Timeskip - Blog Posts

ok but can we talk about fairy tail's seven year time skip and the gaps that occurred in relations through that time?

like imagine you're erza and the guy you've known since you were a kid and you care so much about is responsible for so many horrible crimes but it wasn't really his fault, not really, but you discovered that too late. and you have hope that he'll go back to how he once was but now his memory is gone and he's gonna be in prison likely for the rest of his life but there's a chance. then you go to tenrou island and you think it's the end but when you wake up it's been 7 years and now you're still 19 years old and jellal is at least 26 and he's got his memory back and he's trying to make amends and he's so far away in life experience and relations with people and you feel you were left behind, he didn't even need you by his side to grow, to be good, and he won't really need you again

now imagine you're gray and you discover one of your oldest friends, like your brother, betrays you and the beliefs of the person you had in common but then the situation gets resolved and you can find peace between each other. but now lyon is seven years older than you and he's had longer time to advance his magic, ur's magic, and you know he's had to mourn both you and ur, and potentially looked at his magic and thought he was the last one from that little family of three from all those years ago. he doesn't know ultear, who has grown since the last time you saw her a few hours ago no wait, seven years ago, and she's also trying to make up for her many mistakes and she's more kind and gentle but you won't get to know her because she's already gone so soon after you returned

it's just so sad to think deeper about the consequences of seven years passing, lives continuing on without you and thinking about how everyone that loves you and you love thought you were dead and you don't know how to fix things or fit into this new time

Miss Perona!

Why am I lokey in my artist era?? Here’s the Perona drawing I just finished, plus two of my dog’s photobombing lol

Reference pics:

I might add in her boots and Kumacy in the future, but for today I didn’t want to do all the lmaoo.

Here’s a lower quality pic with my dog photobombing even harder

No but like, Sanji and Usopp must’ve been constantly thinking about each other during the two years the crew was apart cause like: Sanji always running away and Usopp always eating good food. Idk maybe I’m just crazy

TSUKISHIMA X YAMAGUCHI X READER

AGED UP CHARACTERS | MDNI

The bass thumped hard enough through the floorboards to rattle the red Solo cups stacked in the corner. Tsukishima Kei leaned against the kitchen counter, his backwards cap low over his eyes, sipping casually from his drink as his gaze swept over the crowd. The party was one of those typical college Friday nights—cheap beer, body glitter, and too many people pressed into a too-small house.

Beside him, Yamaguchi Tadashi stood stiffly, shoulders hunched and fiddling with the rim of his untouched cup. He was overdressed in a cardigan and clearly not in his element.

“You look like you're about to bolt,” Tsukishima drawled, nudging him with an elbow. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” Yamaguchi muttered, lying badly.

Tsukishima tilted his head, smirking. “You're not. Which is exactly why we need to fix that.” He took a final sip and set the cup down with purpose. “And I have an idea.”

Yamaguchi raised an eyebrow, wary. “Oh no.”

Tsukishima spotted you across the room, laughing with someone near the fridge. He nodded in your direction.

“You trust me, right?”

Yamaguchi hesitated. “…Ish?”

“Good enough.”

And before Yamaguchi could stop him, Tsukishima was already sauntering over to you, cool and confident, dragging his nervous best friend in tow.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, giving you that lazy half-smile he knew worked more often than not. “Y/N, right? We’ve got a weird question for you.”

You turned, arching an eyebrow at the tall blond who’d appeared out of nowhere, his hand casually clamped around Yamaguchi’s wrist like he was keeping him from running. Your gaze flicked between them—Tsukishima in a sleeveless jersey and too much attitude, Yamaguchi flushed and visibly regretting every life choice that led him here.

“Weird question?” you asked, already intrigued. “That’s a hell of an opening line.”

Tsukishima shrugged. “I don’t believe in small talk.”

Yamaguchi looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.

Tsukishima didn’t miss a beat. “Yamaguchi’s a virgin,” he said flatly.

Your brows lifted, the drink halfway to your mouth paused in midair.

“And he’s in his head about it. Way too much.” He leaned in just enough to drop his voice so only you two could hear. “So I thought maybe… if someone cool, someone chill, helped him out—with me there—he might stop stressing and start actually living.”

Yamaguchi made a sound between a gasp and a groan. “Tsukki!”

You looked between the two of them—Yamaguchi’s eyes pleading (but with what? Panic? Hope?), and Tsukishima watching you like he already knew your answer.

You sipped your drink, slow and thoughtful.

“That’s… incredibly forward,” you said finally.

Tsukishima smirked. “Not denying it.”

“And you’re saying this like you being involved would help somehow?”

He grinned wider. “I’m good at what I do. And he trusts me.”

Yamaguchi looked like he wanted to crawl under the fridge, but he didn’t deny it.

You set your drink down on the counter, stepping a little closer to the two of them, folding your arms.

“Well,” you said, giving Yamaguchi a once-over. “He’s cute.”

Yamaguchi blinked. “Wait—what?”

Tsukishima just smiled.

Yamaguchi was still processing your words when Tsukishima hooked two fingers in the collar of his hoodie and tugged, steering him like luggage.

“She said you’re cute,” Tsukishima murmured, amused. “Don’t pass out.”

“I’m not—” Yamaguchi sputtered, voice breaking halfway through.

"Follow me. Both of you." Tsukishima commands

You followed behind, cup in hand, heart thudding with the kind of buzz that had nothing to do with alcohol. There was something about the contrast between them that made your skin prickle—Tsukishima’s laid-back dominance and Yamaguchi’s overwhelmed sincerity. And both of them were looking at you like you were something just out of reach.

Tsukishima’s room was cleaner than you expected for a college guy’s place—dark walls, a half-made bed, shelves stacked with manga and headphones, and a floor lamp casting a warm low light. He closed the door behind the three of you with a soft click.

“Okay,” you said, setting your drink on the desk. “So what now? You guys just… tag team me?”

Tsukishima shrugged out of his jersey, revealing a lean line of muscle under the tank top beneath. “We’re not animals. Unless you’re into that.”

Yamaguchi sat down stiffly on the edge of the bed like it might combust under him. His eyes darted from you to Tsukishima, then to the floor.

“I—uh—only if you’re really okay with this,” he said quickly. “I don’t want it to be weird, or pressure-y, or—”

You walked up to him, placing your hand gently on his knee.

“Yamaguchi,” you said, voice soft but firm. “Do you want this?”

He looked up at you, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “I do. I just don’t want to mess anything up.”

From behind you, Tsukishima leaned in, bracing one arm on the bedpost and letting his voice drop low near your ear.

“That’s the best part,” he murmured. “There’s nothing to mess up. We’ll show him how it’s done.”

You turned your head slightly toward him, eyes locking.

“I hope you’re as good as you say you are,” you said, lips curling.

He gave a slow, cocky smile.

“Guess we’re about to find out.”

Tsukishima sat beside you on the bed, his long fingers brushing your thigh with idle confidence. “Pay attention, Yamaguchi,” he said, tone low and instructional, like this was just another practice drill. “You’re going to learn something useful.”

Yamaguchi swallowed hard, nodding, his eyes fixed on you like you were something sacred and fragile. His nervous energy hung in the air, almost sweet in its sincerity.

You leaned back, letting Tsukishima coax your legs apart with a firm, practiced hand. He watched your face as his fingers slid under the hem of your skirt, slow and teasing. “Start soft,” he said, almost to himself, as he pressed light, deliberate strokes against you through your underwear. “Get her used to it. Build her up.”

