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

Favourite Positions: Aone

It always starts slow with Aone.

Not because he’s hesitant—no, he knows what he wants—but because he treats you like you’re something he’s afraid to break. Like you’re porcelain in his calloused hands, delicate and precious. Every movement he makes is calculated, controlled, like he’s memorizing the way your skin feels under his touch.

He looms over you, body heavy and warm, eyes so intensely focused it makes you squirm beneath him. But he doesn’t move until you nod, until you reach up and brush your fingertips along his jaw, silent permission passed between you.

Then he breathes.

Like he’s been holding it in this whole time.

His hands slide under your thighs to pull you closer, gentle but firm, fitting your hips against his like puzzle pieces that only ever made sense when pressed together. And the second he’s sheathed inside you, it’s like the entire world stills.

“You okay?” It’s the first word he’s spoken since his mouth met yours.

His voice is rougher than usual—breathless, already wrecked—and the weight of his body above you is grounding. Comforting. You nod, and he leans down to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth like he’s trying to calm himself down.

You can feel how tense he is. Not from discomfort, but from restraint. He could take you fast. He could chase his own release and be done in minutes. But he never does. He moves slow. Deep. His strokes drag like honey, hips rolling into yours with deliberate pressure, drawing out your pleasure with an intensity that’s overwhelming in the best way.

And all the while, he never stops looking at you.

“You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs, so quietly you almost miss it.

It’s not like him to speak, but tonight there’s a flush high on his cheeks, a fire behind his eyes that he can’t hold back. His forehead presses to yours. His nose brushes along your cheek. His fingers find your hand and lace between them, anchoring you to him as if he's afraid you'll disappear.

“Don’t look away,” he says softly, thumb stroking over your wrist.

Like he wants to memorize the way your face twists when you moan, the way your eyes flutter when he hits that spot just right. And when your breath hitches and your legs tremble around his waist, he doesn’t pick up the pace—he slows down. Drags it out. Holds you tighter, kisses you deeper.

It’s not just sex with Aone.

It’s connection. It’s adoration. It’s devotion.

And when you finally come undone, back arching, nails clawing at his shoulders, he doesn’t let you fall apart alone. He follows seconds after, burying his face in the crook of your neck like he needs to hide the sound of his own release.

The silence that follows is warm. Safe.

He doesn’t pull away.

Just rests his weight on you, arms locked around your waist, holding you close like he never wants to let go.

“You’re okay?”

The same question again, but this time it’s softer. Sleepier.

And when you nod, tangled up in his arms, you hear the smallest, faintest exhale.

Like he’s home.

Tensions (Pt. 1)

The sun had been beating down rays of heat all day, but with it now being noon, the heat was at its strongest.

Being that it was the thick of summer, it was a dry day; with the wind that usually downplayed the rising temperature to be nowhere in sight. The rays hit Fushiguro hard, only amplified by the dark jumper he decided to wear that day. Why he had chosen to wear it now of all days is currently lost on him.

He feels beads of sweat roll down the side of his face. Fushiguro swipes his hair out of his field of view, doing his best to ignore the tiring weather conditions, and keep his eye on his opponent.

Him and Itadori had yet to move. They were in a stare down, waiting to see who would make the first attack. And in the three years they’ve been sparing, they both knew that Itadori would move first; Fushiguro was simply waiting.

The wisps that he swiped away had re-entered his view. Fushiguro quickly moves them away, eyes lasering on focus as Itadori decides to start the spar, making quicks strides to him. Itadori goes for a right hook, Fushiguro blocks it easily. Like clockwork he grabs Itadori’s arm and tries to flip him over. Itadori easily breaks free with an attempted kick to his shin, causing Fushiguro to jump back, putting space between them again. Fushiguro goes to a strike his jaw, for Itadori to dodge and attempt to hit him back.

It goes on for some time, with them going back and forth. To be completely honest, the black- hair sorcerer knew that in hand-to-hand combat, Itadori had the upper hand. However, in the time that had passed going from 15 to now 18 years of age, he could say with some confidence he could hold his ground against him.

