Rivals: Kuroo

Rivals: Tsukishima

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, that infuriating smirk curling on his lips as he glanced your way. “You know, for someone who talks so much, you don’t actually do much worth noticing.”

You let out a sharp snort, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real reaction. “Says the guy whose biggest skill is standing there and pretending he’s better than everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly, the smirk deepening like he was enjoying every second of this. “Pretending? That’s cute. I didn’t realize you thought I had to try.”

You crossed your arms and stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Wow, you're exhausting to be around. Is it lonely being this much of an asshole?”

His chuckle was dry, almost condescending, as he leaned in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Oh, don’t worry about me. It’s nice having peace and quiet—something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

Your glare sharpened, but you refused to back down. “Yeah, because your personality screams ‘quiet and peaceful.’ You’re just bitter because I don’t let you get away with your holier-than-thou act.”

Tsukishima’s lips twitched, his amusement barely contained. “Bitter? Please. If I cared what you thought, I’d have to actually take you seriously first.”

You met his gaze, your smirk finally matching his. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. We both know I live rent-free in that big head of yours.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, his smirk faltered before coming back sharper than ever. He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Living there? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re more like an annoying commercial I can’t skip.”

You stepped even closer, now toe-to-toe with him, your voice just as low and taunting. “Funny, because for someone who doesn’t care, you sure love watching.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you practically crackling with tension. His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, his smirk wavering in a way that almost looked—what, unsure? No way. This was Tsukishima, the king of snark. But the silence was heavy, loaded with something neither of you seemed willing to name.

“Uh… Am I interrupting something?”

Both of you jumped, heads snapping to the side where Yamaguchi stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a volleyball and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His wide eyes darted between the two of you, a light pink dusting his cheeks.

“What are you—” Tsukishima started, his usual dry tone already creeping in, but Yamaguchi cut him off, holding up a hand like he was afraid to hear more.

“Don’t even explain. I’m good. I just… Daichi’s looking for you two, so, uh… maybe deal with that? Whenever you’re done… whatever this is.” He disappeared around the corner so fast it was like he was never there.

You blinked, heat creeping up your neck as you realized just how close you and Tsukishima were standing. He stepped back first, casually adjusting his glasses like the moment had never happened. You, on the other hand, couldn’t resist.

“Guess that’s your cue to stop glaring at me like I ruined your life, Tsukishima,” you quipped, raising a brow as you crossed your arms.

Tsukishima shot you a sidelong glance, his usual smirk and condescension firmly in place. “I only look like that when someone’s wasting my time.”

You scoffed, turning on your heel with a grin. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.” You headed down the hall, leaving him to follow, still glaring at your back.

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.”

Husbandry: Bokuto (NSFW)

Koutaro loved being a father. He loved everything about it—the giggles, the tiny hands reaching for his, the way his child clung to his leg like a koala when he tried to leave for practice. He loved the sleepy, drooling cuddles, the way they cheered for him at games even when they barely understood what was going on, the pure adoration in their big, bright eyes.

He loved his family. He loved the life he had built with you.

But damn, he was dying to fuck his wife.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. The newborn stage had been exhausting, but you’d found your moments, stolen kisses between diaper changes and late-night feedings. But now? Now, his kid was everywhere.

Hina wanted to play all the time, wanted to be glued to your side, wanted to co-sleep every damn night. If he so much as kissed you for too long, tiny hands would push between you both, demanding attention. And the worst part? You loved it. You’d always been so patient with her, smiling when she pulled you away from him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before going to settle her back into bed. Meanwhile, Koutaro was left aching, frustrated, and wound up tighter than a spring.

The longing was getting unbearable. He needed you. Needed to feel your hands on him, your nails digging into his back, the press of your body against his without interruption.

So when he saw his chance—his first real chance in weeks—he pounced.

Hina was absorbed in her favorite cartoon, settled comfortably on the couch, giggling at the screen, completely distracted. And you? You were in the kitchen, slicing up fruit, completely alone.

Koutaro didn’t hesitate.

He moved in fast, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, burying his face against your neck, groaning dramatically. "Baby, I’m starving."

You laughed, not missing the way his hands wandered, sliding under your shirt, fingers tracing slow, teasing circles against your stomach. "I’m literally making you a snack right now."

"Not that kinda hungry," he murmured, lips grazing your ear, pressing his hips firmly against your ass so you could feel exactly what he meant.

You inhaled sharply, the knife in your hand faltering for just a second. "Koutaro—"

"C’mon, babe," he whined, rocking his hips just a little, making you shudder. "We can sneak upstairs. Just real quick. Ten minutes. No—five! I swear, I can be fast."

You snorted. "You’re never fast."

He grinned against your skin, his hands moving higher, palming your breasts, kneading them just the way he knew made you weak. "Fine, twenty minutes. But you have to be quiet."

You let out a soft, breathy moan, pressing back into him just enough to feel the hard, teasing drag of his body against yours. Your breathing picked up, your fingers gripping the counter as you leaned into his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach. "You’re terrible," you murmured, but there was no real bite to your words. Koutaro smirked against your neck, his hands squeezing your waist. He knew he had you.

Then—

"Mama! I want my fruit!"

Koutaro froze.

You quickly smoothed down your shirt, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear, forcing yourself to look composed.

Tiny feet pattered into the kitchen, and suddenly, Hina was wedging between you and Koutaro, tiny hands tugging at your shirt.

"Mama! I want fruit! And Daddy, come watch my show with me! My favorite episode is on!"

Koutaro exhaled sharply through his nose, closing his eyes for a long moment. Defeated.

You sigh, turning and pecking him on the cheek, grinning. "Guess duty calls, Daddy."

With a deep, exaggerated sigh, Koutaro stepped back, ruffling his child’s hair before lifting her into his arms. "Alright, alright. Let’s go watch your show."

As he walked away, he heard your muffled laughter from the kitchen, making his frustration spike. His fingers flexed against Hina’s back as he carried her, already thinking about revenge.

By the time he settled onto the couch with her, she was already chattering excitedly about her favorite episode, eyes glued to the screen. Koutaro, however, was fuming.

He turned back, just before disappearing into the living room, throwing you a desperate, betrayed look.

This wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

---

Later that night, he was sure he was getting what he wanted.

Koutaro had planned it perfectly. He'd worn Hina out all day—a long walk, hours at the park, a warm bath, and a bedtime story that left her knocked out cold in her own bed. No way she was waking up tonight.

With a victorious smirk, he made his way to the bedroom, already anticipating the way you’d melt under his touch.

He stepped inside to find you standing by the dresser, slipping into one of his old shirts for bed. Your hair was slightly damp from your shower, skin soft, glowing in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

You turned at the sound of the door clicking shut, raising a brow as he stalked toward you. "Where’s Hina?"

"In her own bed," he murmured, voice low, confident. "Sleeping like a log."

Before you could react, his hands were on your waist, pulling you against him. He kissed you like he hadn’t kissed you in months—deep, needy, filled with everything he’d been holding back.

You gasped softly, but you didn’t hesitate, your arms looping around his neck as you pressed back into him, matching his intensity, his hunger. His hands roamed your body, fingers trailing down your spine, squeezing at your hips, touching you like he was trying to make up for lost time.

His mouth moved to your jaw, then your neck, and he groaned as his fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, moving lower, lower—

Knock, knock.

A tiny, tearful voice called from the hallway. "Mama? Daddy?"

You and Koutaro froze.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, still tangled together, his breath heavy against your skin.

Then, he pulled back just enough to stare at you, eyes filled with sheer, soul-crushing defeat.

You smirked, barely able to contain your amusement. "Like a log, huh?"

His expression darkened, and you couldn't help it—you burst into laughter.

Groaning, Koutaro dropped his forehead against your shoulder, completely deflated.

Another knock. "Mamaaa…"

With a deep sigh, you both quickly fixed yourselves up before Koutaro trudged to the door, opening it to reveal Hina standing there, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, sniffling.

"Had a bad dream, baby?" you cooed, crouching down to brush her hair back gently.

She nodded, sniffling again before reaching up toward Koutaro. "Can I sleep with you and Mama?"

He glanced over at you, looking so damn resigned, so utterly defeated.

You grinned, shrugging. "Guess duty calls again, Daddy."

Letting out the most dramatic sigh of his life, Koutaro scooped her up, carrying her to the bed. He flopped onto the mattress, his dream of having you to himself completely shattered as she snuggled between you both.

As you reached over to turn off the light, you caught Koutaro’s stare from across the pillow—his desperate, betrayed look that all but screamed: This isn’t over.

But hours later, it was still keeping him awake.

He laid there in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling, his body tense with frustration. Every single attempt at having you to himself had been shut down, and now, with his daughter nestled comfortably between you both, it felt like the final nail in his coffin.

Except—he wasn’t giving up. Not tonight.

Slowly, he turned his head, glancing at Hina. Her breathing was steady, deep, completely out. Koutaro stayed still for a few more moments, just to be sure, before carefully, painstakingly, peeling himself away from the bed.

You stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but he was already leaning in, brushing his lips against your ear. "Baby… come with me."