You exhaled, hips twitching slightly, and Yamaguchi’s lips parted as he watched the way your body reacted—every breath, every tiny sound you made like a live wire running straight into him.

“See that?” Tsukishima murmured, voice right against your neck as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric. “How her body tells you what she wants? You don’t need to guess if you’re paying attention.”

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid inside you, slow and sure, curling just right, your hips twitch as you let out a soft groan. You reached out, found Yamaguchi’s hand, and squeezed. “Come here,” you said softly, guiding him closer.

He obeyed, kneeling in front of you like he was praying, eyes wide and flushed with awe.

Tsukishima’s lips brushed your ear. “You touch her next,” he said, withdrawing his fingers and licking them absently as if to taunt. “But first…”

He stood, tugging off his tank and then undoing his belt, unbothered by how Yamaguchi’s eyes went briefly wide. Tsukishima was lean, toned, confident in every motion. When he pressed against you, his length hard and heavy between your thighs, he held your gaze with a kind of heat that burned low and deep.

“Watch how she opens up when she’s filled right,” he said, guiding himself to your entrance. He slowly pushes in, groaning softly at your tightness.

"Christ..."

He start thrusting, starting of slow and shallow to let you adjust to his thick, long size.

Tsukishima’s rhythm grew more insistent, his hips snapping forward with a precision that sent shockwaves through your core. Each thrust pushed a soft, breathless sound from your lips, and Yamaguchi was completely transfixed—his hand splayed over your stomach, feeling every twitch and tremble of your body as it reacted under their touch.

“She’s so responsive,” Tsukishima murmured, eyes heavy-lidded as he watched the way you arched into him, “Every sound, every breath—she’s telling you everything you need to know.”

Yamaguchi swallowed hard, his lips brushing your jaw as his hand dipped lower, testing the edge of your skirt, your skin hot beneath his fingers.

“Can I…?” he asked, voice tight and low, barely more than a breath.

You turned your head, eyes locking with his. “Yes,” you whispered. “I want you to.”

That was all the permission he needed.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem, tentative but eager, and when they brushed between your thighs—slick, trembling, already worked open from Tsukishima’s steady pace—you gasped his name, sharp and sweet. He flinched like he’d been struck, eyes wide at the way your hips bucked under his touch.

“Just like that,” Tsukishima said, his voice rough now, sweat beading along his neck as he moved harder behind you. “Don’t be afraid to touch her like you want her.”

And he did.

Yamaguchi’s shyness melted into hunger. His fingers learned quickly, stroking your clit in sync with Tsukishima’s thrusts, watching how your mouth fell open, how your whole body shivered. His lips found your neck again, desperate and reverent, whispering your name like a prayer between kisses.

You were floating—caught between Tsukishima’s deep, confident drive and Yamaguchi’s trembling, worshipful attention. One had you gasping, the other had you melting. You couldn’t tell whose name you said next—maybe both, maybe neither—but it didn’t matter. All that existed was heat, breath, rhythm.

“You feel her shaking?” Tsukishima growled low, his voice tight with restraint. “She’s close. Don’t stop.”

Yamaguchi didn’t. You cried out—sharp, broken—your hands flying back to clutch Tsukishima’s arm as you tumbled over the edge, body arching between them.

Tsukishima held you through it, grinding into you with a low groan, and Yamaguchi watched you come apart like he couldn’t believe he was part of it—like you were art, and he’d helped paint it.

When your body finally stilled, trembling and slick with sweat, Tsukishima leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of your shoulder—more tender than smug.

“Lesson one,” he murmured. “Nailed it.”

Yamaguchi looked at you, dazed, flushed, lips parted.

“Can I…” he began, voice hoarse, “Can I try more?”

You smiled, slow and breathless, pulling him closer.

“Oh,” you said, your voice a sultry murmur, “we’re just getting started.”

Tsukishima eased back, his breath warm against your skin as he withdrew, letting the moment settle like static in the low-lit room. Your body still pulsed with aftershocks, thighs trembling slightly, skin flushed and damp. He brushed a hand down your spine, slow and grounding, before flopping back onto the bed with a satisfied exhale.

“Your turn,” he said to Yamaguchi, voice thick and heavy with approval. “She wants you now.”

Yamaguchi blinked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected to get this far. His eyes met yours—uncertain, almost shy again—and you reached for him, fingers curling into the collar of his hoodie to tug him closer.

“You okay?” you asked, soft.

He nodded, swallowing. “I… yeah. I want this. I want you.”

You kissed him again, slower this time, less about urgency and more about reassurance. He melted into it, his hands finally steady as they found your waist. He was warm and earnest, his touch lacking Tsukishima’s practiced finesse but making up for it with raw sincerity. Every brush of his fingers, every breath he took, told you he was all in.

You helped him out of the hoodie and the shirt beneath, revealing pale skin and a lean chest, tense with nervous energy. He was beautiful in a completely different way—open, unsure, but trying so hard to get it right. Your hands slid up his arms, coaxing him closer until you lay back, pulling him over you.

Tsukishima’s voice came from beside you, lazy and low. “Take your time. She likes it when you go slow.”

Yamaguchi flushed, but nodded, his lips brushing down your neck as he lined himself up—hesitant but driven. He paused, looking to you.

“Tell me if I do something wrong.”

You cupped his cheek. “You’re not going to.”

Then you guided him in.

The first moment was breathless—his eyes fluttered shut, mouth falling open in a soft, broken moan as your warmth surrounded him. He moved slow, almost reverently, as if he couldn’t believe this was real. His hips rocked gently, and you could feel the tension in every inch of him—how hard he was holding back, trying not to lose control too soon.

You met his movements with your own, rolling your hips up to meet him, whispering encouragement between gasps. Every time you moaned his name, his rhythm grew more confident, more fluid. His hands gripped your hips like he needed something to hold onto, and his lips kept finding yours—desperate, breathless kisses between thrusts.

Beside you, Tsukishima watched, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark with satisfaction.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Already making her moan like that. Told you you’d be good.”

Yamaguchi groaned, burying his face in your neck as your body clenched around him. His control faltered, rhythm stuttering, but you didn’t care—every uneven thrust, every shudder in his frame just made it more real.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, holding him closer, anchoring him to you as he moved faster, needier, the tension in his body finally boiling over. His breath hitched against your skin, and he gasped your name like it was sacred just as he reached his peak, his body jerking in your arms.

You held him through it, stroking his back, your lips at his temple. He trembled against you, breath ragged, overwhelmed in the best way.

When he finally stilled, he looked at you—wide-eyed, stunned, and glowing.

“I—I didn’t last long,” he said, voice cracking.

You smiled, brushing the hair from his forehead. “You were perfect.”

Tsukishima stretched out beside you both, propping his head on one arm. “You’ll get better with practice,” he said dryly.

Yamaguchi shot him a glare, but there was no real bite behind it. Just gratitude. Relief. Maybe even pride.

You lay between them, skin warm, body humming, and you could feel the shift in the air—something new, something fragile and sweet blooming in the afterglow

You lay tangled between them, skin warm and heart steady, feeling the quiet weight of something new settling in the silence. Maybe it started as a lesson—but it ended as something neither of you wanted to unlearn.

MEGUMI X READER

Timeskip | Aged up characters

- MDNI

______________________

Megumi’s breathing is uneven under your fingers. His uniform jacket slips off easily, revealing the toned but slender frame underneath. You touch him like he’s made of something precious—your palms slow and reverent as they move across his chest.