After a failed punch, Fushiguro had Itadori in a vulnerable position. He could basically see the victory.

“You boys having fun?”

Her light, playful, teasing voice breaks through the cicadas, the heat and more importantly, Fushiguro’s focus. His head whips to see her causally leaning against one of the many trees, one of her legs bent, using the base as leverage. He drinks in her entire form. Arms crossed pushing up her breasts, extenuating the curves and contours of the rest of her body. His eyes trail to how her skirt had slid up the tiniest bit, legs bare since tights were now a hinderance instead of a benefit.

Then just like that, he’s on the dirt trying to breath in the air that suddenly had escaped him, all the while cursing his unconscious ogling.

He just couldn’t help himself. And that’s what frustrated him.

“Ha! I win!” Itadori’s voice is gleeful, before turning to the absolute bane of Fushiguro’s existence.

Kuramoto Sumiko.

He watches the two exchange greetings, causal conversation flowing as though Fushiguro wasn’t on the floor basically cooking in the sun. He sits up and grits his teeth, his annoyance in himself projecting onto her.

“Could you not interrupt us when we’re sparing? You made me lose focus.” He spits, glaring at her. He watches in agitation as Kuramoto’s smile grows condescending. It causes his blood to boil.

“So cold, Fushiguro-kun,” He knew she only used the honorific to piss him off. And God did it work.

“Just because you’re frustrated that you lost, yet again might I add, doesn’t mean you need to take it out on me.” He tsks, ignoring her words. Itadori ignores Kuramoto’s passive aggressive statement, offering a hand to help Fushiguro up. He begrudgingly takes it, before unwillingly moving his focus back to her.

In the end it always goes back to her. Whether he liked it or not. (Though it was usually not)

“What are you doing here anyways?” Kuramoto pouts, mocking a sad expression. Fushiguro stops himself from looking at her lips. He refocuses when he hears her dramatic huff.

“You make it seem as though you don’t want to be around me.” Kuramoto’s voice is overly babyish, turning her body to the side and looking away as if what he said actually hurt her. Fushiguro knows better than that though.

It’s because I don’t. The sorcerer thinks bitterly.

You drive me insane. With almost everything you do.

He cuts off his thoughts, almost shaking his head in real time as he watches with pure distaste when her mock sadness turns extremely dramatic with the flip of a switch. Kuramotos’ slightly manic behaviour wasn’t surprising to neither Fushiguro nor Itadori. She’d always been like this; in fact, he’d predicted her personality in the beginning moments of meeting her. Prideful, selfish, loud and a little bit crazy. All perfect traits for a life in sorcery.

Everything Fushiguro wasn’t.

He could say with full confidence that they two were total foils of each other. Like water and oil, the two just didn’t mix.

He thought about it more then he cared to admit.

She places her hand on her heart, making a pained expression. “Oh, how you wound me.” Kuramoto’s closed eyes peek open to view the two boys who were clearly not amused. Well, Itadori was a little; He had always found her antics a little funny.

The had two always got along better than her and Fushiguro for sure. He would be lying if he said he’s never gotten slightly jealous.

Fushiguro sighs tiredly, waiting for the real reason she had come and interrupted their spar. One look at his expression and she smiles.

“Tough crowd.” He only rolls his eyes. “Gojo sent me to get Yuuji. Something about a mission, I think.” Itadori makes a noise of recollection, then one of stress. Kuramoto and Fushiguro, well her more openly, watch in amusement as Itadori’s face shifts through the levels of stress.

“Ah, I completely forgot! ‘Kay, I gotta go! I’ll you see guys later!” He runs off instantly, not even waiting for goodbyes, and she laughs a little. There’s a beat of silence as they watch Itadori become smaller and smaller. It goes once, twice, until they both reach the same thought.

They were left alone with each other.

It doesn’t take long before Kuramoto gets that teasing look in her eye. The look he absolutely despised.

“And then there were two.” He raised his brow, ignoring the feeling of his blood pressure rising and incoming headache.

If he had any say about it, he wouldn’t be staying too long.