You blinked groggily, barely registering his voice. "Kou…?"

"Shhh," he whispered, his hand warm against your waist. "Come on. Just trust me."

Still half-asleep, you let him pull you up, letting him lead you quietly, carefully out of the bedroom. As soon as you both stepped into the dimly lit living room, you rubbed at your eyes, yawning. "Koutaro… what’s going on?"

But he didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he tilted your chin up, trailing soft kisses down your jaw, your neck, whispering against your skin. "We just need to be quiet."

Your breath hitched, your drowsiness evaporating in an instant as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you flush against him.

You gasped softly, but the second his mouth found that sensitive spot just beneath your ear, you melted into him. "Koutaro, you’re insatiable…"

He grinned, his fingers already slipping beneath the hem of your shirt as he guided you toward the couch. "Missed you too much, baby. Can’t wait anymore."

And as he pressed you down onto the cushions, settling between your legs, he whispered again, "Just keep quiet for me, yeah?"

You barely had a chance to respond before his hand slipped between your legs, fingertips tracing along your inner thigh, teasing, taking his time. You shivered, your legs instinctively parting wider for him, and he let out a quiet, pleased hum.

"That’s it, baby," he murmured against your ear, his fingers brushing over your underwear, pressing against the heat already pooling there. "You’re already so wet for me. Missed this, huh?"

You bit your lip, nodding as you arched into his touch, barely suppressing a gasp when he slid his fingers under the fabric, stroking you slow, deliberate.

"Koutaro—"

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, his other hand coming up to gently cover your mouth. "Gotta stay quiet, remember?"

Your head tipped back against the couch as he slid a finger inside, curling just right, dragging along that spot that had you nearly choking on your moans. When he added a second, his pace deep and unrelenting, your thighs clamped around his hand, body trembling under his touch.

"Feel good?" he asked, watching you with dark, hungry eyes. "Bet you’ve been needing this just as bad as I have."

You could barely nod, barely breathe, your chest rising and falling in uneven gasps as he worked you open, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

"Wanna come for me, baby?" His voice was low, coaxing, filthy. "I can feel you squeezing me—go ahead, let go. Just be quiet."

You whined against his palm, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashed over you, your walls pulsing around his fingers as you came, thighs shaking.

Koutaro groaned, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he helped you ride it out.

"Good girl," he whispered, nuzzling against your temple. "That’s my girl."

Before you could fully come down, he was shifting, gripping your hips, lining himself up.

"K-Koutaro—"

He pushed in, slow, deep, deliberate, and you nearly sobbed at the overwhelming pleasure. Your walls clenched around him, so tight, so warm, making his breath stutter against your skin.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching as he bottomed out, his size stretching you perfectly. The sensation was too much, so intense it sent tears flooding your eyes.

Koutaro kissed them away, murmuring against your skin, "Needed this, baby. Needed you. So bad."

His thrusts were slow, deep, each roll of his hips pressing right where you needed him most. You were drowning in the feeling, in the weight of him, in the way he moved inside you like he was savoring every second.

You wanted to cry out, to let him know just how good he was making you feel, but his hand was quick to cover your mouth again, muffling your desperate whimpers.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered, voice strained, nearly breaking from how good you felt around him. "Can’t have Hina hearing, right? Just be good for me, just take it—"

And you did. You took all of him, his slow, aching thrusts sending you spiraling, pulling you under, dragging out every bit of pleasure until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

"Koutaro—oh god—"

"I got you," he whispered, gripping your waist tighter, his hips stuttering as he felt you clamp down around him. "Come with me, baby. Let go."

The second your body tensed, walls pulsing around him, he followed, groaning as he spilled deep inside you, burying his face against your neck as he let go completely.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of ragged breathing, the quiet hum of the house, the lingering warmth of each other.

Then—

A soft shuffling noise. A tiny, sleepy voice.

"Mama? Daddy?"

Your entire body locked up, heart stopping, breath catching in your throat.

Koutaro went completely still, eyes widening in horror.

Another rustling noise. "Mamaaa… where’d you go?"

You whipped your head around, eyes darting to the hallway, panic surging through you. Koutaro’s mind raced, searching for an escape, an excuse, anything.

Then—quick as lightning—he peeked his head up over the couch, calling out in the most casual voice he could muster—

"Just helping Mommy look for something, sweetheart! We’ll be back in bed soon!"

Your face burned.

Hina yawned, rubbing her sleepy little eyes, looking far too tired to question anything. "Okay… hurry up, ‘kay?"

"We will, baby," you managed to choke out. "Go back to bed, we’ll be right there."

She sniffled, nodded, and padded back down the hall.

The second she was gone, you collapsed against Koutaro’s chest, smacking his shoulder. "You absolute menace."

He groaned dramatically, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I can’t live like this."

You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair. "That’s why I asked my parents to take her for the weekend."

Koutaro froze.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head, staring at you like you’d just given him the greatest gift of his life.

Without another word, he nuzzled into you, wrapping you up in his arms like he never wanted to let go. "I love you so much."

You smiled, cuddling into his warmth, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. "I love you too."

Helloooo another request because I absolutely love your Favourite position series! Can you write one about Atsumu because you write him so well. Not just him honestly all the characters you write are so accurate and well written. Take your time and thank your for blessing us with your writing!!🩷🩷

Heheh I've had this one cooking for a long time. Thank you for saying I write him well that makes my day since he's like my husband 😩🩷

Enjoy <333

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Favourite Positions: Atsumu

Atsumu Miya was a performer.

On the court, in front of a camera, with strangers or friends—he knew how to put on a show. He thrived on reaction, on praise, on the high that came from being watched and admired. And in bed, it was no different.

He liked it when you were loud.

When you praised him with gasps and whimpers, when your nails dragged down his back and your voice cracked saying his name. When your legs trembled, when your thighs clenched, when you said—again and again—that no one made you feel like he did.

But one night, in the quiet hush of your shared bedroom, you laughed—soft, teasing—and said something he couldn’t let go.

“You’re good, Tsumu,” you purred, voice sugary sweet, brushing your lips against his ear. “But I don’t think you’ve ever made me scream.”

He went still. Blinked once. And then he smiled.

Not just any smile. That one. The cocky, infuriating, competitive smile he only wore when he took something personally.

“Oh, is that a challenge?” he asked, voice deceptively light.

You shrugged, smirking. “I’m just saying…”

And that was how you found yourself like this.

Laid on your side, one leg lifted and draped over his shoulder, the other pinned beneath his weight. His hand was anchored under your knee, firm and steady, keeping you stretched open for him, keeping you exposed and exactly where he wanted you.

He was already deep inside you, hips grinding in slow, devastating strokes that had your breath stuttering and your mind unraveling. The angle? Perfect. He hit that spot—your spot—over and over, like he had it memorized, like he could find it with his eyes closed.

But what got you most—more than the rhythm, more than the stretch—was the way he watched you.

Eyes locked on your face. Focused. Determined.

He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t playful. He was proving something.

“Y’re not gonna be able to talk when I’m done,” he muttered, voice thick with effort, lips brushing against your jaw. “Gonna make you scream so loud, the whole fuckin’ neighborhood’s gonna know.”

You gasped, your hand flailing to grip the sheets as his cock hit that spot again, again, again. Every thrust angled perfectly, timed like he was syncing it to the beat of your pulse, to the rhythm of your gasps.

Your voice cracked. “T-Tsumu—”

“Oh, now y’can’t talk?” he chuckled, dark and pleased, hand dragging down to press your belly. “Thought y’had somethin’ smart to say.”

Your leg trembled on his shoulder. Your body jolted, overwhelmed by the way he kept striking that same devastating spot inside you. It was blinding—white-hot heat coiling tighter and tighter, an ache that started deep in your belly and spread like fire under your skin. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through your nerves, your muscles drawn so tight you thought you might snap. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

The only thing you could feel was him—Atsumu, filling you completely, dragging you closer to the edge with every roll of his hips. Your walls fluttered around him, desperate and pulsing, your vision starting to blur at the edges. Tears prickled in the corners of your eyes, pleasure cresting into something dizzying, something raw.

And still, he didn’t let up.

His pace quickened, hips snapping forward with more force, each movement sending a shockwave through your body. The pressure was unbearable, unbearable—and yet, you craved more. You needed more. Your hands clawed uselessly at the bedspread, searching for something, anything, to hold onto.

“Say it,” he growled, voice right by your ear now, his breath hot, cock still driving into you at that perfect, devastating angle. “Say who’s makin’ you scream.”

You barely managed it.

“Atsumu—oh my god, Atsumu—”

You shattered.

Your cry echoed off the walls, louder than you’d ever been before. It ripped from your chest, raw and helpless, your entire body locking up. Back arched, fingers clawing at the sheets, thighs quivering violently as your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Raw. Messy. Loud. It didn’t stop—wave after wave crashing through your limbs, pulsing around him with a force that left you sobbing.

Atsumu groaned, curse muffled into your neck as he fucked you through it, hips stuttering before he came hard, hot and deep inside you, his own orgasm pulled from him with a strangled moan. He rode out every last pulse of it, buried deep, clinging to your thigh like his anchor.

