just smiled wider, eyes never leaving Kuroo’s until he was gone. Then—finally—he looked at you.

“Still attract strays, huh?” he murmured, voice low as he took Kuroo’s vacated spot beside you like it had always belonged to him.

You smirked. “Still get jealous easily, huh?”

He leaned in, gaze dropping to your mouth.

“Only when I’m losing.”

Your breath hitched just slightly—but your grin never faltered. You swirled your drink, “Didn’t think you’d still stare like that either.”

He blinked, then scoffed—barely. “Not staring.”

“Oh no?” you purred, shifting in your seat just enough to cross your legs—slow, deliberate. “You’ve barely looked away from me since I walked in.”

He opened his mouth to fire something back, but the scent of your perfume hit him mid-thought. He faltered.

You leaned in slightly, your voice dipping low. “Well, you always did like girls with short hair.”

His jaw twitched. “Didn’t think you remembered.”

“I remember everything,” you said, eyes gleaming. “Especially the way you used to look at me like that.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, fist clenched against his thigh like he was holding something—everything—back.

“Still married to your work?” you asked, gaze sliding slowly down the buttons of his shirt. “Or married in general?”

Yaku leaned in, close enough for his breath to graze your cheek, warm and tempting.

“I’m single,” he murmured. “Always have been. Marriage is boring anyway, right?”

You tilted your head slightly, smile sharp. “Right.”
So he had been listening.

“But I could show you something real fun,” he said, breath brushing your neck now—barely-there lips grazing your skin. His hand slid under the table and gripped your bare thigh, fingers pressing into your flesh like he’d been dying to touch you since the second you walked in.

Your smile curled, slow and wicked. You tilted your head—pixie cut grazing your cheekbones, exposing your throat just enough to make him ache.

“Then show me, Morisuke.”

You didn’t need to say a word.

The second your eyes flicked toward the gym doors, Yaku was already moving. No goodbyes. No excuses. Just the two of you slipping out like a secret—into the night, into the hush of crickets and warm streetlights humming above the schoolyard.

You walked in silence, the kind loaded with every unsaid word, every glance that burned hotter than it should have.

Then you stopped—just behind the old equipment shed, half-hidden by shadow, the hum of the reunion fading behind you. The air between you was thick with heat and memory.

“You always were too bold,” he said, voice low, stepping into your space.

You smirked, fingers brushing the collar of his shirt. “Says the guy who used to pull me into the locker room after practice to have his way with me.”

“Yeah—and you never minded getting caught.” He exhaled a quiet laugh, rough around the edges. “It actually turned you didn't it?"

Your breath hitched. You couldn't deny it.

It did.

He smirked knowingly, "You always looked so sweet when you were falling apart for me.”

“And you,” you murmured, nails lightly grazing his chest, “loved how I begged.”

His jaw clenched. “Still do.”

And then he kissed you.

With no hesitation, no warm-up—just pure, sinful heat. His mouth found yours like he’d been starved of it, like he’d played this out a hundred times in his head and now he couldn’t hold back. You pulled him in by the shirt, tugged at his tie, undid a few buttons, teeth grazing his lip, gasping softly when his hand slid up the back of your neck—fingers curling into your short hair like he’d always dreamt about it.

When you finally pulled apart for breath, foreheads still pressed together, he stared at you—dazed, eyes dark with everything he hadn’t said yet.

“Remind me,” he murmured, voice rough, “why we ever broke up.”

Your smile faded. Lips brushed his as you whispered, “Because of you.”

He stilled. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” you breathed. “You told the guys at practice you liked girls with short hair. Said it like I wasn’t even there. Me—your girlfriend—with the longest damn hair in all of Nekoma.”

His brows knit, confusion flickering into something heavier. “Is that why you literally ghosted me for the rest of high school?”

“Yes, Yaku,” you said, your voice catching, tighter than you wanted it to be. “It made me feel… like I wasn’t what you wanted.”

He pulled back just slightly, his eyes searching yours like he could undo years with a single look. “But you’re so fucking hot. Why would you ever feel that way?”

You rolled your eyes, but your voice cracked just a little. “God, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re ridiculous,” he huffed out a shaky laugh. “You think that dumb comment meant anything?”

“Oh really?” you said, lifting a brow, stepping in close again. “Then explain why you’ve been looking at me like you want to rip this dress off ever since you saw the cut.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening as his hand slid down your side. They moved—urgently this time—gripping your waist, pulling you against him. 

"I don’t like girls with short hair,” he said, voice low and raw. “I liked the idea of you with short hair. That’s the difference.”

Your heart stuttered.

“What?”

“I said that,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw, “because I kept picturing you with short hair. Not just any girl. Just you. I thought—hell, I knew—you’d look so goddamn hot.”

You swallowed hard, his words sinking in deeper than his fingers trailing beneath the hem of your dress.

“So you made me feel like shit for nothing?” you whispered, breath catching as his lips ghosted along your throat.

“I didn’t know,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “I didn’t know it hurt you. I'm sorry, baby. Let me… Let me make it up to you. Properly.”

He kissed you again—slower this time. Not desperate. Not rushed. Worshipful. Like he was trying to tell you things in the press of his lips that he never said back then.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, forehead resting against yours. “You remember that day your mum was out and I came over after practice? You were in the kitchen and I was snooping around your bookshelf.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

“I saw a photo tucked behind your books. You in middle school—with that terrible uniform and the short hair.” He laughed under his breath, a low, fond sound. “You looked so damn cute I thought I was gonna die. Like… actually have a stroke.”

You stared at him, flushed and embarrassed. “Oh god, you saw that?”

“Yeah. That was pretty much my awakening,” he said softly, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “I never told you, but that moment? That was when the whole short hair thing started. It was you. It’s always been you.”

“Dumbass.” You giggled, landing a soft slap against his chest. He took it with a grin, like he’d missed even that part of you.

The ache in your chest bloomed, bittersweet and overwhelming as your eyes met his—those same eyes you’d loved, dreamed of, and tried so hard to forget.

"Yaku..." you whispered, wanting. Needing.

And when he kissed you again—slow and aching and full of things unsaid—you let yourself believe it.

You let yourself feel it.

And in the dark, in the quiet, where only the wind stirred the trees above and the world faded to hush, you finally let him.

Let him touch what he used to only imagine.
Let him memorize this new you with reverent, trembling hands.
Let him fall apart to the version of you he never stopped craving.

You didn’t make it far—just deeper into the back wall of the equipment shed, shadowed and hidden, the grass cool beneath your heels.

It started the second you pushed him against the wall.

You didn’t have to say a word. Just sank to your knees in front of him, your pixie cut catching the moonlight, eyes locked on his as your fingers found his belt and unbuckled it with infuriating calm.

Yaku’s breath hitched. “Fuck…”

“Miss this?” you asked, voice low and teasing, as you unzipped his pants with your teeth, nuzzling your face against the growing bulge beneath his boxers.

He shuddered, nodding slightly. One hand came to rest on your head, fingers threading through the short strands like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.
“Fuck yes,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You—on your knees—looking like that.”

You tugged at the waistband of his briefs pulling him free, slow and deliberate, and gasped as his cock slapped against your cheek—already thick and twitching with need.

Wrapping your hand around him, you gave one lazy stroke, then dragged your tongue along the underside of his shaft, licking up the salty precum, making him groan and let his head fall back against the wall.

“Be honest,” you purred, looking up at him. “Is it the hair that does it for you? Or the fact you always wanted to come all over my face like this?”

He laughed—half-choked, half-ashamed, fully desperate. “Both.”

You wrapped your lips around him and took him deep, tongue working every inch, fingers digging into his thighs for balance. His hands slid to the back of your head, gripping your short hair like he couldn’t get enough—the feel of you, the way you looked, the way you owned this.

“I’m gonna fucking ruin you,” he panted, voice rough with restraint.

You hummed around him in response, sending vibrations up his spine, then pulled back just far enough to murmur, “Do it.”

That was all it took. He grabbed your head and drove you down in one sharp motion, burying himself to the hilt. "Oh shit...yes fuck, baby."

Your throat clenched around him, spit glistening at the corners of your mouth as your eyes watered—but you didn’t look away. You watched him, even as a lock of hair clung to your cheek, wild and damp.

And he—he looked ruined. More than you even.

Brows drawn so tight it almost looked like pain. Lips parted, trembling slightly with every ragged breath. His eyes didn't have that playful glint anymore—they were wild, desperate, glassy like he could cry from how good it felt, from how real it was. His jaw clenched, but it didn’t hide the way it twitched—like he was barely holding himself together.

And he watched you too—watched every tear, every gasp, every obscene sound as he fucked into your mouth, harder, tighter, losing himself in the way you took him.

His hips stuttered, faltered, like he was fighting not to finish too fast. Like the sight of you like that—kneeling, eyes locked on him, your mouth wrapped around his cock like you wanted to ruin him—was just too much.

“God, you’re hot,” he growled. “Too hot. I’m—fuck—baby, I’m gonna come.”

You hummed again, encouraging. That little vibration undid him.

With a broken moan, he pulled out just in time, spilling hot and heavy across your lips, your cheek, your jaw. Thick streaks clung to your skin, catching in your short hair like a filthy claim.

Yaku’s head hit the wall with a dull thunk, his chest heaving, sweat dripping down his neck as he looked down at you—flushed, panting, glowing in the moonlight and covered in him.

“You’re even hotter like this,” he rasped. “Fuck. That haircut was the best decision you ever made.”

You smirked, wiping a streak from your lip with your thumb before sucking it clean, slow and deliberate.

“Damn right it was.”

He wedged you into him a second later and kissed you hard—mess and all. Tongue, teeth, desperation. His hand cradled the back of your neck, but it was the other that really anchored you—his forearm flexing as it curled around your waist, muscle taut beneath warm skin, veins prominent from the effort of holding you so close. You felt the power in it—the strength he didn’t need to prove, the tension trembling just beneath the surface. 

Your fingers trailed down the curve of his arm, slow and curious. You felt every dip and ridge—every bit of strength honed over the years—and smiled softly against his mouth.

“You’ve gotten stronger,” you murmured, almost to yourself, voice tinged with something fond.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, chest heaving, a wicked glint in his gaze as a smirk tugged at his lips.

“Yeah?” he rasped. “Been training for this moment.”

You gave him a look. “That is such a lie.”

He chuckled low, that toothy grin breaking through—cocky, boyish, infuriating. “Maybe. But it still turned you on, didn’t it?”

Your face flushed hot, breath catching as his arm slid lower around your waist, dragging you closer until your hips were pressed flush to his. You felt him—all of him—hardening again, insistent and unrelenting against your stomach. 

“I’m not done with you,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours, voice thick with promise.

“Yaku,” you moaned, helpless as he wedged his knee between your thighs, letting you grind against it with slow, aching friction.

“You really married a surgeon?” he muttered, voice rough, breath hot against your jaw. “What—thought he’d have steady hands or something?”

You laughed breathlessly, head tilted back. “He was rich. Clean. Liked my long hair.”

You threw the last part at him like a weapon, soft and mocking.

Yaku scoffed, shoving your dress up your hips as he pushed harder with his knee, making you cry out.
“Yeah. Sounds boring as hell.”

“It-" you were breathless, wanting and a needy mess. "It was.”

He yanked your panties down with one hand, fingers grazing your inner thigh. “Or…” he murmured, eyes fixed on yours like he could read every memory, “was it just that his dick didn’t do it for you?”

“Yaku—”

“No, seriously.” His voice was low, taunting. His fingers teased your slit—light, barely there, maddening. “Was it the marriage that sucked? Or was it him? Bet he never made you scream. Bet he never made you drip like this.”

You gasped as two fingers slid inside you—slow, deep, curling just right.

“Fuck,” he groaned, eyes locked on your parted lips. “This wet already? Just from sucking my dick?”

“You’re such an asshole,” you breathed, hips rocking against his hand without shame.

He grinned as he hauled you up easily, pressed you against the wall and you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.

“Mm. But I’m your asshole again, aren’t I?” He slid his fingers out and replaced them with the thick head of his cock, teasing your sopping entrance with slow, infuriating rolls. “You used to beg for this.”

You clawed at his shirt, pulling it off, hips jerking.

“Missed this?” he murmured against your lips. “Missed me?”

“Shut up and fuck me.”

He grinned, cocky and gorgeous and still just a little angry that he didn’t get to do this for years. Then he slammed into you in one smooth thrust, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck,” Yaku hissed, jaw clenched as he bottomed out inside you. “You feel even tighter than I remember.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. Didn’t want to. He pulled back and rammed into you again, setting a punishing rhythm—fast, deep, relentless. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the night air, obscene and raw.

You could barely breathe, barely think. All you could do was take it—hips snapping back to meet every brutal thrust, the stretch of him splitting you open, dragging cries from your throat.

“That's it, baby, take it.” he growled, pace rough from the start. “He didn't fuck you like this? Huh?”

You moaned—loud, filthy.

“That’s what I thought.” His mouth was on your shoulder now, biting softly. “He didn’t fuck you till you couldn’t think. Didn’t make you scream his name so the whole damn neighborhood could hear.”

Your fingers tangled in his strawberry blond hair, the short strands damp with sweat. “Fuck, yes, Yaku—don’t stop—”

He drove into you harder, deeper.

“No one ever makes you feel like this, do they?” he panted. “No one ever gets you this loud. This fucking desperate.”

Your nails dragged down his back. “Only you. Only you.”

He laughed breathlessly, voice cracking. “That’s ‘cause it’s me, baby. I’m the one who knows your body. I’m the one who knows how to ruin you.”

He slammed into you harder, deeper, angling just right until stars burst behind your eyes and your legs tightened around his waist taking in more of him. And he held you there—pinned between his body and the wall, like you belonged nowhere else.

Your orgasm hit fast—tight, trembling, almost too much—and you moaned into his neck, biting down hard. He groaned loud into your ear, losing rhythm as he chased his own high.

“Say it,” he panted, thrusts faltering. “Say it was me all along.”

“It was you,” you cried out. “Always—fuck—it was always you.”

“Fuck—fuck—I know, baby. I know,” he snarled, pace breaking, body trembling as his orgasm hit. He slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he came deep inside you, groaning your name like a curse and a prayer.

Silence soon fell—except for the sound of your uneven breathing, the drip of sweat, the soft slick of him still buried inside you. The cicadas hummed in the background, and the reunion felt miles away, like another life.

Yaku was the first to move.

He pulled out slowly, careful, gentle, as if he didn’t want to break the moment. Then he helped ease your dress back down, crouched to pick up your panties and handed them back with that crooked smirk—only this time, it was softer. Tired. Like his guard had finally dropped.

You sat down together in the grass behind the shed, the heat of the summer night wrapped around you. He tugged you close, letting your head rest on his shoulder. His hand stayed on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you.

“Still think I’m a dumbass?” he asked after a while, voice quiet.

You smiled into his neck. “You’re a little less of a dumbass right now.”

He laughed. Just a small, breathy sound. Then silence settled again—warm, comfortable.

After a while, he murmured, “I really didn’t mean to make you feel like that. Back then.”

“I know,” you said. “You were a teenage boy with a volleyball obsession and no idea how feelings worked.”

He hummed, nodding. “Still obsessed with volleyball.”

You nudged him playfully. “Still bad with feelings?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just let the cicadas fill the quiet.

Then, in a low voice—almost too soft to hear—he said, “I never stopped loving you, you know.”

Your breath caught.

You turned your face slightly, forehead brushing his jaw. “Yaku…”

“I thought I’d move on,” he went on, staring up at the stars. “College, pro team, girls… hell, I tried. But nothing ever felt like you.”

You reached up, fingers ghosting across his chest. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I thought I blew it,” he said. “You moved to America, changed your contact… and then you got married. To a goddamn surgeon at that. I figured I was just a chapter. Something you outgrew.”

You looked at him then, really looked. His face was sharper now, rougher in all the right ways, but those chocolate brown eyes—God, those eyes—still burned. Still melted. Still looked at you like no one else ever existed.

“I’m not married now.”

He nodded, eyes soft. “I know.”

“And you’re not a chapter,” you said, voice low. “You never were.”

A nervous laugh escaped your lips. You tucked a strand of short hair behind your ear, cheeks flushed. “You know, I actually cut my hair right before this stupid reunion. Only cause I heard you'd be coming.”

Yaku’s mouth twitched into something tender. “Really?”

You nodded. “You’re the whole damn book for me, Yaku.”

His breath hitched.

And for a long second, neither of you moved. The world stilled.

Then Yaku leaned in and kissed you again—not hungry, not rushed, but aching. Slow. Deliberate. A kiss that said I remember. A kiss that said I never stopped.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, he asked quietly, “Come home with me?”

You didn’t even pause.

“Okay.”

Chapter Text

The Sports Promotion division was buzzing with rare celebration. The campaign launch had been a hit—clean numbers, glowing feedback, and a rare nod of approval from upper management. Naturally, someone suggested drinks, and no one said no.

You hadn’t planned to go all out tonight, but after a brutal week of meetings, press kits, and playing politics with old boardroom men, you figured you deserved it. A short black dress. A little smokey eye. Lipliner and gloss that walked the line between professional and dangerous.

You caught your reflection in the office mirror before leaving, fixing the collar of your coat—and ignoring the inevitable comment you knew was coming.

“Trying to seduce the execs into a promotion?” Kuroo’s voice was lazy, a smirk in every word as he leaned against your desk, arms crossed like he’d been waiting. “Or just fishing for attention in that dress?”

His hand shot out to gently tug the end of your ponytail, like always—annoying, casual, too familiar.

You swatted his hand away.

“Wear a longer dress tomorrow, (L/N),” he added as you walked past him, the smirk in his voice irritatingly audible.

You didn’t respond. You were used to him by now—too used to the constant teasing, the infuriating little smirks, the way his eyes lingered longer than they should.

The bar was loud, dim, and full of your coworkers letting loose in slacks and dress shirts. Laughter spilled between clinking glasses. Someone put old J-pop on the jukebox. And—for once—Kuroo kept his distance.

You almost started to relax. Almost.

Until someone slid into the empty seat beside you. Hisashi, one of the newer PR guys. Nice enough. But a few drinks too deep and far too confident for your taste.

“Damn, (Y/N). You look…” His eyes swept over you. “Incredible.” 

You offered a tight smile, the kind meant to end conversations. “Thanks.”

But he didn’t get the hint.

His breath smelled like whiskey, and he was leaning in like your polite smile was an invitation. “You know, I was thinking maybe after this—”

A shadow fell over the table.

Kuroo stepped between you and Hisashi with a quiet authority, as though he'd been summoned by the very tension in the air. His jacket was gone, revealing his broad shoulders and the muscle-toned arms that flexed as he moved. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and the sharp lines of his jaw were set in a hard, unreadable expression.

His eyes—dark and piercing—locked onto Hisashi, the weight of his presence enough to make the room feel smaller, suffocating. The air around him seemed to hum with an energy that was both calm and dangerous, as if he could snap at any moment.

Poor boy didn't stand a chance.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve got a couple urgent files for you to review after this. Hope that’s not a problem.”

Hisashi blinked, visibly shrinking beneath Kuroo’s stare. “Oh. Yeah—sure. I’ll catch you later then.”

He left fast.

You stared up at Kuroo, arms crossed. “Really?”

He shrugged. “This would be the part where you thank me.”

“I had it under control.”

He tilted his head, eyes dragging slowly over your figure. “Yeah? That smile didn’t exactly scream back off. And in that dress?” He smirked. “Kind of looked like you were asking for it.”

You froze. The blood drained from your face. Then it rushed back, hot and furious.

“The hell did you just say?”

Kuroo blinked, unfazed. “Relax, I was joking, sweetheart.”

“Try again,” you said coldly.

But he didn’t. He just sipped his drink like he hadn't said much to offend you.

Then—

Slap.

Your hand met his cheek with a sharp crack that sliced through the hum of the bar. Conversations died. Someone let out a low whistle.

Kuroo’s head turned with the impact, jaw tight, but he didn’t step back. Slowly, he straightened himself in his seat.

Then—he smiled.

“Don’t worry,” he called to the others, voice smooth, eyes never leaving yours. “Someone just had one too many drinks.”

He turned back to you, slow and deliberate. Something had shifted. That lazy smirk faltered, and something darker flickered in its place.

He leaned in, just enough for only you to hear.

“Feisty tonight, aren’t you?”

You leaned in, your voice cold. “You’re impossible.”

He laughed quietly. “You say that like you didn’t just put your hands on me in front of the whole bar.”

“I should’ve aimed lower.”

That earned you a deep, hearty, chuckle. It rumbled in his chest.

“You always this hot when you’re pissed at me?” he asked, voice dropping half an octave.

You opened your mouth—but nothing came out. Because there was something in his expression you hadn’t seen before. Something real. Like your slap had turned him on more than any look you’d ever given him.

He licked his bottom lip where your slap had split it slightly, and he smiled.

You hated him. God, you hated him.

But the heat pooling between your legs didn’t seem to care.

The Next Morning – Japan Volleyball Association Office

You walked into the office with your usual coffee in hand, heels clicking softly on the tile. The air was sharp with fresh coffee and fluorescent lighting, but nothing could have prepared you for the familiar voice that greeted you, dripping with amusement and mockery.

“Well, well… if it isn’t the seductress of Shibuya.”

Kuroo was already lounging against your desk, arms crossed, looking entirely too smug for this early in the morning. There was still the faintest pink imprint on his cheek—your slap from last night—and it looked damn good on him.

You took a slow sip of your drink. “Do you ever shut up, or are you genetically incapable?”

He clicked his tongue, eyes following the curve of your legs unapologetically. “Careful, princess. Keep talking to me like that, and you might be receiving a call from HR soon.”

“You’re infuriating,” you muttered, pushing past him.

But he didn’t stop. All day, he was relentless. Tugging your ponytail every time he passed your chair. Whispering low jabs with just enough volume that others could hear—“Hey, those heels look dangerous. Want me to carry you to the printer?”

Even dropped a thick stack of reports on your desk with a wink and a smirk like it was foreplay.

It was enough to make your eye twitch.

When lunch finally came, you all but dragged your friend into the breakroom and collapsed onto the bench beside her with a dramatic groan.

“He’s driving me insane.”

Your friend gave you a knowing smile. “Kuroo?”

You blinked. “How’d you know?”

“Please. He only picks on one person in this office.” She sipped her tea and smirked. “You know what they say. Guys pull on the pigtails of the girls they like...or something around those lines.”

You stared at her.

“Like like?”

She nodded.

You made a face. “He’s not five.”

“No, but it's definitely obvious to everyone that he's stupid over you,” she said. 

You paused. Really?

Your friend sighed as if she could read right through you like a book, "You know...maybe you should try turning the tables. Tease him. See what happens.”

The thought stuck with you like honey and you grinned.

That Afternoon

Kuroo had just sat down at his desk, scrolling through his emails like nothing mattered—like he wasn’t the most insufferable man in the world.

Perfect.

You strolled up behind him, folders in hand, and then—“Oops.”

They slipped from your hands and scattered around his chair like confetti. You didn’t rush. Instead, you bent down slowly, deliberately, your pencil skirt hugging your hips like a second skin. When you leaned forward, just enough of your black lace panties peeked out above the waistband to make a man ruin his whole career.

You felt it—the shift in air. The sudden, sharp inhale behind you.

“Need help?” he asked, voice lower now, rough around the edges.

You looked up from beneath your lashes, feigning innocence. “I’ve got it. But thanks for offering.”

He didn’t move. Just watched you gather the folders like he was trying not to combust.

Back at your desk, you made sure to stay in his peripheral vision. You twirled your pen between your fingers, nibbling the cap, occasionally dragging it along the curve of your lower lip as you typed. Every so often, you glanced up at him with wide, doe-like eyes and a barely-there smile.

You noticed the way his typing slowed.

The way his jaw clenched.

The way he sat back, legs spread just a little wider.

Bullseye.

Later, during a group meeting, you sat beside Hisashi and laughed lightly at something he said, resting your hand on his forearm for a moment too long. You let your fingers trail ever so slightly down the sleeve of his shirt before pulling away with a giggle.

From across the table, you could feel it—Kuroo’s stare. Heavy. Hot. Absolutely murderous.

As the meeting ended, you gathered your things and passed his desk with a subtle sway in your hips. You could practically hear him grinding his teeth.

Then—

“Hey.”

His voice was different now. Low. Flat. Tense.

You turned, blinking innocently. “Hm?”

Kuroo stood, eyes locked on you, and leaned in just enough that only you could hear.

“You playing some kind of game with me?” he murmured, voice like smoke over fire.

You tilted your head, lips curving into something soft and dangerous. “A game?” you echoed sweetly. “No idea what you mean.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he was two seconds from grabbing you by the waist and dragging you into the nearest empty office.

So you smiled. Turned on your heel. Walked away with the soft click of heels echoing behind you, hips swaying like you had all the time in the world.

Already planning your next move.

Later – Nearly Everyone's Gone Home for the Day

The office was quiet, bathed in warm, amber light that spilled through the tall windows, casting lazy shadows across the floor. Most of the staff had already clocked out, their laughter and footsteps long faded. But you lingered—deliberately.

You moved slower than usual, pretending to tidy your desk. Fingertips skimmed over papers, lips pursed thoughtfully, hips swaying ever so slightly with each graceful step.

You knew he was still here. You always knew. And like clockwork, you heard him—those slow, deliberate footsteps behind you, heavy with intention.

Still, you didn’t turn. Not right away.

Instead, you eased back into your chair, two buttons of your blouse undone, legs crossed slowly, deliberately. Then, as if on impulse, you reached up and tugged the tie from your hair. Silky strands tumbled down around your shoulders, catching the glow of the fading sun.

You ran your fingers through it, arching slightly in your seat, letting your head tilt back with a soft, satisfied sigh. Then, just as casually, you began to gather it up again—sweeping it high with both hands as your eyes finally flicked toward him through the strands, locking onto his.

That was the moment.

You felt it—the air tighten, the silence grow thick, pulsing with something that had been brewing between you for days.

You could feel his stare burning into your skin.

Then came the sharp inhale.

Ragged. Controlled.

Like a man on the edge.

You could almost hear the tension snap in his spine.

“Alright. Enough.”

You turned, blinking innocently. “Enough of what?”

He was already striding toward you, black button-up sleeves rolled up, tie loosened at the collar. His hair was slightly messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times.

“Whatever game you’ve been playing,” he said, stopping just short of you. “Bending over in front of me. Flirting with every guy in the office. That little pencil thing. And now your hair?”

You smiled, getting up from your seat and making your way to him, slowly. “I was just fixing my hair, Kuroo...”

His jaw tensed. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you asked sweetly, stepping closer, close enough to toy with the end of his loosened tie. “This?”

Your fingers brushed the silk fabric, tugging just enough to tighten it slightly against his collar again.

His breath hitched.

“You know exactly what you’re doing.”

You leaned in, barely an inch between your face and his. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve just been doing my job.”

He scoffed under his breath. “Bullshit.”

Still, he didn’t move away.

You looked up at him through your lashes, voice soft. “Are you mad I’m not letting you tease me anymore? Or are you mad I finally figured out how to tease you?”

The silence that followed was charged, electric. His hands twitched at his sides like he was debating whether to touch you or walk away.

You tugged on his tie again, gently. “Come on, Kuroo. You can dish it out but can’t take it?”

Then he moved—fast.

He dragged you into his office, shut the door behind you with a click of the door, an his hand slammed flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. The other wrapped around your wrist, not rough but firm, stilling your fingers against his chest. His eyes burned into yours.