“I have to train, so I can’t stay. Excuse me.” Fushiguro starts to walk away when her laugh stops him.

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The question makes him pause. Mostly because he already knew the answer.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He came off more aggressive and irritated then he wanted to, but to be fair, it was her.

He just couldn’t control himself.

Kuramoto hums, walking towards him, her steps light and bouncy as she circles around him. Fushiguro’s eyes never leave hers; Just like hers never leave his.

“Well, its just that you’d think after three years, you’d tolerate being around me more.” Fushiguro knew what she were referring to. Over the years he could count the times he’d been alone with her on one hand, and even then, it wasn’t very long.

He didn’t know what’d he’d do if he was given the chance.

Fushiguro doesn’t respond, trying to ignore the growing tension that came from his silence.

The tension that they both knew were there but refused to acknowledge.

Kuramoto laughs lowly, cutting the silence in half as she begin to walk away. His eyes trail her form. “Just some food for thought, Megumi-kun.” His name rolls off her tongue so smoothly, it sends shivers down his spine. He glares at her hard, keeping silent.

“Also, maybe a haircut would improve your chances at sparing. But don’t expect any miracles, okay?” She yells over her shoulder as she exits, and Fushiguro clenches his fists. He doesn’t respond; Then again, he never does.

Because he’s too busy willing his body to not chase after her.

~~~

“She drives me insane.” Fushiguro rants, pacing back and forth the floors of Itadori’s dorm, while the aforementioned watches in concealed amusement.

“C’mon man, she’s not that bad,” Itadori reasons. Fushiguro stops to look at him. “Of course, you would say that; She doesn’t put all her energy into tormenting you.” The pink-haired sorcerer sighs a little.

“Or maybe, you just give her too much to play off of.” Itadori mumbles, and Fushiguro stops.

“What?”

“I’m just saying, you do act a little strongly with her. Downplay it, and she might lay off.” Fushiguro scoffs. As if he hasn’t thought of that before.

He didn’t have the nerve to say he had no control of his emotions around her.

“What part of ‘she drives me insane’ do you not understand?” He watches Itadori sigh again, rubbing the back of his neck as he sets his drink down on the floor.

“Look dude I get it; Having that kind of tension with someone would drive anyone nuts-” Fushiguro almost chokes, effectively cutting off his best friend. That struck a nerve.

“I’m sorry, ‘that kind of tension’? What’s that supposed to mean?” Fushiguro asks, immediately on the offensive. Itadori looks at his best friend blankly. “Uh… The sexual tension you guys have? It’s so thick you could cut it with a knife.” The simple manner in which he says it, causes Fushiguro to spiral even more.

“What?! That’s not even close to what’s going on! She drives me insane because she’s rash, selfish, crazy, annoyingly-”

“Fuckable?” The boys both turn to the source of the crass comment. Kugisaki leaning against the doorframe, her face completely serious. Fushiguro grits his teeth, his ears burning in embarrassment and anger knowing that there was no escape from the subject now.

“Couldn’t help but overhear. Honestly, Fushiguro, you want to screw her so bad it makes you look stupid.” He watches his other best friend, debatable at the moment however, walk into the room and open the mini fridge to get herself a drink. Fushiguro tsks at the comment, looking away from his friends prying eyes.

“Again, the concept of me and her is ridiculous. Never once have I ever thought of her that way.” He hears Kugisaki snort loudly.

“Please. There’s a thin line between love and hate, and you’ve been ready fuck over it since the day you met. You guys should just get it over with. Three years is long enough.” He watches his two friends, clearly amused with his suffering, infuriated. He can’t stop the irritated sound that comes from his throat. Itadori, perhaps feeling pity, gives Fushiguro a sympathetic smile.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Get your mind off things?” Itadori suggests. Fushiguro sighs, but doesn’t disagree. He had been working hard enough as it is, and a day off didn’t sound too bad…

“And there’s my entrance.” The three third years freeze to sound of Kuramoto’s voice. Fushiguro’s heart suddenly began to pound so hard he could feel it in his ears. If she had heard anything, he would never hear the end of it. And if that happened, he truly believed he would snap.

“Kuramoto! Were you outside long?” Itadori asks, standing up to greet you, clearly trying to gage how much you heard the previous conversation. The three anxiously awaited your answer.

“Just got here. I overheard that Megumi-kun,” She makes a point of using his first name in an overly smug but light voice to irritate him. Fushiguro glares but doesn’t say anything.

“Was thinking of a day off?” Itadori and Kugisaki go silent as they watch Fushiguro’s face form a deeper frown then once thought imaginable.

“I fail to see how that involves you in any way.” He says sharply. She only gives a light shrug, smile still plastered on her face. “It’s just that it really messes up my schedule.” Fushiguro’s eyebrows burrow deeper in confusion.

“What?”

“With the mission Gojo-sensei gave us. We leave tonight.” The information bounces around Fushiguro’s head and he still doesn’t process it completely.

“Huh? Gojo never said anything about a mission, though.” Kugisaki finally speaks, and Itadori agrees with a couple nods of his head. Kuramotos’ smile widens.

“It was assigned to just me and Megumi-kun. Something about our styles aligning.” She hums in thought, and all words dry up in Fushiguro’s mouth.

A solo mission… with her…

“Anyways! Make sure to pack the essentials Megumi-kun! It’s supposed to be a few days at the least!” Kuramoto laughs before saying a childish* ‘bye-bye’ *and leaving. It took several minutes and hand waving to get Fushiguro up to speed.

This. This was his own worst nightmare.