He didn’t move right away.

Just stayed there, your leg still draped over his shoulder, chest heaving against the back of your thigh, his hand still gripping you like he didn’t want to let go. His face nuzzled into the curve of your chest, lips ghosting over the swell of your breast as he pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses there—gentle and slow, a quiet contrast to the way he’d just wrecked you.

When he finally leaned back to look at you, his smile was smug, but his eyes were warm—staring down at the wrecked mess he made.

“Still think I can’t make you scream?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were too far gone—eyelids fluttering, mouth parted, body twitching with the aftershocks.

And as he looked down at the wrecked mess of you—eyes glassy, hair clinging to your forehead, body limp and trembling—Atsumu realized something.

This position?

Yeah. It was his favorite now.

I’m being greedy here,

but it would be funny if Inarizaki was trying to figure out if their manager has a secret admirer. With all the snacks, food and encouraging notes being given to them, but it just turned out to be their (platonic) girlfriend

No greed at all! I love it ehehe

Hope you enjoy! and thanks for the ask <333 I love doing these --

It started small. A sports drink left on the bench, a protein bar tucked neatly beside your clipboard, a sticky note with a simple Good job today! scribbled in neat handwriting.

You hadn’t thought much of it at first. Maybe someone had left the drink behind by accident, maybe the protein bar was a spare someone had tossed your way. The note? Probably just an afterthought. No big deal.

But then it kept happening.

Snacks. Energy drinks. Even small bento boxes labeled with your name, left in the exact same spot every single time. The notes became more frequent too—little words scrawled on post-its, ranging from Eat something before practice, idiot. to You better be drinking enough water. and Take a break before you pass out.

By the end of the week, the team had noticed.

And by the end of the next, they had declared a full-blown investigation.

“I’m tellin’ ya, this is definitely the work of a secret admirer.” Ginjima crossed his arms, nodding as if he were uncovering something straight out of a mystery novel.

Osamu, unimpressed, leaned back against the gym wall. “Or, y’know, it’s just someone bein’ nice.”

“No way, ‘Samu! This is classic romance material.” Atsumu leaned in, eyes alight with interest. “Secret notes? Snacks? Somebody’s tryna woo our manager.”

“‘Woo’?” Suna repeated, unimpressed. “Who the hell says ‘woo’?”

“You get what I mean.”

Aran, ever the voice of reason, sighed. “Maybe it’s just a fan. Not everything has to be a romance novel, guys.”

“No way.” Ginjima shook his head. “This is deeper than that. It’s been weeks. This is a long game play.”

Osamu scoffed. “So what? You think it’s some secret, undyin’ love confession?”

Atsumu nodded, smirking. “Or maybe it’s someone right under our noses.”

That’s when they all turned their heads toward Suna.

He blinked. “No.”

“You’re bein’ awfully quiet about all this,” Atsumu pointed out, grin widening. “Kinda suspicious.”

Suna didn’t even blink. “I don’t care enough to do all that.”

“Suspicious,” Osamu agreed, just to mess with him.

Suna sighed. “Go to hell.”

But the team wasn’t done. They spent the rest of the week staking out the gym, watching like hawks every time you left your clipboard unattended. They devised shifts. Shifts. They trailed behind you in the hallways, whispering conspiracies amongst themselves. At one point, they even considered interrogating Kita—only for Osamu to firmly shoot that idea down because “If ya bother him with this nonsense, we’re all dead.”

Their investigation escalated. They started tracking patterns—when the notes appeared, the exact minute snacks were placed. They cross-referenced schedules, trying to narrow down suspects. Ginjima even went so far as to create a messy suspect board in the clubroom, red strings connecting completely unrelated names, post-it notes containing unhinged theories.

“Alright, so if we rule out known variables—” Ginjima began, tapping the board with a marker.

“Did ya seriously make a conspiracy wall?” Osamu asked flatly.

“It’s called evidence, ‘Samu.”

“It’s called insanity,” Suna corrected, lazily eating a rice cracker.

And then, just when tensions were reaching their peak—when Atsumu was this close to breaking into your locker just to “gather more clues”—the answer came crashing down on them in the form of a very cheerful visitor.

“Hey, loser, I got your favorite snacks again!”

You barely had time to turn before a familiar arm was slinging around your shoulder, a plastic bag dangling from their other hand. The entire team froze. You could feel the sheer intensity of their collective stare boring into the back of your head.

Your best friend—your very, very platonic best friend—blinked at the awkward tension in the gym. “Uh. What’s with them?”

You sighed, already knowing where this was going. “They think I have a secret admirer.”

Your friend snorted. “Pfft—you? Please, who would want you?”

“Oh my god, shut up.”

Atsumu, standing dumbfounded beside Osamu, made a strangled noise. “You? It was you this whole time?!”

“Duh.” Your friend rolled their eyes. “What, you guys thought someone was trying to date them?”

Ginjima sputtered. “So—wait—you were just—just doing all this platonically?”

You deadpanned. “Yes. That is what friendship is.”

Osamu sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Y’all are idiots.”

Suna, who had been unfairly accused, leaned back smugly. “Told you so.”

Atsumu looked personally betrayed. “Weeks—weeks—of stakeouts, of investigation, of tracking patterns—for this?!”

Your friend snickered. “God, you guys need a hobby.”

Kita, passing by without even stopping, simply muttered, “I told you all to drop it.”

Aran chuckled, shaking his head. “All that effort, just for nothing.”

Atsumu groaned dramatically, dropping onto one of the benches as if the weight of the world had just crushed him. “This is devastating.”

Osamu patted his shoulder. “Ya brought this on yerself.”

Ginjima, looking up at his massive evidence board, sighed. “Guess I should take this down.”

Suna, still smug, pulled out his phone. “No, keep it. I’m sending this to the group chat.”

And just like that, the case was closed.

Unrequited Love: Oikawa (Bonus)

The team was loud, as always.

Oikawa, now freshly showered and looking somewhat like himself again, was in the middle of being teased by Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

“So, Captain, let’s talk about your tragic love life,” Matsukawa said, slinging an arm around Oikawa’s shoulders.

Hanamaki took a dramatic sip of his drink. “Yeah, we all knew she was gonna break up with you before you did. What does that say about you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Oikawa groaned, smacking Matsukawa’s arm off him, though there was no real heat behind it. You could see his mood rising with every passing moment.

“Hey, at least you still have volleyball,” Matsukawa said, raising his glass like he was making a toast.

“Right, the one true love of your life,” Hanamaki added with a smirk.

Oikawa sighed dramatically. “You guys are the worst.”

You watched from the side, letting their banter wash over you. The ache from earlier was still there, a dull weight in your chest, but at least Oikawa wasn’t sulking anymore. That was the important thing.

A presence appeared beside you, and you didn’t even have to look to know it was Hajime.

“I’m impressed,” he admitted, crossing his arms as he watched Oikawa shove Hanamaki. “I tried to get him out of bed earlier, but he wouldn’t budge.”

You smirked, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “That’s because you don’t know how to sweet-talk him, Hajime.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. If I tried sweet-talking Oikawa, I’d never hear the end of it.”

You snickered. “Yeah, he’d probably take that as an invitation to propose.”

Hajime shook his head, amused, before glancing at you, his expression shifting into something more knowing. “So,” he said casually, “are you going to make a move, or are we just going to keep going in circles?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Please, you should’ve seen what he told me earlier.”

Hajime raised an eyebrow.

You turned to him, pressing a hand to your chest mockingly, and sighed dramatically. “He looked me in the eye, Hajime. And do you know what he said?”

Hajime waited.

“You’re a good friend,” you deadpanned, voice dripping with bitterness.

Hajime winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “So, no, I’m not making a move. Not when he clearly doesn’t see me that way.”

Hajime was quiet for a moment before shrugging. “You never know. He’s an idiot. You might have to spell it out for him.”

You huffed, watching as Oikawa dramatically whined about something to the others. “Yeah, well… I think I’ve done enough for one night.” Then you hear a whine of your name. You look over to Oikawa's pleading face along with Matsun's and Makki's devious ones.

“You promised me they would give me a break!” Oikawa suddenly called out, his voice carrying over the chatter of the team. His eyes locked onto yours, pleading dramatically, though the glint of betrayal was exaggerated.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “C’mon, guys, give him some slack,” you called, raising your hands in surrender.

Hanamaki gasped in mock offense. “Oh, so now you’re defending him?”

“She’s going soft,” Matsukawa said, shaking his head.

“I am not going soft,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

Hajime, beside you, smirked before stepping forward. “Actually, now that I think about it… didn’t Oikawa almost cry in first-year when he lost his favorite knee pads?”

Oikawa whipped around. “Iwa-chan.”

“Oh, right!” Hanamaki’s eyes lit up. “The ones with the little stars on them?”

“You guys swore to take that to the grave!” Oikawa cried, scandalized.

“I don’t know, man,” Matsukawa said, leaning back with a grin. “Kind of sounds like a moment that deserves to be remembered.”

