Archive of Our Own

The rule was simple.

A volleyball skidding across the polished floor, a sharp sound slicing through the gym whenever Tooru outmaneuvered him in a match. A bowl of Hayashi rice left untouched, steam curling into nothing, whenever Tooru walked past him in the hallway, with Aoba Johsai at his side—his laughter an enchanting melody, sharp and lingering, biting into Wakatoshi’s ears long after he was gone. The faint hum of Shiratorizawa’s anthem in his mind whenever Tooru’s hazel eyes locked onto him—staring too long, like he was peeling back the layers of Wakatoshi’s skull, prying into thoughts he had no rights to have.

Thoughts of what it would feel like if Tooru’s laughter wasn’t meant for someone else. If those bright, biting eyes weren’t sharp but soft—soft for him. If he could reach out, fingers curling around Tooru’s wrist, and stop him from walking away.

Stay.

Just for a moment.

Just long enough for me to pretend you would.

But Tooru was always moving, slipping through his fingers like water, like he was never meant to be caught. And Wakatoshi—bound by rules, by logic, by his own refusal to chase—could do nothing but watch.

At first, it had been frustration. A quiet, persistent irritation at Tooru’s defiance, at the way he refused to break, at the way he burned even in the face of defeat. Wakatoshi had convinced himself it was just competition—the natural push and pull of two players standing on opposite sides of the net.

But then he started noticing things he shouldn’t.

The way Tooru’s hands moved when he set—elegant, precise, the kind of grace that couldn’t be taught. The way sweat clung to him after long rallies, uniform tight against the lines of his body, too close, too much. The way his voice carried across the court, coaxing, commanding, like gravity itself bent to his will.

The way Tooru’s gaze always found him, even in a crowded room. The way his taunts never felt like empty words but a challenge, an invitation. 

And Wakatoshi never could look away, no matter how much he tried.

He had mistaken it for rivalry. He had mistaken it for irritation. But neither could explain why he hunted for Tooru in hallways when the whistle was silent, why he scanned crowds for that flash of hazel.

Why did he linger in hallways, in gym doors, in the gaps between their battles, unwilling to step forward yet unable to step away, waiting for something unnamed, unspoken?

And all of it, all at once, made Ushijima Wakatoshi dream of Oikawa Tooru.

Tooru, who didn’t know. He can’t.

Wakatoshi would rather spike a ball through his own chest than say it out loud.

He had loved him for years, silently, the way roots love the earth—deep, unseen, unshakable. Wakatoshi was not a poet, but Tooru made a poet of him. Not in words—his heart was a blunt instrument, hammering out truths too heavy to be softened—but in the way he lingered in Tooru’s orbit, in the way his hands curled into fists when Tooru smiled at someone else.

He’d watched Tooru on the court too many times—those powerful serves, the ball cracking like thunder, and that setter’s form, beautiful, precise. Tooru’s face would lift, neck tilting back, back arching before he sent the ball soaring, perfect every time. A movement etched into Wakatoshi’s mind like a scar. 

He admired it. He admired him. 

And then, at some point, admiration twisted into something else.

What if he arched like that on top of me? 

The thought had crept in like a slow poison, sinking into his bloodstream before he could stop it. 

What if his back curved like that while taking me all inside?

Wakatoshi had never been prone to indulgent fantasies, but Tooru—Tooru had made a ruin of him.

He was smitten with everything the setter did, the way he moved, the way he provoked, the way he was just out of reach. 

And maybe it was sick, maybe it was wrong, but he couldn’t stop. 

Because every time Tooru’s body stretched, every time his lips parted with exertion, every time he looked at Wakatoshi like he was daring him to break—

God.

Oikawa Tooru.

Oikawa, Tooru… 

The very name was a pulse beneath Wakatoshi’s skin, a rhythm in his blood, a prayer he never meant to utter. Yet his heart kept chanting it, over and over again, like a sacred mantra.

Tooru had always been his wonderwall. The shore he could never reach, the mirage that both tormented and sustained him.

On the court, Wakatoshi had never known defeat.

But in the quiet, relentless war of the heart—against Tooru, against himself—he had lost from the very first glance.

He’d told Tooru once, in their first year, that Aoba Johsai didn’t deserve him—not as an insult, but as fact. You could be more than this. Tooru had laughed, sharp and bitter, and called him an arrogant bastard. Wakatoshi hadn’t corrected him. His words always landed like stones—blunt, misaimed, wounding without intent.

And Tooru hated him for it.

Hated him for the victories, for the losses, for the way Wakatoshi’s shadow stretched long over every court they shared. 

An arch-enemy, Tooru had said more than once, spitting the word like it tasted of rust. Wakatoshi didn’t mind. Hate was a thread, thin but unbreakable, tying them together. 

Better than nothing.

And so Wakatoshi swallowed it whole, this love, this ruinous longing, and locked them behind his ribs, a secret that roared in the silence of his chest.

The quietest people, after all, carried the loudest storms inside them.

*ִ ࣪𖤐*

It was raining when Wakatoshi confessed.

He hadn’t planned for it to be. The sky had been clear that morning, the air thick with late spring warmth, as if even the seasons were congratulating Tooru on his graduation. But by the time the ceremony ended, when Wakatoshi finally found him outside the assembly hall of Aoba Johsai High, the world had been swallowed whole by gray.

Then, just as he was wondering whether he should go inside to look for him, Tooru appeared.

For a moment, everything else faded. The sound of rain, the murmur of conversations and distant laughter coming from beneath the eaves where students huddled for shelter—all of it blurred into nothing, because Tooru was walking toward him.

The Seijoh-blue sash draped neatly over one shoulder, a striking contrast against the crisp white of his uniform. Dark brown hair curled just slightly over his forehead—carefully tousled, framing his face in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless—artful, effortless, perfect.

It left nothing hidden: the proud arch of his brows, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the lips that held their shape between defiance and something softer, something unreadable.

And those hazel eyes—bright, sharp, knowing—slicing through distance and rain alike, finding Wakatoshi as if drawn by instinct alone.

Even in the rain, Oikawa Tooru was luminous. Even in the rain, he shone.

Tooru reached the last step, pausing just before him. He tilted his head slightly, voice smooth, lilting—so familiar, so distant.

“What do you want, Ushiwaka?”

Wakatoshi’s fingers curled around the handle of the umbrella. For a second, he forgot to breathe. 

“…Congratulations.” The word felt foreign in his mouth. Too small. Too insignificant for what he truly meant. But it was all he had, all he could offer before the weight in his chest threatened to break through his ribs.

Tooru blinked once, then let out a quiet huff—whether it was amusement or impatience, Wakatoshi couldn’t tell. The sound curled in his chest regardless.

A second blink, and before Tooru could speak again—Wakatoshi snapped the umbrella open with a quiet rustle, tilting it slightly before meeting his gaze.

“Walk with me.” His voice was low, steady—less a request, more a quiet certainty.

Tooru hesitated—just for a moment. His weight shifted subtly on the step, and in that sliver of time, Wakatoshi braced himself for refusal. But then Tooru sighed, rolling his eyes with familiar exasperation before stepping beneath the blue-lilac canopy Wakatoshi had lifted against the dull grey horizon.

“Fine. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood today.”

They walked in silence. The space between them was narrow enough that Tooru’s shoulder skimmed Wakatoshi’s sleeve, narrow enough that his warmth was tangible even through the damp chill in the air. The rain softened everything: their footsteps, their breath, the world itself, until all that remained was the hush of water meeting earth and the quiet rhythm of their strides.

It was only once they stepped inside the gazebo—away from the open sky, from the noise of the world—that Tooru finally spoke.

“Are you going to tell me what exactly brought the famous Super Ace all the way out here?” He asked, voice edged with demand, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Wakatoshi gave the umbrella one last shake before setting it against the foot of a pillar, then turned to face him.

“I came to see you,” he said simply. “With the hope of talking about my feelings.”