~~~

“Do you want to explain yourself?” Fushiguro barges into his office, catching Gojo mid tea sip. He could see his teacher’s smile widening, as he continues drinking his tea, purposefully not sensing Fushiguro’s tone of urgency and anger.

“About what, Megumi? I do a lot of things that need explaining. Depending on what it is, I might give you an answer.” Gojo sets his tea down gently, looking at his student with a grin so wide it was extremely difficult for Fushiguro to not punch him.

Still, he remained calm. Well, enough at least.

“The mission you apparently assigned me and Kuramoto. Why the two of us? You have lots of different sorcerers at your disposal.” Gojo made a sound of surprise.

“Am I hearing tones of resentment? I never thought I’d see the day where the team player doesn’t want to cooperate with someone. Scary.” Fushiguro grits his teeth.

“I- We just don’t work well together.”

“You guys do well enough in group settings. What’s the difference?” The answer dies in Fushiguro’s throat.

The difference is less time actually spent alone. He couldn’t imagine the possibilities of what could happen if there were alone for long periods of time. It was practically unheard of.

And Fushiguro wasn’t keen on experimenting.

“Plus, your techniques compliment each other. You guys theoretically would make a great team, so I put you together. Now you can drop out if you’d like, but I’ve already told the higher ups and the principal you guys were going. That’s not gonna look good for you.” Fushiguro rubs the bridge of his nose.

Why did you tell them I’d go without asking me first? Is the only question on his mind before holding his head up, swallowing his pent-up frustrations with an easy breath. Just like so many times before in his life.

“Where are we going?”

“A small town on the outskirts of Tokyo bordering Kanagawa.” He nods, before taking his leave and going to his dorm to pack his stuff. He fails to see Gojo’s mischievous grin as he takes another sip of his tea.

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

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

But no the writings all me :D

HIIII ❤️❤️

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

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

TYTYTY AND HAVE A GOOD DAY

HEYYY ❤️❤️

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

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

--

Jealously: Nishinoya

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

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

Nishinoya had been living there for almost a year.

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

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

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

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

Gyotaku.

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

He didn’t hesitate. He walked straight in.

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

And there you were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I fish,” he said suddenly. “A lot.”

That made you laugh. “Lucky me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuu—”

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

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

“A glow stick?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuu.”

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

Favourite Positions: Iwaizumi

Of all the positions Hajime loved you in, you on top riding him was definitely his favourite.

Maybe it was because he loved the way your tits bounced, how a quick pinch of your nipple would make you squeeze his cock in all the right places. Or maybe it was the way he could grab your hips, ass plush and perfect for smacking.