“You really wanna find out what happens when you push me too far?”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t back down. “Maybe I do.”

Kuroo’s gaze darkened. Something inside him snapped—but not violently. It was slow, dangerous, deliberate.

He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You didn’t flinch. “Maybe I don't mind the burn.”

Then he kissed you—hard.

His mouth crashed against yours, teeth clashing slightly, all tongue and heat and pent-up tension. It wasn’t soft or careful. It was hungry. Years of teasing, fighting, pretending—erupting in the space between you.

You gasped, and that was all he needed.

He shoved you deeper into the wall, his hands all over you—gripping your hip, dragging you closer, sliding down to grab your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh like he owned it. Like he’d been dying to touch you.

Then he started rolling your skirt up your thighs. You moaned, sharp and needy, fingers clutching at his shirt, tugging at his tie, dragging him impossibly closer.

His other hand tangled in your hair and yanked—just enough to tilt your head back and expose your throat. He groaned as he ducked down to suck at the spot just under your jaw, tongue hot and desperate, teeth grazing. Your knees wobbled.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

Then his hand was between your thighs, cupping you over the thin lace of your panties. A low, feral growl rumbled in his chest.

“You’re already wet, just from the kiss?” he rasped, lips brushing your ear. “Thought you hated me.”

“I do,” you gasped, rolling your hips against his palm. “I fucking hate you—”

He swallowed your words with another filthy, consuming kiss—tongue fucking your mouth like he was trying to erase the lie from your lips.

“Liar,” he growled, breath hot against your cheek. His fingers pushed past the lace, slipping between your folds, warm and slick. He teased your entrance with the tip of one finger before sliding in, slow but deliberate.

You choked on a gasp, back arching as he pushed in deeper, curling his finger just right.

“God, you’re basically dripping,” he muttered, adding a second finger. The stretch had you clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into his shirt. He pumped them slowly, then faster, curling with every thrust, the heel of his palm pressed tight against your clit.

You were panting now, thighs trembling, your body melting into his touch. Every twist of his fingers dragged a fresh moan from your lips, your hips grinding down, desperate for more.

“I hate you, Kuroo Tetsurou,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “I hate you so, so much.”

His mouth hovered inches from yours, smirking as he circled his thumb over your clit, firm and unrelenting. “Tell me that again when I’ve got you bent over my desk.”

You whimpered, helpless, already teetering on the edge, grinding shamelessly against his hand.

He cursed under his breath, kissed you again—biting your lower lip this time, tugging it between his teeth as he pumped his fingers faster, deeper, until your walls clenched tight around him.

“Fuck… You drive me insane,” he growled, pulling his soaked fingers out, watching you shudder.

“Good,” you breathed, yanking him back down into another messy, breathless kiss.

His pulled away from the kiss reluctantly but his grip on you tightened. “I love it when you’re bratty.”

Your lips were swollen from his kisses, breath coming fast as he backed you toward your desk. His hands never left your body—one gripping your hip, the other sliding under your blouse, pushing your bra aside just to pinch your nipple and drink in your gasp.

Then he paused—his eyes fixed on your hair.

You didn’t get a chance to speak before Kuroo’s hands were tugging at your hair tie until long loose strands fell around your shoulders and down your back like silk.

“Been wanting to do this since the day you walked in here,” he muttered, fingers combing through your hair. Then, to your surprise—he leaned in and breathed you in, burying his nose in the strands, inhaling deep and greedy, like you were some kind of drug. “You smell too fucking good. You always smell good.”

You shuddered.

His mouth returned to your neck, rougher this time, kissing and biting like he couldn’t get close enough.

“You are all I think about,” he growled, “Every damn day since you joined this division, I’ve had to sit across from you and pretend I don’t wanna ruin you. With that mouth, that attitude… this fucking hair…”

You barely had time to process before he dropped to his knees in front of you, grabbing your thighs and tugging your panties down your legs with one swift, practiced motion before pocketing them shamelessly.

“Kuroo—what are you—” you gasped.

“Shh,” he muttered, lips brushing your inner thigh. “You’ve had your fun teasing. Now it’s my turn.”

And then his tongue was on you—hot, slow, and skilled. He licked up your folds with a groan, like he was starved, then started to lap at your clit with maddening precision. Your knees nearly buckled, hands clawing at the desk for balance.

You clutched the edge of the desk, knuckles white, hips grinding into his mouth, breath ragged.

“Oh my god—Kuroo—don’t stop—”

He hummed against you, the vibrations making your eyes roll back. His grip on your thighs tightened, holding you wide open, his mouth moving faster, rougher—like he was trying to pull every sound you had out of you.

Your body coiled, your moans climbing higher, closer, trembling on the edge—

And then he pulled back.

Just like that.

You gasped, stunned and breathless, thighs shaking, body still straining toward his mouth.

“No—” you cried out, writhing. “Why—why’d you—”

He looked up at you from between your legs, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger and wicked amusement.

“Because,” he said, dragging you to the desk and bending you over it, “I want you to come on my cock.”

“Kuroo—” you gasped, hands splayed against the surface, your hair falling forward.

“Shut up,” he growled, flipping your skirt up over your ass. “You’ve been such a fucking brat lately. Need to put you in your place.”

He chuckled darkly, undoing his belt, the clink of metal sending a fresh wave of need through your body.

But he didn’t move. Just stroked his length nice and slow.

Then he leaned over your back, chest pressed to yours, his voice a harsh whisper in your ear.

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” he murmured, his hands tightening on your hips. “You walk around this place, dressed like that, lips all pouty, skirt barely covering your ass…”

He growled low, like the thought alone pissed him off all over again.

“They talk about you,” he spat. “Those assholes in the break room. Assholes like Hisashi. I hear the shit they say. What they’d do to you if they had the chance.”

You stiffened beneath him, but he wasn’t done.

“They don’t fucking get to look at you like that,” he said through clenched teeth. “They don’t get to talk about you like you’re some toy. You’re not theirs.”

“You’re mine.”

Your fingers clenched the edge of the desk, legs weak.

“Please,” you whispered, breath hitching.

But instead of giving you what you wanted, he pressed the thick head of his cock between your thighs, dragging it slowly over your soaked folds. You gasped—your body already trembling from how wet you were, how long you’d been aching for him.

He groaned low in his throat, voice dark and strained. “Fuck…" His tip nudged your clit, then slid back down, parting your slick with deliberate, lazy strokes.

“What exactly do you want, sweetheart?” he murmured against your ear, hips moving just enough to make you shiver. “Please what?”

You whimpered and your lips parted but no words came out, hips twitching toward him.

“Words, baby,” he taunted, still not pushing in. His cock pulsed against your entrance, heavy and hot and right there. “Need you to use your words.”

You were crying now, frustrated and desperate. “Fuck me. Please”

"Good girl." He groaned, lining himself up and slamming into you in one hard thrust that had you crying out, body jerking forward against the desk. He didn’t give you time to adjust—he pulled back and thrust again, harder.

“This what you wanted?” he panted, voice rough in your ear. “This what you were teasing me for? Walking around the office like a fucking tease, flashing that ass, bending over on purpose…”

You moaned, nodding frantically. “Yes—yes—”

A sharp tug at your scalp made you gasp—his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back until your spine arched and your chest lifted off the desk, your back pressed flush to his chest. His other hand gripped your waist, anchoring you in place as he fucked into you with deep, punishing strokes.

“Look at you,” he snarled into your ear, thrusting harder. “I’ve fucking dreamt about this—jerked off to it like some desperate asshole, thinking about bending you over this goddamn desk.”

You whimpered at the confession, clenching around him.

“All those fucking nights I went home hard as a rock, thinking about that tight little skirt,” he growled. “Had wet dreams of you—your voice, your body, that mouth. And now you’re here—taking my cock like you were made for it.”

You cried out as his hips slammed into you again and again, his breath ragged against your cheek, his grip in your hair unforgiving.

“You’re mine,” he rasped. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped.

“You don’t dress like a slut for anyone else,” he hissed between thrusts, voice trembling with how close he was. “You don’t flirt with anyone else. You don’t look at anyone else like that.”

“I won’t—I won’t, Kuroo—just you—only you—” you cried, every word falling apart on your tongue from the force of him.

“You belong to me,” he snarled, pounding into you harder now, as if trying to drive the truth of it into your body. “Mine to fuck. Mine to dream about. Mine to touch. Mine to fill.”

“Y-Yes—yours—yours—!”

“Good girl,” he groaned, bending over to bite your shoulder, his hand slipping down to rub tight, fast circles over your clit. “Come for me.”

Your legs shook, your body tensing as his rhythm pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry, clenching around him, shaking uncontrollably.

“Fuck—look at you, falling apart on my cock,” he groaned. “You know what that does to me?"

He fucked you through the edge, and you shattered—legs trembling, body locking up as the orgasm ripped through you. Your cry echoed against the desk, your walls spasming around him.

“Shit—” he hissed, rutting into you, deeper, rougher, desperate. “Gonna fill you up—fuck, take it—yeah just like that”

You felt it—hot, thick, his hips pressed tight to yours as he spilled deep inside you, his body shaking with the force of it. He groaned into your neck, breath hot and uneven, staying buried inside as if he could carve his name into you.

His voice was low, ruined. “I’m the one who gets to fill you up. Make sure it fucking stays. You feel that?”

You nodded, breathless, drunk on him. “I feel it—”

“Good,” he muttered, his hand still fisted in your hair, his hips giving one final, lazy roll. “Let them fucking look. Let them fantasize. You’ll be walking around with my cum dripping down your thighs anyway, and they won’t even know.”

He finally pulled out slow, and you gasped at the mess, at the ache, at how empty you felt without him.

For a long moment, the room was silent but for your breathing—unsteady, heavy.

Then he smoothed your hair back, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, his voice quieter now, but just as intense, “Still hate me?”

You turned your head, mascara streaked down your cheeks, eyes soft—but you were smiling all wrecked and pretty.

“Fuck yes.”

Chapter Text

The final whistle blew like a guillotine. Sharp. Irrevocable.

Oikawa stood frozen at the net, sweat dripping down his neck, his hands trembling slightly at his sides as the scoreboard glared back with its brutal verdict: 3–2, loss.

Another close one. Another heartbreaker.

The arena in Buenos Aires buzzed with the roar of the opposing team's fans, their chants echoing through the air like taunts. He barely registered them. The weight of defeat pressed harder than the altitude ever could.

It was his third season playing for Club Ciudad, one of Argentina's top pro teams, and every match still felt like he was chasing ghosts—proof that he belonged, that he hadn’t come all this way for nothing.

He’d misjudged the tempo on the last set. A second too slow. His middle blocker had gone early—he knew it, felt it—and he’d hesitated. The result: a stuffy, mistimed set, an easy read for the opposing blocker. Their ace's spike got shut down in an instant.

It was his fault.

In the stands, you stood frozen too, your voice still raw from cheering. You’d worn his team’s deep blue with pride, even painted little stars under your eyes in their colors. Your homemade banner—¡Vamos, Tōru!—was still clutched tightly in your hands.

But now he wouldn’t look up. Didn’t even scan the crowd like he usually did to find you.

He couldn’t.

He didn’t deserve to.

He was quiet the entire ride home.

You tried. Telling him how hard he’d fought, how good he looked out there, how proud you were of him. He didn’t respond beyond the occasional nod.

The apartment door shut behind you both with a dull click. Oikawa doesn’t say a word. He dropped his bag beside the shoe rack, head bowed, jaw clenched, shoulders tense like they’d been wound tight since the final whistle blew.

You watched him toe off his sneakers with more aggression than necessary and stalk wordlessly into the living room, collapsing onto the couch like he’d just carried the entire loss home on his back.

“Are you hungry, my love? I could make milanesa,” you offered gently, stepping out of your shoes. “Or if you're not feeling that hungry then we have some milk bread. Your favorite. We can have it with some hot cocoa and—”

“No.” His voice was low. Strained. “I don’t want to eat.”

You tilted your head. He still wouldn't look at you.

“What do you want then?”

Finally, his eyes lifted. Dark, stormy, tired. He looked like a man trying so hard to pretend he’s okay, and failing terribly at it.

“You know what I want,” he said, well mostly, begged. “Please.”

You understood instantly. You always did.

So you nodded your head.

"Of course, my love."

The bedroom had been soaked in honeyed shadows, the fading afternoon sun barely slipping between the curtains. Dust floated lazily in the warm light, casting golden flecks across the walls, and the room smelled faintly of sweat, lavender from the scented candles you lit earlier. Something to calm his nerves, you thought.

You sat on the edge of the bed, bare legs crossed beneath one of his oversized training jerseys, the fabric grazing the tops of your thighs. The loose neckline hung off one shoulder, exposing warm, inviting skin, soft in the dusky light.

“Tōru,” you murmured, holding your hand out gently. “Come here.”

He moved toward you slowly, still in his sports kit, his face cast down. He looked younger like this, vulnerable, like the weight of the loss was still clinging to his skin. His knuckles were bruised from the game. His eyes wouldn’t meet yours.

You reached for the hem of his jersey, fingers brushing over his sides. “Arms up, baby.”

He obeyed without a word, and you peeled it off of him in one smooth motion. The soft fabric slid over the long lines of his arms and the tense stretch of his shoulders. His skin was flushed, warm from exertion and still damp in places. The jersey fell to the floor forgotten.

Your breath caught as you looked at him—so strong, so beautiful, standing there bare from the waist up with his chest rising and falling a little too fast.

And then you kissed him.

Not on the mouth. Not yet.

You started at the base of his throat, brushing your lips along the strong line of his neck. His breath hitched.

You moved slowly, letting your lips linger. One kiss at a time.

At his pulse.
Along the sharp angle of his collarbone.
Across the expanse of his chest.
Down, over the curve of his sternum.
Lower, to the firm plane of his abs where each muscle jumped beneath your mouth like he was trying not to fall apart.

Each kiss was deliberate. Devotional. Your hands following your lips, trailing over his body.

You pressed your lips to every part of him that had tensed on the court, every inch that had carried his team, every place he thought wasn’t enough. You kissed them like they mattered. Like they were sacred.

“Tōru,” you murmured between kisses, letting your breath ghost over damp skin. “You were brilliant out there.”

He swallowed hard, eyes slipping shut.

“I messed up,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.

Your fingers glided up to rest over his heart. “You didn’t. You did so well.”

"No." His jaw clenched. “I cost them the last point.”

“You carried them through the first two sets. You set every ball perfectly. You read their block like it was written in your palm. You played with your whole heart, Tōru.”

You slid your hands to his hips, slowly pushing his shorts and briefs down in one fluid motion. He stepped out of them obediently, completely bare before you, his skin flushed with the remnants of exertion and emotion. His cock hung soft, but already twitching, sensitive to your every word.

“But it wasn’t—” he began again, but you silenced him with a finger against his lips.

“You are enough,” you whispered.

You guided him gently onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress, limbs still tense but beginning to soften beneath your touch. He watched you with glassy, reverent eyes as you straddled his hips, still fully clothed, your thighs wrapping around his. The position made him look small beneath you—exposed, vulnerable, and breathtakingly beautiful.

“You’re my good boy, Tōru.”

A visible shudder ran through him. His eyes fluttered shut, lips parting as his cock twitched to life, half-hard from the praise alone.

“You need to hear it, don’t you?” you murmured, hands smoothing up his chest, circling his nipples with your thumbs until he whimpered.

He nodded once. Desperate. Barely audible. “Please.”

You leaned down, brushing your lips against his jaw, his neck, the shell of his ear. “You’re the best volleyball player in the world. My champion. My perfect, perfect boy.”

His moan came from deep in his chest, raw and needy.

You kept your eyes locked to his as you slid your panties down beneath the shirt, baring yourself slowly. His gaze darkened, hungry, drinking you in like you were a dream he didn’t deserve.

When you finally took him in your hand, stroking him gently, he was already rock-hard, body arching subtly into your palm. You rubbed the head of his cock against your folds, wet and ready, teasing the both of you as you whispered:

“You’re everything to me.”

Then you sank down onto him slowly, the stretch intimate and perfect, and his entire body trembled. His hands gripped your thighs, almost reverently, like he was afraid to move. You let yourself settle fully, keeping him deep inside, your walls squeezing him rhythmically, just enough to draw out a moan from the back of his throat.

His eyes fluttered shut again.

“You feel so good,” he choked out. “You always—always make me feel like...I matter.”

You cradled his jaw as you began to move—slow, deep rolls of your hips, taking him with a sensual grace that left him speechless. Every glide of your body over his made him sink deeper into the sheets, made the tension melt from his muscles.

“You do matter,” you breathed. “You’re my Tōru. My good, good boy.”

His grip tightened, but he didn’t thrust. He just held on, trembling, as you took him like you worshipped him. Because you did.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered, riding him slow, savoring the way his brows knit in pleasure. “You gave them everything today. And I’m so proud of you.”

He whimpered, the sound unguarded, pained with need. “Say it again…”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his temple. “I’m proud of you.”

Again.

“You’re my good boy.”

Again.

“You did so well, my love. So, so well.”

He was crying now, small, broken gasps slipping from his lips between his moans. Then you leaned down, pressing your chest to his, letting the curve of your breasts brush against his lips.

He didn’t hesitate—his mouth latched onto one nipple, soft and needy, suckling at it like he was starved. His hands clutched your thighs, trembling, like he didn’t know whether to worship you or cry from how good you felt wrapped around him.

You laughed softly, breath fanning over his damp skin as you stroked your fingers through his hair.

“There’s no milk in there, baby,” you teased, voice honey-sweet, your lips curling against his temple. 

His only answer was a muffled moan as he suckled harder, eyes fluttering shut, completely lost in the feeling of you—your skin, your voice, your body wrapped around his cock.

You rolled your hips slow and steady, still keeping him deep, and the way he whimpered around your nipple made your breath catch.

Then you leaned back.

Your hands braced on his chest as you pulled your torso upright, arching your back, giving him a full view of you riding him—your body slick and glowing in the streams of the late afternoon light leaking through the curtains, your breasts bouncing with every movement.

His hands slid down to your waist, fingers splayed wide, like he needed to anchor himself to you or he'd get lost in the rhythm. His eyes were glassy, drunk on you, watching the way you moved—how your walls clung to him with every bounce, how your head tipped back and your mouth parted in moaning bliss as his tip kept hitting your deepest and sweetest spot.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, his thumbs digging into your hips. “Please tell me more. Make me feel good.”

You moaned in reply, one hand dropping to your clit as you rode him harder now, letting your body take what it wanted, what it needed. Then you let out praises with each roll of your hips:

“You’re enough.”

“You’re loved.”

“You’re perfect just like this.”

Every praise sent him deeper, the stretch making your thighs shake, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the room. Your tits bounced with the rhythm, and his hands slid up to cradle them, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples, still damp from his mouth.

His gaze never left you—like he couldn’t bear to blink, afraid he’d miss a second of it.

“You love watching me ride you like this,” you panted, breath hot and uneven, your fingers circling your clit faster. “You love how good I make you feel.”

“I do,” he choked out, his voice cracking as his hips lifted slightly to meet you. “I love it. I love you. I—fuck, I can’t take it—”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered, leaning down again, mouths colliding in a messy kiss. “Just feel me. Let go.”

His body tensed, his breath caught—and then he came, hard and desperate, hips stuttering under you as he sobbed your name, clinging to you like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth. You kept riding him through it, slowing only when he was too sensitive, too overwhelmed, your fingers brushing his sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead.

You stayed like that, still joined, your fingers stroking gentle patterns into his scalp and your lips brushing over his cheekbones.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured hoarsely into your shoulder, voice cracking like a fault line splitting open beneath the weight of everything he carried. His breath was warm against your skin, uneven. “I’ll win the next game.”

You leaned back just enough to see his face—flushed, damp with tears, eyes glassy and reverent. You cradled his jaw in both hands like he was something fragile and precious all at once, your thumbs brushing across his cheekbones.

“Yes, you do,” you said, firm but tender. “You deserve all of this. You always have.”

"And you better win," you added with a sly little smile, your voice curling like smoke in the dim light. "Show me what you can really do out there."

His eyes fluttered closed, a ragged sound tearing from his throat—half-laugh, half-moan. He looked so undone beneath you, but there was something new behind his gaze now too. Not shame. Not self-loathing. But determination. Hunger.

The next match burned with intensity from the very first serve.

Oikawa was electric on the court.

There was no hesitation in his sets that day. No second-guessing, no shadow of the last loss. He commanded the pace like a composer with his orchestra—each toss perfectly timed, every player moving in sync with him. You could see it in the sharp snap of his fingers when he signaled plays, in the smirk he threw at the opposing blockers when they fell for a decoy, in the brutal, pinpoint precision of every decision.

He was confident.

He was shining.

He was dangerous.

You were there in the stands again—front row, dressed in the same team colors, the same painted stars beneath your eyes. But something felt different.

Because he saw you.

He saw the way you leaned forward whenever he stepped up to serve. The way you clutched that familiar banner like it was something sacred. But now, it wasn’t just a cheer. It was a message meant for him alone: ¡Vamos, Tōru! Come on, baby.

And he played like a man possessed.

When the final point landed—a clean, devastating quick set to the middle blocker that left the opposing team scrambling—his teammates rushed in, shouting and piling on. But he didn’t join them right away.

He turned.

And he looked at you.

Your stomach dropped.

Because it wasn’t just pride in his eyes. Not just gratitude or relief.

It was a promise.

His jaw was clenched, sweat gleaming down his cheek, hair damp and wild. And in his gaze burned something wild, something victorious and dark and hungry.

I’m going to fuck you tonight until your legs give out.

You swallowed hard.

His eyes dragged slowly over your body—your jersey tied at the waist, your thighs snug in your skinny jeans—and his tongue swept across his bottom lip like he was already tasting you.

You couldn’t look away.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wink. Didn’t give you that cute little wave he always threw when he won.

No—this time, he tilted his head slightly and mouthed two slow, deliberate words across the court:

“My turn.”

Heat curled up your spine, pooled low in your belly, made your thighs press together instinctively.

Because you knew exactly what he meant.

Tonight, he wasn’t the broken boy needing to be held together with whispered praise and careful touches.

Tonight, he was your king on the court.

And he was coming home to worship you—with his hands, with his mouth, with every filthy word whispered against your skin.

To thank you.

To claim you.

To make good on that promise.

He barely let you close the apartment door before his hands were on you.

Not frantic. Not rushed.
Calculated. Controlled. Dangerous.

“Upstairs,” he growled into your ear, voice slick with hunger, breath hot against your neck. “Now.”

You obeyed without a word, breath caught in your throat as you ascended the stairs.

Your foot had just landed on the top step when he was behind you—pressing his body flush to yours, all lean muscle and sweat and heat. His hands slipped beneath your jersey—his jersey—pushing it up over your hips, palms dragging slow and firm over your bare skin.

“Do you have any idea what you did to me today?” His voice rumbled low in your ear, equal parts venom and desire. “Sitting there like that… looking at me like you couldn’t wait to be fucked. That cute little banner. You in my jersey. Those jeans clinging to your ass.”

You gasped as he grabbed your hips—fingers digging into denim and flesh—and lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your legs wrapped around him by instinct, arms curling around his neck as he carried you down the hall with single-minded purpose.

“You wanted this,” he hissed, kicking open the bedroom door with his foot. “Wanted my eyes on you. My cock in you. My praise in your fucking veins.”

He tossed you onto the bed, and the world spun.

The moment you landed, he stripped off his shirt in one fluid motion. Your breath caught.

Lit golden by the setting sun, his body looked sculpted—shoulders broad, chest heaving, abs tight and glistening with a sheen of sweat from the match. Every inch of him spoke of power and precision, the kind that came from endless training, from winning, from knowing he was damn good and finally believing it.

His shorts hit the floor. He was already hard—thick, flushed, the tip glistening.

He crawled over you slowly, stalking like a predator, eyes drinking in every inch of exposed skin as he tugged the jersey up and over your head. You arched for him, breath shallow, and he groaned.

“Look at you,” he murmured, cupping your breast in one hand, his thumb flicking over your nipple until it stiffened. “My lucky charm.”

“I knew you’d win,” you whispered, heart thudding as you reached up and threaded your fingers into his damp, tousled hair—soft and dark, still clinging to sweat. You tugged gently, and his eyes fluttered closed, lashes thick and trembling.

“You’re damn right I did,” he said, voice rough. “Because I knew you were watching. Knew you were waiting for me. Ready to spread your legs the second I got home.”

He kissed you then—hot and hungry, lips parting yours, tongue sweeping into your mouth with a possessive growl. When he pulled back, his voice rasped with want.

“On your knees. Want you like that first.”

Your thighs clenched at the command.

You obeyed, crawling onto your hands and knees, pulse pounding in your ears. He knelt in front of you on the bed, towering and devastating, hand wrapped around the base of his cock as he tapped it lightly against your lips.

“Open that pretty mouth for me.”

You did, tongue darting out to swirl around the head. He hissed, guiding himself in—slow and deliberate—until your lips stretched wide, your throat full. His free hand slid into your hair, gripping tightly, guiding you.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he groaned, hips rolling shallowly. “You suck me so well. So desperate for it, huh?”

You moaned, and he twitched on your tongue.

But he pulled out too soon, strands of spit still connecting you to him. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look up into his eyes—deep brown, blown black with lust, glowing like embers.

“As much as I love your mouth, baby,” he panted, voice barely holding together, “I need to be inside you.”

He pushed you onto your back and spread your legs with both hands, eyes locking onto the slick glisten between your thighs. One thick finger slid down, gathering your arousal.

“Fucking drenched. Just from the match? From me?”

You nodded, breathless. “Tōru—please—”

“Don’t worry,” he growled, lining himself up, “I’ll give it to you.”

He slid in deep—slow, stretching, searing—and you cried out, legs locking around him.

“Tōru!”

“Yeah,” he breathed against your neck, hips starting to move, each thrust smooth and controlled. “Say it again. Scream it. You owe me.”

You clung to him as he fucked you with purpose, each snap of his hips angled to hit that spot that made you see stars.

“You wanted this cock,” he growled, biting at your collarbone, “the second I looked at you after that match. Wanted me to ruin you for cheering so sweet.”

“God—yes—yes, Tōru—”

“I’m gonna make you come so many times you forget your own name,” he rasped, thumb circling your clit. “But mine? Mine you’ll remember.”

You shattered.

Legs shaking. Back arching. Your scream swallowed into his mouth as he kissed you through it.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped you over like you were weightless, dragging your hips up beneath him with one arm curled tight around your waist. You gasped as he slammed back into you from behind, deep and unrelenting. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, sharp and wet and obscene.

His chest pressed flush to your back, the sweat-slicked lines of his toned body molding to yours as he leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

"Oh you like that right, baby?" he growled, each thrust grinding deeper, pushing you forward on the mattress. "Like it when I take you from the back?"

"Yes oh yes, Tōru." You whimpered, fingers fisting the ruined sheets, drool slipping from your lips as your eyes rolled back. He was everywhere—his hand gripping your waist, the other moving under your body, pressing flat over your lower belly.

“You feel me there?” he rasped, thrusting hard, and your belly tensed under his palm. “Right there. That bulge? That’s me. That’s my cock, buried so fucking deep in your cunt.”

You moaned—broken, feral.

"That’s where I’m gonna come. Right there," he hissed, teeth scraping your ear as his fingers curled tighter on your stomach. "Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna make it stick."

Your thighs were trembling, toes curling so hard they ached. You couldn’t even speak, couldn’t think. Just his voice, his cock, his breath on your skin.