Tooru blinked, then scoffed. “Feelings?” A slow, deliberate arch of his brow. “Now that’s something you don’t hear every day. Never knew you were capable of them, Ushiwaka.”

His voice was light, mocking, but his gaze was sharp—searching. Measuring. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture loose in a way that seemed practiced, too casual, like he was prepared for whatever Wakatoshi was about to say.

But he wasn’t.

“I have feelings for you.” Wakatoshi stripped his heart bare right in front of Tooru. His voice steady and resounding in the quiet space between them. “For longer than I understood.”

It was simple, almost clinical in its delivery, but undeniably, unmistakably sincere.

Tooru’s breath hitched—just slightly, just enough that even he noticed it. The world around them seemed to pull tight, quieting in the way it did before a storm.

For a moment, all he could hear was the rain, the rhythmic drip of water sliding off the gazebo’s eaves.

Then he laughed.

Short, breathy, incredulous. Then louder, sharper, cutting through the hush of falling rain. He threw his head back, shoulders shaking, the way he did whenever someone said something truly ridiculous.

It shouldn’t have hurt.

"You must be kidding," Tooru exhaled, wiping his eyes. "You came all the way here, just to tell me that?"

Wakatoshi swallowed. The air between them was thick with the scent of wet pavement, of something unspoken and sinking.

I knew you would react this way.

Wakatoshi had predicted it, the way he predicted shots before they landed. Tooru was always like this—always biting before he could be bitten, always laughing before things could hurt.

But knowing didn’t make it easier.

"Yes," Wakatoshi replied. "And I meant what I said."

The laughter faded. Tooru’s expression was still sharp, still fixed in something that could almost be mistaken for amusement, but his fingers had curled tight around the fabric of his sleeve. A tremor in his hands, barely visible, but Wakatoshi saw it.

The setter scoffed, shaking his head. "You’re serious." His voice wavered, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Like he refused to believe it.

"I am."

For a second, Tooru said nothing.

Then— 

He ran a hand through his hair, when he spoke again, his voice cracked at the edges. "Of all the things, Wakatoshi. Of all the fucking things you could’ve said to me."

His jaw clenched, the sharp angles of his face lined with something raw, something fragile. “Do you even realize what you’re saying?” The frustration bled through, splintering at the seams. “You—You can’t just come to me now, after everything, and say shit like that. You don’t get to do that—”

Wakatoshi stepped closer.

Tooru immediately stepped back.

The air between them stretched, thin as a wire. A space neither of them could cross.

"It isn’t a demand," Wakatoshi said. His voice was as steady as it always was, but his fingers curled against his palm. "It’s simply the truth."

"Well, the truth fucking sucks.” Tooru bit out. His chest rose and fell, too fast, too uneven. He was slipping, losing hold of something, reaching for the one thing he knew wouldn’t fail him—deflection.

“What’s next, you’ll ask me to set for you?” Tooru asked, voice laced with something flippant, something desperate to anchor himself.

Wakatoshi’s eyes flickered, dark pools of quiet ruin. “I just wanted you to know,” yet the words came out everso simply. “That’s all.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Wakatoshi bent down, fingers closing around the umbrella he had left by the pillar. He didn’t open it. Didn’t shift it in his grip. Just held it, contemplative, before extending it toward Tooru.

“You should take this.”

Tooru frowned. “What?”

“You’ll need it more than I do.” Wakatoshi’s voice remained calm. “Your friends must be waiting.”

Tooru didn’t take it. His arms remained crossed, body taut. “And what, you’re just gonna walk back in the rain?”

“I don’t mind the rain.”

The answer made Tooru's jaw clench. Of course Wakatoshi would say something like that—stupidly, unbearably him.

Tooru swallowed against the tightness in his chest, gaze flickering between the umbrella and Wakatoshi’s face, then finally landed on Wakatoshi’s right shoulder.

On this side of his uniform where the rain drenched through, the fabric clinging wet against his skin. Dark patches had bloomed there, ink bleeding into white.

Tooru came to realize.

So that was why he hadn’t felt a single raindrop on him.

The umbrella had been too small for two people. And yet, not a single drop.

Because Wakatoshi had been tilting the umbrella the whole time.

Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to keep him untainted. Quietly, carefully, shouldering the downpour himself—without a word, without hesitation.

Something curled deep in Tooru’s chest, slow and aching. His fingers twitched. He wanted to reach out, grab Wakatoshi by the sleeve, and say—

What?

What the hell was he supposed to say?

A shiver ran down Tooru’s spine, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the cold.

It got under his skin.

And what was worse—what was unforgivable—was that it didn’t just happen once.

Tooru couldn’t forget it—the way Wakatoshi had stood alone at the station, rain soaking through his uniform, running in rivulets down the curve of his jaw, dripping from his chin onto the collar of his blazer.

The way he had turned back at the last second, just once before boarding, glancing toward the platform entrance with those sad, sad eyes. 

Searching, waiting, heavy with something Tooru refused to name.

Like he was hoping for something.

Like Wakatoshi was hoping for him.

Tooru didn’t know why that thought made his chest ache. The umbrella sat in his room for days, untouched, folded in its quiet accusation.

He’d laughed because it was impossible, because Ushiwaka couldn’t have any sort of romantic feelings for him, not after everything.

But the memory of that confession clawed at him, relentless, until his chest ached, but the sound had curdled in his throat, sour and wrong. 

Tooru didn’t sleep that night, or the next. Maybe it was because he had never seen Wakatoshi like that before—quietly, completely, unbearably human.

*ִ ࣪𖤐*

They met again, as if by some cruel cosmic arrangement, in the sweltering heat of the National Youth Training Camp.

When Tooru walked into the gym on the first day, the first thing he saw was him.

Wakatoshi was by the far court, adjusting the tape on his fingers, oblivious to the stares of the other players. He hadn’t changed much—still broad, still stoic, still carrying himself with the kind of presence that made it impossible not to look at him.

But something was different.

Something in the way he stood, in the way he glanced over but didn’t linger, in the way he didn’t react when their eyes met. 

As if nothing had happened. As if Tooru hadn’t been living with that memory—that moment of unexpected truth—buried under his skin for weeks.

Heat coiled in his stomach, slow and insidious. 

Ushiwaka wasn’t Ushiwaka anymore—too quiet, too distant, like their rivalry and that confession was rubble beneath a rebuilt wall.

Tooru hated it. He missed the blunt bastard who’d pressed against him, not this shell who’d stepped back.

"You’re ignoring me," he accused later that evening, cornering Wakatoshi outside the dorms. The air was thick with the scent of damp grass, of summer heat settling into the pavement.

Wakatoshi barely blinked. "I greeted you earlier."

"You nodded at me. That’s not greeting me, that’s acknowledging my existence."

"That is a form of greeting," Wakatoshi said.

Tooru grit his teeth. "That’s not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

Tooru suddenly wanted to hit him. Or shake him. Or maybe grab him by the collar, slam him against the nearest wall, and demand—

Why aren’t you acting like you confessed to me just a month and two weeks ago?

Instead, he narrowed his eyes. "This isn’t the attitude you should have with someone you have feelings for."

Wakatoshi exhaled. Not quite a sigh, but something close. “You rejected me. I respect that.” Then, without hesitation, without flinching, he looked Tooru straight in the eye and continued, “Moving on seems to be the right thing to do.”

Tooru’s stomach lurched. His breath caught, but he forced out a scoff—something hollow, something biting, something that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Who are you to decide that?"

“I am not anyone,” Wakatoshi said, voice soft, a quiet endnote that sank into the air. “But the feelings are mine. And this is my way of dealing with them.”

The words settled between them like the last embers of a dying fire, fragile and burning all the same.

Tooru hated the way it sounded like an ending between them.

His fingers curled tight at his sides, nails biting into his palms. His pulse pounded, drowning out reason, drowning out the part of him that told him to let this go—to let him go.

But he couldn’t.