But if he really thought about it, it was probably because he adored your face when you rode him. No matter how many times you get on top, your reaction is always the same.

“Haj-Hajime…” You panted, face flush pink with effort as you repeatedly slammed yourself down on his thick cock, slight drool leaving the corner of your lips. Your hands were gripping the headboard for support, knuckles whitening as you used your full strength to roll and ride your hips against his, purposefully grinding right against that spot that made you see stars.

He loved watching you lose yourself in him, the once respectable and cohesive woman he fell in love driving herself rabid. All just for him.

Your movements, once smooth and consistent, start to falter with exhaustion, sweat beading down your lower back. Still, you don’t stop, lost in pleasure.

Seeing you like this always drove him wild.

“Can’t get enough, can you?” Hajime rumbled, his hand moving from your ass trailing up your spine in a way that gave you shivers. He stopped at your neck, to which he grabbed and pulled you with a newfound vigor, pulling you so close that your breasts were flush against his chest. He had the chance to look at your eyes, so lost in lust as you panted hotly in his face.

“My turn now.”

With that, his other handheld down your hips as he began to thrust up into you.

Hard.

Drool hit his neck, and Hajime began his own rhythm, with you either trying to form words or a sentence, he isn’t sure. Your moans emphasised with each thrust, mingling perfectly with his grunts. You call out his name, hands moving from the headboards to his shoulders, your fingernails pressing sharp crescent moons into his skin.

“Please, please, please!” You yell, and Hajime immediately understands you. His hand moves from your neck down to where you two become one, as he rubs your clit masterfully. It only takes a few seconds till your whole-body tenses with nirvana. He feels your walls clench around him, milking him to his finish right as you come down from yours.

With a few messy thrusts, he’s left with a soft cock, your juices all over him, and a very sleepy and happy you.

Oh, yeah. Definitely his favourite.

Would it be interesting to ask for Aran? Even something as simple as him noticing Inarizaki’s manager or their friend, anything is fine.

Done :D Thank you for the request!! <333 --

Aran wasn’t someone who let his mind wander. Not during practice, not during games, and certainly not when it came to things that didn’t concern him. He kept his head clear, his priorities in check, and his focus sharp. That was what made him reliable—one of the only people on Inarizaki’s team who could keep the chaos from completely consuming them.

But lately, there was something—or rather, someone—slipping through the cracks in his usual composure.

You.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. Nothing obvious. But little things started creeping up on him. He started noticing the way you always sat near him whenever the team went out to eat, how you rolled your eyes at Atsumu’s antics but never actually walked away from the conversation, how you seemed to know exactly what someone needed before they even had to ask. He wasn’t sure when it started. He wasn’t sure why it started. But he was noticing you, and now he couldn’t seem to stop.

The realization hit him on a random afternoon practice.

He had just finished a long rally, sweat clinging to his skin as he steadied his breathing. Coach was yelling at Atsumu for something—probably for ignoring his setter duties and trying to go for a ridiculous dump shot—and the rest of the team was either catching their breath or groaning at the delay. Aran wiped his forehead with the back of his hand before reaching for his water bottle, only to feel something tap his arm.

A cold water bottle.

He glanced up, and there you were, holding it out to him without a word. Your expression was neutral, not expecting anything, not waiting for some kind of thanks. Just… handing it to him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Aran hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it. “Thanks.”

You only nodded before turning back to your clipboard, jotting something down. No big deal. Except it was a big deal, because now Aran was standing there gripping the water bottle tighter than necessary, feeling something stir in his chest that he didn’t know how to name.

It didn’t stop there.

At first, Aran tried to ignore it. Tried to brush off the way his eyes lingered on you a little too long during breaks, the way he found himself listening for your voice even in the middle of a crowded gym. He told himself it was just habit, just familiarity. You were part of the team, and he was just used to having you around.

But then there were the moments in between—the ones that didn’t happen during practice, the ones that felt like something else entirely.

Like the time he was stretching after a long day and you plopped down next to him with an exhausted sigh.