His skin jumps beneath your touch.

“You okay?” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth.

He nods quickly, but there’s tension in his jaw. “Y-Yeah. I just… I’m not used to this.”

“To being touched?” you ask softly, eyes searching his.

“To being touched like I matter.”

Your heart clenches, and you cradle his face in both hands, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “You do matter, Megumi. To me. You always have.”

He tries to nod again, but you feel him swallowing hard, holding something back—tears, maybe, or just years of loneliness. So you kiss him slowly. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just a soft press of lips, over and over, until his shoulders start to relax and he kisses you back with more certainty.

Your hands wander again, this time under his shirt, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tense lines of muscle that seem permanently braced for battle. You pull the shirt up, breaking the kiss only long enough to tug it over his head. He watches you, a little dazed, as you take him in.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He scoffs quietly. “I’m not—”

You silence him with a kiss to his throat. “Let me decide that.”

Your mouth trails down his neck, across his collarbone, down the center of his chest. You leave soft kisses and lingering touches, memorizing every reaction—the way his stomach tightens when you kiss just above his navel, the shaky breath he lets out when your fingers skim his hips.

When your hands move to his belt, he stills. Not pulling away—just hesitating.

“Megumi?” you murmur, looking up.

He meets your eyes. “I’ve never… done this like this. With someone who…” He stops himself, then exhales shakily. “Who cares.”

You reach up and kiss him gently, reassuring. “Then let me show you what it’s supposed to feel like.”

You undress him slowly, lovingly, until he’s bare beneath you. His cock is already hard, resting against his stomach, flushed and twitching slightly with each uneven breath he takes. You stroke a hand down his thigh, then up to wrap around him, careful and deliberate.

He gasps—his eyes flutter shut, lips parting as his hips buck ever so slightly into your hand.

“Feels good?” you ask, voice low and coaxing.

He nods, barely able to form words. “F-Fuck… yeah.”

You lean down and kiss his chest again, whispering against his skin. “You don’t have to hold anything back. I want to hear you.”

Your hand moves slowly at first, dragging slick over the sensitive head, down the shaft. Megumi’s hands find your waist like he’s grounding himself. His moans are quiet at first, breathy and almost shy, like he’s not used to being vocal—like he’s been taught to stay quiet, stay controlled.

You straddle him again, letting his cock slide between your folds, slick with arousal. He whimpers softly at the contact.

“Y/N…” he breathes, looking at you like he might fall apart. “Please. I—I need you.”

You line yourself up and sink down onto him slowly, keeping your eyes locked on his. His head falls back with a strained groan, eyes fluttering shut as you take him in inch by inch.

“Fuck… you’re so warm,” he mutters, almost disbelieving. “So soft.”

You start to move, slowly grinding your hips down, letting him feel every bit of you—tight, wet, wrapped around him fully. He grips your hips, not guiding, just holding—anchored in you like he’s afraid he might drift away.

“You okay?” you ask again.

His hands tremble. “Yeah. Just… I didn’t know it could feel like this. Like… love.”

You lean down, kissing him with every bit of emotion you’ve got. “It is love.”

The pace builds—slow but deeper, the kind of sex that drowns out the world. You whisper sweet things in his ear. You tell him he’s good, he’s beautiful, he’s safe.

And when he finally cums, it’s overwhelming—his hands gripping you tightly, mouth against your shoulder, moaning your name like he’s been holding it in for years. He shakes through it, body trembling beneath you, the release raw and full of emotion.

You ride out your own climax moments later, gasping his name as your body clenches around him, hips grinding down until you both fall still, panting, wrapped in each other.

You don’t pull away. You just hold him.

And this time, when Megumi wraps his arms around you, it's not cautious or hesitant—it’s full, desperate, like he’s finally letting himself believe he’s wanted.

“Stay,” he whispers against your skin, voice hoarse.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur back. “Not ever.”

BAKUGO X READER — MDNI

Timeskip!!

warnings: smut/nsfw, rough sex, hair pulling, language, fem!reader, Mdom

____________________________________

University life had never been easy, but you never imagined it would be this hard. Juggling classes, assignments, drills, and everything in between, you found yourself constantly exhausted, always on edge, barely keeping up. And then there was him.

Bakugo Katsuki. The human embodiment of a thunderstorm—always loud, always in motion, always infuriating. He seemed to have it out for you from the very first day. The moment you’d stepped onto campus, something about the way you carried yourself must have triggered him. You’d caught his attention with a simple, unassuming mistake, and from then on, he’d been relentless.

It started with insults—casual jabs about how you took notes, how you couldn’t keep up with the physical drills, how you were “too slow” in everything you did. At first, you’d tried to ignore him. It wasn’t like you had time to waste on someone like him. But then something strange happened: you started fighting back.

You weren't the kind of person who let things slide, especially when they were so annoyingly persistent. So you bit back. Every time he said something sarcastic or belittling, you responded in kind. The words were sharp and quick, and the more you clashed, the more you felt the pull of something you couldn’t quite define.

It wasn’t just the way his insults got under your skin. It wasn’t just his presence in the room that made your heart race. There was something about the way he looked at you, sometimes—something that lingered for just a little too long, that made you question whether he saw you the same way you saw him. You couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but the tension was always there, simmering just beneath the surface.

You chalked it all up to irritation—the tight knot in your stomach every time he showed up, the way your pulse jumped whenever his voice cut through a room. It had to be anger. What else could it be? He was relentless, impossible, always pressing your buttons with an accuracy that made your blood boil. But even with all that, your eyes found him before anyone else’s did. You remembered every insult he threw like they were burned into your brain, and worse, you caught yourself waiting for the next one. You told yourself it was because you needed to be ready. It couldn’t possibly be because you wanted to hear what he had to say, or how his voice dipped when he got serious, or how the corners of his mouth twitched when you managed to get under his skin too.

Bakugo wasn’t any better. If anything, he seemed more agitated around you than anyone else, like your very existence was a challenge he refused to back down from. Every shared assignment was a contest, every passing comment from you sparked a fire behind his eyes. He didn’t just argue—he provoked, waiting for you to bite back, and when you did, he looked satisfied in a way that made your chest tighten. There were moments, rare and fleeting, when he looked at you too long, like he was trying to figure you out. But then it was gone, replaced with another scoff or a cutting remark. You told yourself he hated you. He had to. Because the alternative—the idea that he might be feeling the same impossible, maddening pull you were—was something neither of you would dare to admit.

It all came to a head one night, long after the rest of the dorm had gone quiet.

You’d just finished a brutal late-night training session. Muscles aching, clothes sticking to your skin with sweat, you stumbled into the common area, ready to collapse. But of course, he was there—Bakugo, sitting on the worn-out couch like he owned the place, a water bottle dangling from his fingers and his sharp eyes already locked on you.

“Oi, why are you here?” he muttered, voice low and rough.

You rolled your eyes, too tired to deal with him, but he kept watching you like he was waiting for something. You ignored the way your chest tightened under his gaze, tried to move past him, but he stood up. In one step, he was in front of you, tall and broad and impossible to ignore.

“You look like shit,” he said. But there was something different in his tone. Less mocking. More… tense.

“Thanks,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Glad to know you’re still full of compliments.”

His eyes narrowed, and that little muscle in his jaw jumped—like he was holding something back. You stepped around him, but he caught your wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop you.

“What is your problem?” you snapped, yanking your arm back. “Why can’t you leave me alone for one damn second?”