As the teasing escalated, Oikawa slumped in his seat, arms crossed, pouting like a child. “I hate all of you.”

You laughed at the whole exchange, and when you glanced back at Oikawa, expecting him to still be sulking, you caught something different—something small, almost imperceptible.

He was smiling.

It was barely there, just a slight tug at the corners of his lips, but it was real. And for a brief moment, as his gaze lifted, he met your eyes.

The world around you blurred, and warmth spread through your chest. You swore you felt your heart stutter, just for a second.

And then, as quickly as the moment had happened, you cursed yourself for it.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away.

Oikawa was still laughing with the others, completely unaware of the effect he had on you.

You exhaled, shaking your head, willing the butterflies away.

Hajime, still standing beside you, didn’t say anything, but when you glanced at him, he was looking at you with a knowing expression.

“Not a word,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder, but he only chuckled in response.

Pregnancy: Daichi (NSFW)

You were officially forty-one weeks pregnant.

Forty-one weeks. Not thirty-nine. Not even the neat, ominous weight of forty. No, you had blown straight past your due date like a train with no brakes and were now living in the swollen purgatory of maternity hell—bloated, achy, short-tempered, and so fed up with your body that you would’ve gladly traded it in for a paper bag and a nap.

Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. Your back felt like it had been used as a trampoline in the night. Your hips were stiff. Your feet looked like they belonged to someone who’d spent ten hours standing in a swamp. And your belly? Your belly felt like it had become its own planet, stretching your skin so taut you were convinced you could drum a beat on it.

Nothing fit anymore. Not your clothes. Not your shoes. Not even your own skin, if you were honest. Your maternity leggings had officially waved the white flag. Your bras were lost causes. Your wedding rings had been stashed in a drawer weeks ago, too tight to slide over even a knuckle. And the seatbelt? Daichi had to adjust it for you now, like you were precious cargo—though to be fair, at this point, you basically were. He was careful and considerate and just a little too cheerful about it all, which made it even more infuriating.

“Got everything?” he asked softly, adjusting the strap of your maternity bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.

You didn’t look at him. You didn’t smile. You didn’t even grunt. You groaned—a long, low, theatrical sound of suffering as you slowly lowered yourself into the passenger seat like an elephant easing into a beanbag chair.

He took it in stride. He’d stopped taking anything personally around week thirty-seven.

Still, he reached across and placed his warm palm on your thigh once you were settled, rubbing his thumb in slow, steady circles. You didn’t push it away. You rested your hand on top of his and gave him a tired look that said, If I have to live in this body one more day, I will cry.

The car ride to the clinic was mostly quiet. You sighed a lot. Adjusted the air vents. Rolled down the window. Rolled it back up. Turned the A/C colder. Then warmer. Daichi drove patiently, sneaking occasional glances at you like he wanted to say something encouraging but also very much wanted to survive the day.

The clinic’s waiting room was somehow worse than usual. The chairs were uncomfortable, the light was too bright, and the cheerful wall art—baby elephants, pastel hearts, encouraging quotes in cursive—made you want to scream. You stared at the pamphlet beside you titled “Smiling Through the Third Trimester” with a level of disdain typically reserved for war crimes.

Daichi sat beside you flipping through a magazine that he absolutely wasn’t reading, occasionally peeking at you with quiet concern while trying not to make eye contact with the receptionist, who kept looking at you like you were a ticking time bomb.

When the nurse finally called your name, you heaved yourself up with a groan and waddled toward the hallway like a warrior going into battle. Daichi followed at a polite distance, like a man who knew better than to walk too close to a woman this pregnant and this pissed.

The exam room felt like a refrigerator. You plopped down on the crinkly paper with another long sigh, then glared at the stirrups like they’d personally wronged you. Daichi sat in the chair next to the table and gently rubbed your back, his thumb tracing light circles over your spine.

“Almost there,” he murmured, ever the optimist. “Just hang in a little longer.”

You turned your head to him, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and fury. “I swear to god, Daichi. If one more person tells me I’m almost there, I will throw something. Possibly this table. Possibly you.”

He only smiled through it, squeezing your hand like he hadn’t just been threatened with airborne furniture.

When the doctor entered, she was all serene smiles and clinical calm, her tone chipper and maddeningly upbeat.

“Well,” she said after a quick check, “good news is you’re making progress. The baby’s definitely settling into position. But you’re still not quite there yet. I’d give it another few days.”

You stared at her like she’d just told you the world had been cancelled.

“More days?” you repeated, your voice a cracked whisper. “As in, plural? Like… multiple?”

The doctor gave a warm little chuckle. “It’s different for everyone, but yes, could be a few more. You’re doing great, though.”

Your jaw dropped. You made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a scream, your hands clenching the edge of the table like it might steady you.

The doctor handed Daichi a brightly colored handout titled “Natural Ways to Encourage Labor.” It had illustrations of smiling pregnant women doing yoga and eating pineapple.

“Try some of these at home,” she said kindly. “Spicy food, gentle movement, maybe a warm bath. You’re almost there.”

Daichi nodded like the polite, helpful husband he was, tucking the paper into your maternity bag as you stood slowly, moving with the weary determination of someone who had carried life for too damn long.

The walk back to the car was slow and tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at anyone. The receptionist offered a cheery “Good luck!” as you left and you very nearly flipped her off.

When Daichi helped you into the car again and got you buckled in, you exhaled long and hard, the sound more like a groan of existential dread than a sigh.

“I’m going to die pregnant,” you said flatly, head tipping back against the seat as your eyes glazed over. “This is it. This is how it ends for me. Swollen and sweaty in the passenger seat of a Toyota.”

“No, you’re not,” he said gently, lips twitching as he reached over to adjust your seatbelt one last time. “You’re going to give birth soon, and then this will all feel like a weird dream.”

You turned your head just enough to shoot him a dry look. “A weird dream where my hips feel like they’re being sawed in half and I haven’t seen my own feet in two months?”

He chuckled under his breath, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’m just saying, you’re doing amazing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you snapped, though your voice lacked real venom. “I look like a pufferfish and I cry every time I drop something on the floor because I can’t pick it up anymore.”

“I pick it up for you,” he said, unbothered.

“Yeah, and I still cry!” You groaned louder, tossing your head back again. “I’m like a feral raccoon in maternity leggings. I can’t keep living like this.”

“You’re not a raccoon,” he said with a straight face. “You’re majestic. Fearsome. A hormonal goddess.”

You snorted so hard it startled a hiccup out of you. “Oh my god.”

“And soon,” he added, leaning closer to kiss your temple, “you’ll be holding the baby and none of this will matter.”

You didn’t move. You just stared up at the ceiling.

“Watch me die pregnant,” you said again. “They’ll write it on my tombstone.”

--

By the time you made it home, your mood had not improved. You kicked your shoes off at the door, grumbling as you peeled off your coat and waddled into the kitchen, leaving Daichi to trail behind you, pamphlet in hand and hope still stubbornly etched into his expression.

“Okay,” he said as you slumped down at the kitchen table, head in your hands. “Let’s try some of these. Worst case, they don’t work. Best case? Maybe we’ll get things moving.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just groaned into your palms.

He set the paper down gently in front of you. “It says spicy food might help. We could start there?”

You looked up with bloodshot eyes. “I want something violent. Like pepper-spray levels of spice.”

Daichi raised his eyebrows. “I’ve got extra hot chili ramen packets. You could probably weaponize them.”

“Perfect,” you growled. “Boil ‘em.”

Ten minutes later, you were perched on the couch with a bowl of nuclear noodles while Daichi sat beside you with his own, bravely taking a bite. He lasted all of three seconds before coughing into his fist, eyes watering.

“Oh my god—this hurts,” he rasped.

You, completely unaffected, slurped up another bite. “Nothing. Not even a twinge.”

He blinked at you, face red. “I’m going to need milk. And possibly CPR.”

You sighed and set the bowl aside. “Next idea.”

And so began the ridiculous journey.

You drank herbal teas that smelled like dirt and despair. You choked down thick slices of pineapple while muttering curses under your breath. You did the hip-opening stretches the pamphlet suggested, groaning with effort and telling Daichi that if this didn’t work you were going to shove a yoga ball down the stairs. He helped you do slow laps around the living room, hand on your lower back while you walked in increasingly impatient circles.

You even tried the dreaded castor oil. One teaspoon. Two. Mixed into orange juice so it wouldn’t taste like paint thinner. You gagged, glared, and gagged again. Daichi looked horrified but held the glass steady like he was assisting with a medical emergency.

Hours passed. The sun dipped lower in the sky. You had tried every single item on the pamphlet short of hiring a witch to chant over your uterus. And yet—nothing. No contractions. No discomfort. No sign the baby had any plans of evacuating. Just the same heavy weight in your belly and the constant ache of your ribs.

You threw yourself back onto the couch with a long, miserable sigh, your belly rising and falling like a dramatic mountain of defeat.

“This baby,” you declared, voice scratchy with exhaustion, “is never coming out. This is it. They’ve made a permanent home. They’re going to graduate college still inside me.”