Not when Wakatoshi stood there, steady and unshaken, speaking of moving on like it was something simple.

Like it was something Tooru was supposed to just accept.

Like he hadn’t dropped that confession between them like a live grenade and expected Tooru to walk away unscathed.

So he moved, drawn to the one who’d ignited all of this chaos—the confusion in his mind, the bitterness in his heart, the restlessness clawing beneath his ribs. 

"You don’t get to just decide this. You don’t get to—"

You don’t get to leave me behind. These words never left his mouth, but they burned at the back of his throat.

By the time he stopped, they were closer than they had ever been, closer than the inches that once separated them across a volleyball net. Close enough that Tooru could see the flickering depths of Wakatoshi’s gaze, unreadable yet impossibly steady.

Close enough that Tooru could feel the warmth radiating off him, the quiet, maddening steadiness that made Tooru’s own breath stutter.

"You got me involved in this emotional game of yours the second you spoke to me that day under the rain," Tooru bit out, voice caught between accusation and something far too vulnerable.

At the same time, his hand shot out, fingers curling around Wakatoshi’s wrist before he could think better of it—before hesitation could slip in and steal the moment. The warmth of his skin seeped into Tooru’s palm, solid, real, grounding.

Wakatoshi stilled. His expression barely shifted, but Tooru knew him well enough to catch the flicker of surprise in his eyes, the catch of his breath, the subtle flex of fingers as Tooru’s thumb traced the veins creeping up his forearm, featherlight as it slipped into his palm.

And Tooru—oh, he thrived on that.

He pressed closer, until their breaths wove together, indistinguishable. His hand slid higher, fingers digging into Wakatoshi’s shoulder—firm, unyielding, a wall he could scale. Then, with measured intent, he rose onto his toes, closing the last whisper of space between them. His lips grazed the curve of Wakatoshi’s ear—a fleeting heat, a spark that lingered.

Wakatoshi’s breath hitched, faint but sharp, and Tooru’s pulse surged, dark and hungry.

"I never actually said anything about rejecting you," he murmured, his voice dipping—soft, daring—a tease laced with promise. His pulse thrummed beneath his skin, betraying the calm he was trying so hard to hold onto.

“We are far from done, Ushiwaka.”

The words left him honeyed and perilous, lingering in the charged space between them like a snare—a vow lifting their tangled years into something wild, something spiraling beyond their grasp.

*ִ ࣪𖤐*

If anything—anything—Wakatoshi would know about Tooru with certainty, it would definitely be his unbound stubbornness to let anything slip past him without a fight, without twisting it to his will. 

And Tooru always knew exactly what to do to push him past the verge of restraint. A slow unraveling, a carefully orchestrated game where the setter was the only one who knew the rules.

It started in a subtle way. 

Tooru would hover by Wakatoshi’s side during meals, chopsticks darting over his plate, stealing bites of Hayashi rice like it was his birthright.

"Hmm, doesn’t taste as good as I thought," Tooru would muse, rolling the flavor over his tongue, eyes locking onto Wakatoshi with a glint of mischief. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he’d lift his thumb to his mouth, dragging his tongue along the pad of his finger, licking away an invisible grain of rice. 

His lips would part just slightly, glistening, and then he’d tilt his head, voice curling light and teasing into the air. "What are you looking at?"

Wakatoshi’s grip tightened on his spoon, jaw locked. The air would thicken, Tooru’s laugh a melody threading through it, bright and sharp, testing the edges of Wakatoshi’s calm.

Then it grew bolder. 

First, it was the way Tooru started calling him Wakatoshi.

Not Ushiwaka, not Ushijima. Just Wakatoshi.

Each syllable dripped off his tongue with deliberate ease, rich and lilting, like Tooru was savoring the taste of it before letting it spill into the air between them. 

Wa-ka-to-shi.  

Soft at the start, then dropping lower on the final syllable, hushed yet intimate. A sound meant for his ears alone.  Wakatoshi had felt it—not just heard it, but felt it—a heat curling beneath his skin, something dangerously close to pleasure. Something inside him flinched—an involuntary, imperceptible reaction, a jolt low in his spine. 

Wakatoshi nearly parted his lips to respond, nearly let out an instinctive, breathless “Yes, Tooru?” before he caught himself just in time.

Then came the touches.

In the common room, Tooru would sprawl against him on the couch, match replays flickering across the screen—his head tipping onto Wakatoshi’s shoulder, soft hair brushing his neck, a quiet invasion. Minutes later, he’d shift, thigh pressing against Wakatoshi’s, fingers grazing his arm as he reached for the remote—casual, too casual.

His breath warm against Wakatoshi’s ear when he murmured. "Why so stiff, Wakatoshi? Loosen up. It’s just me."

Each touch lingered longer, each word dipped lower, and Wakatoshi’s pulse would stutter, a storm swelling behind his ribs.

And not to mention the water bottle incident. 

It was after practice, sweat clinging to their skin, breath still ragged from drills. Wakatoshi had barely finished taking a sip when Tooru approached, flushed and radiant under the gym’s harsh lights.

Without hesitation, he reached for the bottle still clutched in Wakatoshi’s grip, tipped it to his own lips—and drank from the exact same spot Wakatoshi had.

The world didn’t stop turning, but something in Wakatoshi did.

The team noticed. Kageyama made a strangled noise in the background. Hinata gawked.

But Tooru? Tooru only made it worse.

He let a small trickle of water slip past the corner of his mouth, tracing a slow, glistening line tracing the delicate angle of his jaw, down his throat, disappearing beneath the damp fabric of his jersey. Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he lifted the hem of his shirt, dragging it along his skin, wiping the trail away with an almost lazy motion.

For Wakatoshi to see.

See the toned cut of Tooru’s abdomen, the damp sheen of sweat, the way his fingers flexed against the fabric, slow, indulgent. 

And Wakatoshi did see it all—and hated himself for wondering how Tooru would look beneath him, gasping, shivering, wrecked—

No. No.

Wakatoshi turned away, jaw clenched, fists tight. Behind him, Tooru’s laughter followed—light as air, sharp as a blade—a melody laced with something dangerous. A warning. 

"Why run, Wakatoshi?"

The words didn’t need to be spoken. They curled between them, a silent dare, a trap already closing in.

" Stay. Play this wicked game with me."

"I promise—it’ll be fun."

"There’s no escaping anyway."

But those were nothing next to what Tooru pulled the day the rain came down hard, same as when Wakatoshi confessed. Outside, the world was a smear of gray—rain pounding the gym’s roof, steady and cold, the pavement slick and dark beyond the windows. Inside, it was different—warm, still, the air thick with the sharp tang of sweat and the hum of their breathing. The team had cleared out before the downpour hit, leaving just the two of them. 

Alone. Together. 

An extra practice session, a simple request from the coach—to sharpen their edges, refine their play. But now, as Wakatoshi stood there, eyes on Tooru stretching out on the mat—shirt hitched up, bare skin catching the dim fluorescent light—he wondered. 

Perhaps this wasn't any chance or coincidence. Tooru might have conducted it right from the start, stubborn and cunning, turning the gym into his stage, the rain his curtain.

"Help me stretch," Tooru said, voice smooth, innocent only in pretense. 

Wakatoshi wasn’t blind. He saw the flicker of mischief beneath those lashes, the way Tooru’s fingers flexed against the mat before relaxing, inviting. It was an excuse—one Wakatoshi had heard before—but he still lowered himself to his knees beside him, hands settling on Tooru’s calf as he pushed his leg up toward his chest.

And then, a sound that came out from Tooru caught him off guard instantly.

A long, drawn-out exhale, threaded with something far too sensual for the situation, breathy and sweet. It licked against Wakatoshi’s skin, burned down the back of his neck, settled deep in his gut like a molten weight.

He clenched his jaw. Tightened his grip. Focus.

But Tooru did it again. 