“Tough day?” he asked, not looking up from his toes as he reached forward.

“You have no idea,” you groaned, flopping onto your back. “I think I have permanent damage from listening to Suna and Atsumu argue about some dumb anime for twenty minutes.”

Aran huffed out a laugh. “Could’ve walked away.”

You turned your head, peering up at him with something amused in your gaze. “Yeah? And leave you to suffer alone?”

Something about the way you said it made him pause. He glanced down at you, the corners of your lips twitching like you were fighting back a grin. He opened his mouth, but whatever he had been about to say got stuck in his throat.

Because that—that right there—was the problem.

You weren’t just the team manager. You weren’t just a familiar presence. You were something else, something more, and Aran was beginning to realize it too late.

It got worse after that.

He wasn’t the type to let distractions get the best of him, but now it was like you were in his periphery all the time. The worst part? You didn’t even know. You just carried on like normal, making sure the team didn’t destroy themselves, shooting sarcastic remarks at Atsumu when he got too unbearable, handing Aran a towel when he looked particularly drained.

And he just kept taking it. Kept letting it happen. Kept letting you happen.

But it was when he started getting annoyed that he knew he was screwed.

Because lately, you’d been spending more time talking to Kita.

It wasn’t like Aran had any reason to care. Kita was Kita. He was good at everything, the kind of person who had an effortless way of drawing people in. And you? You were the kind of person who enjoyed good company.

So why did it bother him so much?

It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t. That would be ridiculous. But he couldn’t stop noticing it—the way you stood a little closer, the way your conversations stretched a little longer, the way you laughed at something Kita said and Aran felt something sting in a place he hadn’t even realized existed.

He didn’t plan to say anything about it. But then, one day, he caught you laughing at something Kita said, and before he could stop himself, the words left his mouth.

“Didn’t know you two were so close.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Huh?”

Aran crossed his arms, his expression carefully neutral. “You and Kita.”

Your head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit like you were trying to figure out where this was coming from. Then, slowly, a smirk tugged at your lips. “Why? You jealous or something?”

Aran scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Please.”

“Uh-huh.” You didn’t sound convinced.

He clicked his tongue, looking away. This was stupid. He wasn’t about to sit here and act like some lovesick idiot. That wasn’t him. He had better things to do. More important things.

… Then why did his chest feel tight?

You were still looking at him, clearly entertained by whatever this was. Then, after a pause, you leaned in just slightly, voice dropping into something softer—something unreadable.

“You did notice, though.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a fact.

Aran felt his jaw tighten, but he didn’t say anything.

You let the silence stretch between you before pulling away, grinning like you had figured something out. “Huh. Interesting.”

And just like that, you turned and walked off, leaving Aran standing there with his arms still crossed, his pulse unsteady, and the realization settling deep in his bones.

You were right.

He had noticed.

And that was the problem.

Favourite Position: Akaashi

Akaashi Keiji was always composed.

He prided himself on control—measured movements, careful touches, a steady rhythm that never wavered. But right now? Right now, control was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he was powerless to stop it.

Because you were in his lap, your back pressed flush against his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around your waist. He was buried deep inside you, the warm, slick heat of you squeezing him so perfectly that his breath kept hitching, his hands tightening against your skin as he tried—tried so hard—to keep his pace slow.

But he was losing it.

"Keiji…" Your voice was soft, breathless, and he could feel it everywhere—your body shifting against his, your pulse hammering under his fingertips.

His forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath heavy against your skin. "Feels too good," he admitted, voice strained, nearly shaking. "I—"

He swallowed hard as you rolled your hips, and a groan ripped from his throat.

Fuck. Fuck.

Akaashi had never felt like this before—this weak, this desperate, this close to breaking apart. He’d always been able to focus, always been able to last as long as he wanted. But this? This position?

With you like this, stretched out against him, your body molding so perfectly to his—

It was wrecking him.

"You’re shaking," you murmured, fingers reaching back to tangle in his dark hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He groaned at the sensation, his hips jerking up involuntarily, forcing himself even deeper into you. Your breath caught, and the way you clenched around him made his vision blur.