Daichi, kneeling next to the couch, chuckled softly and leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Can you blame them?” he murmured. “You’ve made them a pretty amazing home.”

You blinked at him, half-touched and half-annoyed. “That’s not helpful.”

He grinned and sat back on his heels, picking the pamphlet up again with exaggerated patience. “Well, if they’re not leaving on their own, we’re gonna have to evict them.”

You groaned dramatically. “We’ve tried everything. I’ve eaten enough pineapple to singlehandedly wipe out Hawaii’s exports. I drank that weird tea that tastes like boiled weeds. I took castor oil, Daichi. Castor. Oil. Nothing works.”

He hummed, eyes skimming down the page.

Then he paused.

You watched as his brow arched just slightly.

“…What?” you said slowly.

He cleared his throat. “Well, technically… we haven’t tried everything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”

He turned the pamphlet toward you and pointed at a single line with a very straight face.

“Intercourse may help induce labor.”

You stared. Then looked at him. Then back at the pamphlet.

Your eyes narrowed, your lips pressing into a line as the wheels in your head began to turn. For a long moment, you didn’t say a word. But something changed—visibly, unmistakably. Your posture shifted. Your breath stilled. Your entire demeanor settled into something focused, determined, just a little bit unhinged.

Daichi saw it immediately. He watched the transformation like someone witnessing a weather shift, like a man who’d seen the sky turn before a storm. His back straightened. His eyes went wide. He held up one hand as if you were a wild animal and he needed to de-escalate the situation.

“Babe—let’s just think this through—”

You sat up slowly. Deliberately. Every movement a signal.

Your voice dropped, calm but commanding, your eyes locked on his.

“…Get upstairs.”

Daichi followed you up the stairs like a man walking toward something both holy and terrifying.

You didn’t speak. Just kept your back straight, your breath steady, your feet deliberate on the steps. Every part of you radiated heat—rage, desperation, need. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were already tugging off your shirt, grumbling under your breath as it got stuck around your chest. You were a force of nature, belly full and breasts heavy, skin flushed with exertion and irritation.

“Help me,” you snapped, voice breathless.

Daichi was at your side in a second, pulling the fabric over your head, his hands lingering for just a second too long on the bare curve of your shoulder. It had been a while since the two of you had made love—between the fatigue, the constant discomfort, and the way your body had become less your own and more a vessel of life, intimacy had taken a quiet backseat. You missed it. Missed him. And he missed you—his touch tentative and reverent, like he was savoring the moment as much as you were. You turned to him, eyes burning.

“This baby is coming out tonight,” you said, voice low and deadly serious. “So get on the bed.”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to. God, did he want to. But his eyes kept flicking to your belly, the way it rounded out so full and taut, the faint sheen of sweat already glistening along your collarbone.

“Are you sure?” he asked, hand resting against your waist, careful and reverent. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you said, grabbing him by the wrist and guiding him toward the mattress. “And if you do, I won’t care. I need this.”

He let out a shaky breath as you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed over him. The tension between you was thick, every inch of skin electric. Months of abstaining made everything heightened—your nerves tingled where his fingers grazed your hips, and his breathing hitched every time you shifted above him. His hands went instinctively to your thighs as you straddled him, palms warm and wide and trembling just slightly.

You leaned down to kiss him, hard and fast, teeth scraping his bottom lip as you ground your hips against his crotch. He gasped, his body already responding beneath you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” you muttered, dragging your fingers down his chest. “Then we’ll die together.”

He chuckled breathlessly, then hooked his fingers in your waistband, easing your underwear off your hips with slow, reverent care. When he touched you, his fingertips sliding through the wet heat between your thighs, he exhaled like he was in awe.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice tight, eyes dark with restraint.

“I’m ready,” you breathed, rolling your hips into his touch.

He didn’t argue. He pushed his boxers down and kicked them off, his cock thick and flushed against his stomach. He gripped it at the base, ready to guide himself in, but you brushed his hand aside and positioned yourself with shaking thighs.

“Let me,” you murmured.

And then you sank down, slow and deep, the stretch sharp enough to make you gasp. Your hands clutched his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin as you took him all the way in, inch by aching inch.

Daichi groaned, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows. “Jesus, you’re so tight—fuck—”

You paused, hips resting flush against his, just breathing. The fullness was overwhelming, perfect, exactly what you needed.

When you started to move, it was unhurried. The sensitivity of not having touched like this in weeks made every motion feel magnified—every grind, every squeeze, every brush of skin set fire to your nerves. You both gasped more than once, surprised by how much you'd missed this, missed each other. Deep, rolling thrusts that had you grinding down with every motion, drawing small sounds from your throat as your body adjusted to the rhythm.

Daichi’s hands moved to your waist, holding you steady, thumbs stroking gentle circles along your skin.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice shaky. “You’re carrying our baby, and you still want me like this?”

“I don’t want you,” you corrected breathlessly. “I need you.”

Your pace picked up, just slightly, each roll of your hips drawing gasps from both of you. The bed creaked under the rhythm, your swollen belly brushing against his chest every time you leaned in to kiss him, desperate and messy and aching.

He slid one hand up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple until you arched into him. Your moan was sharp, needy, your body clenching tight around him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, fingers tightening on your hip. “You’re so—god, you feel so good.”

You chased the friction, riding him harder, faster, the pressure building between your legs in thick, pulsing waves. He met your thrusts now, his hips lifting off the bed, his face buried against your neck as he groaned into your skin.

When your orgasm hit, it slammed through you like a tidal wave, your body locking up around him as you gasped his name, trembling all over. He held you through it, rocking you gently, murmuring praise into your shoulder until your shudders turned to aftershocks.

Then he flipped you gently onto your back, careful with your belly, bracing himself above you as he drove into you with long, deep strokes, chasing his own edge.

You watched him through hooded eyes, heart racing, mouth parted in a soft, dazed smile. He looked wrecked—sweat-damp hair, flushed cheeks, jaw clenched with restraint as he fucked you slow and deep.

“I’m close,” he warned, voice fraying. 

You cupped his face, nodding, heart still thudding from your own climax. “It’s okay. Come inside me. I want to feel you.”

With a broken sound, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he came, thick pulses filling you, his body trembling with release. You wrapped your arms around him as he collapsed slowly beside you, one arm still curled protectively across your middle, his breath hot against your shoulder.

Neither of you said anything for a long while. The room was warm and quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of your breathing. His hand smoothed over your belly, the rise and fall of it still unsteady. You were both flushed, glistening with sweat, chests heaving.

You turned your head toward him slightly, letting out a huff of a laugh. “Well… at least I feel better.”

Daichi huffed a laugh, his voice still rough. “Honestly? Same. Not sure if we jumpstarted labor or just obliterated our spines, though.”

You both lay there for a beat longer, catching your breath, limbs tangled, and the faint hum of calm settling over you.

Eventually, you shifted, groaning softly as you sat up on your elbows. “Okay,” you said, voice still breathy, “I should probably clean up—”

And then it happened.

A sudden, warm rush.

You blinked. Froze. Looked down.

“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “Daichi.”

He sat up slowly, still half-lost in the afterglow. “Hmm?”

You stared at the sheets beneath you, soaked through in a way that was definitely not from sex.

“My water broke,” you said, blinking again. The shock in your voice cut through the air.

Daichi’s head snapped toward you.

“My water broke,” you repeated, louder this time, voice rising in panic. “Daichi, my fucking water broke.”

The adrenaline that had left your limbs warm and loose now twisted into pure, electric panic.

He was moving before you could spiral further, sitting up and cupping your face with both hands.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” he said quickly, steadying your breathing with his voice. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

You nodded, dazed, still processing the rush of adrenaline and disbelief. Just moments ago, you had been begging for something to happen—for anything to finally signal the end. And now that it had, now that it was really happening, your heart felt like it might explode with the sheer weight of it. You had wanted this so badly. You had cursed the waiting. And yet now, the second it arrived, you were caught somewhere between terror and awe.

“I wanted this,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “I wanted this to happen.”

Daichi brushed a strand of damp hair away from your face, smiling warmly. “You did. And now it’s happening.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh, voice cracking. “I’m terrified.”

“I know,” he said, cupping your cheek with a hand as steady as his voice. “Me too. But we’re ready. You’re ready.”

You nodded again, tears welling in your eyes, this time from joy—not just from fear or exhaustion. You were going to meet your baby. Tonight. Maybe in just a few hours.

Daichi pressed a kiss to your forehead before swinging his legs off the bed, already grabbing the overnight bag he had packed and repacked a dozen times.

“Let’s go meet our baby,” he said, voice warm and certain.

And this time, you smiled through the chaos. Because it was finally happening—and you weren’t doing it alone.

Confessions: Osamu

The shop is quiet, bathed in the golden light of the early evening, the kind that settles over wood and stone like a warm sigh. A gentle hush lingers in the space, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of the camera shutter. Most of the chairs are stacked, the door flipped to its "CLOSED" sign, and the scent of vinegar and freshly cooked rice still lingers in the air. You're both still inside—Osamu behind the counter in his slightly wrinkled apron, you crouched near the front display trying to get the perfect shot of a tuna nigiri against the fading light.