“I don’t know” he said, his voice sharp, like the words were pulled out of him. “You piss me off. Everything about you pisses me off.”

“Then walk away,” you said, stepping closer. “No one’s making you stay.”

“You want me to?” he asked. “Want me to walk away so you can act like you don’t wait for me to show up every time?”

Your breath caught. The silence stretched between you, thick and electric.

He was close now—too close. You could feel the heat coming off his skin, the raw tension in his body. Your eyes locked, and for one heartbeat, neither of you moved. Then something in him snapped.

He grabbed you—not roughly, but with enough force to press you back against the wall, his hands flat on either side of your head. His mouth was inches from yours. You didn’t push him away. You didn’t want to. Every nerve in your body lit up, the tension that had been building for months finally exploding to the surface.

“You think I don’t see the way you look at me?” he asked, voice low and dangerous. “You think I don’t feel this shit too?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your hands were already in his shirt, pulling him closer. His lips crashed into yours—angry, hungry, desperate. You kissed him back with the same fire, like every insult and fight had led to this moment. His shirt was tugged off and the world narrowed to the heat between you.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t soft. It was fast and wild, fueled by months of tension and things neither of you had dared to say out loud. You lost yourselves in it—gripping, gasping, every move a challenge, every touch a dare.

But the way he looked at you—less like you were a problem and more like you were something he couldn’t stop thinking about—told you everything you needed to know.

Your chest rose and fell as you both stood there, still pressed against the wall, lips swollen, breaths heavy. His hands were still on you—one on your waist, the other curled around the back of your neck like he couldn’t let go. Maybe he didn’t want to.

Neither of you said anything. Words didn’t matter anymore. The air between you was thick, like it could snap in half if either of you moved.

But he did.

With zero warning, Bakugo stepped back, grabbed you by the waist, and with effortless strength, lifted you up and threw you over his shoulder.

“What the hell—?!” you shouted, pounding your fists against his back, but you weren’t really fighting him. Not seriously.

“Shut up,” he growled, gripping your thighs tighter to keep you still. “You want this. Don’t act like you don’t.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, a rush of heat spreading through you that had nothing to do with embarrassment. His pace was fast, determined, like he was done waiting. He carried you through the dorm halls like he didn’t give a damn who saw, like he’d been holding this in for too long and now that the fuse had lit, there was no turning back.

When he kicked open the door to his room, it slammed shut behind him, and in one swift motion, he dropped you on the bed.

You barely had a second to catch your breath before he was on you again—hovering above, hands on either side of your head, eyes burning into yours like you were something he’d been dying to get his hands on.

“You drive me insane,” he said, voice low and full of grit. “Every damn day.”

“Then stop thinking about me,” you challenged, trying to steady your breathing. “No one asked you to.”

“I tried,” he said. “Couldn’t.”

Then he kissed you again—harder this time, hungrier. His hands were everywhere, rough but careful, pulling at your clothes, tugging your shirt over your head like he couldn’t stand another second of space between you. The heat between you surged, wild and unrelenting. You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him closer, and every inch of contact was like a spark.

His mouth moved to your neck, your collarbone, leaving hot trails of breath behind. You arched up into him, fingers gripping his hair, his name escaping your lips before you could even think to stop it.

There was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just fire—pure and consuming—as the last barriers between you finally broke down.

Bakugo takes a minute to take in the view of you under him. His hands trailing up your sides, cupping your breasts, kneading roughly. He looks but up at you, his eyes dark with lust.

"God...i need to be inside you. right now"

He gets up abruptly and walks quickly over to his drawer, grabbing a shiny silver package.

"Get on all fours." He demands, leaving no room for argument.

For once, you dont make a remark, instead you simply obey, positioning yourself on the ebd while he rips open the condom packet. Before you know it, he is behind you, shoving your face into the pillows below you. He pins your wrists to your arched back, holding them in place with one of his veiny, calloused hands.

"Shit, your so wet..."

His palm comes down on your ass, making you yelp and push back against him. He rubs his tip against you teasingly before slowly pushing his cock deep inside you. You whimper softly. Once fully sheathed, he lets you adjust, knowing you'll need to prepare yourself before he splits you.

After about a minute, he starts to withdraw, oeaving just the tip inside before slamming back in, grunting softly.

"Ah...Bakugo—"

"Shut up and fucking take it..."

He says, his voice strained. He picks up the pace, pounding into you mercilessly, drawing out cries and moans from you. With one hand still pinning your wrists to your back, the other goes to pull your hair roughly, making arch your back, opening you up to more of his brutal thrusts. He lets a a deep groan as you tighten around him.

"Shit... im gonna cum..."

He hears the desperate tone in your voice and doubles his efforts, dropping your hair and rubbing your clit in time with his brutal thrust, trying to tip you over the edge. It doesnt take long before you are crying out his name as you reach your peak. Your orgasm triggers his, with a grunt, he fills the condom. You collapse onto the bed, and he soon joins you.

The room was still, heavy with the scent of sweat and skin, and the quiet buzz of something that had finally been let loose. You lay there, limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess around your legs, skin still flushed and hypersensitive. Bakugo’s chest rose and fell against yours, his breath warm on your collarbone, one arm draped possessively across your waist like he wasn’t ready to let go. Neither of you spoke. There were no insults now, no sharp remarks—just the soft echo of your heartbeat and the unfamiliar weight of what had just happened. His hand moved, slow and rough, tracing lazy lines along your hip, like he was trying to commit the shape of you to memory. For the first time, it wasn’t about winning, wasn’t about pushing each other’s buttons. It was quiet. It was real. And it scared the hell out of you.

You didn’t know what came next, but in that moment, wrapped up in his warmth and silence, you didn’t care. All you knew was that something had changed—and neither of you could go back.

⊹₊⟡⋆TSUKISHIMA X READER - MDNI

(timeskip Tsukishima!!!)

warnings: smut,language - contains explicit content,MDNI

----------------------------------------------------

It started with a knock.

Soft, hesitant. Not like him. Tsukishima didn’t hesitate. He didn’t fidget outside doors at midnight. And he definitely didn’t ask for things he couldn’t control. But tonight? He looked... different.

When you opened the door, the hallway light illuminated behind him, outlining the tall, lean frame you knew so well. He stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his glasses fogged slightly at the corners from the cold night air and blonde hair messy and unstyled. And those eyes—normally sharp, unimpressed, calculating... looked dull.

Tired.

"Can I come in?" he asked, voice low, quiet. There was something else in his tone that you could quite pick up. Something deeper.

You didn’t even answer. You just stepped aside.

The door closed behind him with a click that seemed to echo louder than it should have in the small space. He didn’t move to sit down. Didn’t ask how your day had been like he normally would. He simply stood in the middle of the room, it was as if the weight of the air had thickened around him.

"Tsukishima..." you started, reaching out, but he turned toward you with a look that stopped you in your tracks.

Not angry. Not cold. Just... unraveling.

And then he was kissing you.

It was sudden. Fierce. The kind of kiss that sucked the breath from your lungs and made your knees weak. His hands framed your face like he was trying to ground himself, thumbs brushing along your jaw as he tilted your head to kiss you deeper. You tasted frustration on his tongue, exhaustion, hunger.

"I need you," he muttered against your lips, voice barely more than a growl. "Right now. Please."

Your heart fluttered. he didn’t ask for things like that. He didn’t plead. He demanded. But tonight, there was something raw beneath the surface. Something that made your chest ache.