And when he angled his hips just right, pounding into that perfect spot, his fingers circled mercilessly over your clit again and again, your body seized.

You shattered around him with a cry, the orgasm tearing through you so violently you screamed his name, legs kicking, back arching, and then—

You squirted.

It gushed over him, soaking his thighs, the sheets, your own legs shaking from the force of it. You felt it, felt yourself fall apart completely, mind blank with ecstasy.

Oikawa stilled for half a second—then laughed, low and smug, voice thick with lust and pride.

"Fuck yes," he groaned. "You made a mess for me, baby. Look at you. My good fucking girl."

He kept fucking you through it, dragging it out, wringing every last spasm from your oversensitive body.

“Did so good. So fucking perfect. You gonna let me come now, huh?” His hand was on your belly again, holding you still, and you could feel the bulge throb right against that spot inside.

And then he came—deep inside you, hips jerking as he pressed himself flush, moaning your name like it burned on his tongue.

His cock pulsed, thick ropes of cum spilling into you, and he held you there, tight against him, riding out the high with trembling groans into your skin.

Then—

Silence.

Just the sound of your ragged breathing. His lips on your shoulder. The soft, warm weight of his body as he lay over you, still buried inside.

Eventually, he eased you down into the sheets, arms gentle now, turning you so he could pull you into his chest. He looked down at you—his hair messy and damp, eyes warm, lashes stuck together with sweat. He reached to tuck your hair back, brushing his knuckles over your cheek.

"You really are my lucky charm," he murmured, voice soft and reverent.

You managed a breathless smile, cheeks flushed and lips kiss-swollen. Your body was aching, ruined—and completely his.

"And you're such a sore winner," you whispered.

He chuckled, kissed your forehead, and pulled the covers up around you both, his arms holding you close against the mess you’d made of the sheets.

“Damn right I am.”

Chapter Text

The strobe lights pulsed across the venue, casting rhythmic flashes of blue and crimson over the roaring crowd. Semi stood center stage, framed by the glow—sweat glinting on his collarbone, guitar slung low on his hips, his presence electric. Every strum of his red electric guitar sent the room into a frenzy, but your gaze never left him.

His dark grey hair fell in tousled layers, a few strands clinging to his forehead. Silver glinted at every angle—a sleek bar through his left brow, a small hoop on the right, and the telltale flicker of a tongue piercing when he sang or smirked. He wore a long fur coat, wild and excessive, draped over a stretched black vest that clung to his chest, the neckline teasing muscle and heat. His pants were shredded along the thighs, just enough to hint at skin, and his combat boots were worn from use—proof of late nights and reckless touring.

When the final chord rang out and the crowd erupted one last time, you slipped backstage, clutching a small gift bag tight to your chest. Inside—carefully chosen tokens: his favorite Tekka rolls, a pair of custom guitar picks engraved with his name, a vintage Shiratorizawa jersey with his number, and one very personal addition.

The backstage door creaked open. Semi leaned against the wall, casually toweling sweat from his neck. His coat hung half-off his shoulders, exposing one toned arm. His gaze met yours across the narrow hallway, and that familiar smirk spread over his lips.

“You showed up again, huh?” His voice was lower offstage, smoother—rich with amusement, but there was something else under it. Recognition. Curiosity.

He turned briefly toward his bandmate, muttering under his breath, “What’s her name again?”

The other shrugged, already halfway to opening a beer.

"It's, (Y/N)," Your voice was small and soft, as you held out the gift bag with shaky hands. “I thought you might like these.”

He took it without hesitation, glancing in with a casual interest that sharpened as he pulled out the vinyl. “No way…talk about a throwback. This is from high school. You’ve really been following me since the volleyball days?”

"Mhm." You nodded shyly. “Would you... maybe sign the jersey for me?”

“Where at, baby?” he asked, tilting his head, teasing.

You swallowed, your cheeks hot from the pet name. “The lower back, please.”

That earned a grin. “Knew you’d say that.”

Before he could grab a marker, the bassist leaned into the room with a shit-eating grin. “So you’re the one who’s been showing up at every stop. I’ve heard about you.”

The drummer followed with a low whistle, eyes dropping blatantly to the curve of your leather-clad hips. “Heard about that ass, too.”

You stiffened, suddenly aware of just how tight your outfit was under their gaze.

Semi didn’t say a word—but he stepped between you and them, slow and casual, like it was nothing. Like his body just belonged between theirs and yours.

“Cool it,” he muttered, shooting the bassist a pointed look as he dug through your gift bag.

The bassist just laughed. “Touchy, touchy. She’s not yours, man.”

Semi didn’t respond—he just reached over, grabbed the lunch container from you like it was the most normal thing in the world, and popped a Tekka roll into his mouth. The casual intimacy of it—taking something from your hands like he’d done it a thousand times—made your stomach flutter.

“Mmph—shit, these are so good. As always,” he muttered around a bite, eyebrows raising in pleasant surprise. “Way better than that Lawson garbage.”

The bassist licked his lips, watching the roll disappear. “Not fair, you always make Tekka rolls and Semi-Semi Poo won’t even let us have a bite.”

Semi shot him a dry look and elbowed him in the gut without a word.

The drummer barked a laugh. “Bro, you're going to make him angry now. You know how Semi hates to share.”

Semi didn’t answer. But as he sat back on the arm of the couch, he reached out and tugged you closer into the space between his legs, his hand lingering on your waist like it belonged there.

Then he fished out the custom picks, which he held up to the light. “Damn. These are sick.”

His hand dipped back into the bag—and paused. You saw the flicker of realization cross his face, saw his fingers freeze as they brushed soft lace. His brows twitched, but he didn’t pull it out. Instead, his eyes lifted slowly to meet yours, a dark gleam in them now.

You bit your bottom lip, heart pounding as the silence stretched.

He didn’t say anything right away, just let the corner of his mouth curl, his voice low, intimate, meant only for you.

“You really brought me a fucking thong?” His tone was amused, darkly delighted. “That for me to look at—or for you to wear for me?”

His bandmates hadn't seen what he’d found, but they definitely caught the shift in atmosphere. They quieted for the first time all night.

You didn’t answer, just held his gaze, lip still caught between your teeth, cheeks flushing deeper.

Semi chuckled, letting the lace disappear back into the bag like a secret. 

“Damn. You're really not as innocent as you look,” Semi murmured, his grin curling wider, eyes raking over you with a kind of amused intrigue that made your stomach twist.

You shifted slightly, your tight leather jeans suddenly feeling too revealing under their gaze. Heat bloomed in your chest, but you forced yourself to hold eye contact, unwilling to shrink away.

“Your piercings are cool,” you said softly, hoping to steer the conversation away from the teasing, away from you.

Semi’s brow lifted. That smirk returned, lazy and loaded. “Yeah?” He leaned in, just enough to invade your space, the scent of sweat and cologne and the faint metallic tang of adrenaline from the stage clinging to him. “Which one’s your favorite?” he asked, his voice low and velvety.

You swallowed. “The eyebrow. Or… maybe the tongue.”

He chuckled again, slower this time, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Ever thought of getting one?”

You hesitated, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I, uh… I’ve actually always wanted… nipple piercings.”

Silence.

A beat.

And then—Semi let out a short laugh, more surprised than mocking. “Shit, that’s bold.” His tongue darted out to touch his lip ring, and his eyes glinted with something darker. “Didn’t expect that.”

Behind him, his bandmates were suddenly much too quiet—until the bassist muttered, “Well, damn. No wonder she’s been trailing the tour.” He gave a low whistle, eyeing you with renewed interest. “Guess we know what kind of groupie she is.”

Semi chuckled low in his throat, his expression unreadable as his hooded eyes flicked to yours. He didn’t deny it—but he didn’t encourage it either.

Your ears were ringing with embarrassment, shame prickling hot under your skin. You felt their eyes again—lingering too long, seeing too much.

The drummer smirked and leaned in to whisper something that earned a quiet laugh, but you didn’t hear it—not really.

Semi, however did. 

He straightened, the playful edge gone from his face. His jaw tensed, and the grin he wore seconds ago was replaced by something colder, sharper.

“Enough,” he said, voice quiet but steely.

The air shifted.

Even the bassist stopped laughing.

Semi turned fully toward his bandmates, and though he didn’t raise his voice, the authority in it was unmistakable. “You want to fuck around, do it on your own time. Not with her. This ones mine.”

The drummer raised both hands, eyes wide in mock innocence. The bassist offered a shrug and a shit-eating grin, but neither of them pushed further. Not now.

Then, Semi’s eyes found yours again, and they softened—just slightly—but there was something else in them now. Something fiercely protective. Possessive.

“Come,” he said, not a question, not an offer.

Before you could answer, his fingers wrapped gently but firmly around your wrist. The gesture wasn’t rough, but it brooked no argument. He pulled you with him, his grip warm and grounding, and you followed without protest, your heart thudding as you left the band behind.

The cool night air brushed against your skin like a warning as you stepped outside, but before you could even register the chill, Semi’s hand was already wrapped around your wrist, guiding you with a quiet urgency toward his personal trailer. The door slammed behind you with a jarring finality, and when you turned, he was already leaning against the counter, his arms crossed, eyes sharp.

“Sit down,” he said, his voice low and firm. Not angry—controlled. Dangerous in a way that made you go still.

You blinked at him, startled. You’d expected him to tease, to maybe throw a flirty line your way like earlier. But instead, he looked deadly serious, and that shift in his energy sent a ripple down your spine.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he began, voice softer now, but edged with frustration. “You can’t go around talking like that—flirting, teasing—in front of people you don’t know. Especially not guys like them.”

You opened your mouth, instinctively ready to defend yourself, but he stepped forward and cut you off.

“No. Listen. You think they’re just messing around, but they’re not. They’d eat you alive. And I’m not gonna stand by and watch that.” His jaw clenched, voice low and tight. “You seem like a decent girl. So you need to be more careful with how you act around men.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Not because of what he said—but how he said it. Like you were fragile. Naive. Like you didn’t know what kind of attention you were inviting. Like you needed someone to protect you.

It made something in you twist—then burn.

You tilted your head, something cooler settling over your features, slicing right through the tension. “You think I’m easy?”

“I think…” he hesitated, the certainty in his voice already cracking, “I think you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

You stepped closer, barely a breath between your bodies now. “Oh, I think I do,” you said, voice calm but laced with quiet defiance. 

"You think you know me. That I’m soft. Innocent. That I don’t see the way they look at me.” You let your eyes flick down, just for a second, to where his jeans were starting to strain. “Or the way you look at me.”

“You brought me back here to fuck me,” you said, each word cutting clean, deliberate. “So don’t stand there lecturing me like you’re my fucking dad.”

Semi’s jaw flexed, the muscle ticking hard. But he didn’t move. Didn’t deny it.

His breath hitched, his eyes flickering down to your lips before forcing themselves back to your eyes. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmured, the words thick with warning—but not conviction.

“Maybe I like games,” you replied, your voice a whisper, the challenge unmistakable. 

The trailer was dead silent for a long moment. His chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, eyes locked on yours. It felt like the entire world had paused—just the two of you suspended in a moment you couldn’t walk back from.

Then he exhaled hard, like he was trying to shake the pull of you off his skin. “Fuck,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You're really something.”

You let a smirk play on your lips, something wicked and knowing in your expression. “You know…” you started, voice dropping just slightly, teasing, “I actually do have the piercings.”

His eyes snapped back to yours, all amusement wiped clean from his face. He froze. “You’re kidding.”

“Wanna see?” you offered, already tugging at the hem of your shirt.

He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t have to. The hunger in his gaze gave him away. You pulled your shirt off in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor, and suddenly, everything was quiet. No bra. Just bare skin, curves, and the gleam of silver—a pair of delicate silver nipple piercings, catching the dim light.

Semi went completely still. His eyes roamed over you slowly, reverently, like he was seeing you for the first time. His breath caught. His mouth opened slightly, then closed again like he didn’t trust what might come out.

“…Shit,” he breathed, finally. “You’re-”

You didn’t shy away. You didn’t flinch. You just stood there, bold and still, letting him look. Letting him see. “There’s more,” you said softly.

His brows lifted. “More?”

Without another word, you turned around slowly, deliberately, hips swaying ever so slightly. Then you bent forward, just enough to press yourself flush against him—your ass grinding over the bulge already straining in his jeans.

He sucked in a breath, sharp and low. “Oh fuck.”

And then he saw it.

The tattoo. Small, cursive script inked across the small of your back. Eita Semi.

His name.

He stumbled backward a step, eyes wide, like the wind had been knocked out of him. “What the—are you serious?” His voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You turned your head over your shoulder, lip caught between your teeth, smiling like you already knew the effect it would have on him. “Had it for years,” you said. “Since high school.”

His mouth parted like he wanted to speak, but nothing came. Just the stunned silence of a man realizing he’d underestimated you in every possible way.

“I watched all your games. You were kind of… my obsession,” you added, letting the words fall like a confession. One you weren’t ashamed of.

He stared at you, stunned into silence, like you’d just flipped the entire dynamic on its head.

Because in his mind, you’d been sweet. Naïve. A little reckless, maybe, but innocent.

And now… now he realized how wrong he’d been.

He groaned—sharp and desperate—and grabbed your hips like he’d finally lost the last bit of control. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he muttered through gritted teeth.

Then he pressed forward, grinding into your ass with a rough, needy thrust that made you gasp. “This what you wanted? Huh?” His voice dropped, guttural. “Wanted to be a little slut for me?”

The friction was immediate—raw and deliciously filthy. His jeans were rough against your leather pants, every drag sending jolts of heat through your core. Your hips rocked back on instinct, chasing the contact with a low moan.

“Yes—yes, Semi,” you gasped, your voice coming out breathy, wrecked.

His grip tightened like he needed to hold onto something or lose himself entirely. “Fuck—look at you,” he growled, thrusting against you like a man starved. “You have no idea what you're doing, do you?”

You whimpered, grinding against the thick bulge in his jeans. It was hot and firm, trapped between you, rubbing right where you needed him most. “I know exactly what I’m doing,” you murmured, hips meeting his with shameless rhythm. “You’ve been hard for me since you saw my thong, haven’t you?”

Semi’s breath hitched. He didn’t even try to deny it—just let out a rough sound and dropped one hand to your waistband, yanking your pants down in one swift motion. His breath caught, then turned ragged.

“You’re not wearing anything,” he muttered, stunned. “Fuck, this whole time?"

Then his eyes widened just a little. "Wait—was the thong you gave me?” His voice dropped, dark with realization. “You gave me that fucking thong... and you were wearing it?”

You looked at him over your shoulder, smiling sweet and filthy. “Slipped it off for you before your final set.”

“Jesus fuck, you’re such a slut,” he breathed, more reverent than judgmental.

Then he was fumbling with his own jeans, cursing low under his breath. His hand stilled just before he freed himself, his gaze burning into yours.

“You ever hear about my piercings?” he asked, voice low and casual—too casual for the way his hands shook.

Your breath caught. You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah. Heard the rumors.”

A dangerous smirk curled on his lips as he dragged his zipper down. “Well, they aren't rumors, baby. Think you can handle it?”

“I need it,” you said, breathless and aching. “Please, Semi—I want to feel everything.”

That was all he needed to hear.

He pushed his jeans down just far enough to free himself, and your eyes widened. His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, veined, and pierced. A row of silver ball studs gleamed along the underside, each one catching the low light like a dare.

He hissed when your bare ass brushed against him, the contact almost too much. “Fuck—just the way you look at me is gonna make me cum.”

One hand clutched your hip like a vice, the other slid between your thighs, finding your slick heat and plunging two fingers into you without hesitation.

“Goddamn,” he breathed. “You’re soaked. You’ve been like this the whole time, haven’t you?”

“Since the show started,” you managed, trembling with every stroke of his fingers. "All wet for you, Semi."

That snapped something in him.

He pressed the pierced head of his cock between your cheeks, dragging it through your folds as his fingers fucked you harder, deeper. You moaned, body shaking, until finally—

“Say my name again,” he growled into your shoulder, tongue flicking out against your skin, piercings cold and wet. “Say it like you moaned it when you got that fucking tattoo.”

“Semi—god—Semi,” you cried, your voice broken and high, hands bracing against the wall.

He glanced down at your lower back—his name inked there like a brand—and snarled.

“Fuck it.”

He slipped his fingers out, lined himself up behind you, eyes locked on the slick mess between your thighs.

“You ready?” he asked, voice low, trembling with restraint. “Because I’m not going slow. Not after that.”

“Please,” you gasped, pushing your hips back. “I can take it—just give it to me.”

Then he slammed into you in one hard thrust, hips snapping forward, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp and obscene in the close air of the trailer.

You cried out—raw and helpless—your hands bracing against the wall, knees trembling as he filled you to the hilt.

“God—Semi,” you gasped, voice pitched high as your body jerked with each brutal thrust. “You feel so—so good—”

His cock was heavy and thick, studded with silver ball piercings that dragged deliciously with every stroke, each ridge catching on your walls in a way that made your vision blur. You’d never felt anything like it. Every thrust sent sparks through you, unbearable and perfect all at once.

His breath hitched as he drew his hips back, watching the way your slick stretched between you, coating the silver studs along his shaft. Each piercing glistened, smeared with your arousal, as if your body was desperate to keep him—greedy and dripping and hot. He groaned, the sight almost enough to make him lose it then and there.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasped, eyes fixed where your bodies met. “You’re soaking me.”

He slammed forward again, burying himself to the base, and your wetness smothered him—thick and messy, slicking down his length. The sound was obscene—wet and rhythmic, echoing off the thin trailer walls with every punishing thrust. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t stop staring at the way your pussy clenched around him like it didn’t want to let go, fluttering with every stroke as if your body was begging to be filled.

Your ass bounced with each impact, soft and perfect, jiggling from the force of his thrusts. He slapped it hard, palm stinging from the contact, and growled when it rippled under his hand—like he’d left his mark, claimed you all over again.

You moaned loud, clenching around him.

“Look at this,” he groaned, watching your skin tremble as he rocked into you. “You take me so fucking well.”

And then he spread you wider—thumbs sinking into the curve of your cheeks, holding you open like a prize as he fucked into you with deep, hungry thrusts. He watched himself disappear into you again and again, his cock glazed with your slick, piercings dragging along your walls, making you shudder and keen with every motion.

You were dripping—so wet it ran down his balls, glistening in the low light. He swore he could feel it every time he bottomed out, the mess of your arousal smeared between your thighs and against his pelvis.

He was mesmerized. By the squelch of your pussy around him. By the way you tightened when he rubbed his thumb over that tight, sensitive ring below. By the tremble in your voice as you moaned his name like a prayer torn apart.

You were his. Filthy and perfect. And he was going to fuck you until the only thing you could say was his name.

“You were made for this,” he gritted out, his voice low and rough, his hips punishing. “Walking around with my name on your back—no panties, acting shy—fuck, you’re filthy.”

You whimpered, bucking back against him, desperate for more, for deeper.

And then his thumbs slid down to kneading your ass apart, holding you open for him as his hips kept rocking forward. The stretch made you gasp—and then his thumb slid lower, teasing, circling that tight untouched spot with slow, deliberate pressure.

Your whole body jolted.

“Semi—!”

“Sensitive, huh?” he breathed, eyes glued to where your bodies met, his voice dark and thick with hunger. “Gonna fall apart if I keep touching you here?”

You couldn’t answer—you could barely breathe. He had you wide open, wrecked on him, moaning with every thrust, every touch. You’d never felt so consumed. Never wanted to be ruined more.

Your moans turned breathless, almost broken, every sound you made feeding the fire in him. He leaned forward, crowding over you, sweat dripping from his temple onto the back of your neck as his cock pistoned in and out—slick and raw, gliding effortlessly through your mess.

“Feel that?” he growled against your ear, hips snapping forward with a bruising rhythm. “That’s what you do to me. Can’t even think straight with this pussy wrapped around me.”

He grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make your spine arch deeper, tighter—your back a perfect curve that made his name tattooed above your ass stretch temptingly. 

“You branded yourself for me, didn’t you?” he hissed. “Walk around like you’re innocent, but your body’s screaming mine.”

You cried out when he ground his hips into yours, rolling them slow for just a moment—letting you feel every inch, every ridge, every dragging silver ball teasing your insides. You twitched around him, a gasp falling from your lips as your thighs shook beneath you.

“S-Semi—please—” you sobbed, hips pushing back to meet him even as your legs threatened to give out.

He grinned—mean and breathless—then let go of your hair and pressed his hand flat between your shoulder blades, shoving you forward until your chest hit the wall again, your ass arched even higher for him.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he groaned. “Just like that—let me see it. Let me see how messy you are for me.”

His eyes dropped again—entranced by the way your cunt gripped him, bruised and raw, juices leaking down his shaft with every deep, savage thrust. His balls slapped against you, wet and heavy, as he picked up the pace again—harder, rougher, his breath turning to snarls as he lost himself in you.

You were drooling now—words gone, brain empty, just a string of mewls and high, desperate whines as he split you open. Your walls fluttered around him, spasming like you were right on the edge, so close it hurt.

“Gonna cum just like this?” he muttered, slapping your ass again, the sound ringing out loud and sharp. “Bent over and bred like a bitch in heat?”

Your scream was answer enough.

Semi’s rhythm faltered for just a moment, then he pulled out with a wet, obscene sound, gripping your hips tight as you whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

“Nuh-uh,” he breathed, hauling you up without warning—one arm hooking under your thighs, the other locking around your waist. You gasped as your feet left the ground, legs spread wide by the brute force of his grip. Your back hit his chest, slick skin against slick skin, and you instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck for balance as he adjusted you—cock nudging back between your folds, swollen and soaked in your arousal.

“Hold on, baby,” he growled into your ear, voice dark and wrecked. “Not done with you yet.”

Then he sank into you again—deep and thick—your body jolting with the impact. The angle made you cry out, toes curling midair as he held you wide open, helpless, suspended on his cock. Every thrust punched the breath from your lungs, every drag of his pierced shaft against your inner walls sending sparks exploding behind your eyes.

Your head dropped back onto his shoulder as he fucked up into you, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in the tight space, your tits bouncing wildly with every brutal snap of his hips.

“Look at you,” he groaned, eyes locked on the mirror across the room—your body riding him, thighs trembling, your tits bouncing with every thrust. Your skin was slick with sweat, lips parted in a dazed, fucked-out expression that made his cock twitch inside you. “So fucking perfect like this.”

He leaned forward, sinking his teeth into the curve of your neck with a low, possessive growl. Not hard enough to break the skin—but deep enough to leave a mark that would last until the next time he saw you. You cried out, hips stuttering as your walls clenched around him.

“Semi—oh my god—”

“That’s it,” he rasped, voice thick with hunger. “Take it. Take every inch like a good girl.”

Then his hand slid down, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles, perfectly in sync with the deep, punishing snap of his hips.

Your head lolled back as you caught sight of your reflection again—and that’s when you saw it. The outline of him bulging against your belly, thick and obscene, every thrust pressing it visibly higher like your body couldn’t even contain him.

“Oh fuck—Semi, I can see it,” you choked out, hand sliding down to touch the bulge, eyes wide with lust and disbelief. “You’re so fucking deep—”

“I know,” he growled, gripping your hips tighter. “Feel it, baby. That’s all me.”

And he slammed up harder, his cock dragging perfectly against every spot inside you, relentless and devastating, like he wanted to ruin you for anyone else.

You writhed in his grip, eyes rolling back, body jerking from the overload of sensation.

“I—I can’t—” you sobbed, trembling violently.

“Yes, you can,” he snarled against your skin. “You’re gonna cum for me. Gonna squeeze my cock and soak me, just like that—fuck, I can feel it—”

And then you shattered—legs trembling, a strangled cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm hit you like a wave. You clamped down around him, gushing so hard it dripped down both your thighs, squirting messily around his cock as he thrust through it, milking every pulse from your body.

“Shit—fuck—” he hissed, and then he was cumming too, burying himself to the hilt, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural groan. His hips jerked as his cock throbbed within you, thick and hot, the warmth of it filling you until it leaked out around the seal of your cunt.

He held you there, still trembling in his arms, fucked open and dripping, your slick and his cum running down your thighs, both of you gasping for breath.

“Mine,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple, his hand still lazily stroking over your overstimulated clit, making your hips twitch again. “No one else. Got it."

"Mhm." you hummed, lazy and dazed.

He didn’t say a word as he carried you to the couch—just breathed hard against your neck, cock still twitching inside you, your mixed release dripping between your legs with every step.

Then he sat down heavily, dragging you with him, letting your legs fall open across his lap.

“Down,” he ordered roughly, voice thick and low.

You blinked at him, eyes glassy, dazed from how hard he’d just wrecked you.

“Get on your knees,” he growled again, eyes flashing with something dark and possessive. “Clean me up.”

You slid to the floor with a shaky breath, hair a tangled mess, lips swollen, skin flushed. Your hands trembled as you reached for him—but he grabbed the base of his cock himself, lifting it toward your mouth, the head flushed, leaking, slick with your combined mess.

“Open.”

You obeyed instantly.

The moment your lips wrapped around him, he hissed—eyes narrowing, jaw clenched tight.

“Fuck—look at that,” he groaned, watching his cock stretch your mouth wide, the piercings dragging across your tongue, glinting with every bob of your head. “Big, isn’t it? Still messy from fucking your tight little cunt.”

You whimpered around him, tears stinging your lashes as you pushed deeper, throat working to take more—needing him like he was air.

You looked ruined—completely destroyed. Mascara smudged under your eyes, lips shiny and dripping, tits heaving with every needy breath.

Semi’s hand came down on your head—gentle but firm—guiding you as he watched, mouth parted, eyes heavy with lust.

“That’s it. Just like that,” he rasped. “My good girl. So fucking pretty like this—on your knees, with your mouth full of my cock.”

He rocked his hips forward slowly, fucking into your mouth, watching the way your tongue flicked against the underside, how your throat fluttered around the head, the piercings dragging back and forth in the tight heat of you. Your moans vibrated against him, sending another jolt up his spine.

Then, with a sudden tug of your hair, he pulled out—your lips chasing after him, eyes glazed with desperation.

“Stay still,” he ordered, fisting his cock as he looked you over—your red, swollen lips, your spit-slick chin, the way your chest rose and fell with quick, broken gasps.

“You want it?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You nodded, pupils blown wide, fingers reaching to rub messy circles over your clit.

He groaned—low and feral—and then he came again, thick ropes painting your chest, your throat, your tongue. He aimed higher, stroking himself through it as he smeared the last drops across your pierced nipples—watching the metal glisten with his cum, the way your skin flushed under the mess.

“Open your mouth again,” he breathed.

You obeyed, tongue out, and he let the final bead drip right onto it, groaning at the sight.

“Fuck—you look like a dream,” he said, voice full of reverence and filth. 

And you took it. You took all of it.

The trailer was quiet now, thick with the fading scent of sweat and sex, the low hum of the fridge barely cutting through the silence. You were tucked under Semi’s arm, curled against the warmth of his bare chest, wearing one of his oversized band tees—black, soft, and stretched thin at the collar. It hung off one shoulder, brushing your thighs like a blanket, still holding his scent.

He’d taken such gentle care of you afterward—wiping you down with a warm towel, helping you into the shirt, holding you steady when your legs trembled too much to stand. He didn’t say anything about it. Just moved like he knew what you needed before you asked. Then he got you water, sat behind you on the couch, and pulled you into his lap like you belonged there.

Now, one arm was wrapped securely around your waist, the other trailing lazy fingers over your skin—his hand resting over your chest, right where your heart beat steady and strong. His other hand gently played with your nipple piercing, more thoughtless than teasing, like he needed to keep touching you just to believe you were still here. Still his.