You’d met in college—him, a culinary student with arms always dusted in flour or sea salt, and you, a sharp-tongued marketing major who could charm a room with a smile and tear apart a branding pitch in under a minute.

You clicked almost immediately. It started with coffee-fueled group projects, late-night ramen runs, and long, quiet study sessions where neither of you said much but never seemed to want to leave. By the time you graduated, you'd both moved back home, and when he opened up his own nigiri shop, it felt natural to call you in to help make it shine.

Osamu’s had a crush on you since your second year. He’s certain of it. The first time you snapped at him for being late and then bought him lunch anyway, he was done for. But he never said anything—not when you were swamped with internship applications, not when he got too busy building his dream from scratch. He just... kept you around. Close. Safe. Until now.

“You’re supposed to be takin’ photos,” he says, voice low and amused as he leans against the counter, watching you from across the room.

“I am,” you say around a mouthful of nigiri, holding your phone up with one hand, chopsticks in the other. “I’m multitasking.”

Osamu lifts a brow. “That your fancy marketing term for stealin’ my hard work?”

You grin, chewing contentedly. “Not stealing. Quality control.”

He huffs a laugh, arms crossed, apron a little wrinkled from the long day. You’ve been at this for hours—prepping a new campaign for the shop’s upcoming anniversary special, trying to capture the perfect lighting, the perfect angle, the perfect bite. The trouble is, the food is too good. And you’re hungry. And Osamu’s expression every time you sneak another piece is too funny not to provoke.

“Y’know,” he says, walking over to the bar where you’ve made a makeshift photography studio of cutting boards and empty plates, “I could’ve just hired a photographer.”

“Yeah, but they wouldn’t have my good side memorized.”

He pauses behind you, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head before he leans slightly over your shoulder to glance at your camera roll.

“Half these are just you eatin’ food,” he mutters.

“Well, you can tell it's good food.”

“Yer a menace.”

You laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of the quiet shop. As you're reaching for another piece of nigiri, he eyes you from behind the counter.

“Oi,” he says, pointing a chopstick at you, “I said stop eatin’ 'em all.”

You pop the bite into your mouth with a grin. “Oh, c'mon. This is my payment for staying late and taking these photos.”

Osamu raises a brow. “Yeah, well, you can’t get the damn photos if there’s nothin’ left to shoot.”

You reach forward and pluck another piece off the plate just to spite him.

Osamu throws his head back with a groan, but the sound blends into a laugh—low and unfiltered. His arms uncross, one hand resting on the counter’s edge as he leans forward, shaking his head.

His smile cracks wide across his face, tugging at the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, he just watches you with something helplessly fond behind the amusement. His shoulders lift slightly with each breath, the kind of laugh that takes over your whole body before you even realize it. There’s no trace of the usual teasing smirk, no sarcasm—just the kind of joy that escapes when you stop trying to hide it.

“Hey—stop eatin’ all the—ugh, I love you.”

The words slip out in the middle of a breathless laugh, tangled in warmth and amusement, tumbling into the open before either of you can brace for the impact. His voice trails off at the end, like his brain only just caught up with his mouth—and then the moment hangs.

Still.

Your fingers hover above the plate, chopsticks clutched mid-air, and your smile falters as the weight of what he just said sinks in. The warmth still lingering in your chest twists into something deeper—sharper.

Both of you freeze, suspended in golden light and thick, heady silence. His laughter dies like a flame catching wind.

Your hand stops mid-air, halfway to your mouth. “...What did you say?”

Osamu straightens up like he touched a live wire. “Nothin’. I didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”

“No no,” you say, slowly lowering the chopsticks, your eyes narrowing with disbelief and something else—something softer. “Did you just say you love me?”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that!” he blurts, already rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just—ya were bein’ you, and I laughed, and it slipped out, but I do, I mean, I didn’t plan to just—shit—”

You cut off his rambling by stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him in a sudden, fierce hug.

Osamu goes completely still for a second, his breath shallow as his arms remain half-curled like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold you yet. Then you feel the tension give way as he exhales against your hair, and his arms tighten around you just slightly, enough to pull you flush against his chest.

You bury your face into the soft cotton of his shirt, the scent of soy and rice grounding you. “I love you too, you moron.”

You feel his breath stutter against your temple, and you tilt your head up just enough to see his eyes—soft, stunned, and a little dazed.

"Took you long enough," you add with a teasing smile.

He huffs a laugh, low and disbelieving, the sound rumbling through his chest. His shoulders sag, relief pouring through him in quiet waves. “You’re not just sayin’ that?” he asks, voice rough at the edges, like he still doesn’t fully believe he didn’t just hallucinate this entire thing.

You grin. “Would I lie to the man who makes me free food every week?”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face before ruffling the back of your hair affectionately. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, but his tone is nothing but fond.

He’s smiling, really smiling, like the kind of smile that lives in the corners of his mouth even after it fades, the kind you remember for days. His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers curling through yours like he’s done it a thousand times in his head already. You stay like that for a moment—standing in the golden hush of the closed shop, surrounded by the scent of rice and vinegar and the lingering echo of laughter.

“You still owe me promotional photos,” he murmurs against your lips.

You pull back just enough to smile. “Only if I get to eat the props after.”

“Fine. But I’m writin’ you off as an expense.”

Pregnancy: Atsumu

You’re two months pregnant and absolutely glowing. There’s a nervous excitement in your every breath, your hand constantly drifting over your still-flat belly as if to check that it’s real. That there’s really a little life growing inside you. A little Miya, curled up and getting bigger by the day.

You’re in the passenger seat of the car, heading toward your very first ultrasound appointment. The windows are down, and the soft spring breeze is curling through your hair as the late morning sun streams through the windshield. Everything feels light. Hopeful. Surreal.

Atsumu is driving one-handed, his other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against your leggings. He hums quietly to the radio, lips twitching into a smile every time he glances over at you.

“Y’know,” he says after a moment, “I been thinkin’ about what kind of nose they’ll have. Hopefully yours. Mine’s too pointy.”

You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “As long as they don’t have your drama.”

“Hey!” he protests, though he’s still smiling as he squeezes your leg. “They’re allowed a little flair. They are mine, after all.”

You roll your eyes fondly, fingers tangling with his at the next red light. He lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before driving on.

When you pull into the clinic parking lot, your nerves start to set in—low and creeping. It’s your first time seeing the baby. Hearing a heartbeat. It makes everything feel suddenly, painfully real.

The waiting room is quiet, with soft instrumental music playing and the smell of hand sanitizer hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Atsumu, your knees bouncing ever so slightly as your mind races ahead. His hand is still in yours, firm and grounding.

When the nurse finally calls your name, you squeeze his fingers a little tighter.

The exam room is dimly lit, calm, with a monitor beside the table and soft instructions given as you lie back. You wince slightly at the cold gel, heart pounding in your ears as the technician glides the wand over your stomach.

She squints at the screen. Tilts her head.

Then her eyes widen slightly.

“Oh.”

You stiffen. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”

She’s quick to reassure you. “No, no—everything looks good. It’s just... you’re having twins.”

Silence.

Atsumu leans in closer, eyes squinting at the screen. “Twins?”

“Twins,” the technician repeats, pointing to two distinct little shapes. “You see here? Two sacs. Two heartbeats.”

Your gaze locks onto the screen. Two. Not one. Not the tiny flutter you’d been preparing for, but two.

A sudden wave of panic crashes over you.

“Two?” you echo, your voice a shaky whisper. “Like... two babies? At the same time?”

The technician gently clears her throat. "Well, it’s a little early to know for sure if they’re fraternal or identical, but yes—twins."

You feel your breath hitch, the room growing smaller around you. “That’s two car seats. Two cribs. Two births. Two newborns crying at once—”

Your hand grips Atsumu’s forearm, eyes wide as your mind races. “I don’t—I wasn’t ready for two. I barely wrapped my head around one.”

You’re still staring at the screen when Atsumu shifts closer to the bed, his hand still resting lightly on yours.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe for me, okay?”

You turn toward him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “Tsumu... that’s two babies. That’s two of everything. What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough for both of them?”

“You are,” he says instantly, without hesitation. “You will be. We will.”

But your hand flails toward his forearm like it needs something to latch onto. “This is your fault. You and Osamu. You cursed me with twin genes!”

He stares at you, stunned. “What?! How is this my fault?”

“Because you’re a twin! That’s how!”

The technician offers a gentle smile, still watching the monitor. “Actually, twins are likely influenced by the mother’s genetics. So if anyone ‘passed it down,’ it’s likely you.”

You blink slowly. “So... it’s me?”

Atsumu exhales—relieved. “See? I didn’t do this! You doubled down on your own.”

Your head snaps toward the technician, eyes wide and blinking rapidly, a storm of disbelief swirling behind them. You don’t say anything—but your look says plenty.

The technician catches the expression immediately and offers a placating smile, lifting her hands lightly. "I’ll give you two a minute," she says gently, already stepping toward the door, and quietly slips out of the room, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.