“Ahh~” 

It was soft at first, a sigh turning to a moan, stretching into something drawn-out and decadent. The setter arched slightly, letting his head tip back, sweat-damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, his breath hitching as if he was savoring the tension in his muscles, lips parted just enough for another breathy sound to escape.

“Hmm~~! Feels so good…”

Wakatoshi gritted his teeth, every muscle in his body wound tight. He fought back the heat creeping up his spine, fought the rush of blood thickening between his thighs, fought the way his fingers ached to tighten their hold, to dig in, to grip.

Everything was at plain sight for him to acknowledge.

These weren’t sounds of discomfort. They weren’t sounds of effort.

They were for him. Tooru was moaning for Wakatoshi. To fill his ears, to flood his senses, pulling him deeper into the unraveling spiral of his own restraint.

He should have known it by now.

This wasn’t about stretching. This wasn’t about muscle soreness. This was about him. About pushing Wakatoshi, testing him, seeing how far he could be provoked before something snapped.

“Mmm... right there,” Tooru purred, throat exposed, hazel eyes half-lidded and locked on his dark-shaded olive irises.

The next moan that spilled from Tooru’s parted lips was pure obscene. Filthy. Wet. The kind of sound that could drive any man insane within seconds. Wakatoshi’s grip faltered, his breath catching at the sound of it. 

But there was no other man here.

Only Wakatoshi.

Only him, sitting there, knees firm against the mat, watching Tooru unravel before his very eyes—watching the setter moan for him, move for him, melt under his touch like he had been waiting for this moment all along.

Wakatoshi reacted before he could think, his hand shooting up, clamping over Tooru’s mouth in a desperate attempt to silence him—to stop him from vexing him, from drawing him deeper into this unbearable heat, from making him come undone with nothing but his dangerously dulcet voice.

"Enough," he ground out, voice low and rough, betraying the tension strung tight through his body.

But Tooru had already made his move. Soft and warm lips pressed against Wakatoshi’s palm. A slow, deliberate pressure that shouldn’t have been there. 

And then—a new sensation.

Tooru’s tongue flicked out to lick, to tease and to taste the rough calluses of Wakatoshi’s palm. So wet, so hot and terribly wicked.

Like he had just been offered something sinful and he intended to indulge.

At the same time, his foot traced along Wakatoshi’s thigh at a torturous pacing, until it nudged against something undeniably hard.

“Uh oh,” Tooru cooed, breathless laughter dripping from his lips, his toes curling just at the tip of Wakatoshi’s hardening cock, teasing it through the fabric, making him twitch. “Somebody’s really tense down here.”

Wakatoshi exhaled sharply, lips pressed into a thin line—just as thin as his fraying restraint. His muscles went rigid, eyebrows furrowing as Tooru smirked up at him, flexing his foot just enough to feel, to nurture the heat swelling thick and unrelenting beneath Wakatoshi’s skin.

His cock now twitched under the attention, stiffening against his will, against reason, against the control he was barely holding onto.

"Tooru," Wakatoshi let out a grunt, low and warning, his voice as deep as a wave crashing beneath the ocean. "Stop testing me."

But Tooru only smiled. "Testing you?" he mused, pressing down harder, just enough to provoke. "Oh, Wakatoshi, I think you’re failing already."

That was it. For a fraction of a second, Wakatoshi’s focus wavered—just enough for Tooru to strike.

With practiced ease, he pushed himself up, twisting in a single fluid motion, using the momentum to flip them before Wakatoshi could react.

Then—a weight pressing down.

His thighs bracketed Wakatoshi’s hips, palms planted firmly against his chest, his body warm and so perfectly placed—grinding down, pressing exactly where Wakatoshi was already aching, rolling his hips with sinful precision.

Tooru moved like he had all the time in the world.

Extremely slow and incredibly cruel.

Each grind sent another shockwave of heat down Wakatoshi’s spine, another unbearable pulse of arousal curling low in his gut. The friction was devastating—too much and yet not enough, his cock straining against the fabric, throbbing, caught between the tight squeeze of his pants and the maddening pressure of Tooru’s infuriating pace.

And Tooru knew it.

He felt it, he was making sure of it—dragging himself against Wakatoshi with teasing little shifts, breathy little sounds coated in sweet nectar, smirking down at him with those dark, lidded eyes like he was enjoying every second of watching Wakatoshi lose control.

"So quiet now," Tooru murmured, tilting his head, fingers ghosting down the sculpted lines of Wakatoshi’s chest. His touch was featherlight, a stark contrast to the unbearable heat pooling between them. "Still holding back, Wakatoshi?"

A rush of air left Wakatoshi’s lungs. The way his name spilled from Tooru’s lips—slow, melodic, dipped in the sweetest sin—made Wakatoshi’s grip tighten, nails nearly digging into Tooru’s thighs, caught between restraint and the primal urge to grab, to take.

Tooru noticed. Of course he did.

He leaned in, lips brushing Wakatoshi’s flushed earlobe, warm and far too close. “You said you’d put your feelings to rights,” he purred, voice dipping into something silkier—deadlier.

“Let me guess…” His hips circled, then slid back and forth—grinding their hardness together, rougher, fiercer. "Did you stuff them all in here?"

And with that, Tooru ground down, hard. A devastating press, a perfect, wicked friction. 

Enough to obliterate whatever composure Wakatoshi had left, enough to punch the air from his lungs, to make his vision white-out at the edges.

Then, his weight shifted just enough to give Wakatoshi a moment’s reprieve—but only so he could admire the mess he had made of him.

His index finger traced along the sharp, masculine lines of Wakatoshi’s face—his jaw, clenched so tightly it could crack; his cheek, warm under Tooru’s touch; his lips, parted just slightly, a trace of breathless restraint still lingering.

"Gotta admit..." Tooru mused, voice syrupy, thick with amusement as he looked down at him—at the wrecked, disheveled version of Ushijima Wakatoshi that he had crafted with his own hands. "You under me like this, it’s quite a sight for sore eyes.”

His lips curling at the corners, dark amusement glittering in his gaze. "So how about we cut the bullshit about feelings and just fuc—ahh!”

His words splintered into a sharp yelp as Wakatoshi’s hands seized him—one clamping onto his waist with bruising force, the other, that devastatingly strong left hand, gripping his ass with unrelenting possession. A firm squeeze, rough fingers sinking into flesh, and then—smack!

A vicious, searing crack reverberated through the gym as Wakatoshi’s palm met the curve of Tooru’s ass, a strike so sharp, so punishing. Red finger marks instantly blooming across Tooru’s pale skin like fiery petals. His body jolted forward, a shudder of pained pleasure rolling through him, teeth sinking into his lower lip to stifle the sound threatening to escape.

But Wakatoshi wasn’t done. Another strike followed, harsher, deliberate, the force of it rocking Tooru onto his toes.

A ragged breath hitched in Tooru’s throat, his dark eyes wide—not just in shock, but something dangerously close to delight.

For the first time, Wakatoshi felt the scales tip at his favor. Watching Tooru unravel beneath his touch—flushed, breathless, trembling between pain and pleasure—sent a dark, visceral satisfaction curling through his gut.

Tooru swallowed hard, trying to regain some semblance of composure, but his voice wavered, unsteady. “Did you just… hit me?”

Wakatoshi’s gaze was molten steel, unflinching. “I told you to stop. I was trying to play fair—unlike you.”

Tooru’s lips parted, then curled into a slow, defiant smirk. “Oh? And what was so unfair about me?”

Wakatoshi’s fingers flexed against the curve of Tooru’s waist, his grip firm, possessive. The heat of his palm lingered, searing into skin, a ghost of the sharp slaps that had left Tooru breathless just moments before. But now, his touch had changed—no longer just punishment, but something darker, something deeper. 

“Everything.”

The word spilled from his mouth like a confession, low and guttural, vibrating against the space between them. His other hand moved, slow and deliberate, dragging up the dip of Tooru’s spine, fingers pressing into the smooth plane of his back.