You nodded.

Clothes fell to the floor, soft and silent, until both of you were left in your skin. He kissed down your neck with trembling lips, teeth occasionally scraping your collarbone like he couldn’t decide between reverence and ruin.

Tsukishima backed you slowly towards the foot of the bed, making your gently fall onto the matress with a soft thud, the sheets were cool beneath your skin, and it wasnt long before he followed you down, crawling over you, his tall frame dwarfing yours. His mouth latches onto your collarbone, soon trailing lower, sucking bruises into your chest, your ribs, your hips—anywhere his lips could reach.

"I thought about this all day," he whispered against your stomach, feeling the warmth radiating from your skin beneath him. "About touching you. Being inside you. Hearing you say my name."

His fingers dipped between your legs, parting you with ease, his breath catching when he felt how wet you already were.

"Fuck," he whispered. "Your soaked, only from kisses. Not that im complaining."

He slowly slides two fingers deep inside you, a familiar warmth spreading across your body.

You moaned, your hips rising to meet his touch, but he held you down with one strong arm, using his thumb to tease your clit with slow, deliberate circles. His eyes stayed on yours, half-lidded and dark with desire.

"You don’t get to rush this. Not tonight. I need to feel every second of you."

Then his mouth was on your pussy—hot, wet, relentless, while his fingers worked you open. His tongue touching your clit with deep, slow strokes while his fingers explored you from within. He groaned like he couldn’t get enough, like your taste was the only thing keeping him sane.

You writhed beneath him, gasping his name, but he didn’t stop until you were shaking, until you were clenching around his fingers, your thighs squeezing his head as you came hard against his mouth.

But even then, he didn’t stop.

He kissed his way back up your body, his lips slick with you, and hovered above you with a look of reverence.

"You’re mine tonight," he said simply. "Every part of you."

Then he positioned himself between your legs, one hand guiding his cock to your entrance, pushing in deep. The stretch burned, but it was perfect, and your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for this all along.

He sank in slowly, inch by inch, cursing under his breath until he was fully seated inside you. He stayed still for a moment, forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged.

"So fucking tight" he whispered. "I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that."

You rolled your hips and smiled, teasing. "Then don’t look. Just fuck me."

And he did.

The first thrust was slow and deep, pulling a moan from your lips. The next came faster, rougher, fueled by the frustration and stress he was feeling and soon he was pounding into you. Hard. You met each stroke with equal desperation, nails digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

"Fuck, yes—please, don’t stop,"

"Not planning to," he gritted out. "Not until I forget everything else."

Your bodies moved in sync, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the room. He fucked you like there was no tomorrow.

His eyes met yours, you could see the pure need and want in them, his forehead sheen with sweat. You could tell he wasnt holding back tonight. The pleasure ripping through you was intense, your body clenching around him without thinking, dragging a broken groan from his throat.

He didn’t last much longer.

With a final, deep thrust, he spilled inside you, hips jerking as he buried himself to the hilt. He collapsed on top of you, sweaty and shaking, pressing kisses to your shoulder as he caught his breath.

Minutes passed in silence. Then he spoke, voice barely a whisper.

"I missed you today."

Your heart ached.

You ran your fingers through his hair, cradling his head to your chest. "I’m right here."

Friends with benefits (and feelings) --- MDNI

---------------------

Timeskip Nishinoya

warnings: Suggestive/smut,swearing

Notes: Yes i did cringe multiple times while writing this, yes i dont know why i decided to write this. Lmk if you want part 2.

____________________________________

You weren’t supposed to have favorites.

But the way Nishinoya looked at you from across the court, sweat-slick and grinning like he just won the damn lottery? Yeah, you were in trouble from day one.

It started as a joke — friends who just “helped each other out.” Post-practice hangouts that got handsy. Casual, no-strings-attached, totally chill.

Except tonight, he was already flushed before you even touched him.

His apartment smelled like the cheap body wash he always used, and there he was — on the couch, bouncing his knee, eyes wide the second you stepped inside.

“You took forever,” he said, voice breathy and impatient.

“I told you I was showering,” you said with a lazy smile, dropping your bag and sauntering over.

He bit his lip, shifting where he sat. “Yeah, but… I was thinking about you. And now I can’t sit still.”

You tilted your head, eyes dragging down his bare arms, over his tank top, to the telltale tent in his sweatpants. “You could’ve waited for me, hmm?”

He whined — an actual, needy whimper. “I tried, but you’re mean and hot and you take your sweet time on purpose—”

You cut him off with a kiss, and he melted instantly, fingers clutching at your shirt, pulling you into his lap like you were oxygen.

“Y/N…” he breathed against your mouth, hips shifting under you. “Need you— I’m serious, please don’t tease tonight.”

“Why not?” you asked sweetly, grinding down just enough to make him gasp. “I like hearing you beg.”

And oh, he did.

He was a squirmy mess beneath you, hands trembling where they gripped your hips, trying not to buck up too hard. His breath hitched every time your fingers slipped under his shirt, every time your lips brushed his neck.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he whined, high and wrecked. “You always do this—act all cute and then ruin me.”

You hummed against his throat. “You love it.”

“…Maybe.”

By the time you had him sprawled out across the couch, flushed and panting, shirt pulled halfway off and sweatpants barely hanging on, his attitude was long gone. What was left was just Nishinoya — needy, sensitive, so easy to unravel.

“Y/N,” he moaned, hips rolling up into your touch, eyes half-lidded and desperate. “Please, I can’t—just do something—anything—please—”

You covered his mouth with yours to shut him up — not that you really wanted him quiet. His sounds were addictive.

You break away from the kiss to remove his sweatpants and boxers at once. Your eyes snap to his lower half, drinking in the sight of his muscular thighs and hard, aching cock, practically begging to be touched. Noya desperately tugged the hem of your skirt

Seeing the pure want in his eyes, you cant help but tease him a little, despite the ache between your legs.

You slowly take your skirt off, watching his pupils grow wide with lust. Noya lets out a soft groan of both annoyance and desire — desperate for you to end the torturous teasing, his hand goes to your hip, his fingers hooking your underwear, pulling them down.

"F-fuck..."

He watches as you sit yourself in his lap, straddling his hips — Nishinoya reaches over to his wallet and pulls out a condom, opening the wrapper with his teeth and rolling it on. You give his cock a few strokes, making sure its secure, he lets out a needy noise.

"P-please, Y/N...put it in..."

Your eyes trail back up to his face, he is softly panting, waiting for you to give him the relief he desperately craves. You give him a mischievous smile.

"Beg."

Noticing the look on your look on your face and the position he is in, makes him realise he is like putty in your hands. His breath hitched as he looked up at you, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with lust. His fingers gripped your hips, moving you closer, voice trembling as he whispered, "Please, Y/N… I need you—need your hands on me, need you to make me feel good. I’ve been thinking about you all day and I can’t take it anymore. Don’t tease, just—please, touch me. I’ll be good, I promise…"

----------------------------------------------------

His hands were trembling where they gripped your thighs, nails digging in just enough to leave little marks. He was already wrecked — flushed from head to toe, sweat clinging to his chest, eyes glassy with need.

You hovered over him, dragging your fingers along his stomach, watching every twitch of his muscles. He whined.

“Y/N… please,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I can’t— I need you so bad, please, please…”

You smiled down at him, slow and cruel. “You’ve been begging for what, ten minutes? You sound so pretty when you’re desperate, baby.”