“You were really wild for giving me your thong like that.” he chuckled deep and dark, you felt his chest rumble behind you.

You laughed softly. “I knew that would really get you to notice me.”

He chuckled again, but his smile faded after a beat. His hand stilled, palm flattening over your heartbeat.

“…You said earlier,” he started, voice slow, a little unsure, “that you’ve always watched me. Since volleyball.”

You nodded, fingers tracing faint patterns over the back of his hand. “Since Shiratorizawa.”

“But I wasn’t even the best,” he said, tone dipping into something rough—almost bitter. “Everyone looked at Ushijima. Or Tendou, with all his weird tricks. Why the hell would you be watching me?”

You turned just enough to see him, to meet the question in his eyes—silver hair tousled from your hands, lips still swollen from kissing you raw, but those eyes… they were soft now. Guarded. Like part of him was bracing to be disappointed.

“It wasn’t about who hit the hardest or scored the most,” you said, your voice steady and sure. “You weren’t flashy, but you were the glue. You were grounded, always pushing forward, even when no one was cheering for you. You had this quiet intensity—like you were doing it for yourself, not for the crowd.”

He looked at you, silent.

You smiled faintly, your voice dipping lower, more vulnerable. “You always looked like you carried more than anyone knew. Like you were holding the whole team together and didn’t care if anyone noticed. That… stuck with me. I really admired you.”

His breath hitched—just slightly—but he didn’t speak.

“To be honest… I think at first it was just some dumb high school crush,” you murmured, voice muffled into his huge bicep. “But over time, it turned into something else. I wanted to know you—off the court, beyond the games. But I was always too shy.”

Semi let out a low laugh behind you. “You got my name tattooed on you. Pretty bold for someone shy.”

You groaned, burying your face deeper. “That was impulse. I just wanted to do something daring for once. You probably think it’s stupid, huh?”

There was a pause, then his voice, rough and a little breathless: “Stupid? Yes. But so fucking hot.”

He pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb brushing lazily over the ink. “It means you wanted me—bad enough to leave a mark. I’m not complaining.”

His hand shifted from your heart to your waist, his other hand now smoothing over your thigh—slow, grounding, tender. His lips pressed to the back of your shoulder again like a silent promise, lingering there as your breath slowed, skin warm beneath his.

“…Thank god you finally got the courage. I don’t know what the hell I did to deserve this,” he finally whispered, voice thick. “But I’m never letting you go.”

You didn’t answer. Just reached for his hand, lacing your fingers with his, tucking them against your stomach as you closed your eyes and smiled—your body sore, your heart pounding like a kick drum against his palm.

Chapter Text

You were used to it by now.

The comings and goings. The sleepy airport drop-offs just before sunrise, him stealing a last kiss with the taste of coffee still on your lips. The missed calls made up for with bursts of chaotic photo spam—Nishinoya in another country, another time zone, arms flung wide on some sun-drenched rooftop, or crouched mid-air during a cliff dive, or grinning with a monkey on his shoulder.

He always came back. He always made it feel like the first time.

You loved that about him. You loved him. Fiercely, without bitterness.

But tonight, something was off.

The apartment felt too still. The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound accompanying the ticking of the clock. You sat curled on the couch in just his old Karasuno volleyball jersey, the fabric worn soft with age and just a little too big on you. The sleeves brushed your thighs, and it still smelled faintly of him—sunblock, sweat, and a lingering trace of that citrusy cologne he only wore when he traveled.

You hadn’t meant to mope. Not really. But the ache had crept in slowly, curling in your chest like something alive. Dinner had been quiet. The television buzzed with something forgettable in the background. You’d scrolled past his latest message—another selfie, this time backlit by a glowing Rio sunset. His grin was so wide you could practically hear him in it.

“I miss you, babe. You’d love it here. Wish I could fly you out.”

You smiled when you read it. Of course you did. But it didn’t stop the hollow tug just beneath your ribs. The kind that whispered all the things you never dared to say aloud. I want more. I want now. I want you home.

You weren’t angry. Not even close. You just missed him in a way that wasn’t pretty or poetic—it was raw and bone-deep. The kind of missing that twisted in your gut and left your hands empty.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh.

You didn’t need to check. You already knew.

Yuu .

You hesitated. Just a second. Just long enough to acknowledge how badly you needed this. Then you answered.

“Hey, babe,” came his voice, bright and crackling with energy, like a firework across a quiet sky. “You okay? You didn’t answer my last pic. The one with the monkey on my shoulder. I named him Taro.”

You let out a breathy chuckle. “Sorry, babe. Got distracted.”

He paused—just for a moment. You knew he was listening more carefully now. Reading between the lines.

“…You sure you’re good?” he asked, softer this time, threaded with concern.

“Yeah,” you said quickly. Too quickly. “Just tired.”

Another pause. You imagined him lying on some hotel bed, one leg propped over a suitcase, hair damp from a late-night shower, the room dim and smelling like cheap soap and sunburn. But he smiled through it, like always.

“Alright. If you say so,” he said, the warmth returning. “Anyway—wait till you hear this. This morning I tried to surf with some locals. Didn’t go great. Wiped out, like, three times. I swear the board’s cursed or something. But then I found this little stand selling these coconut buns and they were so good, like, melt-in-your-mouth soft—”

You closed your eyes and sank deeper into the couch cushions, a thin fleece draped over you, the phone pressed to your ear like it could bring him closer.

His voice wrapped around you—quick and full of color, laughter tucked into every sentence, his excitement painted in bold strokes. You could hear him moving as he talked, shifting positions, maybe gesturing with his free hand even though you couldn’t see it.

Your body responded before you even fully realized it. It wasn’t just the ache of missing him anymore.

It was his voice. The cadence. The joy. That raw, unfiltered Yuu-ness that no one else in the world had. That magnetic pull he carried in everything he did. The way he loved out loud, lived with no brakes, and somehow still made you feel like the most important thing in the room.

You swallowed hard. The warmth pooling low in your belly was slow and heavy. Your thighs squeezed together.

You let your hand drift lazily under the fleece. First just resting on your bare hip. Then lower, brushing over your white lace panties. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like you weren’t already flushed from the sound of his voice alone.

“…and then this old lady selling the buns said I had a cute accent,” he was saying, laughing. “I tried to tell her I was Japanese, not Brazilian, and she was like, ‘yes, yes, but very cute,’ and I think she gave me an extra one for free—”

You let out a breath, shaky now. “Yuu…”

He stopped. “…Yeah?”

“I miss you.”

The words spilled out soft and naked. No sarcasm. No half-laugh.

He went still on the other end.

Then his voice dropped, rougher now, something quiet curling behind it. “I miss you too, babe. So fucking much.”

The silence after wasn’t empty. It was full of heat.

"Could you keep talking for me?" You sounded like you were begging, and desperately needy as your hand slipped lower, into your waistband, breath hitching as your fingers brushed over yourself. You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut. 

His voice came back, lower now. “Wait...are you…?”

You hesitated—but the soft sound of your breathing gave you away.

Then-

"Please Yuu..." you moaned all soft and whiny.

He exhaled. “Shit.”

“I need you,” you whispered.

That lit something in him. “Yeah?” His voice dipped into something darker, honeyed and rough. “You touching yourself to the sound of my voice, babe?”

You let out a quiet noise, half-embarrassed, half-needy.

He groaned. “God, if I were there, I’d have your legs shaking already. You know that, right?”

Your fingers moved slowly, guided by the rhythm of his voice. Every word lit you up from the inside out.

“You’d be up on the kitchen counter like how I left you before I took my flight to Rio,” he murmured, “in my jersey, nothing underneath. I’d drop to my knees for you—slow, just to tease. You wouldn’t last long. You never do when I use my tongue on you.”

“Yuu remind me." Your hips lifted into your touch, breath shallow now. "Remind me how you use your tongue on me?”

Nishinoya hissed through his teeth like he could feel you. “God, you sound so fucking sexy, baby—"

You whimpered, body already on edge, thighs trembling slightly as you kept your fingers moving.

“You know how I do it,” he murmured, voice dropping like a promise. “I’d spread your legs nice and wide, press my mouth right up against that pretty pussy. Start slow—just little kisses, baby. Just enough to make you squirm.”

“Oh yeah…” you breathed.

“Then I’d lick you,” he continued, rough and tender all at once. “Flat and slow, bottom of my tongue dragging all the way up. You’d shiver every time I hit that sweet spot—right there, yeah? Right at the top.”

Your hips jolted at the thought.

“Then I’d suck on it,” he groaned. “Messy, noisy, like I love doing it. I’d get my fingers in you too—curl them just right. You always squeeze when I do that. Like your body’s begging me to keep going.”

You let out a choked moan, his words hitting you like heat lightning.

“And I don’t stop,” he growled. “Not till you’re grabbing at my hair, tugging like you want to pull me deeper. I want you to lose it, baby. Want you to ride my face till your legs are shaking and you’re crying my name.”

You gasped, pleasure building harder now, breath ragged.

“I’d keep going even after you cum,” he whispered. “You get real sensitive, but you never tell me to stop. You just moan louder. Grind on my mouth like you need it.”

He let out a breathy laugh, wrecked and wild. “That’s my favorite part. When you can’t even talk and just use me. When you’re so fucked out from my tongue all you can say is Yuu, Yuu, Yuu.”

Your fingers moved faster, matching the rhythm of his voice, your whole body buzzing like it was lit from the inside.

“Say it again for me, baby,” he growled. “Please. Just like that. Let me hear you.”

“Yuu—oh, fuck—Yuu.” You breathed it like a prayer, your voice trembling, hips lifting into your touch. “Yuu…”

He groaned, low and guttural. “God, you sound so fuckin’ sexy like this.”

Then, his voice dipped, gravelly and thick with heat. “Tell me what else you want, baby.”

“I… I want you to...” you bit your lip, suddenly shy. “Tell me how you'd fuck me. Like you’re here.”

The line went quiet—just a beat—long enough for your breath to catch and your body to burn with anticipation.

“Fuck,” he rasped, and you could hear the tension in him now. “You really want that? Want me to tell you all the filthy things I’d do to you if I were home?”

“Yes,” you said, already shaking. “Please, Yuu. I need it.”

He groaned again, the sound deep, aching. You heard the rustle of sheets, maybe his palm dragging over his cock, maybe just the way he moved when he was trying not to fall apart too fast.

“Alright, baby,” he muttered. “You asked for it.”

“I’d start slow,” he murmured, voice like dark honey. “Sit you in my lap, with you in my Karasuno Jersey on. Fuck you always look so pretty in it."

"I'd pull it up, spread those legs open," he continued. "I wouldn’t even touch you at first. Just stare. Whisper in your ear how fucking soaked you are for me. How pretty your pussy looks like that.”

Your breath hitched hard. Your fingers moved deeper, wetter. The hem of his Jersey bunched in your other hand, dragged up over your chest like it might bring him closer.

“I’d kiss down your neck,” he went on, breath warm and ragged. “Then I’d suck your tits into my mouth while I made you fuck yourself on my fingers. One hand between your legs, the other in your hair—just to hear those little moans you always make.”

You whimpered, body trembling now.

“God, I’d take my time with you,” he groaned. “Taste every part of you. Suck my fingers clean after they’ve been inside you. Then I’d bend you over the arm of the couch and fuck you real slow—just enough to drive you crazy.”

You arched, your thighs clenching, every nerve ending tight and aching.

“I’d fuck you until you begged, baby,” he said, voice dark and shaking. “Then I’d pin your knees up, lean over you, press my chest to yours, and fuck you deep. Deep enough you feel me in your stomach. You’d be moaning so loud the neighbors’d know my name.”

“Yuu—please,” you gasped, wrecked. “I want you so bad.”

“Yeah?” he breathed. “You rubbing that pretty clit like a good girl?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Oh, god—yes.”

“Slide your fingers in deeper,” he growled. “Pretend they’re mine. Or my cock—fuck—whatever gets you there. Just don’t stop. Not till you’re shaking.”

A gasp tore from your throat. Your fingers pumped faster, the slick sounds obscene, echoing into the receiver. You knew he could hear them.

“Oh fuck, baby,” he groaned, barely holding it together. “You sound so wet. So fucking messy. That’s it—just like that. Wish I could see you.”

You hesitated—but only for a moment.

Your hand left your thigh, and with shaking fingers, you slipped your phone from your ear. You pushed the jersey up fully, bunched it between your teeth, letting it hang there like you were biting it to stifle your moans. You pressed your arms to your chest, pushing your plump breasts together, sweat-slicked and flushed. Your other hand was still between your legs, fingers deep inside you, wet and glistening.

Snap.

You sent the photo without thinking—driven by pure want.

It was filthy. Raw. Honest.

Silence.

Then:

“HOLY SHIT.”

You heard the thud of something hitting the bed—probably his phone—then a broken groan, like he’d lost it completely.

“Holy fuck, baby.” His breath hitched hard. You could practically hear the slick and the way he was fisting himself now. “You’re gonna kill me. You’re gonna fucking kill me. Look at you—in my jersey, tits all pressed together, fingers buried inside yourself like a good girl. Jesus.”

“You like it?” you whispered, breathless.

“I’m gonna frame that picture,” he said, voice strained. “And jerk off to it every night until I get home and fuck you just like that.”

You moaned softly, "Noya." fingers still stroking slow and deep, lips parted around the fabric clutched between your teeth.

Then his voice—raspy, wrecked—came again through the line:

“Tell me what you’d do to me.”

Your breath hitched.

“You always let me run my mouth,” he panted, “but fuck—I wanna hear you. Tell me what you’d do if I was there. C’mon, sweetheart… wreck me.”

Your heart pounded at the way he said it, like he needed it, like he lived for it. And maybe he did.

“I’d make you sit back,” you whispered. “Hands behind your head. No touching.”

He cursed under his breath.

“I’d get on my knees between your legs, lick you through your briefs just to hear you beg. You’d be so hard already—so worked up—I wouldn’t even have to do much. Just look up at you with my mouth open and let you watch me drool on your cock before I even take you in.”

“Holy shit,” he hissed.

“I’d suck you slow,” you went on, voice velvet and wicked now, “like I’ve got all the time in the world. Lick the underside then let your tip hit the back of my throat, just so I can gag a little—just how you like.”

He groaned loud, the sound of slick movement on the line growing frantic.

“I wouldn’t stop until you were grabbing my hair to use me. Until your legs were shaking. Until you were begging to cum.”

“Baby, I’m already begging,” he gasped.

You giggled, breathless, fingers moving faster now.

“Then I’d climb into your lap,” you said, “and rub you between my thighs—but not let you in. Just grind. Slick and slow. Make a mess on you. Tease you until you’re losing your mind.”

“You’re evil,” he groaned. “Perfect. Fucking perfect.”

“I’d whisper in your ear,” you panted, “and ask if you’re gonna be good and let me ride you. Ask if you’re gonna let me take what I want.”

“You’d have everything,” he growled. “Anything, baby, fuck—you wanna ride me? I’ll lay back and let you ruin me. God, I wanna feel you dripping down my thighs, wanna fuck up into you until I can’t even think.”

You whimpered, feeling your climax coil tighter.

“I’d lean down and kiss you,” you whispered. “And then I’d fuck you slow. Real slow. Make you watch as I fuck myself on your cock and moan your name.”

He let out a choked sound, desperate now. “You’re so good, baby—so fucking good—keep going—tell me how you’ll make me cum—”

You bit your lip. “I’ll milk you dry, Yuu. I’ll ride you till you fill me up and keep going even after you cum. Make sure you give me everything.”

“Fuck, fuck—baby—” he rasped.

“I want it so bad,” you moaned, your voice breaking. “Want you to cum in me. Fill me up, Yuu. I want to feel it dripping down my thighs."

He whined, the kind of sound you’d only ever heard from him when he was right on the edge—wrecked and obsessed and desperate to please you.

“You want that, sweetheart?” he panted. “Wanna be my good girl, stuffed full of me? I’ll do it—I’ll fuck you so good your legs won’t work.”

You moaned his name, high and needy, clenching around your fingers as your orgasm crept closer.

“Say it again,” he begged. “Say you want me to cum in you.”

“I want it,” you gasped. “Yuu, please—want your cum so bad. Wanna be messy and full, wanna take every drop—please, baby—”

“Fuck,” he groaned, breath catching like he was falling apart. “You’re so perfect—my girl—my fucking girl—keep touching yourself for me—don’t stop, baby—”

“Tell me I can have it,” you whimpered. “Tell me I can have all of you when you get back.”

“I swear,” he moaned. “First thing I’ll do, baby. The second I walk through that door—I’m gonna fuck you open and fill you up. Gonna make it so you don’t even want me to pull out.”

You pumped faster, your toes curled, your mouth parted with drool slipping out and all you could mutter was his name over and over again.

He nearly shouted, his voice cracking around your name. “Fuuuck—gonna cum, baby, you’re gonna make me—shit, you’re perfect—my fucking girl—”

“Do it,” you begged, whimpering, your body burning. “Cum for me, Yuu—let me hear you—”

“Good girl,” he gasped. “My good, filthy girl—fuck, I’m cumming—”

You both came apart at once—moaning, messy, undone—your voice trembling in his ear, his groans low and broken, the sounds of him falling apart under you even through the speaker.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you spoke.

Just the sound of two lovers panting into the night, thousands of miles apart, and still closer than anyone else in the world.

Then, softly—

“Okay I’m gonna be on the next flight home first thing tomorrow morning,” he muttered, still breathless. “Swear to god, baby. I need you.”

You smiled through the haze. “Bring those coconut buns you were talking about.”

He laughed, low and hoarse. “Only if I get to eat them off of you.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

The train hisses to a stop as afternoon sunlight bleeds gold across the Hyogo countryside. Kita Shinsuke steps off with quiet precision, duffel slung over his shoulder, a warm wind tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. Four years of city noise peel away in an instant, replaced by birdsong and the low hum of summer insects.

He hadn’t realized how much he’s missed this—the smell of tilled earth, the way the mountains carve the horizon, and the distant rustle of rice paddies swaying like they’re whispering welcome back.

“Shin!”

His spine goes stiff before he turns.

You’re jogging toward him from the gravel road, all long legs and sun-kissed skin. Your old work boots pound against the dirt, loose pebbles scattering behind you. A wide straw sunhat shields your face, but not enough to hide the glint in your eyes or the soft flush on your cheeks. A ribbed white tank clings to your figure, the hem slightly lifted where it catches on the waistband of your cut-off shorts. Your hair sticks to the sides of your neck, damp with sweat. You look... good.

Better than good.

He swallows once, hard, and straightens his shoulders.

When you reach him, you don’t hesitate. You wrap your arms around his torso in a warm, full-bodied hug like it’s the most natural thing in the world—like you haven’t grown up apart, haven’t only seen each other in passing over holidays since middle school.

When your nose nestles into the fabric of his shirt, you breathe him in—and he smells just as you remember: like rain-kissed soil, sun-warmed fields, and everything you’ve grown up with, everything you’ve quietly loved all your life.
He smells like home.

He stiffens for a second, hands hovering in the air, then awkwardly pats your back once. Twice. As if unsure whether he’s allowed to touch you.

You pull back quickly. “Ah—sorry!” you laugh, rubbing the back of your neck. “Guess I forgot you’re still a little... shy about that.”

He looks away, ears tinged pink. “It’s fine,” he mutters. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

You grin. “Still formal and polite as ever, huh? Even after college.”

Still beautiful, he doesn’t say.

You tilt your head, giving him a once-over that lingers on the subtle muscle he’s gained. “You look good, though. Real grown up.”

He clears his throat and shifts his duffel on his shoulder. “So do you.”

Your brows rise in surprise, then soften with something more tender. “C’mon,” you say, motioning toward the truck parked by the road. “I promised your grandma I’d drive you home. She’s making simmered pumpkin and cucumber pickles.”

He follows quietly, heart thrumming a little too fast. You’re only a few steps ahead, your shorts riding up to reveal the curve of your ass just slightly with each stride. He looks away quickly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

The feelings he tucked away in middle school—the ones he thought had faded with time—suddenly feel alive and bright, blooming wild like the buckwheat fields you ran through every summer.

And if he’s not careful, he knows they’ll take root all over again.

The truck rumbles up the gravel driveway of the Kita family farm, past neatly trimmed hedges and rows of newly planted rice paddies glistening in the fading sunlight. The smell of soy and something sweet drifts through the open kitchen windows.

As soon as you step onto the porch, the screen door creaks open.

“There you are!” Kita’s mother calls, apron tied snug around her waist, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. “I knew you’d bring him back safe.” Her eyes twinkle when they land on you. “And look at you, dear. Always so pretty.”

You laugh, brushing dust from your thighs. “Only ‘cause I sweat away half the morning planting soba.”

"Oh, don't be so modest, my sweet girl." she hugs you warm and tight. “Well, come in, then. You’re eating with us.”

“Oh—no, I don’t want to impose—”

“Nonsense,” she says, already turning. “We have too much food anyway, and it’s been years since I’ve seen you sit at my table.”

You glance at Shinsuke, but he only gives a small shrug that says you might as well. So you step inside.

The house is just as you remember it—clean, quiet, full of light and the smell of miso broth and simmered vegetables. His grandmother sits at the low dining table, back straight as ever, chopsticks in hand. She gives you a small nod. “So you’ve grown into a fine young woman, haven’t you?”

You bow politely. “Trying my best, Grandma Kita.”

Dinner is simple but comforting: simmered pumpkin with soy and mirin, cucumber pickles, fluffy rice, and miso soup with nameko mushrooms. You don’t even realize how hungry you are until you’re halfway through your bowl.

“So how’s your family’s farm doing?” Kita’s mother asks as she refills your tea.

“Good. My mom’s been working on a buckwheat hybrid with shorter growth cycles. I’ll bring some over tomorrow—she wanted you to try it.”

“That’d be lovely,” she beams.

Then, without warning, her eyes slide toward her son. “So, Shinsuke… you meet anyone special while you were away?”

He pauses, chopsticks midway to his mouth. “No.”

“No?” she teases. “Not even one cute girl? We need a daughter-in-law to help us on the farm, you know.”

He chokes on his rice.

“I just focused on my studies,” he says, voice even, sipping down barley tea to swallow the rice. “Didn’t have time for that.”

And for some reason, the words make your chest swell with something like relief.

His grandmother makes a little hum of agreement, not looking up from her rice. “I always thought it’d be her,” she says simply, nodding toward you.

The air freezes.

Your face goes hot, and so does Kita’s. Neither of you looks directly at each other, but under the table, your knees bump. Neither of you moves away.

His mother laughs lightly, “Oh, Mother, you’re embarrassing them.”

You glance at Kita from the corner of your eye. He looks calm as always—but the flush creeping up his ears betrays him.

You duck your head, a shy smile pulling at your lips. “Oh no, I have a boyfriend, Grandma Kita,” you say, voice light with a laugh.

Kita looks up too fast. “You do?”

His grandmother’s eyes sparkle with slight humor. “Is that so?”

You nod, trying not to squirm. “Mm-hmm.”

It’s a lie. The same one you always use to dodge your mom’s matchmaking attempts and random blind dates.

His grandma leans in, squinting at you. “What’s this young man’s name, then? Can’t imagine anyone being good enough for you… except maybe our Shin.”

“Grandma,” he mutters under his breath, clearly mortified.

You give a sheepish smile. “His name’s Hikaru.”

“Hikaru?” his mother repeats, brows drawing together. “Never heard of him. And this village isn’t that big.”

You shrug. “He works in Tokyo. Salaryman.”

There’s a pause. Too long.

“Hm,” Grandma says slowly, her eyes narrowing. “Convenient.”

You busy yourself with your soup, blowing gently on it, though it’s already gone warm.

“Is he coming to visit you soon?” Kita’s mom asks, clearly enjoying the gentle interrogation.

“Oh, um… maybe. He’s really busy. You know, Tokyo.”

Your excuse is too flimsy, and everyone knows it.

Your eyes flick to Shinsuke’s again, just for a second.

He looks away.

But the second is enough. Your knee still brushes his. He doesn’t move.

You bite your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of how broad his shoulders have become, how his silver hair has grown a little longer and shaggier, his jaw sharpened with age. There’s a quiet strength about him now—unmistakably masculine, quietly magnetic.

Your stomach twists with something warm and aching, fluttering low and deep—and worst of all, your mind wanders places it shouldn’t.

What would it feel like to be kissed by him?

Pinned beneath him?

“Dear?”

You blink, startled, and look up to see Kita’s mum smiling at you gently from across the table. You hadn’t even noticed she’d been speaking.

“Sorry?”

She chuckles. “I asked if you’d like more pumpkin soup.”

“Oh yes, please,” you say quickly, your voice a little too high. You nod, probably too eagerly, and reach for your glass to mask the warmth rising to your cheeks.

The earthy sweetness of the soup grounds you again, but your pulse still flutters like wings in your chest.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or maybe it’s just that the boy you’ve always harbored a crush on has quietly become a man. And he’s sitting right across from you, watching you with those steady, brown eyes.

—

After dinner, you offer to help with the dishes, and Kita’s mother gratefully passes you a dishrag and calls it a night. Shinsuke joins you at the sink without a word, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt. You stand side by side in the small kitchen, the sound of cicadas humming through the open window, mingling with the gentle clink of dishes and the rush of warm water.

“You don’t really have a boyfriend,” he says quietly. "Do you?"

You freeze with your hands in the sink. “…What makes you say that?”

“You always look away when you lie,” he replies simply, rinsing a bowl. “Same as when we were kids. You get this tiny crease right here—” he taps the space between his brows, not looking at you. “Like you’re hoping whoever’s listening won’t ask more questions.”

You give a soft laugh, eyes flicking toward him. “Guess I’m still predictable.”

“Only to me,” he says, so low you almost don’t catch it.

You look down again, the water now cloudy with soap and flecks of rice. “Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

He passes you a clean plate to dry. “Why lie in the first place?”

You sigh, pressing the dish towel against the ceramic with more force than necessary. “Because my mom won’t stop trying to marry me off. Matchmaking meetings. Introductions. Even brought in a temple priest once. I needed an excuse.”

“Ah,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s amused but trying to hide it.

Your fingers brush his under the water when you both reach for the same chopstick. You quickly pull yours back, but not before the heat passes between you.

Kita clears his throat. “Well, if I married you, maybe she’d stop.”

You blink. “What?”

He still doesn’t look at you. “Just saying. She wouldn’t bother you anymore if it were me.”

You stare at him, unsure if he’s teasing or serious.

Your heart stumbles.

And then you splash him—just a quick flick of your fingers that sends water scattering across his shirt.

“Don’t joke like that,” you mutter, cheeks burning.

But he doesn’t flinch. Just looks at you with those steady eyes, soap suds clinging to his wrists.

“What if I wasn’t?”

Your breath catches. The kitchen suddenly feels too warm, your heart beating a little too restlessly in your chest.

You look away again, down at the soapy sink. “Well… even if you were serious,” you mumble, “you’d be wasted on someone like me.”

"I really doubt that," he replies almost instantly.

And then you feel his gaze—heavy, still, soft. The kind of look that makes your pulse slow and speed up all at once.

You look away.

“Let’s just finish these dishes,” you murmur. You shift, continuing in silence to wash, rinse, and dry—but the sound of your heart hammering against your chest beats through the quiet.

The weeks bled together in gold.

Kita settled back into the rhythm of rural life—though rhythm was generous. The truth was, he’d forgotten almost everything. The machinery, the water levels, the planting sequences… he’d spent too long with books and lecture halls. But you were there. Patient, familiar. Helping him remember which switch on the tiller did what, when to watch for beetles, how to pull weeds without breaking his back.