“Everything about you is unfair,” he murmured, fingers tightening, dragging Tooru flush against him. “The way you look at me—like you know exactly how to drive me insane. The way you move, the way you speak, even the way you exist—” 

Tooru sucked in a breath, his smirk faltering for just a second as Wakatoshi lifted himself up a little bit, reached out a hand behind Tooru’s exposed nape, fingers curled behind Tooru’s nape, pulling him down, dragging him close until their foreheads nearly touched, until their lips hovered.  “All of it is unfair.”

“You walk into a room, and suddenly nothing else matters,” Wakatoshi continued, his voice weighted with years of restrained want. “You talk, and I listen. You smile, and I—” He exhaled sharply, his eyes flickering with something almost desperate. “I can’t look away.”

Wakatoshi’s touch was reverent, almost trembling with restraint as his fingers cradled Tooru’s face, mapping each delicate curve as though it were something fragile, something sacred. His calloused fingertips ghosted over the fine arch of the setter’s cheekbones, the gentle slope of his nose, down to the plushness of his lips—soft, warm, slightly parted in breathless anticipation.

His thumb lingered there, pressing faintly against Tooru’s bottom lip, marveling at the way it gave beneath his touch. So soft. So impossibly beautiful it made his chest ache. 

Wakatoshi’s gaze followed the path his fingers made, drinking in every detail—the way the dim light caught the dewy sheen of Tooru’s skin, the way his dark lashes fluttered as if unsure whether to close or keep watching him, the way his lips trembled against his thumb as if silently asking for more.

Their noses brushed, their lips barely apart, breaths mingling in the charged air. The longing between them pulsed, thick and unbearable. 

“And that, Tooru…” Wakatoshi’s voice was nothing but a broken whisper now, raw and desperate, falling directly inside Tooru’s gasped mouth, “is the most unfair thing of all.”

Tooru barely had a second to react before Wakatoshi’s grip tightened—not forceful, but firm, as if grounding himself in the sensation of Tooru beneath his hands.

His breath was unsteady, the exhale sharp against Tooru’s lips, his fingers flexing against his jaw, as if debating whether to let go or hold on forever.

"If you don’t like me…" Wakatoshi’s voice came low, rough with something perilously close to pleading. “Then stop using my feelings against me. Stop doing things that make me want more.”

More.

The word hung between them, thick and unspoken, curling into the spaces left untouched.

Tooru looked at Wakatoshi then, really looked at him—at the tense line of his jaw, the unsteady rise and fall of his chest, the way his eyes, usually so composed, burned with unguarded desire that he had been trying so desperately to suppress.

Then came Tooru’s voice. Soft and knowning. “What’s wrong with wanting more from the one you’ve loved hating all these years?”

The quiet admission made Wakatoshi feel like he’d been struck.

There it is. A quiet, undeniable truth.

“You don’t understand.”

Tooru tilted his head, the shift of his body sending another agonizing spark of friction between them. “Then make me understand.”

Wakatoshi’s restraint was at its absolute limit. His muscles coiled tight, his skin burning, every nerve in his body screaming for release.

“I don’t just like you, Tooru. I want you to be mine. Only mine.”

Tooru’s pupils dilated.

“When I said I had strong feelings for you, I didn’t just mean love. Or affection.” His voice was darker now, deeper, every syllable saturated with something possessive, something unhinged.

Something primal flickered across Tooru’s face. His breath came quicker now, his fingers twitching against Wakatoshi’s chest.

“My love has layers, Tooru." Wakatoshi admitted, raw and unfiltered, each syllable sinking deep. “And some of them aren’t kind. They aren’t gentle. They—”

“They might even ruin me?” Tooru whispered, his voice barely a breath.

Wakatoshi swallowed hard.

The tension between them was unbearable now, a living, breathing thing curling around their bodies, refusing to let go. And then—to his utter destruction—Tooru leaned in, lips grazing his, the touch so light, so fleeting it left Wakatoshi starving.

He felt Tooru was smiling against his lips.

Not mocking. Not teasing. Something real.

“Show me.” Tooru murmured, his voice a slow, intoxicating taunt, like honey dripping from his mouth. 

At the same time, his fingers curled around Wakatoshi’s hand, prying it from his face, guiding it downward, over the soft stretch of his jersey, pressing it flat against his chest—right above his heart.

Wakatoshi could feel it. A wild, fluttering rhythm, fast and unsteady, so different from the steady beat of his own. And yet, it felt the same—too much, too consuming, as if both their hearts had been running toward each other all along.

Tooru’s hazel eyes locked onto him, burned with reckless want. “I want to feel it,” he breathed. “All of it. Prove how much you want me. I'm daring you, Wakatoshi—take it, or walk away as you wish.”

And in that moment, with his palm against Tooru’s pounding heart, Wakatoshi knew—he would give him everything.

It happened in a breath. A single second where everything shifted—where restraint snapped like a fragile thread, where the flood of heat and hunger crashed through Wakatoshi’s body and took control.

One moment, Tooru was in his arms, teasing, daring. The next, Tooru was pinned beneath him—his wrists captured, pressed into the sheets above his head, his body was held captive beneath Wakatoshi’s unrelenting weight.

“I would have you right here, right now.” His grip on Tooru’s wrists tightened, firm but never cruel, his breath hot against his flushed skin. “Until you beg for mercy.”

Tooru’s lips parted, then curved into something wicked, something deliciously inviting. His legs curled around Wakatoshi’s waist, ankles locking, heels pressing into the hard muscles of his back. The motion dragged their bodies together, a slow, tantalizing friction that made Wakatoshi exhale through his nose, fighting to stay in control.

“Very well.” Tooru’s voice dripped like silk and sin, his hazel eyes smoldering, dark with challenge. “I would love to see you try.”

And that was it.

Wakatoshi surged forward, capturing Tooru’s mouth in a kiss that stole the air from both their lungs.

The kiss was not soft. It was not tender. It was raw, devouring, consuming. 

Tooru gasped into Wakatoshi’s mouth, but the sound was lost between them as Wakatoshi swallowed him whole—his breath, his voice, his very essence. Their lips parted only for a millisecond before Wakatoshi deepened the kiss, tilting his head, tongue invaded, sliding past parted lips, tasting, conquering. Tooru shuddered beneath him, his body arching into the searing heat pressing down on him. 

Wakatoshi’s teeth caught Tooru’s bottom lip, biting, tugging—not enough to break skin, but enough to make Tooru’s breath caught, his legs tightening around Wakatoshi’s waist, his fingers clenching into fists against the grip holding him down.

The pain barely had time to bloom before Wakatoshi soothed it away—his tongue following, slow and deliberate, tracing the tender flesh he’d just bitten, licking the sting away with a dark sort of satisfaction.

When they finally parted for air, their breaths came ragged, shallow, their lips swollen and slick with each other.

Tooru’s mouth was red, swollen, glistening with Wakatoshi’s touch. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gasps, his pupils blown wide, his expression caught between dazed and ruined.

Wakatoshi’s thumb brushed over Tooru’s lower lip, pressing against the spot where his teeth had just been. “You’re trembling,” he murmured, voice rough, with a glint of tease.

Tooru licked his lips, his breath stuttering. “Y-You’re insatiable.”

For now, there was no more unfairness, no more games.

There was only this—only them—lips on lips, skin on skin, heart against heart.

Outside, rain pounded the gym roof, lashed against the windows, a relentless roar, thunder rumbling through the sky like a distant growl—but neither of them noticed. All they could hear was the ragged cadence of their breaths, the slick sound of skin against skin, the sound of their hearts—pounding, wild, as if trying to break free from their chests and fuse into one.

Wakatoshi’s hands roamed, rough yet reverent, tracing the curves of Tooru’s body as if committing every inch to memory. His jersey was shoved up, bunched at his neck, exposing smooth, sweat-slicked skin to the hungry path of Wakatoshi’s mouth. Tooru shuddered when he felt it—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down his torso, the scrape of teeth against sensitive flesh, the sharp pleasure of a bite just above his ribs.