“I’ll be good,” he gasped, hips bucking up instinctively, only to groan when you pressed him back down. “I swear I’ll be so good—just ride me, I need to feel you, I can’t take it anymore—”

Finally — finally — you let yourself sink down onto him, slow and steady.

He choked out your name like a prayer, head falling back against the pillows, mouth open in a silent moan. His fingers clutched at your hips like he was trying to ground himself, but he couldn’t stop trembling.

“F-Fuck, you feel so good—so tight—oh my god, don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Was it worth the wait, Noya?”

He nodded frantically, moaning into your shoulder. “So worth it—please don’t stop—ride me just like that, I’m gonna lose my mind—”

And you did — slow at first, then faster, until all he could do was cry out your name over and over.

“Nngh—Y/N, I—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His voice cracked, raw and frantic, hands clinging to you like he’d float away if he let go. You leaned in, kissing his cheek, whispering against his skin, “It’s okay, baby… let go. I’ve got you.”

And he did — falling apart with a strangled moan, body tensing beneath you as he came into the condom, shivering through it, chest rising in shallow bursts. You stayed with him the whole way down, cumming with him. One hand cradling the back of his neck, the other stroking his side gently.

He whimpered your name, quieter this time. Dazed. Vulnerable in a way only you ever got to see.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, then his fluttering pulse.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. “You did so good.”

Noya let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There was nothing cocky in them now — just warmth. Gratitude. Something close to love, but neither of you said it.

You cleaned him up with soft touches, slow and careful, tossing the condom and grabbing a warm cloth. He squirmed a little at the contact, still sensitive, but didn’t stop you — just reached for your hand when you were done, tugging you down beside him.

His face found your neck instantly, breath warm against your skin. “Don’t leave yet,” he mumbled. “I wanna hold you a little longer.”

You slid an arm around him, pulling the blanket up over both of you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, wrapped in the mess of tangled sheets and soft breathing, it was clear: this wasn’t just casual anymore.

Not even close.

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.

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Pt. 3 (NSFW)

The overhead lights in your office buzzed faintly, casting a sterile sheen across your desk, your tea, your meticulously arranged files. Every folder sat aligned at a perfect angle, every spreadsheet tabbed and color-coded to hell and back. You had done it all this morning, trying to distract yourself—trying to settle your mind with clean lines and predictable logic. The problem was, your hands weren’t moving. Your cursor blinked on the empty field of the player report form, waiting for an input that wasn’t coming.

You were still in last night’s gym.

You could feel it—his hand at your waist, his breath ghosting along your neck, the focused burn in his eyes like he’d been trying so hard not to look and failing anyway. That single brush of his fingertips over your lower back had lingered longer than it should have. You’d felt the press of his palm even after the janitor’s voice startled you both apart.

You clicked your pen hard against the desk, leaving a dent in the paper beneath it. No. You are not spiraling over Iwaizumi Hajime’s fucking triceps. This wasn’t high school. You didn’t have a crush. You had standards—and a job to do.

So why the hell couldn’t you stop replaying how his eyes had dropped—not to your clipboard, not to your notes—but to your mouth, right before the door opened?

Another sharp click. Another unfinished line of text. The memory flushed through your chest like static, and you were just about to stand and walk it off when a knock sounded on your door.

It was brisk. Familiar. Firm.

You barely managed to school your features into something neutral before the door cracked open—and there he was.

Iwaizumi Hajime, looming like a storm cloud, his Olympic-branded laptop tucked under one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins tracing his forearms like tension maps, his jaw tight, unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside your office with the restrained efficiency of a man too used to high-stakes situations.

“I’ve updated the training program,” he said, voice rough and clipped, as if last night hadn’t happened. “Based on what you showed me yesterday.”

He moved toward your desk, tilted the screen toward you. The moment the spreadsheet opened, your eyes skimmed the rows—and your stomach tightened.

Komori’s lateral sequences had been scaled down. Hyakuzawa’s overhead load was decreased. Flexibility modules were individualized. The wording was precise. The ratios were accurate.

You couldn’t believe it.

“It looks… solid,” you said, cautiously. “You actually listened.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth quirked. “I always listen.”

“You just don’t usually believe me,” you muttered, fingers tapping the edge of the keyboard.

He shrugged. “I believe you when you’re right.”

You were about to fire back when the door slammed open.

“Whoa—no yelling?” Bokuto’s voice rang out with playful disbelief as he peeked in, already grinning.

Behind him, Yaku gave a nod like he’d seen this coming from a mile away. “Told you they’d mellow out eventually.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “What the hell are you two doing?”

“Seeing if the explosion already happened,” Bokuto chirped, eyes darting between you and Iwaizumi. “But this? You’re practically cozy. Suspicious.”

“Get out,” Iwaizumi growled, his voice all grit and warning.

“Wait, are you two—” Bokuto began.

“Absolutely not,” you cut in, sharp enough to decapitate.

Yaku raised a brow. “You’re denying it a little too fast, Doc.”

Iwaizumi’s glare could have melted iron. “Say one more thing and you’re benched for the week.”

“Okay, okay!” Bokuto backed up, laughing. “Damn. Just saying—it’s new energy.”

You stood, jaw clenched. “Out. Now.”

The two Olympic players exchanged a final glance before Bokuto tossed over his shoulder, “If it does happen, call me for the wedding.”

As the door shut behind them, you exhaled sharply. “They are insufferable.”

Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Because we let them be.”

He turned toward the door, laptop still under his arm. Before leaving, he hesitated—just for a beat—and looked at you over his shoulder.

“Seriously. You were right. Yesterday.”

The words landed heavy. Too heavy.

“…Thanks.”

He nodded once, then walked out. Door closing on his way out.

And you didn’t move for a long time.

Not until your pulse calmed and the sound of his voice stopped buzzing in your ears.

--

You’d barely made it back to your office from your lunch break and shut the door behind you before there was another knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That rhythm was far too obnoxious to belong to anyone else.

“Doc!” Atsumu Miya strolled in like he owned the place, grinning with all the charm of a cat who’d just knocked something off a counter. “Got a second? My shoulder’s actin’ up again—figured you’d be thrilled to poke around in it.”

You rolled your eyes, but gestured toward the exam bench anyway. “Sit. Shirt off. Keep the commentary to a minimum.”

“That’s no fun,” he mumbled, but obeyed, peeling his shirt off with the practiced flair of someone who knew exactly what his arms looked like in fluorescent lighting.

You slipped on your gloves, moving around him with practiced ease. “Still some impingement from the inflammation?”

“Mmhm,” he replied, rotating his arm slightly. “Worse after I sleep on it wrong.”

You pressed gently along the front of the shoulder, assessing the rotation with subtle shifts. He winced once, which you noted.

Then, predictably, the smirk returned.

“Ya and Iwaizumi-san looked cozy earlier,” he said casually, not even trying to be slick. “Should I be worried?”

You froze for half a second, just enough for him to catch it.

“Worried he might kill me?” you deadpanned, fingers still pressed to his deltoid. “Absolutely.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh, but his eyes narrowed, too observant for your liking.

“I was thinkin’ the opposite,” he mused. “Didn’t look like hate to me.”

Your brows twitched.

You narrowed your eyes. “Did the rest of the team put you up to this?”

Atsumu’s smirk deepened. “What? Can’t a guy notice things on his own?”

You scoffed and reached for his shoulder again. “I’m going to press deeper into the joint now.”