Sometimes you brought over lunch—your mother’s chilled soba or pickled cucumbers, or your own half-baked attempts at bento. You made him taste everything. Sometimes he didn’t say much, but you could tell when he liked it—he ate fast and didn’t look up.

He brought rice grains to your place in return, slung over one shoulder like it weighed nothing. You pretended not to stare at the way his shirt clung to his back in the heat.

Evenings meant lazy walks. You’d wander past fields bathed in amber light, listening to the cicadas and the rustle of leaves. You talked about more adult things now—future plans, regrets, loneliness. But it always felt easy with him. Like slipping back into a dream you thought you’d outgrown, only to find it still fits like a favorite old shirt.

Tonight, the air is heavy and sweet with summer. You’re both on his back patio, legs bare and stretched out, chewing on cold watermelon slices. His mom and grandma have gone to town for groceries. The sweat on your skin is slow and glistening; your tank top clings to you in places you wish it didn’t.

Kita sits beside you, hair slightly damp, wearing a dark vest that shows his toned shoulders and arms. His tanned skin glows against the faint lantern light. He’s quiet, as usual, but his gaze lingers more lately. Longer than it used to. Like he’s trying to remember something he lost years ago—and it might be you.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“Why don’t you ever take your mom’s matchmaking seriously?”

You suck the last juice from your watermelon, licking it from your fingers before answering. “Because I like someone.”

His eyes shift to you, slow and careful. “…Then why not marry them?”

You give a soft, bitter laugh. “Because I don't think he likes me back.”

Kita goes still. You don’t look at him. Just drop the rind into the bowl and wipe your hands on your shorts.

The silence pulses between you. A breeze passes, warm and restless.

“…What about you?” you ask. “Why are you still single, Mr. Rice Prince? I don't really buy the whole 'focusing on studies and not having time' thing.”

There's a beat of silence.

Then-

 “Same reason as you.” He picks at the edge of his watermelon. "I like this girl, been pining for her for a long time but I don't think she's interested."

You finally look at him. His face is calm, but his jaw’s tight. The muscle there ticks slightly. You can’t tell if it’s restraint or regret.

Your gaze dips—unintentionally—to the cut of his arms, the flex of his forearms as he leans forward, sweat glistening on his collarbone. The skin of his throat. The way his shorts ride up a bit on his thighs. And suddenly it feels hard to breathe.

Maybe it’s the heat. Or maybe it’s all the unsaid things over the years, simmering just under the surface.

You realize he’s looking at you too. At the line of your neck, the curve of your collarbone, the sweat trailing between your breasts. His eyes darken—but he doesn’t move.

"What's he like?" Shinsuke finally asks cutting through the heat and unnamed tension.

The silence hangs thick between you, heat curling against your skin, your breath shallow in your chest. He’s still looking at you, waiting. So you speak.

“He’s… quiet.”

Shinsuke’s brows lift just a little, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“Steady. Always calm. Too polite. He never says more than he needs to, but he notices everything. He works hard. He’s dependable. He—” You pause, eyes dropping to your hands in your lap. “He remembers things I forget. He’s good with animals. He looks good in the sun. In work clothes. He doesn’t brag. But when he smiles—” You press your lips together. “It makes my heart race a little.”

He doesn’t say anything. The cicadas fill the space.

You glance at him.

His ears are red.

“…What’s she like?” you ask, because you need to know "The girl you like."

He looks at you. Right at you. And then says, quietly:

“She’s always been bright. A little wild. Bossy.” He smiles faintly. “She’s the kind of person who walks into a room and makes it feel full. She's always been brave enough to speak her mind, but kind, too. She’s got this spark—like you can never quite predict what she’ll do next. But everything she does is warm. She smells like summer. And buckwheat. And she never backs down from anything.”

Your lips part.

He’s still watching you, his voice barely above a whisper now. “And she has this laugh that reminds me even through the bad times, things will get better. Always has.”

The wind moves through the trees. A soft hush.

Your heartbeat is a roar in your ears.

He sets his watermelon rind down and looks away for the first time all night, like maybe he’s afraid he’s said too much.

You don’t move. Because everything inside you is trembling.

Because it’s been him.

It’s always been him.

You let out a soft awkward laugh, trying to shake the weight of what he just said, trying to slow your racing heart.

“She sounds a lot like me…” you say, smiling as you tease, “except maybe that last part.”

His eyes flick back to yours—steady, unwavering. “Especially the last part.”

The words land between you like something sacred. Your breath catches.

You hadn’t even realized how close you’d gotten—knees brushing again, elbows almost touching. Your legs shift just slightly toward him, and so do his. Your fingers curl against your thighs, aching to reach across the space.

You don’t speak. Neither does he.

You just lean.

So slow you could pretend it wasn’t happening, could claim it was a trick of the heat, of the moment. But your faces are closer now. His eyes drop to your lips. Yours to his. The tension pulls tight like a bowstring.

Your heart is thundering in your chest.

He leans in—

And then:

“We’re home!” his mother’s voice calls cheerfully from the front.

You both jolt back, just barely, like horny teenagers caught in the act. You blink and sit straighter, your pulse pounding in your throat.

“Can you two come help with the groceries?” his grandma calls next, her voice teasing. “Unless you're too busy out there!”

You flush to your ears. Kita stands quickly, clearing his throat, and offers you a hand up.

Your fingers brush his.

You take it, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

But neither of you says a word as you head back inside, shoulders brushing, hearts still halfway leaning toward each other.

The days pass, but something’s changed.

Kita still meets you every afternoon. You still bring buckwheat; he still brings rice. You share lunches on porches, water the soil together, and walk in the evenings while the sun bleeds into the mountains.

But now, his hands hover near yours longer. He guides you gently by the small of your back when stepping over rough patches in the field. He pours your tea before his. His eyes linger longer on your lips than they used to.

He’s more careful with you.

Less like a friend, and more like—something more.

Even his mum and grandma notice. They watch with quiet smiles. Until one day…

“So,” his mum says casually, over the sound of water running in the sink. “Did (Y/N)'s Tokyo boyfriend break up with her?”

Kita’s shoulders tense. “I don’t think so,” he says quickly, too quickly. "Why?"

His mum hums. “Strange. Her mother was telling me the other day she finally agreed to a matchmaking session. For marriage.”

It’s a soft sentence, but it cuts like a sickle.

Kita’s breath leaves his lungs. He sets the dish down carefully. His hands are shaking.

“Oh,” he says, and tries to keep the quake from his voice. “I see.” Then, suddenly, “I need to—go. Forgot to do some errands.”

"Honey, what errands?" his mum calls out for him.

He doesn’t respond.

He’s already gone. The front door left wide open.

"Oh, that boy." she smiled fondly, watching and knowing.

—

Your house echoes with the sound of frantic knocking.

You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and open the door—and there he is, panting, disheveled, hair mussed from running, one sock twisted halfway down his ankle, his sandals mismatched.

“Shin?” you blink. “What happened—”

“Is it true?” he blurts, voice rough. “The matchmaking. Are you doing it?”

You stare at him, breath caught in your throat. “What?”

He swallows hard. His eyes are wild. “Your mum. Mine said she told her you agreed to marry someone. Is that true?”

"God no." You shake your head slowly, still stunned. “Of course not. I’d never agree to that.”

He exhales—like someone who’s been underwater too long, finally breaking the surface.

You take in the rest of him—sweat clinging to his temple, the way his chest rises and falls like he ran the whole way here, how his expression is caught somewhere between panic and resolve.

“Must’ve been my mum,” you mutter rolling your eyes, stepping aside so he can come in. “She's always plotting something.”

He sighs, kicking off his slippers. “Mine, too. Probably teamed up.”

But as you close the door, your voice softens.

“What would’ve been so wrong if I had said yes?”

He stills. You see the flush creep up the back of his neck.

“…I don’t know,” he says, voice low. “It just wouldn't sit right with me.”

You take a step closer, heart fluttering. “Why not?”

He stands there in your entryway, framed by late summer heat and the weight of something he’s carried too long. His jaw is tight, but his gaze never wavers.

“Because… I don’t think he would’ve been right for you.”

You let out a quiet laugh, trying to break the tension. “You don’t even know him. Whoever he is. Why would you say that?”

His reply is quiet. Certain.

“Because he wouldn’t be me.”

Your breath catches. You blink, lips parting.

But he doesn’t stop—not now.

“I didn’t date in college,” he says. “Not once. My friends said I was too serious. Too focused. But I always knew… I’d come back here. Back home. Back to you.”

"What do you-" he cut you off.

"I kept telling myself, once I just worked hard, finished school, did everything right… become the perfect man for you, I'd come back and finally tell you."

You stare at him, barely breathing. "Tell me what, Shin?" 

"It's you who I like, (Y/N). Always has been." He shifts his weight, suddenly shy, his hand rising instinctively to the back of his neck. "I know it’s been years. Maybe it’s foolish. But I never stopped thinking about you. Not once."

Your lips part, and a laugh escapes—soft, breathless. A smile lifts your cheeks, warm and full of something that had waited far too long to bloom.

“I’ve never stopped thinking about you too, Shin.”

His breath catches at that. His eyes soften, burn.

"You're the one I like." you confess, it's soft and true. Completely.

He steps forward, slow and reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. His hand lifts gently to your face. His thumb brushes along your cheek, wiping a smudge of dirt and sweat you hadn’t even realized was there. His calloused fingers linger at your jaw.

You lean into his touch, trembling under the gentleness of it.

“You always get messy when you work,” he murmurs, almost teasing—but his voice cracks just a little, too thick with feeling.

You smile again, and before you can say anything more, he leans in.

No hesitation this time.

His lips press to yours, warm and firm, soft and certain. It’s not rushed, not clumsy—it’s the kind of kiss born from years of holding back. A kiss that says finally.

You rise onto your toes instinctively, hands curling into his shirt as his other hand cups the back of your head, steady and careful. He kisses you like you’re something sacred.

And maybe you are.

Maybe you always were.

The kiss deepens—his hand tightens slightly in your hair, the other settling at your waist, anchoring you to him. You can feel his breath stutter against your lips, the years of restraint unraveling with every second.

Your voice is barely a whisper when you pull back just enough to speak, heart racing.

“My parents are asleep… you can come upstairs. If you want.”

He stills, eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Yeah. I want you to.”

He follows you silently, the creak of the old staircase louder than ever in the quiet house. Your hand trails back, brushing his fingers, grounding you both. When you reach your room, you flick on the small bedside lamp—its golden glow casting soft shadows on familiar posters, childhood trinkets, and a well-loved desk.

Everything looks like it did when you were kids, but the air between you now is charged, changed. Heavy with everything unsaid—until tonight.

You turn to face him. He closes the door behind him gently, then looks at you like he’s memorizing every line of your face.

And then he’s kissing you again.

Hungrier this time. His hands find your waist, then your back, then your hips—like he doesn’t know where to touch first because he wants to feel everything. You cling to him, lips parting, moaning softly as his mouth moves down your jaw to your neck, reverent and aching.

“Oh, Shin…”

He looks up, eyes dark and warm. “Can I…?” His voice is rough with restraint. “Only if you want.”

You swallow. Your hands tremble slightly where they grip his shirt.

“It would be my first time,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks burning.

He goes still.

His hands soften where they hold you, like he’s cradling something breakable.

“It would be mine too,” he murmurs, nose brushing yours. “I never wanted it with anyone else.”

Your eyes sting. You pull him back into a kiss—gentler now, but no less hungry.

“Then… yes, Shin. Take me. All of me.”

The room falls quiet, save for your breathing—shaky, shared, rising in tandem. His touch maps you with reverence, like he’s learning you by heart. Fingers linger, brush, grip—slow, unsure at first, then certain. You help each other undress, clothes peeled away in soft layers until there’s nothing left but bare skin and the gravity of everything you’ve never said aloud.

You lie back on the futon, knees falling apart as he follows after you and settles between them. The room is dim, thick with the scent of dust, late summer air, and years of held-back longing. He hovers above you, gaze drinking you in. His fingers trail your collarbone, down your sides, across the dip of your waist. Each touch grounds you, ignites you.

He leans over you, eyes hooded, voice low, almost reverent.

“You still sure?”

You nod, breath caught, heart wide open.

“Yes.”

“Then let me take care of you,” he murmurs, fingers curling against your inner thigh. “Just breathe, alright?”

You nod, too breathless to answer. His hand slides between your legs, palm pressing over the wet fabric of your panties.

“You’re already soaked,” he says with a shaky exhale. “Is that all for me?”

You whimper, hips arching, and he smiles—soft but proud. He rubs slow circles with two fingers, watching your face.

“Tell me where it feels best,” he says, dragging the pad of his finger along your slit. “Here?” He presses just right, and you gasp.

“Yeah… there—oh Kita…”

“Good girl,” he breathes, dipping beneath the waistband. The heat of his fingers against your bare skin makes you shiver.

He strokes you carefully, learning the shape of you, then slides a single finger in. You clutch the sheets, gasping.

“Shh… I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice dropping into something filthier. “You’re so tight, honey. So warm around my fingers.”

He adds another, pumping slow and curling just right. Your back arches, legs trembling.

“Right there, yeah?” he asks. You nod frantically.

“God—you feel so good. Been dreaming about this,” he confesses, lips brushing your cheek, your neck. “About you falling apart on my fingers.”

You’re moaning now, barely holding on, and he leans down—watching your face as he keeps working you open.

Your orgasm hits hard, your whole body shaking as you cry out his name.

He pulls his fingers out gently, glistening with your slick, and brings them to his mouth without hesitation.

He licks them clean slowly, eyes locked on yours.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he says, voice rough.

Your face flushes hot, chest still rising and falling. You reach for him.

“Shinsuke,” you whisper, and he leans in, kissing you deep and dirty now, like he’s tasting every part of you.

He hovers over you, eyes locked on yours like they’re the only thing anchoring him. But your body has already told him everything he needs to know.

“You sure?” Shinsuke asks for the umpteenth time, voice low and rough, his thumb brushing your cheek like it’s something precious. “Once I have you… I'm never lettin’ go.”

You smile, pulling him closer, cupping his face in both hands. “I’ve always been yours, Shinsuke. You just didn’t know it.”

Something in him breaks—maybe the years of holding back, of pretending. He kisses you like a man starved, lips desperate, trembling with the effort not to lose control too soon. He tugs your panties down and off, leaving you bare beneath him, trembling under his touch.

And then you feel him—hard, flushed, pressing heavy against your thigh—he rubs his tip slowly, teasing between your slick folds. And when he finally eases into you, slow and deep, your mouth parts on a soundless gasp.

It hurts a little, but it’s not unbearable—especially not with the way he whispers sweet things in your ear like a prayer, over and over, like he’s anchoring himself to you.

But then, something unexpected—

You feel wetness on your cheek that didn’t come from you.

You blink, confused, and open your eyes.

Shinsuke’s face is twisted, eyes shut tight. A tear slips from his lashes and falls onto your cheek.

“Kita…?” you whisper, thumb brushing his jaw. “Why are you crying?”

He opens his eyes slowly, and his voice breaks:

“Because I’ve wanted this so badly. For so long. I worked so hard, waited all these years… and now I finally have you. I finally get to love you like this.”

Your chest tightens, a warm ache blooming in your ribs. You let out a breathy laugh, blinking your own tears away.

"Oh, sweet boy." you murmur fondly, drawing him in for a soft kiss, your lips salty with his tears. “You’ve always been a crybaby. My crybaby.”

He smiles against your mouth, shaky but full of relief.

You wrap your legs around his waist, anchoring him closer. “Now shut up and fuck me.”

His breath hitches—and then he moves.

“Fuck,” he chokes, face buried in your neck, breath hot and shaking. “You’re so warm… fuck—you’re perfect.” His voice catches. “You’re mine.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders as he fills you—inch by thick, aching inch—stretching you until you’re gasping. He groans like the feel of you is killing him, like he’s barely holding on. There’s no rush, just the slow, filthy slide of him sinking in, claiming you with every pulse of heat and every shaky breath you both held back for years.

He moves like he needs to carve the feeling into his body—deep and deliberate, cock dragging along every sensitive spot inside you. He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, his voice ragged and reverent.

“You feel like fuckin’ home,” he whispers, dazed. “Like you were made for me.”

You cradle his flushed face, your thumbs stroking the high color in his cheeks. “I am,” you breathe.

His forehead rests against yours, the rhythm of his hips steady but trembling.

“You okay?” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “Tell me what you like, honey… tell me where to touch—what makes you feel good.”

Your breath stutters. No one’s ever asked you like that before. Not with this kind of urgency. Like it’s the only thing that matters.

“You… inside me,” you whisper, voice wrecked. “Just like this. Deep. Where you're hitting—feels so good, Shin.”

He moans, desperate. “Here?” He adjusts his angle, drags his cock over that spot again and again, watching the way your mouth falls open, the way your back arches. “Right there, honey? That’s it?”

“Yes—God, yes.” Your thighs tremble around him. “Keep going—don’t stop.”

He cups the back of your head, kisses you hard—sloppy, open-mouthed, like he wants to drink the sounds from your lips. “I won’t,” he pants. “Gonna fuck you just how you like it—make you come, make you mine.”

His rhythm shifts—sloppier now, deeper, rougher. The years he spent holding back unravel with every desperate thrust. His mouth finds your throat, teeth grazing as he groans into your skin.

“Always knew it’d be you,” he pants. “You’d be the one—carryin’ my babies… wearin’ my fuckin’ ring… lettin’ me fill you up every night.”

Your cunt clenches around him, fluttering at his words, wet and wanting. “Say it again,” you beg, eyes wide, voice breaking.

He slams into you, the sound of your bodies obscene now—wet and reckless. You’re soaked, dripping down your thighs, slick sucking him in over and over.

“Gonna make you mine,” he growls. “Gonna fuck a baby into this pussy. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

You moan, loud and shameless. “Yes—please, Shinsuke—need it—need you so bad.”

But he hushes you with a smirk and his thumb brushing over your lips. “Your parents are in the other room, honey,” he murmurs. “Gotta be good, yeah?”

Then he covers your mouth with his hand—firm, possessive—muffling the filthy little cries you can’t stop. And that’s it. He snaps.

His hips go wild, pounding into you with messy, frantic thrusts, cock throbbing, slick with your wetness and his own leaking need. He groans into your ear, breath hot and broken. “Tell me more, honey. I wanna know everything. What makes you lose it. What makes you cry.”

You whimper. “When you talk to me like that—when you go deep and just—stay there.”

His hips grind in slow, devastating circles, cock buried to the base. You sob into his neck, overwhelmed.

“Like this?” he whispers, voice shaking. “God, honey, you feel like fuckin’ heaven. I can feel you flutterin’ around me—fuck, you’re so close, aren’t you?”

You nod, tears stinging your eyes. “I’m gonna come—Shin, I can’t—please, please—”

“That’s it, honey,” he growls, voice tight and reverent. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

You shatter around him, moaning against his throat, your cunt spasming around his cock as he fucks you through it, sloppy now, messier with every thrust. He’s panting, swearing, unraveling.

“That’s it—fuck, that’s my good girl,” he gasps. “Gonna come—gonna fill you up, baby—fuck—take it—take all of it—”

He buries himself deep, cock twitching as he spills inside you, thick and hot, like he’s giving you everything. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks it into you—sloppy little thrusts, hips grinding, cum leaking from you with every roll of his body. He’s trembling, wrecked, moaning into your neck.

“Keep it, honey… fuckin’ keep it. Let me breed you. Let me make you mine.”

“God—yes, yes, Shin—don’t stop,” you whisper, fucked-out and trembling beneath him, your body still rocking with aftershocks.

He groans, still moving, still deep, cock softening but not pulling out, too gone to care. He clutches you tight like you’ll vanish if he lets go.

“M’tired,” he mumbles, face pressed between your tits, breath sticky and warm. “Don’t wanna pull out… wanna stay right here. Inside you. Where I belong.”

You thread your fingers through his hair, kiss the crown of his head, and hold him.

He falls asleep just like that—buried in you, messy and spent, your cunt still leaking with everything he gave you. And you hold him like he’s yours. Because he always has been.

The morning sun filters through your curtains, casting a soft golden glow across your room. The sheets are tangled around your bare legs, your skin warm with the lingering heat of the night before. You stir gently, blinking awake to the softest thing—

Kisses.

Featherlight, reverent kisses trail down your shoulder, across your back, to your hips. Kita lies beside you, his sun-kissed skin glowing in the early light, hair slightly mussed, eyes warm and full of something deeper than desire.

“Mornin’, honey,” he drawls against your skin, his voice deep and husky with sleep as he kisses your waist. “I always dreamed of wakin’ up like this. Next to you.”

"Me too." You smile, heart fluttering, and reach down to card your fingers through his silver hair. But then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Your mother’s voice comes through the door, muffled but far too awake. “Breakfast is ready, sweetheart. Come down soon.”

Your blood runs cold. Shinsuke’s eyes widen.

You both freeze. Then you erupt into silent panic. He scrambles for his clothes—boxers, shirt, mismatched socks—and you press a hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh as he hops toward the window, pulling on his pants one leg at a time, nearly tripping over himself.

“Go, go!” you whisper through a giggle.

He turns before slipping out, completely disheveled, a leaf stuck in his hair and one sock halfway up his ankle. He looks at you with a boyish grin and mouths, “See you later.”

You laugh as he runs off across the yard, still tucking in his shirt.

And sure enough, later that afternoon, the sound of a car crunching over gravel draws your attention to the front porch. You open the door—and your breath catches.

Shinsuke stands there, clean, composed, devastatingly handsome in a dark suit, holding a bouquet of freshly cut tulips. Your favourite. Beside him are his mother and grandmother, both dressed neatly and smiling warmly.

Your parents join you at the door, curiosity in their eyes, and Shinsuke bows deeply.

“I’ve come to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” he says clearly, with all the calm confidence that once made him a beloved team captain—and now, the man you love. 

"Please." he adds quickly.

You stare at him, heart swelling so full it feels like it might spill over.

Your father lets out a bark of laughter. “Well, it’s about time, boy.”

His grandmother chuckles knowingly. “Didn’t we all know it’d end this way?”

And your mother gives a quick hi five to his, “Told you our plan would work.”

Then she adds with a sly smile, "Explains the floor boards creaking last night."

Both of you flush crimson.

-

While the living room fills with laughter, clinking teacups, and talk of wedding dates and joining the family businesses, you find yourself in the quiet corner of the kitchen, tucking the bouquet of tulips neatly into a glass vase. Kita stands beside you, just close enough to feel his warmth—his presence as grounding as ever.

He watches you with eyes full of something soft and unwavering—the kind of love that doesn’t need to be declared in grand gestures. But he still wants to say it.

He leans in, voice low and earnest.
“I forgot to tell you somethin’,” he murmurs, brushing a hand along your waist. “I love you.”

“I know.” You rise to your toes, lips brushing his. "I love you too, Shin."

And in that moment—wrapped in the scent of fresh flowers, the warmth of the late afternoon sun spilling through the windows, and the laughter of both your families behind you—you realize:

This isn’t just the ending you always hoped for.
It’s the beginning of everything you’ve ever dreamed of.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t planned on staying.

The job was supposed to be temporary—a stepping stone, a pit stop, something to keep the bills paid while you figured out what to do with your degree that was now collecting dust under your bed.

A graphic design position at a mid-tier sports media company wasn’t exactly your dream. You’d taken it for the paycheck, not the passion. You didn’t even like sports.

But then you saw his photos.

Yamaguchi Tadashi.

You didn’t know his name at first. He wasn’t loud in the office, didn’t make a point of drawing attention. Most people barely noticed him slipping in and out with his camera bag slung over one shoulder, eyes always scanning like he was looking for something just outside the frame.

You found his work by accident—assigned to lay out a feature spread for a volleyball series in the company’s monthly magazine. You opened the image folder, expecting the usual: generic action shots, stiff poses, forced smiles.

But what you found was… different.

There was something almost intimate in the way he shot his subjects. Not romantic—but close. Personal. Like he understood them in a way even they didn’t. A single frame could show the moment a libero's breath hitched before a dive, or the instant between a setter’s decision and her fingers striking the ball. You could see the weight of exhaustion in one shot, the thrill of a win in the next—all wordless, but deeply felt.

You must’ve stared at those files for half an hour before you remembered to breathe.

You didn’t know photography could feel like that.

You’d spent years learning how to make things look good—colors that popped, typefaces that spoke in silence, visual balance. But this—his photos—had heart. 

So you stayed.

Weeks passed. Then months. And you stopped checking job listings. You told yourself it was because you liked the stability, the pay was decent, or because the team wasn’t so bad.

But the truth was simpler: you liked working with him.

At first, it was strictly professional. You helped select layouts for his spreads, built graphics to enhance the motion in his shots, designed promotional materials around his visuals. Every time you handed him a draft, he’d glance at it with quiet surprise, like he never expected his work to be treated with such care.

Eventually, he started seeking you out.

“Hey,” he’d say, poking his head around your monitor. “Mind giving me your take on these?”

And you always said yes—even if you were busy. Even if you weren’t sure what to say. Because somewhere between late nights at the office and quiet edits passed over coffee, it became clear that what you felt wasn’t just admiration.

You had a crush.

A real, slow-burning, ridiculous crush on Yamaguchi Tadashi.

And he had no idea.

Even when you gave him subtle hints. 

Like whenever you lingered a little longer in his office after you handed him proofs. Let your fingers brush his when you passed him a coffee. Sat closer during meetings than strictly necessary. You complimented his hair when he’d clearly done something different with it, even if it was just switching the part. You laughed a little too hard at his dry humor and asked about the music he listened to while editing.

He’d just smile—warm, polite—and blink at you like he thought you were just being nice.

You wondered if maybe it was because he had a girlfriend and he was setting boundaries so one late night in the editing suite, bathed in the soft, bluish glow of the monitor, you leaned in a little closer than necessary—close enough to brush his sleeve, close enough that your perfume might linger.

“You look like you’ve got something on your mind,” you murmured, voice low and light. Then, with a flutter of lashes and a tilted smile: “Or maybe someone?”

His fingers paused over the keyboard.

"You have a girlfriend?" you pressed when he didn't say anything.

“Oh. No,” he said quickly, blinking at you like you’d just asked him about something completely out of his calibre. 

His freckles cheeks flushed a little, but his voice stayed completely sincere. “I was just thinking about… aperture settings.”

You blinked. “Aperture settings?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, clearly relieved to be on familiar ground. “Sometimes I overthink the lighting ratios for motion shots. Especially indoors. It’s kind of dumb, I guess.”

You stared at him for a beat.

All that effort—and he’d derailed your question with photography theory.

“No,” you murmured. “Not dumb at all.”

You smiled softly and took a sip of your coffee, letting the steam hide your sigh.

Well at least he doesn't have a girlfriend.

Another time, you tried to put more effort in how you did your hair and makeup on a day you knew he’d be working closely with you. 

You leaned over your desk as he approached, pointing out the print specs on your screen, your voice smooth and confident. Your heart fluttered a little—just a little—as you waited for him to say something. Anything.

Nothing.

Well—almost nothing.

After a long, quiet beat, he cleared his throat and said, a little too loudly, “I—I like your n-new coffee mug.”

You blinked. “My mug?”

He nodded quickly, eyes fixed on the cup like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Yeah. It’s got… raccoons on it.”

A beat.

“It’s cute.”

You stared at him. Then at the mug.