Shit.

"I can't—" He exhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening, his muscles tensing as he felt himself teetering on the edge. "I don't think I can—"

You turned your head slightly, pressing a teasing kiss to the side of his jaw. "You don’t have to hold back."

Akaashi cursed under his breath, his composure unraveling completely.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, his thrusts turning needy, frantic, desperate. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his moans muffled against your skin as he fucked into you—

Hard. Deep. Sloppy.

He was unraveling with every motion, every clench of your body around him, every little sound you made that sent fire through his veins.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice raw, his rhythm stuttering. "I'm—" He sucked in a breath, his entire body shaking, trembling, losing control.

You reached back, dragging your fingers through his hair again, your voice a whisper. "Let go, Keiji."

And that was it.

The coil in his stomach snapped so violently he almost blacked out.

A deep, shuddering groan tore from his throat as pleasure crashed through him like a tidal wave. He spilled into you, hips jerking as his entire body trembled, the overwhelming intensity making him bury his face deeper into your neck. His breathing was ragged, erratic, completely wrecked.

He had never come that hard before. Ever.

For long moments, he just held you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his body still shaking from the aftershocks. His fingers traced absentminded patterns against your waist, his breath slowing, but his mind was still reeling.

What the hell just happened?

You shifted slightly, and he groaned at the oversensitivity, his arms instinctively tightening around you, keeping you still. You giggled softly, your voice laced with exhaustion and satisfaction. "I think you liked that, huh?"

Akaashi swallowed hard, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder before murmuring—"Didn't know I could feel like that."

His grip on you softened, fingers brushing against your thigh. He exhaled a slow, shaky breath, the realization settling in.

This was his favorite.

And now that he knew?

He wasn’t sure he could ever have you any other way again.

Can you please do osamu with fav position too? Im on your knees now 🧎🧎🧎

You may rise, fellow simp... I've come 🫡 ------------

Osamu Miya was a man of simple pleasures and needs. So long as had had a roof over his head, some good food to munch on and a bed, he wouldn’t complain.

But for some reason, you were the one thing he could never get enough.

Your legs are wrapped around his hips, Osamu reveling in the way your pussy sucked him whole when he filled you. You were panting in his face, hands clutching at his back for any sort of anchor. He thought you were absolutely delicious like this. Melting at his touch, your eyes drowning in lust, trying to muster up a coherent sentence. Osamu can’t help the groan that rumbles out from his throat, moving his head into the crook of your neck as he leaves kisses and bites all down your neck. “’Samu..!” You squealed at a harsher nip, your pants turning into moans as he licks and suckles at the bite.

“What? I can’t enjoy my meal?” Osamu’s honestly surprised how even his voice sounded, even though he could’ve finished at the way you called his name. He traces his fingers down your chest, circling your nipple before giving it a few flicks. He adored how reactive you were when he did that. You gasp, calling out his name as he continued to fuck you, the room filling with the sound of skin slapping alongside your screams. Your nails claw down his back as you continue to sputter muffled versions of his name. Your orgasm triggers his, and you’re both coming down from a blissful high. You’re both panting, room reeking of sex when you try to get up to get a towel, when you feel Osamu’s hand gripping your arm. Cock still red and hard. “I’m still hungry.”

Jealousy: Kyotani (Mad Dog)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was when you felt it.

The air shifted. Like the pressure dropped.

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

Kyōtani.

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

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

He just swung.

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

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

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

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

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

“Barely,” you muttered. “He tried.”

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

The bartender said nothing. No one did.

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

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

“You hate every place.”

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

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

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

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

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

Fun Story to Share.

I got my (now 18-year-old) daughter into Ao3 back in 2021. I taught her she should always comment - even if the fic looks old or abandoned or whatever. She did.

Well - she got this email this morning:

The fic was written in 2014 and essentially abandoned.

Bethy read and reviewed in 2021 (and was actually the only person who had commented at all).

Today in 2025 - the final chapter was posted by the author and this was her reply to Bethy’s comment.

———

Never question whether a fic is too old to comment on.