Atsumu, still grinning, relaxed his shoulder—and immediately yelped when your fingers dug just slightly harder into the inflamed tissue.

“Still tender, I see?” you asked innocently, lifting a brow.

“Ow—damn, Doc!” he hissed, rubbing the area as you pulled back. “That was a low blow.”

You offered a thin smile. “Consider it a reminder to keep your theories to yourself.”

He winced, stretching his shoulder slowly. “You wound me. Here I am, bringin’ you a little entertainment in your dull clinic, and you repay me with violence.”

“I repay you with diagnostics,” you replied coolly, stepping around to the back of his shoulder. “And unsolicited opinions get the treatment they deserve.”

“Don’t know why you’re actin’ like this is such a scandal,” he muttered. “Half the gym’s been waitin’ for you two to snap and jump each other.”

Your glove-clad fingers stilled mid-rotation.

Atsumu grinned like a shark. “C’mon, you mean to tell me ya don’t see it? All that arguing—feels like foreplay.”

"It is not in your best interest to continue that train of thought."

You moved to the back of his shoulder and rotated the joint again, this time met with less resistance.

But your heart was suddenly in your throat.

Atsumu didn’t push further—blessedly—but his silence was far louder than any teasing remark. He watched you finish the check-up with a strange sort of calm, the air between you humming with something unsaid.

“You’re good,” you said finally, peeling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Still keep the compression sleeve on when you’re not on court. I’ll send you some updated stretches.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He hopped off the bench, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. But just before he stepped out, he paused at the door.

“Y’know,” he said, almost too casually, “it’s kinda wild. Iwaizumi’s been here for years, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”

The door shut behind him before you could ask what the hell that meant.

And you hated—hated—the way your face warmed.

--

The lights in the hallways were dim, the soft hum of the facility settling into its nightly lull. Most of the staff had already cleared out—offices darkened, doors locked, the echo of your footsteps the only thing keeping the silence company. You rolled your shoulder, spine aching after another long day of meetings, treatment notes, and dodging the smug glances Atsumu kept throwing you every time he passed your office.

You were halfway to the exit, bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand, when something made you stop. A dull, rhythmic sound. The muted clang of weights meeting padded flooring.

Your eyes cut to the side.

The training gym was lit only by a single overhead bulb in the far corner, flickering slightly above the racks. Inside, shirtless, sweat-slicked, and visibly focused, stood Hajime Iwaizumi. Alone.

You didn’t mean to stop. But your feet planted themselves anyway.

He was mid-lift—some kind of upright barbell press—and the curve of his back shifted with every rep, sweat rolling down between the muscles that flexed and released with practiced rhythm. His sweatpants clung to the powerful line of his hips, and a notebook sat open beside him on the bench, filled with scrawled corrections and diagrams. He wasn’t just working out. He was testing.

Your breath snagged, and before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to gently push the door open.

Iwaizumi looked up.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Just kept lifting, jaw tight, eyes catching yours.

"You just gonna stand there," he said, voice gravelled with fatigue and something warmer, "or you planning to come in?"

Your heart gave an inconvenient lurch.

You stepped in. Slowly. The door clicked shut behind you, the echo bouncing off the gym walls like a warning shot.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," you said, keeping your voice neutral.

He lowered the weights, rolling his shoulders back with a grunt. "Didn’t finish the work. That thing you won’t stop nagging me about."

Your lips twitched. "Right. That thing."

A beat of silence. Thick and heavy.

You moved closer, eyeing the open notebook.

"You’ve changed a lot," you said, voice quieter.

He arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

You pointed at the program updates. "The circuits. You adjusted the progression intervals. And you finally stopped overloading the endurance drills."

A shrug. "You were right."

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to hear it from his mouth.

"Don’t get smug," he muttered.

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

The corner of his mouth quirked, and for a moment, the silence between you was less heavy. Just taut. Like a pulled wire.

You pointed to the bar. "May I?"

His brow raised, but he stepped aside. You brushed past him—just barely—but the heat that rolled off his skin followed you like static. You wrapped your fingers around the bar, adjusted your stance.

"Like last night," you murmured, reaching back with your hand, brushing your palm across the taut muscle of his abdomen. "You’re still tensing too soon. Posterior tilt’s off."

He let out a rough exhale. "You always this picky?"

"You always this stubborn?"

He caught your wrist. Not hard—just firm enough that your eyes snapped to his.

"You know what you’re doing."

Your pulse jumped. "Do I?"

His mouth crashed into yours before you could answer.

Everything went hot and messy.

His lips were rough, desperate, teeth scraping your lower lip like it was a grudge he meant to settle. You gasped into his mouth as his hands found your waist, calloused fingers digging into the soft give of your skin like he could anchor himself there. The gym’s cold air was a distant thing, barely felt beneath the furnace of your bodies colliding, friction turning tension into fire.

You didn’t remember moving, only the wild clutch of your limbs and his, the stumble of your shoes across the floor. One step. Two. Then you were walking him backward toward the center mat, his chest rising beneath your touch. He was tugging your shirt up, shoving it over your head with a grunt of impatience, and it hit the ground somewhere behind you. You didn’t care. You needed more—needed his skin under your palms, needed to feel him, solid and hot and here.

"You’re such a pain in my ass," you growled, teeth flashing as you wrestled with the waistband of his sweats.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his hand already sliding past the waistband of your leggings, fingers curling possessively around your ass. "Then why do you keep showing up?"

You shoved him. Hard.

He hit the mat with a thud, breath whooshing out of him—and still he grinned like the bastard he was, even as he yanked you down on top of him.

Your thighs spread across his hips as you straddled him, your palms braced on his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath each ragged breath. You kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. Your tongue slid against his, your hips beginning to roll, teasing friction where your bodies met. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and hot and barely contained.

"Take them off," you muttered.

He obeyed. Sweats shoved down, boxers next, and his cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and ready. You stared for a beat too long.

"What?" he panted, eyes dark and glassy.

"Nothing," you lied. "Just shut up."

Clothes hit the floor in a trail of skin and fabric. Your leggings. Your panties. His shirt. Everything discarded in your frantic need.

He sat up just enough to run his hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts, then down to your thighs as you shifted above him. You held his gaze as you reached between you, guiding him to your entrance. Your breath caught at the first stretch—then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

You both froze.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body adjusting to the thickness of him. The sensation was overwhelming—stretching you open, the slow drag of every inch sending a shiver down your spine. It had been too long since something felt this good. Since someone felt this good.

He groaned, hands trembling against your waist, gripping you like he might come undone.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You—"

"Don’t talk," you snapped, breathless.

You rocked forward, and he moaned. A sound from deep in his throat, guttural and raw. You did it again—slow, dragging circles with your hips, feeling every ridge, every inch, the way he filled you so completely you could barely breathe. The pleasure curled through you hot and tight, blooming in your belly, liquid heat spreading with every thrust.

His mouth found your neck, tongue tracing the line of your throat before he bit, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper.

"You drive me insane," he muttered against your skin, and this time, you didn’t argue.

You set a rhythm, your hands on his chest, his hands on your ass, guiding you down harder, deeper, every motion building heat in your belly. Sweat slicked your skin, your thighs trembled, and every thrust sent sparks up your spine. The tension climbed higher, unbearable, addictive.

He met you thrust for thrust, rising to meet you, hips snapping up as you dropped down, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gym walls. You felt yourself unraveling around him, muscles tightening, your body shaking.