It was cute. A little chipped. Cartoon raccoons dancing around the rim with acorns and scarves.

“I guess it is,” you said, cradling the mug gently. 

After much effort, you’d tell yourself you were being ridiculous. That anyone else would’ve caught the hint by now. That maybe he just wasn’t interested.

But then—

He’d hold the elevator for you when your hands were full.

Or save you the last glazed donut from the break room because he remembered it was your favorite.

Or get quiet and anxious if you looked tired, hovering at your desk until you finally admitted what was wrong—then running out to buy you cold medicine or a warm coffee without a word.

It was nothing big.

Just little things.

Little things that made your hopeless crush hurt sweeter by the day.

“Can you help me sort these?” Yamaguchi asks today, gesturing to a stack of contact sheets on the desk.

“Of course. No problem.” You nod, sliding beside him and suppressing a smile. He always smells faintly of coffee and old film—warm and familiar. Comfortable.

As you start working, he rubs the back of his neck, glancing at the clock. “We’ve got a shoot this afternoon. Old friend of mine from high school—kind of a big deal, actually.”

“Oh?” You blink, flipping through the client files and jotting down notes into your journal. “Wait—middle blocker for the Sendai Frogs?”

“Yeah. Tsukki— I mean, Tsukishima Kei—is coming in. He’s… well, you’ll see.”

And you do.

He walks in like the room tilts slightly to accommodate him—tall, broad-shouldered, with a body carved out by years of elite play. Tsukishima Kei looks every inch the professional athlete. His platinum-blond hair is slicked back under a black beanie, designer jacket half-zipped over a lean frame, and that familiar, unimpressed scowl resting comfortably on his sharp face.

Until he sees you.

His golden eyes flick your way, and something sly curls at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t leer—but he watches you with the curiosity of someone just handed an unsolved riddle.

Yamaguchi fumbles with his camera case, adjusting the strap as he clears his throat. “This is my assistant,” he says, voice hovering just above nervous. “She’s—”

“(Y/N) (L/N),” you cut in smoothly, offering a polite bow with a practiced smile.

Tsukishima’s gaze sweeps over you—slow, deliberate. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips. “Cute,” he says, eyes lingering. “Yama’s mentioned you more than a few times.”

You expect Yamaguchi to laugh it off like he always does—but instead, his fingers twitch on the lens cap, and he throws Tsukishima a look. Not quite annoyed. But close.

“Tsukki,” he mutters, already dragging a hand down his face, as if mentally bracing himself.

You smile to yourself, heart fluttering just a little.

So he has mentioned you.

You flush, but kept your tone light, a small laugh escaping you. “I hope… good things?”

Tsukishima leans casually against the studio light stand, grin widening with a spark of mischief.  “Great things, actually,” he says, with a pointed glance at Yamaguchi.

The shoot runs smoothly—at least, professionally.

Yamaguchi stays focused, meticulous behind the lens. Tsukishima, unsurprisingly, is a natural in front of it. Years of interviews, media features, and magazine spreads have stripped away any teenage awkwardness he might’ve once had. He poses with practiced ease—sharp jaw tilted just right, hands relaxed but calculated.

But the real show plays out between the shots.

Between each click of the shutter, Tsukishima peppers you with flirty remarks—casual, low-voiced questions, little compliments dressed in sarcasm. All while glancing sidelong at Yamaguchi, like he’s waiting for something to crack.

You try to stay composed, try not to let it rattle you. But Yamaguchi’s behavior changes, too. Each time Tsukishima gets too close, each time he asks something just a little too personal, you notice Yamaguchi adjusting a light more forcefully than needed. Or stepping closer to Tsukishima, like shielding you without realizing it.

When the shoot wraps, Tsukishima grabs a towel and blots the sweat from his neck, rolling his shoulders out with a groan.

He slings an arm over Yamaguchi’s shoulder, grinning. “Drinks?” he offers, already reaching for his phone. “My treat. You’re buying next time anyway.”

Then his gaze flicks to you, grin sharpening.

“And bring your pretty assistant,” he adds. “Unless she’s got better plans.”

Yamaguchi stiffens just enough for you to notice. His eyes dart to you—then away, like he’s not sure if he should even ask.

“I mean—” he clears his throat, subtly stepping out from under Tsukishima’s arm. “Only if you’re comfortable. No pressure. You don’t have to.”

You tilt your head, watching him closely. His ears are pink again.

“Well,” you say with a light smile, “it might be fun. I’d love to hear some old stories about you two.”

“Deal,” Tsukishima chimes in—just a little too quick.

There’s a pause.

A twitch at the corner of Yamaguchi’s mouth. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—hesitation or dread, like he knows exactly which stories are going to come up.

Still, he nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sure. Could be… fun.”

You take your time getting ready.

It’s not a date—not officially. But it feels like one, in that quiet, secret corner of your chest where your crush on Yamaguchi lives and breathes.

And maybe that’s enough of an excuse to wear the soft satin dress you usually keep tucked away for rare events—black, figure-skimming, with thin straps that catch the light when you move. You let your hair down for once, add a touch of highlighter to your cheekbones, a hint of liner to your eyes. Nothing too dramatic. Just enough to maybe—just maybe—make him look at you differently tonight.

The bar sits tucked away on a quiet street corner downtown, the kind of place that feels intimate by design. Dim lighting glows golden from industrial fixtures overhead, casting long shadows across polished wood tables and brick walls lined with old records and flickering candles. The air is thick with low music and the hum of conversation—warm and inviting in a way that makes it easy to forget the outside world.

You step inside, scanning the room.

You spot them immediately—tucked into a half-moon booth near the back, a low pendant light casting a soft halo over their table.

Tsukishima looks like he belongs there—leaned back, legs stretched out, lazy confidence in his posture. But it’s Yamaguchi your eyes go to.

And god—he looks clean.

Not studio-rushed or half-wrinkled from a long day. He’s taken the time tonight. A white button-down with the sleeves rolled just past his forearms, collar open at the throat. His dark green hair is neatly styled with just the right amount of volume, and he looks freshly shaven. There’s a faint scent of something woodsy and warm in the air between you when you get close enough.

He looks up.

And freezes.

His drink sits untouched in his hand, amber eyes wide, lips parted like he’s just forgotten how to speak. He blinks once—twice—as his gaze trails down, then up again, lingering on your mouth before he forces his eyes back to yours.

And then—just as he opens his mouth—

“Wow,” Tsukishima says before he can. “You look hot.”

It’s unhinged. A little distasteful for your liking. But you smile politely anyway. “Thanks,” you say, even though you don’t really want it from him.

You slide into the booth beside Yamaguchi, and he shifts awkwardly to make room. You can feel the warmth radiating off him. He still hasn’t said anything.

Tsukishima’s golden eyes flick between the two of you, clearly enjoying himself. Then he turns to his friend, voice dipped in casual mockery. “Well, what do you think, Yama?”

Yamaguchi blinks like he’s just snapping out of a trance. His throat bobs as he swallows.

“I—she looks… gorgeous,” he says, barely above a whisper.

Tsukishima hums. “That so?”

Yamaguchi shifts in his seat, flustered, the tips of his ears turning a deep shade of red. “Shut it,” he mutters under his breath, but there’s no real heat behind it.

You smile, softer this time. The compliment isn’t smooth. It isn’t rehearsed.

But it’s real. Honest.

Drinks flow easily after that. Tsukishima takes the lead, of course—sharp, sarcastic, far too amused with himself.

He leans in, launching into story after story from their school days. You learn about the time Yamaguchi got gum stuck in his hair before a tournament and had to play with an awkward undercut. Or how he used to carry around a pocket-sized notebook to jot down notes on other players, like a total nerd.

(You find that part… weirdly endearing.)

“Wait, wait,” Tsukishima says, unlocking his phone. “You have to see this.”

He turns the screen toward you. Grainy footage from high school. A practice match.

There’s Yamaguchi—lean, focused, all fluid motion and sharp precision. He moves like he knows exactly where the ball is going to land before anyone else does. His jump serve is clean. His defense even cleaner.

You can’t look away.

“He’s perfect,” you say without thinking—just a breath of a thought, spoken aloud.

You go flush immediately.

Both of them look over, startled.

“I mean—,” you fumble, still watching the screen, “your form was great. You could’ve gone pro.”

The moment hangs, weighted.

Yamaguchi laughs softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Nah. I was never that good.”

“You were,” you say, quiet but certain. “I’ve seen the way you look through a lens. You read people. And it’s the same here. You knew where every player was going to be before they did.”

He blinks, stunned.

Tsukishima glances between the two of you, one brow arching like he can see something shifting—finally.

“You always do that,” you say, a little softer now. “Capture people right in the moment.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t reply. He just looks at you—really looks at you. Eyes wide. Lips parted.

And for the first time… you wonder if maybe he’s finally starting to see it too.

Not the makeup. Not the dress.

You.

The girl who joined for a job and stayed—so foolishly, hopelessly—for him.

You're all drunk by the time the last round hits the table.

Your cheeks are flushed, your head pleasantly light. Yamaguchi’s tie is loosened, two buttons undone. Tsukishima’s sleeves are rolled up, eyes sharper than ever even with the burn of alcohol in his laugh.

It’s been hours of laughter, teasing, drinks you lost count of—and Tsukishima hasn’t stopped.

“You know,” he says, sliding another empty glass aside, “You're not bad looking.”

You huff a laugh, head tipping to the side. “That’s got to be the tenth time you’ve said that tonight.”

He smirks. “Still true.”

You feel Yamaguchi tense beside you. Not enough for anyone else to notice—but you do. You always notice him.

You start to wave Tsukishima off, but he leans in again—closer this time, voice low, too smooth.

“I’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking between you and Yamaguchi, “if Yama’s not making a move, I’d be more than happy to.”

You stiffen, caught off guard—not quite offended, but uncomfortable. Your mouth opens—

And then—

“Tsukki. Enough.”

Yamaguchi’s voice cuts in, steady but hard. No stammer. No hesitation.

You both turn to look at him.

Tsukishima raises a brow. “Relax. I’m joking.”

Yamaguchi’s jaw tightens. “It's not funny.”

There’s a silence. The kind that pulls the air a little too tight.

Tsukishima leans back with a shrug, a smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth like he’s testing the edges of a wire.

“Didn’t realize she was off-limits.”

“She’s not,” Yamaguchi says, voice quiet. But there’s an edge there—something sharp, simmering beneath all that usually-soft.

He meets your eyes, and for the first time all night, he doesn’t look unsure. Just protective. Steady.

“But she’s not yours to treat like that either.”

"Buzzkill." Tsukishima whistles low under his breath, standing up and grabbing his coat. “Well. Guess I’ll leave her in your hands.”

He tosses a few bills onto the table without looking. “Night, Yama. Try not to be too boring for her.”

He gives you one last wink—playful, but knowing—then disappears into the low-lit hum of the bar.

You exhale, only realizing now how tight your shoulders had gone. You look at Yamaguchi.

“Hey,” you say gently. “Thanks. For… stepping in.”

His gaze flickers to yours, steady but unreadable. “Of course,” he says. Like it was obvious. Like it was nothing.

But it wasn't.

You open your mouth to say something else—but he’s already standing, pulling on his coat and reaching for your bag.

“It’s late,” he says, not quite looking at you. “You’ve had a lot to drink. I’ll walk you home.”

You blink, caught off guard. “Tadashi, I’m fine. Really. I can grab a cab—”

“I don’t want you walking alone,” he cuts in, still quiet but firm. “Or riding with some stranger.”

His eyes meet yours then, earnest and unflinching. “Let me take you home. Please.”

You hesitate.

He’s always been like this—gentle, thoughtful, sweet in ways he doesn’t even realize. But this time… there’s something else. A weight behind his words. Something different in the way he’s looking at you now.

And suddenly, your heart kicks.

Maybe this is it.

Maybe this is finally the moment he starts to see you the way you’ve always seen him.

“Alright,” you say, slipping on your coat. “Only if you walk slow. I’m in heels.”

He smiles—just a little—but it’s real.

“I’ve got all night,” he says softly.

You reach your apartment, keys fumbling slightly in your buzzed fingers as you jiggle them into the lock. The hallway light flickers dimly above you, the building quiet at this hour.

Yamaguchi stands just behind you—close enough to feel, but not touching. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s already halfway gone.

“Thanks for walking me,” you say, glancing over your shoulder with a small smile.

He offers one in return, soft but fleeting. “Yeah. Of course. I just wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

You step inside, hold the door open.

He doesn’t move.

“I’ll, uh… see you at work tomorrow?” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice is awkward, careful. “And… sorry about tonight. Tsukki’s—well he's alot but he means well. He just doesn’t know when to shut up.”

"I get it." You shake your head. “Don’t apologize.”

He looks at you, uncertain.

“I mean it,” you say, leaning lightly against the doorframe. “It was fun. Hearing about your past. Seeing you through someone else’s lens for once.”

You then lift your fingers and make a small snapping gesture, mimicking the click of a camera shutter. “Click,” you add with a sheepish little giggle, immediately regretting it. “Okay, wow, that sounded cooler in my head.”

Yamaguchi lets out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “No, it was...cute.”

His gaze lingers on yours for a second too long. And you don’t look away.

Something passes between you in the quiet—something new. Or maybe something that’s been there all along, finally allowed to breathe.

But then he shifts, glancing down at his shoes. “I should—uh— head out. The trains are still running. Probably.”

You frown.

“You live across town.”

He shrugs, awkward. “It's not that bad.”

Your hand reaches for him before your thoughts can stop it—fingers wrapping gently around his wrist, then sliding down to lace with his.

He freezes.

“You could stay,” you say softly. “If you want. It’s really late.”

He blinks. “I—I don’t want to impose—”

“You wouldn’t be,” you cut in gently, your thumb brushing the back of his hand. “I have a couch. And spare blankets. And… it’d be nice. To not end the night just yet.”

He hesitates, eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find the catch.

“I want more time with the Yamaguchi outside the office,” you say softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

You’re not sure if the flush rising in his cheeks is from the drinks or from you. Maybe both.

He swallows, nodding—small, hesitant. “Okay,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

You step aside, and he walks in. As you close the door behind him, the air seems to shift—subtle but palpable.

You both feel it.

But neither of you says it. Not yet.

You flip on the low lamp by the entryway. The warm glow spills into the small apartment, casting soft shadows against the walls.

“Make yourself at home,” you say, slipping off your shoes. “I’ll grab some blankets and stuff from my room. Couch is all yours.”

He nods, still a little tentative. “Thanks.”

You disappear down the hall, and he’s left alone in the quiet hum of your space.

It’s not what he expected.

Not in a bad way—just… surprising.

There’s a gentle kind of chaos to it. A lived-in clutter that feels warm and honest. Shoes half-tucked by the door. A plant on the windowsill leaning desperately toward the light. A scarf draped over the back of a dining chair, long forgotten. The smell of something sweet—vanilla or almond—lingers faintly in the air.

He steps deeper inside, fingers brushing the spine of a book on your crowded shelf. The titles span across genres: classic literature, design references, old photography books with frayed covers. There are even a few well-loved DVDs tucked in beside them—Pride and Prejudice, Ponyo, Spirited Away.

It fits you. Not loud, but layered. Thoughtful.

On the coffee table, there’s a mess of notes and sketches—some scribbled with highlighters, others printed in color. He recognizes a few as office mockups—drafts you’d been working on this week. His photos, paired with your layouts, cropped and rearranged and made better under your hands.

And then—something else.

Half-tucked beneath a stack of folders is a thick photo album, worn at the edges. He glances toward the hallway. Still no sound.

He opens it carefully.

There’s no label. No captions. Just photo after photo, printed on matte paper, carefully slotted into place.

But they say plenty.

Sunset over a quiet beach. Rows of tiny festival lanterns strung over cobbled streets. A soda machine glowing in the dark of an alleyway. A cat asleep on a bicycle seat. Rain beading on a glass window.

They’re beautiful.

Not flashy, not staged. Just… seen. In the way someone only could if they were paying attention. If they loved paying attention.

And the composition—the way the lines curve, the light folds, the textures pop without trying—tells him what you never have.

These weren’t random snapshots.

They were art.

He lifts one page carefully, heart thudding.

Are these hers?

Before he can flip again, he hears the soft padding of your footsteps as you return with an armful of blankets.

You pause in the doorway when you see him standing near your coffee table, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the photo album.

He looks up, slightly guilty—but not embarrassed. More like he was caught with his hand in a cookie jar.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding toward the album. “I didn’t mean to snoop. I just… are these yours?”

You shift the blankets in your arms, heart giving a tiny, panicked flutter. “The photos?”

He nods.

You glance at the album, cheeks warming. “Yeah. I mean… they’re nothing special. Just a silly hobby I had in high school. Not as good as yours, obviously.”

He frowns—genuine, confused. “Why would you say that?”

You place the blankets gently on the couch, giving yourself something to do with your hands.

“I guess I never really showed them to anyone,” you admit with a little shrug. “My parents thought it was a waste of time. They wanted me to pick something ‘practical.’ So I kinda just...dropped it.”

Yamaguchi looks down at the album again, fingers ghosting over the cover.

“They’re beautiful,” he says softly. “Really. You have an eye for quiet things. Even without people in the frame, it still feels like there’s… life. Like the world’s still moving in them.”

Your breath catches, just a little.

“I always struggled capturing people,” you admit, settling into the arm of the couch. “They never turned out the way I wanted. Too stiff. Or too posed. I couldn’t ever quite catch their essence. That’s why I love your work so much. You make people feel real. Like they’re in motion even when they’re still.”

He laughs then, a quiet sound—genuine and surprised.

You look up, startled. “What?”

“I just realized something,” he says, smiling wider now. “That’s why we work so well together.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He gestures between the two of you. “I capture the people. You capture everything around them. The spaces. The stillness. The feeling.”

He shrugs, just a little sheepish now.

“It’s… symbiosis.”

Your chest swells with warmth at the word. At the thought that maybe he’s felt this thing between you, too—this quiet rhythm, this soft orbit.

You smile. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

The air settles between you again, but it’s not uncomfortable anymore.

It’s soft. Familiar.

Intimate.

You don’t know when the space between you started to shrink—just that it had.

A few inches. Then none at all.

You’re close now, seated side by side on the couch, knees brushing, the half-folded blankets forgotten on the floorboards. His thigh is warm against yours, and the air feels different. Heavy with something unspoken.

Your heart pounds as you glance up at him—he’s already looking at you.

His eyes flick to your lips. Then back to your eyes.

You lift your hand slowly, brushing your fingers along the edge of his jaw. He leans into the touch, barely, and your heart swells at how careful he is with you—like you’re something precious he’s afraid to mishandle.

And you think, It’s now. It has to be now.

“Yamaguchi,” you breathe, voice barely more than a whisper. “I… really like you.”

It slips out before you can second-guess it. Fragile. Exposed.

There’s a pause.

He doesn’t look shocked—but something in his expression shifts, like he’s trying to make sure he heard you right. His lips part, then close again. His eyes search yours, slow and gentle.

Then he smiles. “I know,” he admits quietly.

You blink, heart stuttering in your chest.

But before you can speak—before your thoughts can catch up—he murmurs, “I like you too.”

The words settle over you like a hush. Simple. Uncomplicated. True.

His hand lifts to yours, fingers lacing between your own where it rests near his face. He draws your joined hands down slowly, lets them settle just over his heart.

And then, still holding your gaze, he steps a little closer. His other hand drifts to your hip, tentative at first—but it doesn’t leave. It lingers, warm and grounding.

You can feel his breath now, faint and steady, ghosting over your lips.

Still, he waits. Like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

So he leans in.

The kiss comes slow at first, careful—like he’s afraid he’ll wake up from a dream. But it deepens quickly, sweet and aching, months of quiet longing poured into one perfect moment.

When you break apart, he’s still close, forehead resting lightly against yours, breath fanning your cheek.

“I’ve known for a while,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded, lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. “Maybe after the third time you said my hair looked good? When all I did was part it a little different.”

You laugh, breathless.

“You noticed that?”

He nods, sheepish. “Of course I did. I notice everything about you."

A soft, breathless laugh escapes him. “I just… didn’t think I was enough.”

He pauses, searching for the right words. “You’re like fireworks—brilliant and bold and impossible not to look at. The kind of thing people admire from a distance because getting too close feels dangerous. I thought eventually, you’d see me for what I am and realize you wanted something brighter. I figured… you’d get bored.”

Your fingers trail up to the sides of his face, brushing his hair back gently.

“I wouldn’t get bored of you, Tadashi,” you say, voice sure. “Not in a hundred years.”

Something in his expression shifts then—like he finally lets himself believe it.

And then he kisses you again, deeper this time. Like he’s letting go of all the hesitation. All the doubt.

You melt into him, blankets pooling around your feet, the rest of the world falling away.

Just you and him.

And finally—finally—nothing left unsaid.

His hands grow firmer on your hips, no longer tentative. His fingers flex, and your body answers without thinking—pressing closer, heat coiling low in your belly as he shifts against you. 

Your hands slide up into his hair, threading through the soft green strands, tugging lightly at the roots. He groans at the contact—low, guttural—and the sound sends a wave of heat rolling through you.

You feel him harden through the fabric between you, the subtle grind of his hips making your breath hitch.

You moan softly in response, and that’s when he pulls back.

Breathing hard, lips parted, his eyes dart over your face, conflicted.

“I— I’m sorry,” he murmurs, brows drawn in concern. “I didn’t mean to rush this—”

But you shake your head, fingers catching his wrist, pulling him back to you.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, breathless. “I want this. I want you, Tadashi.”

Something flickers in his eyes then—want, awe, disbelief.

And then you're falling back into the couch cushions, the two of you sinking into the plush fabric as his weight settles gently over yours. He braces himself on his elbows, but he’s so close, your legs parting naturally to cradle him there.

You look up at him, and for the first time, really see him.

The soft spatter of freckles across his cheeks. The glint of amber threaded through his green eyes. A faint touch of gray in his hair near his temples—so subtle you’d never noticed before. Your fingers brush over his lips, still warm and wet from the kiss.

He’s beautiful.

He kisses you again, slower now. Reverent. His lips brush the tip of your nose, then your cheekbones, trailing heat across your skin.

Then lower—his mouth finds the curve of your jaw, the soft skin beneath your ear, the line of your throat. And when he reaches the nape of your neck, he pauses.

He licks—slow and deliberate—and you gasp, hips lifting beneath him.

“Tadashi,” you breathe, hands fisting in his shirt.

Your fingers fumble at the buttons, tugging them loose one by one, desperate to feel more of him—all of him.

And he lets you.

Because right now, it’s only the two of you. No hesitation. No wondering.

Just warmth, breath, and the sound of his heartbeat racing to meet yours.

Your fingers finally make it to the last button, the fabric of his shirt parting under your touch.

When you push it off his shoulders, you pause—eyes sweeping over the lean muscle of his torso, the defined lines of his stomach, the strength in his arms. You hadn't expected it. Not entirely. But now that it’s in front of you…

You stare, pleasantly stunned.

Yamaguchi lets out a soft, breathy laugh above you. “I know,” he says, eyes crinkling. “I don’t exactly look like it, but I do take care of myself.”

“I can see that,” you murmur, almost too distracted to tease him. “And now I get to have all of this for myself?”

"Everything." He whispers before he leans down to kiss you again—slow and smiling, and just a little smug now that he’s seen your reaction.

You kiss back with a hum of appreciation, hands smoothing over the warmth of his chest, the ridges of muscle beneath your palms. He shivers slightly beneath your touch, lips trailing back to your neck as he breathes in deep.

Then he stills.

“Can I?” he asks softly, fingers ghosting over the strap of your dress. “Only if you want me to.”

Your heart flutters—not from nerves, but from how careful he is. How he always gives you a choice.

You nod, just once. “Yes.”

With gentle hands, he pulls the fabric down—slow, reverent—until it slips past your shoulders and pools around your waist, leaving you in your lace bra and panties.

He pulls back to look at you, breath caught in his throat. His eyes sweep over you—wide, a little stunned, and so full of something tender it makes your skin prickle.

“You’re…” he starts, then stops, voice thick. “You’re so pretty.”

Your cheeks burn, and your arms twitch toward covering yourself—but he catches your hands, shaking his head gently.

“I mean it,” he says, voice rougher now. “I know it probably sounds perverted but…” He swallows. “I wish I could take a picture.”

You blink.

“What?”

He smiles, sheepish, one hand tracing softly along your thigh. “Not to do anything weird with it, of course. Just to... keep. You look like a dream.”

You stare up at him, heart cracking open, full and aching.

“Maybe I'll let you next time,” you whisper. “After you take me out on a real date.”

"Yes, ma'am." he smiles against the skin of your breast.

He kisses you again—slower this time. Deeper. Like he’s learning you by heart—like every inch of your skin holds a secret he’s desperate to memorize.

His lips trail down your throat, soft and searching, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. You feel him smile against your collarbone when you shiver, your breath catching as he moves lower. Over your chest, his mouth brushes teasingly along the lace of your bra, just barely avoiding your nipple, hot breath making the fabric cling to your skin. He nuzzles there for a moment, then presses a kiss just above your heart.

You arch into him involuntarily, fingers threading through the hair at the back of his neck, tugging.

“Y/N…” His voice is a rasp, half-prayer, half-plea. His hands stroke your ribs, your waist, the curve of your hips—slow, deliberate, like he can’t get enough of the feel of you. “You’re so soft… so warm.”

His kisses keep descending, past your navel, down the dip of your belly. When he reaches the waistband of your panties, he pauses. Breath hot. Eyes half-lidded and dark with need. His fingers curl into the elastic, but he doesn’t pull yet. He just looks up at you from between your thighs—green hair mussed, cheeks flushed, lips parted and wet.

“Can I?” he murmurs. “Please… can I taste you?”

The way he says it—like he’s asking for the purest kind of indulgence, like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted—makes your breath stutter in your throat.

You nod, barely managing the word: “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding it in for hours. Then, with exquisite care, he drags your panties down your legs—slowly, reverently—eyes locked on the way your slick folds glisten in the low light. He kisses your inner thigh first. Then again, higher. And higher. Until his mouth hovers right over your heat, lips barely brushing the tender skin.

“You’re already so wet...” he whispers. 

And then—finally—his tongue flicks out, a gentle, teasing swipe through your folds. You gasp, hips jerking, and he groans against you like your taste drives him insane.

He dives in after that, licking deeper, firmer, his mouth working you open with increasing hunger. His hands grip your thighs, fingers spreading you wide so he can get at you better—like he doesn’t care if it’s messy, as long as it’s you.

And for a second, all you can do is feel—the heat of his mouth, the drag of his tongue, the desperation in the way he moans every time you twitch or gasp.

You didn’t expect this from him. Not this.

You were ready to guide him. To talk him through it if he needed. You thought he’d be shy, clumsy, endearingly awkward—but no. Yamaguchi Tadashi is starving. Confident. Skilled in a way that sends a pulse of heat straight through your core.

And somehow, that makes it even hotter.

The soft-spoken boy with flushed cheeks and nervous hands is gone—replaced by someone ravenous. Unapologetic. Someone who wants to ruin you with his mouth.

“Tadashi—!” you cry, voice breaking as his tongue circles your clit, then sucks it into his mouth.

He hums, the sound vibrating through you, and your whole body jolts in response. You barely recognize him—this version of Yamaguchi is unrelenting, desperate, eyes sharp with lust and obsession. 

“You’re so sweet,” he mutters between licks. “I could eat you all night.”

You stare down at him, dazed and reeling, and you almost don’t recognize him. His eyes are sharp with lust, blown wide and dark, jaw working with obsessive focus. 