You drop your head back onto the exam pillow with a muffled groan. “I don’t know how to do one baby. Let alone two. That’s double the crying. Double the diapers. Double the college funds.”

Atsumu leans down until his forehead presses softly to yours. His hand finds yours again, grounding you with the warmth of his palm and the way his thumb strokes soothingly across your skin.

“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t answer right away, eyes still locked on the monitor where two flickering heartbeats pulse in rhythm.

He kisses your forehead, slow and reassuring. “We’ll go one diaper at a time. One bottle at a time. One late-night rocking session at a time. We’re gonna be okay.”

Your lip trembles. “Are we?”

He smiles, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not lettin’ you do this alone. You’re stuck with me, baby. Me, and the two little monsters we made.”

You laugh wetly, a mix of shock and affection tangled in your chest. He leans down and kisses you again—cheek, then jaw, then temple—before turning to look back at the screen.

And in the glow of that monitor, with two tiny heartbeats tapping out the rhythm of your future, Atsumu squeezes your hand and whispers:

“They’ve already got the best mom in the world. The rest’ll be easy.”

You sit up slightly and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, your chin resting against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that.”

Cursed Fate: Chapter 1

"You’re not alone, you know."

Kaito’s eyes flickered open, the memory of that night drifting back into her mind like an unwanted visitor. She was small again—too small—sitting curled up in the corner of a room that wasn’t hers, in a world that still didn’t feel real. Even though she was saved and brought to Jujutsu High, she still felt the cold grip of fear in her chest, like she was being watched.

And, of course, she was. She could always feel them, even now—lingering just beyond her sight, in the shadowy corners of her vision. The forms. The things that had followed her since… since forever.

"They’re still there, aren’t they?" a voice broke through the silence, softer than usual. It was Panda, sitting cross-legged beside her on the floor, much smaller than he was now, his black-and-white fur glowing faintly in the dim light.

Kaito didn’t respond. She didn’t need to. Panda always knew when something was wrong, even if she didn’t say a word. She felt his round eyes on her, not prying but patient.

"You don’t have to talk about it," Panda said quietly, leaning back on his paws. "But, you know, I get it."

Kaito’s eyes shifted slightly, her brows furrowing. She doubted that. No one could understand what it was like to always be haunted by… them. The cursed forms that had attached themselves to her. They never left her alone. Not for a second.

But then Panda continued, as if sensing her disbelief. "I’ve got them too, you know."

Kaito’s gaze finally moved toward him, narrowing. 

"What?"

"My siblings," Panda said, tapping his chest lightly with a paw. "They’re not like most people’s brothers and sisters. They’re inside me. I can feel them all the time, just like you can feel…" He trailed off, not pressing further, but Kaito knew what he meant.

"You mean they’re part of you," Kaito muttered, her voice a little sharper than she intended. She didn’t mean to sound rude, but the comparison felt off. Her… whatever they were… didn’t feel like family. They felt like threats. Like she was constantly one bad moment away from losing control.

Panda just shrugged, his easygoing smile never faltering. "Yeah, they are. But they’re still with me, always. It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. I think it’s like that for you too."

Kaito scowled. "It’s not like that." Her fists clenched at her sides, frustration bubbling up. "They’re not… they’re not like siblings."

Panda didn’t flinch at her tone. He just nodded, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Maybe not exactly. But they’re still part of you, right? And that means you’re in charge. No matter how loud they get, you’re the one calling the shots."

Kaito scoffed, but deep down, she wanted to believe him. How could he make it sound so easy? He said it like it was the most natural thing in the world, to live with something inside you that you couldn’t control.

But the way he said it—like it wasn’t a curse, but something normal—made her chest feel a little less tight.

"It’s not about them controlling you," Panda added gently. "It’s about you making them part of your strength. You’re stronger than you think, Kaito."

She didn’t answer, but her fists slowly unclenched, the tension in her body easing just slightly. Maybe he was right. Maybe it was about more than control.

"You don’t have to do it alone," Panda said, his voice soft but steady. "You’ve got me, and Yaga-sensei. And hey, I’m your big brother now, so I’ll help you with whatever’s going on in that head of yours."

The words sunk in slowly, their weight sitting with her as she sat in the quiet. Panda, despite being younger than her in terms of creation, always had a way of making her feel safe, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

Kaito exhaled slowly, the heavy knot in her chest loosening just a little. She wasn’t ready to believe everything he said, but it was the first time in a long while that she didn’t feel completely lost.

---

“Kaito!”

The door to her room slammed open with a loud crash. Kaito groaned, already knowing exactly who was responsible before she even opened her eyes. She threw a hand over her face and mumbled into her pillow, "Is it too much to ask for a normal wake-up call?"

Panda’s heavy footsteps stomped into the room, his towering figure making the space feel smaller as he leaned over her bed, his grin as wide as ever. "I tried knocking last time, remember? You threw a book at me."

"I missed on purpose," Kaito grumbled, rolling over to face the wall, making it clear she wasn’t ready to start the day.

Panda flopped onto the edge of her bed, clearly not getting the hint. "Yaga’s sent me to get you. And you know how he gets when someone doesn’t show up on time."

"Yeah, yeah. What’s the grand lecture about this time? Do I need more ‘self-discipline’? Or maybe it’s about how I ‘lack focus’? Really looking forward to hearing that for the hundredth time." Kaito’s voice dripped with sarcasm, but she sat up, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. She was used to Yaga’s never-ending lessons about responsibility and discipline—it was practically a tradition by now.

"Actually, no lecture this time," Panda said, leaning in with an exaggerated whisper. "You’ve got a mission."

Kaito’s eyes opened fully, now interested. "A mission? What kind of mission?"

Panda shrugged, still grinning. "Something about cursed objects. Yaga didn’t give me the full details, but he seemed serious about it."

Kaito sighed and dragged herself out of bed, grabbing her jacket off the chair. "Great. If Yaga’s serious about it, then it’s probably not good news."

Panda bounded to the door, waiting for her. "Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine! I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?"

Kaito gave him a withering look as she pulled on her boots. "You know you’re never supposed to say that, right? You’re just begging for something to go wrong."

Panda chuckled, completely unbothered. "What can I say? I like living dangerously."

"Yeah, well, let’s just hope I don’t regret getting out of bed for this," Kaito muttered, more to herself than to Panda, as they made their way to the main hall.

__

By the time Kaito reached the main hall, Panda had disappeared to do whatever it was Panda did when he wasn’t annoying her. She dragged her feet a little as she approached Yaga, already preparing herself for whatever this "mission" was.

"Finally," Yaga said, arms crossed as he watched her approach. "You’re late."

"Technically, Panda’s late," Kaito said, raising a lazy hand as if to make a point. "I blame him for being a terrible alarm clock."

Yaga’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she could tell he wasn’t in the mood to argue. He waved a hand dismissively. "We don’t have time for your usual excuses, Kaito. This isn’t a lecture. I’m assigning you an important mission."

Kaito raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. "No lecture? Are you sure you’re feeling okay? Should I call Gojo to check your temperature?"

Yaga’s expression didn’t waver. "Keep the jokes to a minimum. You’re going to retrieve a cursed object—a finger of Ryomen Sukuna."

Kaito’s sarcastic smirk faded instantly. Sukuna? The King of Curses. She’d heard the stories, knew how dangerous even a piece of him could be. And now Yaga wanted her to go after one of his cursed fingers?

"Wait, wait, wait," Kaito said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. "You’re sending me to get a finger from the King of Curses? Isn’t that like… serious cursed energy business? Don’t you usually send, I don’t know, someone who doesn’t skip morning runs for stuff like that?"

Yaga’s gaze remained steady. "You’ve been training for this, Kaito. You’re more than capable of handling the retrieval. Fushiguro will be accompanying you."

Kaito snorted. "Fushiguro? Great. Can’t wait for him to stare at me with that deadpan face while I’m trying not to die."

"Fushiguro is a capable sorcerer," Yaga said, ignoring her joke. "You’ll work well together."

"Yeah, if I don’t fall asleep mid-conversation," Kaito muttered under her breath, though the knot in her stomach tightened. Sukuna’s finger wasn’t just some random cursed object—they were talking about one of the most dangerous relics in existence. And she wasn’t sure she was ready for something like that.

"So, let me get this straight," Kaito continued, her sarcasm now a thin veil for her growing anxiety. "You want me, your most undisciplined, least reliable student, to go pick up a piece of the literal King of Curses? Do you really think that’s a good idea?"

Yaga’s expression softened, just a fraction. "You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for, Kaito. I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t think you could handle it."

Kaito shifted her weight, rubbing the back of her neck, but Yaga wasn’t finished.

"You’ve come of age," Yaga said, his tone steady but not without a hint of pride. "You’re sixteen now, and that means you’re officially enrolled in Jujutsu Tech. You’re no longer the kid we took in—you’re a sorcerer in training. It’s time for you to start taking on missions like this."