"You like this, don’t you?" he growled, voice low and fucked out. "Being in charge. Getting your way."

"Shut up, Hajime."

He grinned—and flipped you.

You hit the mat with a gasp, his body heavy and hot above you. He braced one arm beside your head, the other slipping under your thigh as he pulled your leg higher around his waist.

"Not gonna let you win everything, Doc."

Then he was pounding into you, unrelenting, deep and fast, and your fingers clawed into his back, desperate to hold onto something as pleasure overtook you. Each thrust filled you to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him, slick and tight and aching.

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut, hips canting up to meet his every thrust.

"There," you gasped. "Right there—"

He didn’t stop. Not until your back arched, legs locking around his waist, and you came with a broken moan, pleasure snapping through you like lightning. You pulsed around him, body locking up as ecstasy tore through you.

He followed seconds later, groaning into your neck, his body trembling with release.

For a long moment, all you heard was breath. Harsh. Labored. Yours and his.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his hand tangled in your hair.

You stared at the ceiling.

Oh, fuck.

What now?

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.”

Favourite Positions: Hinata

You didn’t usually date short guys.

It wasn’t personal—just a preference. You liked being manhandled. Liked being tossed around, bent over, pinned. You’d always thought height made that easier. You wanted to be overwhelmed, and you never thought someone with a boyish grin and a 174 cm frame would be the one to do it.

But Hinata Shōyō?

Was a beast.

Not just in the way he moved, though that was devastating enough. He had stamina for days, legs like pistons, arms strong enough to lift you like you weighed nothing. But it was the way he looked at you when he was inside you—like he was starved, like he was built for this. Like your pleasure was his mission.

And when you were underneath him? Flat on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders, Hinata kneeling over you with your ankles hooked behind his neck?

There was no going back.

“I wanna see everything,” he’d whispered the first time, flushed and breathless, the tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. “Wanna see your face when I make you lose it.”

And now?

Now he was fucking you like he meant it.

Your thighs trembled where they rested over his shoulders, calves draped down his back as his hips snapped into yours. His hands were braced beside your head, body bent forward so his chest hovered over yours. The position had you folded nearly in half, stretched wide, completely taken.

“So—tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched as he pounded into you with brutal rhythm, curls damp and clinging to his forehead. “God, you feel… fuck… you feel so good.”

Your back arched off the bed, fingers fisting the sheets, eyes fluttering as pleasure crackled through your nerves.

“Shōyō—too deep, it’s too much—”

“No,” he gasped, snapping his hips harder, “It’s perfect. You can take it. Just hold on, I’ve got you.”

You sobbed as his cock hit that devastating spot inside you over and over, your body clenching, quivering. The position had you stretched and pinned, his body grinding into yours with relentless force. You could feel the headboard banging against the wall, the slap of skin-on-skin loud in the air.

Hinata leaned closer, your knees nearly pressed to your chest, and he grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together as he fucked you harder.

“I wanna see it,” he panted, eyes fixed on your face. “Come for me. Right now. Let me see how pretty you look when you break.”

And you did.

You shattered with a scream, back arching violently, mouth falling open in a ragged cry as your orgasm slammed through you. Your vision went white, your body seizing under the weight of the pleasure, twitching uncontrollably. You couldn’t even breathe—couldn’t think.

It didn’t stop.

He kept fucking you through it, hips rolling hard and deep, watching you fall apart beneath him like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Your hands clawed at his arms, thighs trembling wildly, mouth babbling nonsense—you didn’t even realize what you were saying. You were crying. Moaning. Whimpering please and don’t stop in the same breath.

Hinata groaned, deep and broken, and you felt his rhythm falter just slightly before he buried himself deep, grinding his hips hard into yours as he came with a strangled gasp. The warmth of him flooding you only sent another pulse of aftershock through your body, another twitch of oversensitivity that made your breath catch.

He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead resting against yours.

Your chest was heaving, fingers twitching, mind blank except for the echo of your own voice—broken, desperate, high-pitched and gasping his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say.

Your body was still convulsing in little aftershocks when Hinata leaned over you, his breath warm and uneven, and started pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.

First to your collarbone. Then lower.

His lips trailed down the curve of your breast, lingering over the swell as his hand spread wide over your stomach—grounding you, holding you, but never still.

You jolted when his mouth dipped lower again, his tongue lapping at the sheen of sweat on your ribs, and then his lips brushed just under your navel.

“Shōyō—” you whimpered, voice rasping from overuse, hips twitching.

He smiled against your skin, kissed lower.

“Too much?” he whispered, but didn’t stop. He was everywhere—on your hips, your thighs, your waist, like he needed to taste every part of what he just ruined.

Every place his mouth touched made you flinch, a fresh wave of oversensitivity crawling across your skin. But you didn’t stop him.

You couldn’t.

And neither could he.

By the time he leaned up again, his hands were back on your waist, thumbs stroking soft, absentminded circles against your flushed skin. His eyes were bright, cheeks still a little pink, and his grin—smug, breathless, a little crooked—stole the last of your breath.

“Wanna go again?”

You blinked. And despite the fact that your legs were jelly, your brain scrambled, your body completely wrecked—you still managed to nod.

A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.

Yeah. You didn’t usually date short guys.

But Hinata wasn’t like anyone else.

Omg you were really on point! Lancelot did cry :'< and cried alone...

I'm both satisfied because it shows how he cared for Percy, and sad because for HIM to cry over Percy, his death must have hit Lancelot soooo hard T_T

I mean look, took what, about two years avoiding Benwick? He refused to go home without Jericho, and even when he found her he still didn't want to go back. Now, only after Percy was gone he did... just. Ouch.

Another thing is, i expected him to be furious over everything, like how he executed Mortlach! But he was grieving and this hurts more wtff ;-; anyway that's also good, to show his vulnerable and younger side. After all he was still 16, even though he was so much much mature than most.

Now idk what to expect for 18-years-old Lance. People said he might go to the dark side now because of Guinevere's vision, but if the dark side means siding with Arthur that would be just so confusing since he's indirectly the reason of what happened to Percy right?!

Firstly, I would like to apologise for the long reply, dear anonymous.

Secondly, I like Lance's behaviour very much too. He killed Mortlach in a rage, but we don't forget that Lancelot is just a child! He acted just like a normal teenager, went home, locked himself in his room and cried for his dead friend. In fact, though I've said it many times, Percy held a special place in his heart. He was his best friend. And the fact that Lancelot only came home because of his friend's death is both sweet and sad.

If I remember correctly, Lance would step into the king's service at the age of 23. And it actually amazes me that some people are totally against this king being Arthur. If that's the case, it's the most logical outcome for me, simply because in the myths (on which 4kota and SDS in particular are based) Lancelot was Arthur's best knight and close friend. So, if Lance becomes Arthur's knight, I won't mind, on the contrary I'll be interested in how it all turns out.

Tristan Liones!

After timeskip in demon mode!

...

"Oh I'm sure I will." She nodded.

Aster had been running for Force knew how long, hopping from plant to plant any way she could to avid the empire. She'd dis-assembled her saber a long time ago, but had kept the parts should she need to put it back together.

Currently, she was tucked behind an ally, a short term safe haven before she deemed it safe to move again.

Val walked through the market, Val had learned how to blend in and become invisible to anyone looking for a Jedi. That didn’t mean she was wearing camouflage, she still wore her blue and white armor. She wandered through the market and noticed something tugging at her mind and looked down a small dark alley. She turned and stared trying to see what could be back there.