“Wh—have you done this before?” you manage to gasp, hips twitching under his mouth.

He pulls back for a moment, panting, lips slick and swollen, a hint of a crooked smile on his face. His freckles are flushed pink, hair tousled, and he looks completely wrecked—but his voice is steady. Warm. Honest.

“No,” he says, licking his lips. “You’re the first.”

Your heart skips at that—but before you can say anything, he adds with a slight huff, “Tsukki… he said it’s kinda like eating a peach.”

Your jaw drops—half-shocked, half-laughing.

“What—?”

Before explaining any further, just like that—he dives back in.

Whatever amusement flickered through you is gone the moment his tongue finds your clit again—this time faster, sloppier, more confident. 

Your fingers fist in his hair as you grind against his mouth, chasing that rising, pulsing heat. He doesn’t stop you. If anything, he encourages it—moaning, letting you ride his face, anchoring you with those big hands so you can’t pull away.

He moves with precision and patience, licking long and slow one moment, then fluttering his tongue quick and tight the next—until your hips are twitching and your moans are incoherent. He knows exactly how to drag it out, how to build you up until you’re right on the edge.

And just when you think you can’t take it anymore—he pushes two fingers inside you.

You sob out a broken gasp, back arching clean off the bed. His fingers curl just right, stroking that perfect spot while his mouth sucks greedily at your clit. The combination is devastating.

“Oh—fuck, Tadashi, I’m gonna—!”

He groans in approval, fingers pumping faster, his other hand pressing firmly on your lower belly to hold you in place.

“You can do it,” he encourages you. “Come on my tongue. I- I want to taste you.”

That’s all it takes.

Pleasure slams through you like a tidal wave, your thighs clenching around his head as your climax rips through you, loud and shaking and wet. You cry out his name, sobbing through it as your body bucks and trembles. He doesn't stop—he devours it, tongue lapping up everything you give him, fingers still stroking gently as you ride it out.

When you finally fall back against the sheets, boneless and panting, he eases his mouth away—lips slick, chin glistening, eyes wild and dazed. He kisses the inside of your thigh one last time, tender and possessive.

Yamaguchi’s breath is ragged as he pulls back, face flushed, hair disheveled, hands trembling slightly as they move to the buckle of his pants. He can still taste you on his lips, your moans ringing in his ears. Every part of him is burning.

But when he glances up—ready to finally lose himself completely in you—you’re already asleep.

Your head tilted slightly to the side. A wide satisfied grin on your face. Chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.

Completely gone.

“…Oh.”

He blinks, frozen for a beat, then laughs softly under his breath. His head drops, forehead resting lightly against your thigh as he exhales with a groan.

“You’ve got terrible timing,” he mutters, though there’s nothing bitter in his tone.

Only fondness.

You look so peaceful. Completely vulnerable. Trusting him with everything.

He smiles as he gently reaches for your discarded panties, pulling them back into place with the utmost care, trying not to wake you. Then he tucks you in with the blankets you’d pulled out earlier—layering one over your bare shoulders, making sure your legs are warm, smoothing it down like he’s done it a hundred times in his dreams.

He doesn’t take the couch.

Instead, he settles on the floor beside you, back propped against the edge of the cushions, still shirtless, still very much aching—but unwilling to be anywhere but right here.

His hand finds your hair, brushing a few loose strands away from your face, fingertips trailing softly down your cheek, then your neck, like a silent thank you. 

The apartment is quiet. Just the hum of the fridge. The wind against the window. And you, breathing softly in your sleep.

Then—

Buzz.

His phone, somewhere in the pile of clothes by the couch, lights up.

He reaches for it carefully, trying not to disturb you. The screen glows with a few new messages from a familiar contact.

Tsukki 🦖

1:52 AM

So… did you finally grow a spine or what?

1:53 AM

If she confessed first, you better not have panicked.

1:55 AM

Remember the  peach🍑 method!

1:56 AM

Also: you totally owe me drinks for being an excellent wingman.

Yamaguchi stares at the messages for a second… then laughs—quiet and breathy so he doesn’t wake you.

He shakes his head fondly, thumbs out a reply.

Yama 🤖

1:58 AM
👍

He locks his phone, sets it aside, and looks back at you.

You shift in your sleep then, murmuring something incoherent as your fingers reach out—and find his. Even in sleep, you curl toward him.

His heart stutters.

He squeezes your hand gently, leaning his head back against the couch with a long, dreamy sigh.

Yeah.

You were worth every second of the wait.

Chapter Text

You should’ve known it would end like this.

Not with a fight. Not with a final kiss or him abruptly packing his bags to leave mid-fight. Not even with that heavy silence that stretches between two people who’ve run out of excuses to stay.

No—this was Tsukishima Kei. Cold, calculated, never one for theatrics. So of course, it ended in a simple text.

Hey. I need to focus on the nationals and stuff. Let’s break up.

No “I’m sorry. It's me not you.” Not even a phone call. 

Just three short lines. Clinical. Dismissive. Like he was trimming fat off a steak. Like you were just something else he needed to cut to streamline his life.

You stared at the screen, thumb hovering, rereading it once. Twice. A third time. Not because you didn’t understand, but because you needed the silence after to let the resentment crawl in and sit somewhere deep in your chest like dust in your lungs.

Your friends always wondered why you stayed with him. Lived with him, too. Your sarcastic, short-tempered, emotionally stunted boyfriend of three years with the impossible arrogance and sharp tongue. You used to laugh it off, tell them they didn’t know him like you did. Maybe that was true. Maybe that was the problem.

You and Tsukishima had mastered the art of fighting over nothing.

It was always something stupid—who left the laundry in too long, whose turn it was to do the dishes, why he never said “I love you” even when he occasionally showed it in the rarest, quietest ways. The arguments were as regular as weekends, like a scheduled storm. Sometimes explosive. Sometimes cold. You broke up four times in eight months, blocked each other twice, but always found your way back. Somehow.

And the sex? Well. That part worked. Unreasonably well.

When you were tangled up in each other, he was softer than anyone knew, breathy whines and wandering hands that made you forget just how cold he could be outside the bedroom. He’d mark your hips and stroke your hair and say things like, “You’re such a pain,” but whisper out your name like a prayer.

You’d met in college. Third year. A general elective class that neither of you wanted to be in. You got paired together for a lecture debate and hated each other instantly—he was smug, dismissive, smug again, and you were loud, stubborn, and unafraid to talk over him.

The feud carried through the semester, spilling out into your group of mutual acquaintances until everyone got sick of the two of you bickering over philosophical semantics or whether cereal counted as soup.

The tension simmered for a full year. You got under his skin and he knew exactly how to needle you back. Until one fateful night, at some shitty house party, you shared a couch and a bottle of dark rum and kissed mid-argument—both of you angry, tipsy, and vibrating with something unspoken and reckless.

You fucked that night. No pretense. No affection. Just heat and teeth and nails digging into skin. You told yourself it was a one-time thing. He said nothing the next morning, didn’t even look at you as he pulled his shirt over his head. You snuck out of his dorm before noon and blocked his number for a week.

But then you unblocked him, he texted and it happened again. And again.

You weren’t friends with benefits—not even close. Just two people orbiting the same hunger, crashing into each other whenever it burned too much to ignore. The agreement was unspoken but clear: keep it casual, keep it careless, keep it disposable.

Until eventually one night, in the middle of winter, when you were tangled together in his sheets, sweaty and exhausted, he mumbled—deadpan, casual, like he was talking about the weather:

“Wanna date?”

You barked a laugh right in his face. “You can't be for real right now.”

"I am." His tone didn’t change, flat as ever.

"I wouldn't date you even if you were the last man on Earth.” you shot back.

He blinked at you, like he didn't buy it. “Is that so?”

Then he fucked you again—slow this time. Focused. Maddening. Like he was trying to change your mind with the drag of his hips, with the low murmur of your name against your throat, with the way he knew exactly when to hold your jaw and when to let go.

When he asked you again—voice low, breath warm in your ear—you heard yourself say it.

Well. Yell it.

“Yes—fuck, yes!”

And just like that, you started dating.

No big proposal. No huge romantic gesture. Just a two stubborn people who somehow made the disaster work.

You got used to it. To the shape of him in your bed. To his too-long limbs stealing all the covers. To the smell of his lemon and mint scented shampoo clinging to your pillow. His toothbrush beside yours, always the same angle, always annoyingly perfect. The way he kissed you like it was an inconvenience—and held you like it wasn’t.

You even got used to the fact that sometimes, loving him felt like chewing glass.

Maybe because you knew deep down you were no saint either. You were bratty. You pushed him. You always had to win. It was part of your charm, or part of the problem. Maybe both.

But somehow, it worked.

Until it didn’t.

You’d fought just last night. Over chocolate cake.

He ate the last slice you’d been saving for the next day. You got home late from work, tired, dreaming of that damn dessert, only to find an empty plate and a fork resting inside like it was mocking you. You stormed into the bedroom.

“You ate it, didn’t you?”

He didn’t even glance up from his phone. “You snooze, you lose.”

“You’re such an asshole, Tsukki.”

“And you’re being dramatic.”

And like always, it escalated. Sharp words, rolled eyes, some name-calling, a door slammed. You went to bed expecting what usually came next—cake from the fancy place near the station, his version of an apology. Maybe he'd offer you a bite mid-sulk and then crawl between your legs to fuck the rest of the grudge out of you, muttering something low and smug like, “You’re sweeter anyway.”

Instead, you woke up to that text.

You waited for him to follow it up. A joke, maybe. A second message to say he was being stupid. Something. But it never came.

He didn’t call. He didn’t explain. He didn’t show up with the cake.

Just silence.

You sat in your apartment, half-dressed and numb, staring at your phone like it might ring. It didn’t. And maybe that told you everything.

So you swallowed the lump in your throat, wiped your eyes with the heel of your palm, and texted back:

Good luck.

No sarcasm. No guilt-tripping. Just those two words.

Because if he wanted to let go that easily, you’d pretend you could too.

And maybe that was for the best...right?

Two long, quiet years.

At first, you really thought Tsukishima might come back.

You expected it, actually. Not out of hope, but because that was your dynamic. The push and pull. The storm and the calm after.

You gave him a week, maybe two, and he’d show up at your door again. 

But he didn’t.

And maybe that should’ve said enough for you. But it didn’t feel like closure—it just felt numb.

You built your life back slowly. Piece by piece. Like sweeping glass off the floor—careful not to bleed. Focused on your work. Reinvested in your friendships. You laughed a little louder than you felt, kissed a few mouths, woke up in some strangers' beds.

You stopped expecting his name to flash across your screen. You stopped replaying the fights in your head, rewriting your responses like you could win retroactively. You stopped blaming him. Then yourself. Then both of you. Eventually, you stopped waiting.

And for a while, you thought that was okay.

You'd be okay.

Then came the recession at your workplace. The one thing that kept your mind off your miserable, lonesome life.

Budgets were slashed. Colleagues were let go. Entire departments folded overnight. What was once a buzzing sports media company—rows of TVs mounted on every wall, live games streaming at all hours, a bullpen of writers arguing over stats and storylines—now felt like a graveyard of empty desks and half-drunk coffees gone.

And everyone who was still standing walked on eggshells.

Technically, you were supposed to be safe. Probably on the bottom of the cut off list. You were senior enough, and your numbers were still decent. You wrote profiles, long-form features, behind-the-scenes deep dives—pieces that actually got readers to slow down and care.

But lately, no one had the luxury of preferences.

Everyone was scrambling to prove they were useful. You started doing small blurbs. Previews. Injury reports. Things you used to pawn off on interns. You smiled through it. Took on extra. Said yes when you wanted to say no.

Because you knew the company was shifting focus. Less analysis, more clickbait. Less nuance, more noise. The kind of stuff that could be clipped, shared, screamed about online. Access-driven. Immediate. Loud.

You weren’t loud.

And that made you vulnerable.

Then one morning, half-listening at the coffee station, you overheard a pair of junior reporters talking in that smug, caffeinated way twenty-somethings always did when they thought experience made them untouchable.

"Apparently, he walked out on an interview mid-question,” one snickered.

“Again?” the other gasped. “God, he’s such a dick.”

You sipped your coffee, mildly intrigued. Same as everyone else in the newsroom, you’d heard about the rising star in the volleyball circuit—a middle blocker who was racking up more heat than most national players half his age. Rumors said he was brutal on court. Brutal off it, too. Sports outlets were lining up for interviews, only to walk away with bruised egos and scraps of useable quotes.

You didn’t catch the name.

But the description lodged somewhere low in your stomach.

Cold. Condescending. Impossible to impress. Impossible to forget.

It fit him.

You didn’t even want to say his name in your head, like invoking it would make the room colder. But it was there. That creeping suspicion. That familiar ache in your chest.

Later that afternoon, your editor pulled you into the corner office.

The blinds were drawn—a bad sign.

She shut the door and started saying things like “versatility” and “team player” and “we’re all trying to keep our heads above water right now.”

You knew what was coming before she slid the press pass across the desk.

“We need you to cover a new player for the Sendai Frogs game this weekend. Post-match. Got you locker access.”

Your pulse slowed.

You looked down at the pass. You didn’t reach for it.

“This isn’t my beat,” you said. “I do profiles. Features. Behind the scenes of the game. You know, the quiet stuff.”

“And normally, I’d agree that’s where you shine,” she said, hands folded tight. “But ‘quiet stuff’ doesn't sell anymore, hun.”

You blinked.

She tried to soften her tone. “Look. He’s the hot ticket right now. No one’s gotten a good piece from him in weeks. If you can get something—anything—we can turn it into a spread. Think of it like a profile. Just… more entertaining.”

You said nothing.

“You’re the best writer I’ve got,” she added. “But right now? That’s not enough. We need someone who can actually sell the story.”

Your hands were cold.

“I’m not promising anything,” you muttered, still not touching the pass.

She shrugged, like her own hands were tied. “That’s I could always just hand it to one of the juniors.”

“Over my dead body.” You snatched the report from her hands. “I’m on it.”

Your eyes scanned the assignment slip. Sendai Frogs vs. Komamura Dynasts. Front row access. Locker room clearance. And then—

“Fuck,” you muttered, a little too loud.

Your editor raised a brow. You mouthed a quick, unapologetic sorry.

Press target: Tsukishima Kei.

Of course it would be him.

Of all the teams. Of all the players clawing their way into national recognition, it had to be him.

Your ex.

Your very arrogant, very cold, very insufferably handsome ex.

It wasn’t even the interview that pissed you off—it was that you had no choice. 

And because you knew Tsukishima. You knew how he operated. He didn’t forget things. Not the things that mattered. 

Not that he’d say anything. Or make a scene even.

He’d probably act like you were nothing more than another reporter with a mic and a deadline.

And that was fine. That was great.

So when game day came, you dressed carefully. Not in a way that screamed anything—just enough to look put-together. Professional. Detached. Hair neat, lipstick neutral. Eyes sharp. You arrived early, took your notes, sat through the pre-game press briefings, and reminded yourself: You are here to do a job. That’s it. That’s all.

The Frogs won. Of course they did.

Komamura fought hard, but they weren’t at the same level. Not in strategy, not in stamina, and definitely not in defense. Tsukishima led the team like a conductor—his presence on the court so precise, it was surgical. His blocks were merciless, reading Komamura’s spiker like an open book. Every time he rose to meet a ball, the crowd held their breath like they knew. And you hated how you did too.

He was good. Infuriatingly good.

Well, he always was.

You remembered. College games. You remembered slipping out of class early just to grab good seats. Packing him pre-game snacks, pretending it wasn’t a big deal. Wearing his jersey in the stands like some proud, lovesick idiot. Cheering until your throat hurt.

Now, watching him, you tried—really tried—not to care. But it was hard not to be entertained by the sheer rhythm of it, the way the game bent around his presence. He didn’t just play—he dominated. Like the entire court moved at his command.

You noticed the subtle physical changes too. His blonde hair was a bit fluffier, less controlled, catching the light with an almost effortless wildness. His frame was no longer the lean, lanky form you knew—he’d filled out, muscle honed and solid, not bulky but undeniable. Somehow, he seemed even taller, his presence towering not just in height but in confidence, a quiet strength that made you catch your breath.

He moved with the same measured precision, but there was an edge to him now, sharper and colder—like the Tsukishima you knew had grown into something harder, less forgiving.

And there he was. Right in front of you.

Reminding you how much you once loved him.

And, even so, how much it hurt to.

When the final whistle blew, only then did you realize you’d been holding your breath.

Then the media gates opened.

A wave of reporters surged toward the court’s edge, elbows jostling, cameras flashing, mics extended like spears. You stood among them, recorder already on, notebook tucked under your arm, pen poised and ready. A job’s a job. You told yourself that again. Even now.

Just a job.

Beyond the mob, near the Frogs' bench, Tsukishima sat on a folded chair, towel draped over his head, a bottle of water half-crushed in his palm. One of the staffers—his manager, you guessed—was crouched beside him, speaking in a hushed, hurried tone.

“There’s a whole line of reporters waiting,” the man urged. “Local, national—one from Tokyo Sports Weekly. Two minutes, Kei. Off-record if you want. This could be good for the team. For God's sake, it would be great for you!”

Tsukishima didn’t even look at him.

“Not interested,” he muttered, his voice clipped and cold. He stood, wiped the back of his neck with the towel, and started toward the locker room without so much as a glance toward the crowd.

Shit.

He was leaving.

And this was it—your one shot walking away with him. Your story. Your reputation. The interview your editor said you had to land.

Because of course he would make this hard. Of course he’d walk out. Of course the one man who could cost you your job by being himself—was your ex.

You didn’t think.

You just moved. Pushed past cameras and elbows and your own pride, calling out before your voice could crack, “Kei!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

But it made him stop mid-stride like someone had hit pause on him, just him, while the rest of the world stayed in motion.

Then, slowly, he turned. Not just his head—his whole body pivoted toward the sound.

And then he saw you.

Straight through the noise and the crush of press credentials and flashing lights, his gaze found yours. Unblinking. Flat. Gold irises lit faintly by the overhead stadium lights. He didn’t look surprised. Or angry. Or smug.

Just...present.

Like he’d known you’d be here.

Like he always knew.

A long beat passed, thick enough to feel in your teeth.

Then Tsukishima leaned in toward the manager beside him, speaking low—too low for anyone but the man to hear.

The manager looked confused. Then he followed his line of sight.

And spotted you.

You stood your ground, nerves rising like bile in your throat.

The manager blinked once, then twice. "You sure?" he murmured.

Tsukishima didn’t respond. He just kept looking at you. Eyes unreadable. Expression blank.

Like he was already drafting your obituary.

Or an invitation.

You straightened slightly, heart hammering against your ribs. For a second, you thought maybe you’d misread it. Maybe he meant someone else.

But then the manager gave a small nod and waved at security.

The press barrier cracked open just wide enough.

“Her,” the manager said to the guard. “Let her through.”

The others around you murmured—some confused, some annoyed. But you didn’t wait for questions. You ducked under the lifted rope, stepped past the boundary you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t cross again.

Tsukishima watched you approach with that same impassive look he always wore—like this meant nothing. Like the years hadn’t sharpened every edge between you.

When you stopped in front of him, he barely blinked.

“Wow,” he said, voice dry and knife-sharp. “Didn’t think you were a fan, (L/N).”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn't dream of it. I’m here for work.”

Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe. Irritation, probably. With him, it was always hard to tell. His eyes dropped, dragging a slow, deliberate once-over down your body like he had every right to.

“This isn’t even your 'thing',” he said, in a mocking tone. “Don’t you prefer reporting on small leagues and washed-up coaches with sob stories?”

“Yeah, well,” you said, forcing a smile, “a lot’s changed in two years.”

That made him pause.
Just long enough.

Then: a slow, humorless smirk.

“The locker room’s empty,” he said, already turning away. “If you want something printable.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Just walked—like he knew you’d follow.
Like you always did.

The door clicked shut behind you with a heavy finality.

It was quieter in here—no chants from the stands, no cameras, no buzz of fluorescent lights. Just the low hum of pipes in the ceiling and the echo of your own footsteps across tile.

Tsukishima didn’t turn to face you. He was already unwrapping tape from his wrists, slow and methodical, standing in front of one of the benches like he’d never been interrupted. Like you hadn’t just been dragged back into something you’d clawed your way out of.

You stayed near the doorway. Arms crossed. Guard up. Protecting whatever pride you had left.

“Just to clear things up, I didn't come here for small talk or anything” you said.

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Trust me, I’m not interested either.”

"I'm serious, Kei." You exhaled sharply through your nose, grounding yourself. “I have a job to do and-”

“Then do it.” He sat down, elbows on his knees, toweling sweat from his hair. “Ask your little questions. Write whatever you want.”

You hesitated. “I thought you hated the press.”

“I do.”

“So why me—”

“Because you’re not just press,” he cut in.

That shut you up.

He looked up then, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes steady on yours. The gold of them dulled under the locker room lights, but the intensity never changed. Not even after two years.

Then he smirked. "Plus you looked desperate."

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you managed, but your voice was thinner than you meant it to be.

His gaze lingered a second longer before he reached down, began unlacing his shoes. “Let's just get this over with.”

You wandered closer with measured steps and eased down onto the bench beside him. Not touching—just close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, to catch the citrus tang of sweat clinging to him, threaded with the sharper bite of resin and antiseptic. Underneath it all lingered a cleaner note, faint lemon and mint, like his aftershave had stubbornly survived the day.

His glasses caught the light when he pushed them higher on the bridge of his nose, thin frames outlining sharp eyes that never quite stopped calculating. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, dark except for the faint, sun-catching streaks threaded through—tiny highlights that looked almost accidental, as if sunlight itself had marked him in passing.

Your recorder sat between you, the red light blinking steadily. Your notebook balanced on your knee, pen tapping in time with your pulse.

“So um,” you started, clearing your throat and slipping into professionalism. “That block in the third set—how’d you read the setter?”

Tsukishima didn’t hesitate. “Watched his hips. He leans when he gets nervous. Doesn’t commit to the feint.”

You nodded, jotting it down. “And the rotation shuffle? First time we’ve seen you swing from the back row.”

“That was coach’s idea,” he said, dragging a towel across the back of his neck. “I don’t like it. But I don’t say no when it works.”

You let out a dry little laugh. “You listening to someone else? That’s new.”

He glanced sideways, sharp. “Do you want the quote or not?”

You cleared your throat again. “Right. Sorry.”

It went on like that—clean, focused. He answered every question with clipped precision, no sarcasm, no barbs. Just stats. Tactics. Facts.

Professional.

Surprisingly.

For the first time since stepping into the locker room, you thought—maybe—you’d walk out with your article and your skin intact. Maybe it didn’t have to be messy. Maybe the two of you could do this like strangers.

Then you flipped the page on your notepad. Saw the question scribbled in thick, impatient handwriting. Your editor’s addition.

"FIND OUT IF HE'S SINGLE — THE FANS WANT TO KNOW."

Your stomach dropped. You cursed yourself for not reviewing everything before you walked in here.

But the recorder between you kept blinking red. No going back now.

You exhaled slowly. “Okay… Last one.”

Tsukishima glanced at you curiously, catching the hitch in your voice. “Go on.”

You stared at the words like they might erase themselves if you just blinked hard enough.

“…Are you—uh. Are you single?”

A pause.

You kept your eyes on the page. “It’s for the fans,” you added, lamely.

Silence stretched.

Then—a laugh.

You looked up, startled. He was grinning. Not the usual smug smirk—but a real one. All teeth. Brief, surprised, boyish.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” he said, shaking his head. “You?”

Your face flamed. “I told you, it’s—”

“—for the fans. Right.” He was still smiling, but it faded a little as he leaned back against the locker.

You stared too intently at your pen, suddenly fascinated by the scuff near the clip.

“I don’t have time for that,” he said finally, voice softer now, dropping from his usual edge. “Relationships. Dates. Commitment. Whatever.”

“Oh.” You blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “Really?”

He tilted his head toward you, mildly offended. “That surprising?”

“I mean… kinda,” you confessed honestly. "Your fanbase does have a high female popularity rate and..."

You peaked at him above your notebook, “I thought maybe… after we—”

You didn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t have to.

The silence that followed was sharper than anything you could’ve written down.

His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking once. His gaze didn’t leave the floor.

“That wasn’t the question,” he muttered.

“I know.” You softened. “Sorry.”

A beat.

And then, so quietly you almost missed it—

“…No. I-" he sighed, annoyed and scratching at his head. "I haven't dated anyone for a long time...”

You looked at him.

He didn’t look back but you could see the faint red creep up his neck all the way to the tips of his ears.

Your throat tightened. The pen felt awkward in your hand.

“Oh.”

You dropped your eyes to your notes, pretending to reread your scribbles. Pretending your heart wasn’t beating louder than the hum of the fluorescent lights. Pretending you hadn’t just heard exactly what you never expected him to say.

No.

All this time and he still hadn’t moved on.

Maybe he really was serious—about volleyball, about focusing on his career, about shutting everything else out.

But god, he could’ve handled it better. Could’ve let you in. You weren’t some noise he needed to tune out. You’d been his—loyal, patient, all-in. Not some burden.

You inhaled slowly through your nose. Steadied your fingers. Jotted down a few vague bullet points—just enough to make your presence here look professional on paper.

Your voice felt too tight, too uncertain, so you cleared your throat for the umpteenth time this interview.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Tsukishima Kei.” It came out smooth. Professional. Detached. Then you leaned forward and clicked off the recorder. The soft beep sounded too final. Like a door shutting.

Your bag was already on your shoulder before you realized it. Eyes fixed on the floor, on anything that wasn’t him. One step, maybe two—

Then his hand found your wrist.

Not tightly. Not to stop you. Just there. A quiet tether. A question without words.

Your breath caught.

His fingers brushed against yours, the warmth of them sparking something that shouldn’t still exist. It was familiar—the way his touch fit against your skin. Familiar in the way a wound remembers pain.

“Kei…” You murmured his name like a warning, eyes on the place where his hand met yours. Because you already knew what came next. 

And you were dreading it.

“Are you?” His voice was softer than you remembered. Careful, almost fragile.

You blinked. “Am I what?”

He met your eyes then, steady and unflinching, as if bracing himself for an answer that might undo him.

“Seeing someone right now?”

Silence stretched between you. The locker room quiet now. Just the hum of the vents, the ticking of your pulse in your ears.

And the weight of everything you have always wanted to say.

But you won't.

You can't.

So you pull your hand from his like it burned—like if you held on even a second longer, you wouldn’t be able to let go at all.

“That's none of your business, is it?” you say. Clipped. Tired. 

His brow creases. “I didn’t say it was.”

“Then drop it.”

“But you asked me, and I answered.” His voice sharpens. “It’s only fair.”

You throw something sharp. “That was just a press question. Get over yourself...”

He’s standing now, posture tense and suddenly it’s like no time has passed at all.

Like you're back in that tiny Tokyo apartment, slinging words like knives, hearts too full, too young, too stupid to know what to do with everything you felt. Like two years hadn’t gone by at all—like your silence hadn’t calcified into something permanent, like you hadn’t watched him walk away and hated yourself for letting him.

Now the room is heating up with the old rhythm of you and him. Rebuttal after rebuttal. Your voices low but cutting, fire behind every syllable.

“God, you'll never change.”

He groaned at you, too familiar. Infuriating. Pompous. 

His chest rose as he tried to breathe through the anger. His eyes burned into you, all tension and heartbreak and something raw that never really left.

"Look who's talking?" you snapped back. “You’re still the same, Kei. Thinking you’re above it all.”

Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Blowing off the press, putting your image over your team—selfish as ever. I've heard the rumors: The Frogs need that coverage if they ever want sponsors for matches abroad. But of course, that’s beneath you, isn’t it?”

“Please." he rolled his eyes at you and folded his arms over his chest. "At least I don’t roll over every time someone tells me to like a dog. If you actually said what you wanted instead of playing it safe, you wouldn’t be stuck here—covering a story that’s beneath you and you know it.”

Then even more cruelly with an awful smirk he added: "But then again, you always were the type to suck it up to the higher ups."

Your throat tightened. For a moment, all the anger in your chest curdled into something heavier. Before you even thought, your palm cracked against his cheek.

The slap rang out sharp, louder than you expected. You gasped at the sting in your own hand, but the fury still surged, too hot to smother.

“You don’t get to say that,” you snapped, voice shaking, trembling with rage. “You don’t ever get to say that, Tsukishima Kei.”

He stood there, turned half away from you, his glasses now slanted and a hand pressed to the reddening mark on his cheek. Silent.

“Because if it wasn’t for me…” You swallowed, forcing the words through your teeth. “You wouldn’t even be here—playing for the Sendai Frogs.”

He turned back slowly, fixing his glasses. A twitch ghosted across his lips, not quite a smile. “Don’t.”

“If it wasn’t for me 'sucking up' to my higher ups just to get you in my article years ago...” you pressed on, deliberate now, “Sendai never would’ve noticed you. They never would’ve recruited you. You’d still be rotting in some third-tier league no one cared about.”

Nothing. Just silence—thick, undiluted.

Then—

He laughed. Low, manic, but real. “God, it’s been forever since anyone’s talked to me like that.”

The air pressed in. His eyes dropped to your mouth—hungry, reluctant. Yours caught on the way he licked at his bottom lip where your slap split it, slow, tasting the faint sting of iron. The rise and fall of his chest was ragged beneath his jersey, collarbones sharp, throat exposed.

You felt your own breath falter as your gaze slipped lower, betraying you.

“You can’t possibly…” Your voice thinned, almost a whisper. “Why are you fucking hard right now, Kei?”

A crooked smirk broke over his mouth, dark and unapologetic.
“Sorry. What can I say? You scolding me like that was…hot.”

You stared at him for a long while, drawn into him, the wicked glint in his molten gold eyes behind the frame of his signature glasses that always got your heart doing back flips. 

Then he stepped closer. One deliberate pace that closed too much distance.
“And that slap…” His voice dipped, a rough whisper that curled through the space between you. He let out a low whistle, slow and teasing.

You shook your head, snapping some sense back into you, though you didn’t step back. “Oh, no. No, we are not doing this, Kei.” 

But he leaned in anyway, his breath grazing your neck, his shadow swallowing yours. His hand found yours—curling easily around the same hand that had struck him—as if your strength had never really matched his.

“Come on. Don’t lie,” he murmured, his voice rough at your ear. “You want this as much as I do.”

Then his arm slid around your waist, and you hated how small you felt under that reach—your ribs boxed in by the breadth of him, his chest pressing you back like he could fold you in half if he wanted. 

“Just this once,” he coaxed, tugging you against him like you weighed nothing. “For old times’ sake.”

Your chest rose, shaky, pressed flush against his. Your head tipped back on instinct to meet his eyes—because you had to, because he towered just enough that you couldn’t avoid it. His grin was feral, satisfied, as if he could already feel you caving.

You bit your bottom lip, torn between sense and hunger. 
“Just this once.”

You don’t know who moved first—maybe it was mutual—but your mouths crashed together, slow and hard and angry.

Not delicate. Not forgiving.

It was a kiss full of years- of unsent messages. Of fights you never got to finish and nights you couldn’t sleep just thinking of him.

And when he fists your shirt and pulls you even closer, kissing like he’s starved for you, you finally admit it to yourself—

You missed him so goddamn much it hurts.

Your back hit the lockers.

Not hard, not sudden—just inevitable.

“Kei…” you whined, needy despite yourself.

“I missed…” His voice was a growl against your neck, mouth dragging lower, words cut open by the heat in his throat. “…that fucking bratty mouth.”

You couldn't help but smile at that, lips brushing his ear, teeth catching the shell hard enough to make him shudder. “I missed putting you in your place.”

His breath hitched, hips jerking up, a raw sound—half whimper, half curse—breaking out of him. One of his hands slid under your shirt, fingers splaying over your ribs, clutching like he needed proof you were real. Like if he didn’t hold on, you’d vanish.

“You really want to go there?” he muttered into your throat, lips dragging, teeth grazing, dangerous.

You bit down on his ear harder. “Maybe.”

The groan he gave was wrecked, guttural, pulled from a place deeper than his chest. His hands gripped your hips, then your thighs, and instead of shoving you harder against the lockers like you expected, he lowered—slow, reverent, like gravity itself was forcing him to his knees before you.

“Fuck…” he rasped, his hands already finding the buttons of your white blouse, undoing them one by one with aching deliberation. His mouth followed the trail, hot lips brushing your skin with every gap he opened, until he was kissing over the dip of your navel, tongue flicking there like he couldn’t help himself.

Your pulse skittered. Breath caught. His fingers were at your waistband, tugging open the clasp of your pencil skirt, sliding the zipper down slow—drawn out, savoring. The fabric slipped over your hips, pooling at your heels.

Kei hummed low, eyes flashing up at you, molten and wanting, before rolling the band of your sheer stockings down your thighs with careful hands. His  knuckles grazed your skin, his lips never straying far, following the descent, planting open-mouthed kisses against the curve of your stomach, the inside of your hip, lower—closer.

By the time he looked up again, stockings bunched at your knees, his mouth was wet and wanting, parted like a prayer he hadn’t said in years.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he panted, voice raw, before pressing a kiss just above the lace edge of your panties. "Always have."

Your fingers slid through his dirty blond curls, pulling him back slightly as you tried to breathe through the haze. His mouth hovered over your clothed sex, so close you could feel the heat of every exhale against you.

“Tsukki…” you whispered, voice trembling. “This is a locker room. It’s not—it isn’t appropriate.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back. Just looked up at you through his lashes, golden eyes blown wide, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. Already halfway ruined and fighting the urge to tear through the lace with his teeth.

“I locked the door when we got here,” he admits, voice low—matter-of-fact, shamelessly. “No one’s coming in.”

You shoot him a glare, but it falters the second you see his smirk. That smug, unreadable curve of his mouth—so calm, so sure of himself—it twists something low in your stomach.

“Besides,” he murmurs, his nose skimming your inner thigh, “you never really cared where we did it before. Loved it even.”

His fingers hooked under the thin straps of your panties, tugging just enough to tease. “Your office. My car. Your parents’ place that one time I came over for dinner…”

Your face goes hot, heat rushing to your ears as your thighs instinctively press together. “You—”

“Had you come three times before we sat down for steak with your folks,” he finished softly, wickedly. "And three more times when we got back home after."

“You’re such a—” you try, but your voice breaks halfway through the insult.

“An asshole?” he offers, smoothing his palms down your spine in mock apology. “Yeah. But you love that about me.”

“This was a setup,” you whisper, still clinging to something—dignity, reason, anything. “You knew exactly what you were doing bringing me in here.”

He hums against your thigh right before placing a kiss there, taunting. “Maybe.”

Definitely.

And then his teeth caught the waistband of your panties.

The lace snapped softly as he pulled them down with his mouth, slow and obscene, eyes locked on yours. The sight alone made your breath stutter. By the time they hit the floor, his palms were pressing your thighs open, steady, reverent—like he was preparing to kneel at an altar.

His tongue traced the inside of your knee first, then the tender line of your thigh, each kiss dragging higher, higher. His lips were soft, his breath hot, every touch more deliberate than the last, until he was right there—hovering just before the place you needed him.

And when he finally licked into you—slow, languid, like he wanted to savor every single drop—you gasped so sharply it echoed in the empty room.

He moaned against you, the sound wrecked and greedy, like he’d been so so thirsty and finally found his oasis. His tongue moved in unhurried circles, worshipful and deliberate, tasting you like he was memorizing every inch. One hand anchored at your hip, the other spreading you open wider as he dragged you down onto his mouth, deeper.

Every flick, every stroke, was patient torture—drawn out, delicious, a prayer said with his lips against your most fragile place.

“Kei—” your voice broke into a cry, your fingers fisting in his hair as he groaned again, like your taste was undoing him just as much as his mouth was unraveling you.

The wet heat of him made your back arch against the lockers, breath stuttering into a broken moan. His hands, huge and possessive, slipped under your thighs to hoist them onto his shoulders, spreading you wider, forcing you open for him. His grip was bruising, greedy, like he never wanted to let go.

The sloppy, obscene sounds of his mouth working between your legs echoed in the room, bouncing off metal and tile, so loud it made you shiver. Your hands dug into his hair, tugging, desperate, but he only groaned against you—like the pain egged him on.

“God, you taste so good,” he growled between strokes of his tongue, voice muffled against your heat. “Been dying for this—for you. Don’t hold back. Give it to me.”

Your head fell back with a strangled cry, forehead thudding softly against the locker as your thighs tremble on either side of his face. He groans again, deeper, hungrier, tongue fucking you before dragging up to your clit and sucking so hard it makes your whole body jolt.

“That’s it,” he praises, breath hot and ragged as he pulls back just enough to look at you. His mouth glistens, chin wet, eyes molten. “Be a good girl. Let me hear those pretty sounds.”

His thumb replaces his tongue at your clit, circling with steady, ruthless pressure while he plunges back in with his mouth, tongue curling deep and pulling another moan straight out of your chest.

“Fuck, Kei—” you gasp, thighs clenching around his head, and he only growls into you, the vibration sending shockwaves straight through your core.

“You like that? I know you do,” he hums, voice thick with want as his hands squeeze your thighs, grounding you against his face. “So fucking perfect when you fall apart for me. Come on, baby, give it to me. Come on my tongue.”

The words—rough and worshipful—hit just as hard as the steady assault of his mouth, and the coil inside you snapped, your moan ripping out raw and broken as you come hard, shaking against him while he devours every second of it like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted.

He rises while you still tremble, licking the taste of you from his lips without shame. Then his hand finds your jaw, guiding your face to his, and he kisses you—sloppy, hungry, unrestrained. It’s dizzying, the way he takes back everything you just gave him.

When he finally pulls away, breath ragged, his eyes are unreadable shadows.

“Come here,” he murmurs—low, hoarse, a command edged with need.

He sits back on the bench, the fabric of his jersey slipping off one shoulder, revealing the kind of body you hadn’t realized he’d honed in your time apart. Sculpted, precise—every line speaking of discipline and intent built over these two years.

“My turn,” he says, voice a dark promise. His gaze drags over you slowly, hungry enough to make your pulse stutter. “You know how this goes.”

You did. And every part of you screamed that this should stop—that you should walk away—but your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You sank to your knees before him, fingers curling around the waistband of his shorts. The moment you tugged them down, his cock sprang free—long, flushed a pretty pink, already glistening with precum that traced a slow line down his shaft. You leaned in, ready to taste him, when his hand caught your jaw.

“Actually,” he murmured, voice low and unyielding, eyes dark with intent. “I want you to ride me.”

He reached for you, fingers firm but gentle as he guided you up, drawing you into his lap. You straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, faces close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips—warm, unsteady, wanting.

His hands settled at your waist, thumbs tracing lazy circles against your skin as if relearning it. The air between you pulsed with memory, with want, with danger—something that should’ve burned out long ago but never did.

“Tsuki, this is too much…” you whispered, even as your body leaned closer, betraying every word. You could already feel the heat of him against you, the ache of wanting to feel him stretch you open, fill you completely. “It’s not even a safe day.”

His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, voice trembling but sure. “Just like before,” he breathed. “Please, baby.”

Your breath caught. The look in his eyes—raw, desperate, ruined—undid every last thread of your restraint. Maybe you were both already too far gone to stop.

You rocked your hips forward, the slick heat between your thighs meeting his hard cock. The tip ever so often bumping deliciously at your clit. His breath tangled with yours, rough and shaky.

“That’s it,” he groaned, the sound breaking from his throat as his fingers tightened on your waist. He tilted his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, drinking you in. “Just like that, baby. Get me all wet for you. Don’t stop.”

His hands were everywhere at once—sure, deliberate, trembling only when they brushed against your skin like he couldn’t believe you were real. The air thinned, heavy with the sound of your uneven breathing, with the quiet snap of control unraveling.

A sound broke from him—half curse, half worship—as his mouth found your throat. He kissed there hard, then softer, dragging his tongue down over your pulse until it fluttered against his lips. When the clasp of your bra gave under his fingers, he exhaled sharply, the noise low and hungry.

He pressed his face into the hollow between your breasts, inhaling like he could drink you in. His teeth grazed your skin, his mouth hot and open, leaving damp heat in his wake. Each slow drag of his lips felt like a confession, every breath a surrender. The warmth of him seeped into you, his pulse a steady, unrelenting drum against your own.

Then he latched onto one nipple and sucked until it was bruised.

“Oh—” You gasped, toes curling as your head fell back. One of his hands rested at the small of your back, keeping you steady, while the other kneaded the soft mound of your other breast.

“Please,” he murmured, voice hoarse against your skin. “Tell me no one’s touched you since me.”

You froze, heartbeat stumbling. The truth trembled on your lips—they had. But not like him. Never like this. You felt his breath catch when you said it, a quiet sound torn somewhere between a growl and a sigh.

His hand came to your face, tilting your chin up until you had to meet his eyes—dark, wounded, burning.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice low, almost a growl. “That just makes me angrier.” His thumb traced your jaw, his tone roughening into something that sounded like a vow. “Now I have to remind you why no one else ever will again.”

And then he latched onto the other nipple as he pulled you closer—closer than breath, closer than thought—until the world narrowed to the press of him, the rush of heat, the sharp ache of everything you’d both tried to forget.

You felt him slip between the slick folds of your pussy, the thick head bumped at your clit clumsily and you found your nails digging in his back at the feeling. And, oh, you wanted to beg him to slip it in so bad. 

Stop teasing... please.

Tsukishima grinned like the devil like he could read your mind. "Tell me what you want, baby. Use your words now."

He continued the motion, back and forth, the sound of slick filling the locker room and every once in a swipe he would press the flared head of him into you deeper, stretch deliciously just to pull out.

"Tsuki pleaseeee. Need it." You begged pathetically. Then you moaned louder as he squeezed at your ass and slapped it with the broad palm of his hand.

"Need what, baby?" He was teasing but you could see him losing restraint as well. His lips kissing the skin of your shoulder, licking and nipping on almost anything to hold back his whimpers.

"Need your big cock in me." You confessed unabashedly, your eyes glazed over with need and mind already surrendered to the sensation of him.

"Good girl." That was all he needed. His hands gripped your hips, and he slammed into you in one brutal, perfect motion.

"Oh...oh, God." You cried out, fingers tangling in his curls, pulling as he let you adjust to the thickness of him.

"So tight, baby. Fuck, like always." He slammed into you again, hard, and it felt like a whole universe collapsing inside you—intense, consuming, the kind of pleasure you would trade your soul to feel again and again.

Everything with Kei felt unbearably right. You’d missed this—the way he made you crumble beneath him, the heady burn of his scent filling your senses, the rough, low hum of his voice guiding you apart piece by piece.

It was always going to be him. Only him.

Okay, maybe it was just the sex. Or maybe it was something more tangible, a rabbit hole you couldn’t claw your way out of. But right now? Nothing else existed—just you, letting him fuck you senseless, losing yourself to every brutal, delicious thrust.

"Feel so good. So fucking…" He thrust again, grinding the tip right on that spot that made your eyes roll back, drool pooling at the corners of your mouth. "Good."

He slammed into you over and over, each thrust harder than the last, his hips pistoning like they had a mind of their own. Your tits bounced against his chest with every thrust, nipples brushing, rubbing, sparks of pleasure shooting through your body like electricity.

Your walls clenched around him, squeezing, pulsing, earning a satisfied groan from him, and your breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with the wet, slick sounds of your bodies colliding.

Then he yanked you into a kiss—open-mouthed, sloppy, tongues tangling, his tongue pressing hard against the roof of your mouth. You groaned, walls clenching around him at the sensation, every nerve on fire. 

Your eyes met through the haze of lust, a thin string of spit glinting in the dim light, connecting you both for a heartbeat as he pulled back, dark gaze hungry and smoldering.

When he finally pulled back just enough, his hands gripped your waist, firm and commanding, guiding you with relentless authority. "Ride me," he growled, low and raw.

You obeyed too easily, lost in the haze of pleasure, desperate for more of him and aching to give yourself entirely to him. Your hips rolled down onto him, grinding, savoring the way he filled you completely. He leaned back, dark eyes devouring every curve, every shiver, every gasp, tracing the way your body writhed beneath him, as if memorizing each inch of you.

You could feel the slick, hot friction of him stretching and filling you with each thrust, your juices coating him, your own walls fluttering helplessly around him. Your moans mixed with his low, guttural growls, a rhythm of heat and need that pulsed in the small space around you.

"Did the other men…" He thrust up into you, hard, each push stretching you wide and pressing deep. "Make you feel like this?" His voice was low, teasing, almost cruel—but it sent a shiver straight down to your core, igniting every nerve.

You bit your lip, silent, clinging to a fragile thread of pride, even as your walls clenched around him, desperate for more.

"Tell me,"  He didn’t wait. His thumb pressed against your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that made you cry out, shivering around him. 

Then sweeter:

"Baby, please…" he whimpered, voice raw and ragged, trembling with his own need, hips snapping into yours with relentless force.

"No one… makes me feel like you," you gasped, arching into him, slick heat coating both of you, body trembling uncontrollably. "No one ever could compare."

"Good…" he groaned, and without warning, he pushed you down onto your back on the bench, pressing you flat against it as he drove into you harder, each thrust slamming deep and unrelenting.

You looked up at him, chest rising and falling, sweat glistening across his olive toned skin, ashy blond hair plastered to his forehead, your heart hammering. His rectangular-framed glasses were long discarded on the floor, giving him a raw, unfiltered intensity that made you bite your lip, shivering at the sight.

He didn’t look at you—he focused entirely on the rhythm, on not losing control too quickly, letting the pleasure build like a coiled spring. Every lean muscle along his arms and torso flexed with each brutal thrust, taught and powerful.

He looked... beautiful.

Your walls clenched around him, pulsing in time with his hips, your moans hitching and spilling into the room as the bench creaked beneath you. He set a merciless pace, pounding you with precision, driving you to the edge with every slam, and you couldn’t help but ride the pain and pleasure all at once, completely at his mercy.

Without breaking his rhythm, he grabbed one of your legs and threw it over his shoulder, angling himself deeper inside you. The movement made a wet, sloppy sound as he slammed into you, each thrust hitting just the right spot.

"Yes… Kei, there!" you moaned, voice trembling, slick dripping between you as your walls clenched desperately around him.

He groaned low, voice ragged and trembling, pressing you impossibly close, hands gripping your hips like he couldn’t let go. “Fuck… baby… I’m losing it,” he muttered, each word soaked in want, desire radiating through every fiber of him.

Heat pooled deep in your core, a delicious, burning coil winding tighter and tighter. Your walls clenched around him, pulsing with need, hips lifting instinctively as your body begged for release. “Ah… fuck… me too,” you gasped, voice shaky, urgent, breathless, heart hammering.

Kei’s movements became sloppy, desperate, almost reckless—thrusts erratic, driven by the raw surge of lust consuming him. His growls rumbled deep in his chest as he buried himself in you, shuddering against your body. “Fuck… I… I’m gonna fill you up… gonna fill you up, baby,” he panted, eyes dark, desperate, his hips snapping into you with a messy, relentless rhythm as he lost himself entirely, needing you, needing to claim every part of you. 

You felt his breath stutter against your throat, the rhythm between you tipping over into something desperate—dangerously close to the edge.

And then, as if something inside you cracked open, the haze snapped.
The locker room came back into focus—the scent of sweat and heat, the sound of your own heartbeat hammering too loud.

“Tsuki—wait,” you blurted, palms pressing against his chest, trying to put space between you. "Oh, for fucks sake, stop."

He froze, panting, eyes wide and dazed, as your body slid off his lap. The sudden movement made both of you wince—the slick, heated friction still clinging, a raw sting that left shivers running through your bodies.

“Come on, (Y/N)," he groaned roughly, voice wrecked with need. “Don’t do this now.”

You shook your head, pressing off him, heart hammering, every nerve screaming from the abrupt, messy separation. “This isn’t right.”

The damp, glistening evidence of your bodies still pressed together caught the light between you, a reminder of how completely tangled you’d been— how painfully, deliciously real it all felt.

And how terribly wrong this all was.

His brows pulled together, confusion twisting into irritation. “Why not?”

“Because,” you hissed, scrambling for your bra, your blouse, shaking fingers fumbling with the buttons, “you fucking broke up with me—over text—two years ago. And now you show up here and—” Your voice cracked. “You’re an asshole, Kei. I hate you and this was a terrible mistake.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched, the heat of lust fading fast, leaving a harsh edge of anger in its wake. "Wish you’d come to that epiphany after the climax," he muttered, voice tight.

He tugged his shorts back up, movements curt and sharp, letting out a frustrated huff. “Honestly… it was your fault we broke up anyway.”

"Excuse me?" You turned, disbelieving, almost done zipping up your skirt. “How the hell is this my fault now, Tsuki?”

He scoffed, shouldering his jersey back on, avoiding your eyes. “I overheard you on a call with your mum one night… talking about taking extra shifts. Covering stories that weren’t even your style—scandal trash pieces.”

Your breath hitched. “That’s—”

"It was because of me, wasn’t it?" He finally met your gaze, a broken smile tugging at his lips, pain glinting in his eyes. "Because you begged the chief editor to feature me, and she had you working overtime for it. Am I right?" His laugh was sharp, bitter, cutting through the silence between you.

You shook your head, reaching out for him. "Yes, but…"

He pulled back, distance hardening his frame. “How pathetic am I? Got my girl working her ass off just because of my stupid pride.”

He ran a hand through his curls, voice rising, raw with both fury and anguish. “Truth is you deserved better, (Y/N). That’s why I left. I needed to prove you didn’t have to give yourself up for me. That I could stand on my own. And I thought I was getting there...”

His fists clenched at his sides, eyes flicking to yours—furious, miserable, unyielding all at once. “But maybe I'm wrong… because even now, I still need you—to help me with the fucking sponsors.”

You stared at him, chest heaving, words caught in your throat. “Tsukki… I wanted to feature you in my article. I always have.” Your hands clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you fought to keep your voice steady. "I didn’t do it just because you were my boyfriend."

He shifted slightly, jaw tight, one hand rubbing the back of his neck as you went on. “You’re good at volleyball. Great even- a natural. You deserved more than playing with a third-league team. And I could see that even beyond… your shitty personality.”

He arched an eyebrow, lips twitching almost into a smile. “Okay, now…”

“That article gave the company serious rep too for discovering a new sports gem. And I got a promotion because of it.” Your voice was steady, measured, but there was fire in your eyes. “You would’ve known all of this if you didn’t just…”

“If you didn't just communicate with me like a normal person,” you snapped, voice cracking, frustration spilling over. Fingers twitched as you gestured helplessly. “But you’re just so—”

“Difficult?” He finished the sentence for you, lips twitching into a brief, tight smile, though his eyes stayed dark.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to hurt. His chest rose and fell, eyes hard, but there was something else there—shame, or maybe regret—before he turned away.

"I know. You're right. I am difficult." Tsukishima dragged a hand through his hair again, exhaling hard. “But I do want to be better, (Y/N).” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

The air between you still pulsed with leftover heat, frustration, and something rawer than either of you wanted to name.

“I know you do,” you snapped, stepping closer before you could stop yourself. “But I love you regardless, Kei. I would’ve understood if you’d just told me your man pride was bruised by me helping you, dumbass.”

That made him look up. Slowly.

His lips twitched into the smallest, knowing smirk. “You love me?”

Your breath hitched, the words catching in your throat. “I mean—loved! Loved,” you corrected quickly, heat flooding your cheeks.

He took one unhurried step forward, then another, until you felt his fingers slide around your waist. He drew you in, his height towering over you, the familiar scent of him dragging every buried feeling back to the surface. Then, in a low voice that brushed warm against your ear, he murmured, “No takesie backsies.”

You rolled your eyes at that and felt his smile against your shoulder before you heard it in his voice.

And then, quieter—almost like a confession—“I still love you too, (Y/N).”

Your breath stilled.

“I’m sorry for what I did,” he went on, his voice steady but threaded with guilt. “I just wanted to be more for you. I always have.”

Your hands had already found their way into his hair, as if your body decided before your mind could object. “Kei…”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, gaze searching, earnest in a way that stripped him bare. “Just let me prove myself to you.”

You sighed, the tension between you softening, the walls you’d built beginning to crumble. “…Okay,” you whispered finally.

His shoulders finally eased, a quiet relief flowing through him like a slow exhale. He leaned his forehead against yours, eyes closed, and for the first time in two years, the silence between you didn’t feel so bitter, so deafening.

"You totally owe me new specs, by the way," he announced, pulling back just enough to hold up the mangled frame in his hands. You both stared at it for a beat… and then burst into a shared, breathless giggle.

You both arranged for a formal interview the next game, nullifying the one done in the locker room. Kei promised to try to be a little kinder, true to himself and let down the wall he always had up.

Key word was try.

Everything felt sharper—brighter. The noise of the arena, the echo of footsteps, the hum of cameras being tested.

Reporters swarmed the press area, lights flashing, microphones raised. It was louder than yesterday, busier, almost suffocating—yet somehow, you felt lighter.

You adjusted the mic pinned to your collar and exhaled, forcing your pulse to slow as Tsukishima walked in from the far end of the court.

Gone was the messy, flushed boy from the locker room. This was the Kei Tsukishima, star middle blocker, posture straight, jaw set, every inch the professional. But when his eyes found you across the crowd—something in them softened.

The interview began smoothly, all scripted professionalism and measured smiles. Kei was more honest, more humble when answering questions about the match, team morale, training regimens—everything safe and expected.

Until it wasn’t.

You leaned forward, just slightly, voice teasing. “Alright, last one, Tsukishima. The fans have been dying to know.”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Oh? Should I be worried?”

You smiled nervously, microphone steady between you. “They want to know if… there's a lucky lady in your life.”

The question earned a wave of cooing from the press row. Cameras clicked faster.

For a moment, he just looked at you—golden eyes flicking with something wickedly familiar. Then, as if on instinct, his hand brushed behind you, out of sight of every lens and light, fingers grazing before he gave a firm squeeze to your ass.

You nearly jumped, a tiny, startled yelp catching in your throat that you covered with a cough. Heat flooded your face.

Tsukishima’s smirk was subtle, boyish, infuriatingly smug. Then he turned back to the press and leaned into the mic, voice steady, eyes gleaming.

“I wouldn’t exactly say she’s lucky,” he said, pausing just long enough to make the room lean in, “but she sure as hell makes me feel like the luckiest man alive.”

Laughter broke out across the room—cheers, flashes, a dozen curious whispers filling the air—but all of it faded around you. For a moment, it was just the two of you, his golden eyes catching yours with that quiet intensity that never really went away.

You smiled despite yourself, pulse fluttering.

As the cameras lowered and the noise dimmed, he leaned in slightly—just enough that only you could hear, his breath brushing your ear.

“After this,” he murmured, low and teasing, “we’re finishing what we started in the locker room.”

Abso-fucking-lutely.