Then lower.

Wakatoshi’s lips latched onto a nipple, tongue swirling, teasing, before his teeth sank in, just enough to make Tooru arch and gasp—a sound so sweet, so utterly intoxicating.

“You make the prettiest sounds,” Wakatoshi murmured against his skin, his voice dark with satisfaction, his hand splayed possessively over the dip of Tooru’s waist.

A moan curling from his lips before Tooru could swallow it. “Shut up,” he muttered, but the words held no bite—not when his fingers were tangled in Wakatoshi’s hair, pulling him closer, urging him on.

Wakatoshi didn’t shut up.

He only smirked against his skin before continuing kissing downward, lower, lower, until his lips hovered just above the center of Tooru’s heat. The anticipation made Tooru tremble, his thighs tensing on either side of Wakatoshi’s broad shoulders.

And then—fabric being yanked, a sudden rush of cool air, and Tooru barely had a moment to register it before his briefs were gone, tossed aside, leaving him completely bare beneath Wakatoshi’s intense gaze.

Wakatoshi’s hands were relentless, one sliding down to stroke Tooru’s swollen length, the other venturing lower, fingers teasing at his entrance. Tooru’s breath hitched, legs instinctively parting wider, his body already pleading without words. Wakatoshi’s thumb brushed over the tip, spreading wetness, while his fingers curled inside, finding that one spot that made Tooru cry out, his body arching off the sheets.

Tooru was shaking now, his hands gripping at nothing, his thighs trembling as Wakatoshi worked him open—adding another finger, then another, stretching him with steady, unrelenting precision. Each movement, each press, sent new waves of pleasure coursing through him, leaving him breathless.

“Wakatoshi—” Tooru gasped, voice thin with need. “Enough, just—” His hips rolled, his body clenching around Wakatoshi’s fingers, his cock twitching under his touch. “Just fuck me already—”

Tooru’s nails bit into Wakatoshi’s shoulders as he twisted beneath him, needy, desperate. “I want you in me—” he gasped, voice shaking. “Please—”

He writhed, moans spilling out, high and desperate. “Wakatoshi—fuck—put it in,” he whined, as those fingers twisted inside. 

Wakatoshi’s eyes darkened, drinking in all of Tooru’s pleas. Wakatoshi didn’t make him wait any longer, he pulled his fingers free—guiding his cock, thick and pulsing, to the entrance—then thrust, all in one brutal slide, balls smacking Tooru’s ass with a loud, wet slap. 

Wakatoshi was everywhere inside Tooru. 

Tooru’s head snapped back, his mouth falling open in a silent moan, his body stretching, swallowing Wakatoshi whole. The feeling was overwhelming—too much, not enough, everything he had been aching for all at once.

And Wakatoshi—Wakatoshi groaned low in his throat, the sound thick with pleasure, his hands gripping Tooru’s hips like a vice as he pressed deeper, burying himself to the hilt.

Tooru came instantly—a sharp cry tearing out, cum spilling hot across his stomach—as Wakatoshi’s cock slammed his inner flesh, walls clenching tight around him.

“It’s heaven inside you, Tooru…” Wakatoshi murmured, voice low and tender, a caress against the storm of his thrusts—fast, merciless, driven by Tooru’s moans, the way his body shook, arched, surrendered. He fucked into him with a maddening pace—skin stinging where his balls slapped Tooru’s raw, sensitive flesh, leaving red marks searing across his ass cheeks. 

“You are so beautiful like this…” he breathed, sweet nothings spilling as he watched Tooru unravel, overstimulated, high on the ecstasy of being taken so deep, pain threading through every shudder.

At some point, Wakatoshi’s hands gripped Tooru’s legs—slick with sweat, trembling—lifting them higher, pressing them up until Tooru’s knees braced his own head, folding him in half, open and vulnerable. Their bodies fused—sweat-soaked, no space left—like two pieces carved to fit, and Wakatoshi filled it all, his weight pinning Tooru down. 

“So perfect—taking me so well,” he whispered, voice soft, adoring, a stark contrast to the loud slap of skin on skin deafening. Their hands locked—fingers intertwining, knuckles whitening—Tooru’s feet dangling over Wakatoshi’s shoulders, toes curling into muscle as he took every thrust, every sting.

“Harder—hurt me more,” Tooru gasped, voice breaking, body arching into the pain, craving it, his skin blooming red under every strike. “Wreck me like you mean it…”

The wet, obscene sounds of their bodies colliding filled the room, mingling with the ragged symphony of their moans, the slick slide of skin on skin, the slap of Wakatoshi’s hips against Tooru’s ass, the squelching of Wakatoshi's cock going inside and outside of Tooru's dripping wet hole.

Tooru was spiraling, his body tightening with each thrust, his cock trapped between them, throbbing, aching. And then—

“Wakatoshi—" Tooru gasped, his voice breaking, his body shuddering.

"Let go," Wakatoshi murmured against his lips, his pounding went erratic, desperate. "I’ve got you."

And that was all it took.

Tooru came with a cry, his entire body seizing, pleasure crashing over him in violent, uncontrollable waves. His release painted their stomachs, his walls pulsing around Wakatoshi in a vice grip that drove him over the edge—

With a final, shuddering thrust, Wakatoshi followed, spilling inside him with a low, wrecked groan, his entire body tensing before collapsing against Tooru, their chests heaving, their bodies slick with sweat and pleasure.

That moment of bliss should have been the end—the perfect close to a dream brought to life, the only wish Wakatoshi had ever dared to make. He let out a breath, steadying himself, preparing to pull away. But just as he started to rise, a desperate warmth wrapped around him.

Tooru's arms tightened around his back, his body arching up, pulling him closer—pulling him back. “Don’t you dare,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, breathless, needy. 

His fingers curled against Wakatoshi’s skin, nails raking just enough to send a shiver down his spine. His body alight with renewed hunger. Then, all of sudden, but intentionally, Tooru surged up, kissing Wakatoshi like he couldn’t bear to be apart, like he’d die if he didn’t press his lips to every inch of him right this second.

A hurried smooch to his forehead. A fluttering kiss to his temple. One to the tip of his nose, almost clumsy, followed by another to the space between his brows. Tooru's lips ghosted over both eyelids, then both cheeks, one after the other—soft and greedy and desperate all at once.

His mouth found Wakatoshi’s jaw, kissed down its curve in frantic little pecks, breath hitching against his skin. His lips brushed over Wakatoshi's chin, then returned in a rush to his mouth, sealing them together again like it wasn’t enough, like it would never be enough.

Tooru murmured between kisses, his voice breaking into something sweet and filthy and utterly wrecked, “Fuck me more. Do filthy things to me. Ruin me like you love me.” He giggled then, breathless, the sound laced with need and mischief all at once, “Please? Please, Toshi? Fill me up inside. Make me feel everything. I want to ache with you.” 

A quiet gasp left him as his body clenched, his thighs trembling around Wakatoshi’s waist. And as if responding to his demand, his hole tightened around Wakatoshi’s still-sensitive cock, pulsing, beckoning.

Wakatoshi froze for half a second, his breath hitching—before Tooru felt it. The way his body responded, as if obeying a command it had no will to resist. The tell tale throb of Wakatoshi’s length inside him, swelling against his walls, answering his plea without words.

“Toshi,” Tooru sighed, the name sacred yet sinful, a moan woven into a prayer, repeated like a mantra. His hands roamed, restless, greedy—sliding over wakatoshi’s hips, lower back, tracing muscled curves, up to his shoulders, kneading with fervent need. His legs twitched, still wrapped around Wakatoshi’s hips, body trembling with aftershocks yet craving more.

“Wanna be your good little fucktoy,” he whispered into his ear, pressing a kiss there too, “Wanna be messy and dripping for you—so, so messy I’ll be leaking down my thighs for hours.” He giggled again, that airy, teasing sound drew a sound that could only be described as a growl from Wakatoshi. “Can you make me cry on your cock ‘cause it feels too good?”