Sixteen. That word hit Kaito harder than expected, but not in the way Yaga probably intended. Sixteen meant officially a part of Jujutsu Tech. Sixteen meant she was supposed to have things figured out—be someone reliable. Instead, all she could think about was how long she’d been stuck here, training, being told she was getting stronger, but never really feeling it.

She thought back to when Yaga and the others took her in, back when she was just a mess of anger, confusion, and too much cursed energy for her own good. She hadn’t wanted their help then. Hell, she didn’t even like them at first. She’d been dragged into Jujutsu Tech like a problem that no one could fix. And, if she was being honest, she still felt like that sometimes—like the chaotic mess they hadn’t managed to iron out yet.

And now Yaga was saying she wasn’t that kid anymore. Like she’d somehow become this competent sorcerer-in-training overnight just because she’d hit a milestone. As if being sixteen made her any less of a wreck.

Kaito crossed her arms, her voice dropping as she glanced away. "I don’t know… it’s been quiet lately. Too quiet." She didn’t say it outright, but Yaga knew exactly what she meant. Her cursed forms—she hadn’t heard from them in months. And the silence was getting to her.

"I haven’t felt anything from them," she muttered. "No sign, no noise. It’s like they’re waiting for something… I don’t know if I’m ready for this."

Yaga stepped closer, his voice calm but firm. "The silence isn’t a warning, Kaito. It’s a sign that you’re gaining control. They aren’t running the show anymore—you are."

Kaito’s throat tightened. She wanted to believe him, but the silence felt too eerie, too unnatural. "Or it means they’re waiting for the perfect moment to throw me under the bus."

Yaga shook his head. "You’re in control. Don’t let your doubts get the better of you."

Kaito glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her arms still crossed tightly. "I don’t know, Yaga… What if they take over at the worst possible moment?"

Yaga’s hand landed on her shoulder, and she reluctantly met his eyes. "They won’t. You’ve trained hard for this. You’re ready."

Kaito let out a slow breath, the sarcasm slipping from her voice. "If you say so…"

Yaga stepped back, his usual serious expression returning. "You leave in an hour. Fushiguro’s already been briefed. This is a retrieval mission—get in, secure the object, and get out. If things escalate, you know what to do."

Kaito nodded, though the weight of the task still sat heavily in her chest. "Got it."

But as she turned to leave, she couldn’t help herself. "I guess I’ll just let Fushiguro do all the talking. If he doesn’t creep everybody away."

Yaga sighed but didn’t comment.

__

Kaito walked across the sun-dappled training grounds of Jujutsu Tech, the early morning chill still lingering in the air. Her hands were buried deep in her jacket pockets, and though the weather was crisp and clear, her mind felt far from it. The weight of the mission Yaga had just dropped on her made each step feel heavier than the last.

Ahead, under the shade of a large tree, sat Megumi Fushiguro. He was leaning back against the trunk, his usual stoic expression fixed in place, a folder of mission notes open in his lap. Even from a distance, Kaito could tell that nothing had changed about him—his sharp, serious gaze, the way he seemed to hold himself as though he carried the world on his shoulders. He’d always been like that, ever since middle school, though he used to have a rougher edge back then. Kaito had seen the transformation firsthand—the delinquent who ditched class for fights now carried the weight of a sorcerer’s responsibility, his once reckless nature now channeled into something far more disciplined.

She approached him slowly, hands still shoved into her pockets, and smirked as she sat down beside him on the grass, kicking her legs out in front of her.

"You look like someone who actually cares about this mission," she said, her tone light but teasing.

Fushiguro didn’t look up from the papers in his hand. "You’re late."

"Huh, why does everyone say that?" Kaito replied, rolling her eyes with a grin. "If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a personal vendetta against clocks."

"You'd be late even if you were the one setting the time," Fushiguro muttered, still focused on the pages.

"Always so dramatic," Kaito said, lying back on the grass and folding her arms behind her head. "Anyway, you ready for this mission, or should I give you a pep talk?"

Fushiguro finally looked up from the papers, giving her a long, slow glance before turning his attention back to his notes. "I think I’ll survive without your motivational speeches."

Kaito snorted softly, looking up at the blue sky through the leaves above them. "Yeah, you would. You’d probably outlive all of us with that stone-cold attitude of yours."

They fell into a comfortable silence for a few moments, the rustling of leaves in the breeze filling the space between them. Kaito could feel the tension coiled tight in her stomach, but Fushiguro’s calm presence next to her, however serious, was oddly reassuring.

"So," Kaito said, finally breaking the quiet, "Yaga told me we’re dealing with Sukuna’s finger. Gotta say, wasn’t expecting that when I woke up this morning."

Fushiguro’s brows knit together as he closed the folder and rested it on his lap. "It’s not the first time we’ve encountered cursed objects like this, but Sukuna’s fingers are on another level. The cursed energy they radiate has already started to affect the surrounding area."

"Rural, right?" Kaito asked, recalling what little Yaga had mentioned about the mission’s location.

Fushiguro nodded. "It’s been causing disturbances there for days. We need to get in, secure the object, and get out before more curses gather around it."

Kaito exhaled slowly, her breath fogging in the cool air. She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest as she stared at the ground. "Right. Just retrieve one of the most dangerous cursed objects in existence. Simple."

Fushiguro glanced at her sideways, his expression neutral but observant. "You’ve been on missions before."

"Yeah, but not like this," Kaito muttered, her fingers absently picking at the grass beneath her. "This is Sukuna we’re talking about. And to make it worse, I haven’t felt anything from… you know… them."

Fushiguro didn’t need her to explain. He knew what she meant—the cursed forms that lived within her. He’d seen glimpses of their destructive potential before, but hearing that they were dormant was… strange. "You mean they’ve been quiet?"

"Too quiet," Kaito said, frowning. "It’s like they’re lying in wait. I don’t like it. Silence like this makes me paranoid."

Fushiguro was quiet for a moment, processing what she’d said. Then, in his usual matter-of-fact tone, he replied, "It’s probably a good thing. If they’re quiet, it means you’ve been keeping them in check."

Kaito chuckled dryly, shaking her head. "That’s a popular opinion. Tends to be the thing most people choose over the possibility of them waiting for the perfect moment to screw me over."

Fushiguro didn’t respond immediately, his dark eyes scanning her face as if assessing whether she believed what she was saying. "You’ll handle it," he said after a pause, his voice steady. "You always do."

Kaito raised an eyebrow, surprised at the hint of reassurance in his words. She’d known Fushiguro for years—first as the delinquent who never seemed to take anything seriously, and now as the no-nonsense sorcerer who could keep his cool in the worst of situations. It was strange, hearing him say something so… supportive.

"Look at you," she said, smirking as she nudged him with her elbow. "Who would’ve thought the kid who used to skip class to pick fights would turn into this? All grown up and serious now."

Fushiguro barely reacted, though Kaito could see the flicker of something—amusement, maybe—in his expression. "People change."

"Yeah, they do," Kaito replied, tilting her head slightly. "But you were way more fun when you had a rebellious streak. Where’s the guy who used to get into trouble?"

Fushiguro gave her a pointed look. "I don’t miss those days, and neither should you."

Kaito laughed, shaking her head. "Yeah, okay, Mr. Responsible. But admit it, you miss the days when I used to make fun of you for being a troublemaker."

"I don’t," Fushiguro said flatly, but the faintest hint of a blush tugged at the tips of his ears.

Kaito leaned back on her hands, her eyes tracing the outlines of the clouds above them. "Well, either way, I’m glad you’re coming on this mission with me. I’d rather not face Sukuna’s cursed energy alone, and I’m sure you’ll keep me from doing something stupid."

"I’ll do what I can," Fushiguro replied, though his voice was as neutral as ever. "But we should keep the focus on retrieving the object. The longer we’re there, the more dangerous it gets."

"Ironic," Kaito muttered, thinking about the cursed energy buildup Fushiguro had mentioned. "I haven’t been out to the country in ages, but I’m guessing this won’t be a sightseeing trip."

Fushiguro stood, brushing off his pants as he did. "We’ll head out in an hour. The mission should be straightforward if nothing unexpected happens."

"Yeah, because nothing ever goes wrong on these things," Kaito replied sarcastically, standing up beside him. "But sure, let’s keep it simple. In, grab the finger, out. Easy peasy."

Fushiguro gave her a long, steady look. "Just follow the plan."

Kaito smirked, tossing her hands behind her head. "Oh, you know me—I’m great at sticking to plans. You just better keep up."

"Right," Fushiguro said dryly, but he didn’t seem too concerned. He started toward the gate, and Kaito followed, her steps feeling a little lighter now that she had something to focus on.

As they walked toward the exit, she couldn’t resist one more jab. "So, what is the plan? You let your shikigami do all the work while I stand back and look cool?"

Fushiguro glanced at her, his expression unchanging. "Has anyone ever told you you’re not funny?" Kaito’s expression also didn’t change. 

“Yeah.”

Fushiguro said nothing, though Kaito thought she caught the faintest smirk as they headed off toward the dorms. Maybe it wasn’t going to be as bad as she’d thought. Or maybe that was just her convincing herself.