A shuddering breath escaped him as he kissed Wakatoshi’s shoulder—one, then two, then three little pecks in quick succession. Then, Tooru smiled against his skin, dazed and delirious, pupils blown wide, and sighed dreamily as if he was floating.

“Do it, Toshi... Please. Fuck me like I’m everything you want.”

Wakatoshi’s entire body tensed—his breath left him in a slow, strangled groan, the heat of Tooru’s voice curling down his spine like smoke. He tried to stay still, to hold onto the fragile thread of restraint, but it was already snapping.

“Tooru…” he groaned the setter’s name, his forehead dropping against the curve of Tooru’s shoulder, as if trying to ground himself—trying to resist the way his body was already yielding. 

And just like that—Wakatoshi was achingly hard again.

Tooru smirked, barely holding back a moan as he rolled his hips, feeling Wakatoshi stiffen inside him. “See?” His lips brushed Wakatoshi’s ear, dragging his tongue along the delicate curve, slow and wet and filthy.

When he continued, voice silk and sin. “You fit me so perfectly. We’re not done, Wakatoshi. Not even close.”

A primal growl rumbled deep in Wakatoshi’s throat, his restraint incinerated by Tooru’s words. His hands seized Tooru’s thighs, rough and commanding, spreading them wide, baring him completely. With a single, forceful thrust, he buried himself deep—impossibly deep—his thick cock stretching Tooru’s tight, clenching hole to its limits and made his slender back arched off the gym floor. A choked whimper tearing from his swollen lips, his body shuddering under the relentless invasion.

“Take my cock, Tooru—take every fucking inch of it,” Wakatoshi growled, his eyes dark and feral, watching Tooru’s flushed face contort with ecstasy. He angled his thrusts to ruthless precision, dragging his cock against Tooru’s sensitive walls, hitting that spot of Tooru's prostate that made his beautiful hazel eyes roll back. 

Tooru’s arms had long since lost their strength, straightened for one second and fell away from Wakatoshi’s sweat-dampened back, leaving faint red trails in their wake—scratches born from overwhelming pleasure, from the desperate way he’d clung on just moments before. 

Wakatoshi then caught both of Tooru’s hands and pinned them above his head, fingers threading tight, refusing to let go. Their palms were slick, their grip desperate. Tooru’s knuckles flexed as he clung back, grounding himself in the lock of Wakatoshi’s hand even as his body shook beneath him. His legs wrapped tighter around Wakatoshi’s waist, ankles crossing, heels digging into his lower back like Tooru was trying to pull him impossibly deeper.

His hole clenched around the unrelenting length slamming into him, pulsing, greedy—welcoming every thrust with obscene wet sounds and more breathless cries of “Harder—don’t stop, Toshi—” and Wakatoshi didn’t let go.

Because Tooru was too beautiful like this—splayed out, whining, his hips rising to meet each thrust with reckless abandon.

“To—Toshi—!” The cry burst out of Tooru as Wakatoshi struck that perfect spot again, and again, and again, until he was trembling, breath hitching, body caught in the electric storm of being fucked senseless.

Wakatoshi’s grip only tightened, pressing their palms harder into the sheets as he loomed over him, sweat dripping from his brow, his body moving like a man possessed.

“You feel that?” he growled into Tooru’s ear, his hips never stop pistoning in and out, brutal and sweet. “You’re dripping around me—clenching like you don’t ever want me to leave. This little hole was made for me.”

Tooru sobbed on a moan, lips parted, tears threatening the corners of his lashes. “Y-you feel so good—I can’t—I can’t even think—”

Right at that moment, a single drop—salty, warm—slipped down from Wakatoshi’s temple, traced the sharp edge of his cheekbone, and dripped into the corner of Tooru’s open mouth like melted lust.

Tooru gasped softly, and without even thinking, he darted it out to taste it—like instinct, like hunger, like thirst. 

Salty. Warm. A little musky, but clean—him. It tasted like everything Tooru had ever craved without knowing why.

Wakatoshi’s gaze sharpened instantly, cock twitching deep inside him. “You’re... licking up my sweat?” he growled, voice cracked open with something close to awe, closer to lust. “Fuck… are you really that desperate for me? That thirsty for everything I give you?”

Tooru moaned, eyes fluttering, tongue still peeking out just slightly like he wanted more. 

He chuckled breathlessly. “Tastes like you’ve been working for me,” he whispered, voice wrecked and loving all at once.

Wakatoshi’s eyes flared. “Greedy little thing,” he rasped, his voice so low it felt like thunder in Tooru’s spine. “You like the way I taste? Stick it out more—I will give you something better.”

And Tooru—obedient, drunk on cock and devotion—did exactly that. His mouth fell open, tongue unfurling in offering, slick and glistening in the low light, like it knew what it was about to receive.

Wakatoshi leaned over him, his gaze dark, pupils blown to hell. At this point, he had already released Tooru’s wrists, choosing instead to cradle the setter’s jaw with thick fingers—holding him open like a chalice crafted for worship.

“Look at you,” Wakatoshi muttered, voice honey-dark and frayed, “Mouth wide open like a good little cumdump. And it’s just for spit right now. You gonna moan when I feed you, Tooru?”

Tooru whimpered, eyes glossy and lips twitching like he was already imagining it. “Yes, please—feed me.”

Wakatoshi’s fingers toyed with the soft flesh of Tooru’s tongue, coaxing it forward. He let a thick string of spit fall from his lips, watching it stretch, then break, landing hot and wet across tooru’s tongue. It didn’t stop there—another drop fall, then another, each messier than the last. It pooled in Tooru’s mouth and overflowed down his chin, dripping obscenely over his flushed throat.

“Don’t waste a drop,” Wakatoshi commanded, voice hoarse. “Swallow it.”

Tooru whimpered as he complied, eyelids fluttering shut, swallowing with a soft moan like it was his favorite flavor.

“Good boy,” Wakatoshi purred, his praise a velvet caress.

Wakatoshi didn’t give him time to recover. He surged forward and licked Tooru’s tongue—dragged his own over it, licking up what was left, tasting his own spit on his lover’s mouth. Their lips met in a feral kiss, wet and open, tongues tangling like they were starving for each other. Each breath was stolen, swallowed, passed between them like it meant survival. 

They kissed until they forgot where one ended and the other began—until it was just sweat, spit, heat, and the raw, sacred ache of wanting everything.

“Bet you’d let me spit in your hole too,” Wakatoshi growled against Tooru's lips, barely breaking the kiss. “Just to feel it get even wetter around my cock.”

Tooru’s thighs jerked around his waist, a broken cry tumbling out of him. “Yes—please, spit in me—make me so full, I won’t know what’s yours anymore.”

And Wakatoshi lost it. He thrust hard and deep, grinding, hips relentless now, fucking into the setter like he meant to rearrange everything soft inside Tooru’s body.

“T-To-Toshi, wait—wait, it’s too much—”

“You asked for it, remember?” Wakatoshi bit out, voice ragged. “You begged me to ruin you, didn’t you? This what you wanted?”

Wakatoshi kissed Tooru like he could fuck him with just his mouth—like he wanted to. His hand slid down, fingers digging into the plush curve of Tooru’s ass, spreading him wider, grinding him down on his cock until he hit so deep it made Tooru sob.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Wakatoshi remarked, breath shaking. “You were made to be fucked like this. Stuffed full. Mine.”

“I am,” Tooru whimpered, rocking his hips with every brutal thrust. “I’m yours, Toshi—always yours—please don’t stop, please keep going, I’m so close—!”

Wakatoshi wrapped a hand around Tooru’s cock, pumping him in time with his thrusts, squeezing the tip until tooru was crying, begging, squirming under him.

“Gonna fill this greedy hole,” he panted, teeth grazing Tooru’s jaw. “Fuck you so full of my cum, you’ll feel it for days. You want that, Tooru?” 

“Yes—please—give it to me, Toshi. Give me everything—”

Tooru's lips parted, his mouth slack and glossy with spit, drool trailing from the corner like he didn’t even notice—like his brain had short-circuited from the pleasure alone. His tongue lolled slightly, pink and wet and trembling between broken gasps, and his lashes fluttered, barely able to stay open as his eyes rolled back.

His pupils were blown wide, rimmed with wetness, glistening in the low light. Tear tracks shone on his cheeks, flushed a high pink that bled down his throat. His brow scrunched in helpless ecstasy, every muscle twitching with the sheer force of what he was being given—what Wakatoshi was doing to him.

Tooru’s orgasm tore through him like lightning, sharp and searing—his whole body arched, mouth open in a silent scream before sound caught up and broke free. Hot ropes of cum spilled between their bodies again, his thighs trembling, hole pulsing around Wakatoshi’s cock in rhythmic spasms.

“A-ah—Toshi—!” he sobbed, head tilting back, exposing his throat as his body seized up again—knees shaking, toes curling, his hole clenching wildly around Wakatoshi’s cock.

“Look at you,” Wakatoshi groaned, eyes fixed on Tooru’s wrecked face, on the way his mouth hung open and his eyes unfocused. “So cockdrunk you can’t even talk.”

Tooru could only moan in response—no words, just pure, wrecked sound. Blissed-out and trembling, with spit and sweat and tears smeared across his flushed cheeks like warpaint. His expression teetered somewhere between surrender and reverence, like he was offering himself up on an altar.

Wakatoshi slowed his thrusts, grinding deep, making every inch drag and press, wringing out every shiver from Tooru’s overstimulated body. One large hand slid up to cradle his jaw, thumb resting in the tender hollow beneath his cheekbone, lifting his face with a gentleness that almost betrayed the filth in his voice.

“Do you even know what your name is anymore?” he murmured, low and mocking, eyes burning. “Or should I just call you my beautiful little slut?”

Tooru blinked slowly, tears spilling down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in a helpless moan.

Wakatoshi leaned in, tongue tracing the shell of his ear, breath hot and shuddering. “Say it,” he ordered, voice thick. “Say your name.”

The silence that followed was only filled with the wet sound of their bodies, the soft slap of skin, the creak of the gym floor, and the broken rhythm of Tooru’s breath.

And then—

“W-Wakatoshi…” Tooru whispered, voice wrecked, soft like prayer. Like his voice had forgotten any other name, any other god.  

Wakatoshi stilled. That one word—his name—fell from Tooru’s lips not as an answer, but as a claim, as surrender, as proof that he belonged to him now, utterly and without return. 

For a split second, he wasn’t just fucking Tooru—he was possessed by him.

“That’s right.” His lips hovered just above Tooru’s trembling mouth, his voice hoarse, That’s the only name you ever need.” 

He resumed his pace, hips driving forward with a possessive hunger—but leaned down to press a soft kiss to Tooru’s damp cheek, reverent in its contrast.

“Say it again,” he rasped. “Let that slutty little mouth of yours worship me the way your body already does.”

Tooru whimpered, toes curling, head lolling back in delirious bliss. “Wakatoshi…” he moaned, softer this time, almost tender—like it was the only truth left in him.

Wakatoshi breathed him in like oxygen—holy, rare, and vital. “You let me in,” he rasped, voice torn from the core of him, “And now i own this hole—own you.”

And now he was on the edge of losing the last of his control. His rhythm lost coherence, what remained was frenzy—desperation carved into every thrust, hips crashing into Tooru’s with raw, punishing need. His cock pounded mercilessly into the sweet spot deep inside, over and over, until Tooru was trembling, twitching, broken open with pleasure.

“F-fuck—yes, fuck, that’s it,” Wakatoshi hissed, movements erratic, hips swaying to smash against Tooru's prostate. “You’re milking me dry, Tooru—you’re gonna make me—”

And then he broke.

“Take my fucking load—every drop of it.” he spat, voice raw and dripping with filthy adoration. “Take all of me like the perfect slut you are.”

Wakatoshi buried himself into Tooru one final time with a brutal, bone-deep snap, hips convulsing as his cock throbbed violently to the hilt. His balls clenched tight against Tooru’s ass, pulled taut from the force of his own orgasm. They jolted as he came, unleashing a torrent of hot, thick cum into Tooru’s already-flooded hole.

It was endless.

The sheer volume of it overwhelmed tooru’s insides, gushing past Wakatoshi’s still-thrusting cock, hot and obscene, drooling out in creamy streaks that coated Tooru’s thighs and dripped onto the gym floor beneath them in messy, possessive puddles.

The air was thick—suffocating—with the scent of sex, sweat, and the shared heat of their climax. The kind of musk that clung to the walls, the floor, the skin. The kind of scent that said someone was owned here.

While Wakatoshi groaned through clenched teeth, muscles taut, his whole body shuddering as he pumped wave after wave of his seed inside Tooru’s spasming heat, leaving them both utterly consumed by each other. 

They stayed like that—trembling, panting, locked together.

And Tooru—god, Tooru—was crying. But not from pain. Not from overstimulation.

Just from how full he felt. How completed he was by Ushijima Wakatoshi.

“Feels so good, Toshi,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wet, tears slipping down his cheeks. “You feel so good inside me…”

Wakatoshi bent down, kissed them away—one, two, three—then pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his precious little darling.

“I want it to stay inside,” Tooru whispered. “Don’t pull out. Keep it there. Keep me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Wakatoshi breathed, brushing their foreheads together. “You’re mine, Tooru. Mine to fuck. Mine to love.”

They dissolved into each other again, limbs entwined, bodies moving as if drawn by the same fire—two flames merging, burning hotter with every touch. Their lips tangled in feverish, messy kisses—open-mouthed, tongues twisted, drinking in each other's gasps like oxygen feeding the blaze. It was more than lust now, more than hunger.

It was something consuming, something neither of them wanted to stop.

Wakatoshi didn’t know how long they stayed like that, bodies writhing, drowning in each other, completely oblivious to everything outside the gym, until—

BANG!

The gym door swung open.

Both of them froze.

A sharp intake of breath. Then a voice—small, familiar, shocked.

“Oh—oh my goodness—”

Wakatoshi moved on pure instinct, shielding Tooru’s body with his own, arms wrapping around him as if to hide him. Meanwhile, Tooru barely had the sense to turn his head, catching sight of a wide-eyed, horrified Hinata Shouyou, an umbrella slipping from his trembling fingers onto the ground, his face burning almost the same colour as his ginger hair.

Then, with the utmost calm, Tooru lifted a single finger to his lips, his hazel eyes gleaming with wicked amusement. “Shh.”

Hinata made a strangled noise, his gaze darting frantically between the clothes scattered on the floor, the very intimate way Wakatoshi was covering Tooru, and—oh. 

“I—I—I just came back to check if I forgot my stuff here, but—uh—” Hinata’s voice cracked. He quickly snatched his fallen umbrella from the floor, nearly dropping it again in his panic. “I saw nothing—NOTHING—I’m leaving—please pretend I was never here.”

And before either of them could say another word, Hinata spun on his heel, practically tripping over himself as he fled, shutting the door behind him.

A beat passed.

Neither of them moved.

Tooru exhaled, shoulders shaking before he started to giggle. “Oops~ Looks like we got caught, Wakatoshi.”

He turned his gaze back to the man still hovering over him, whose arms were still firmly wrapped around his body. Wakatoshi hadn’t moved an inch since the intrusion, his face now buried in the crook of Tooru’s neck, his ears burning red.

Tooru smirked, stroking the back of Wakatoshi’s head like he was comforting a giant, sulking puppy. “Hey, stop hiding. Chibi-chan is gone.”

A low grunt was his only response.

Tooru chuckled, tilting his head so his lips brushed against Wakatoshi’s temple. “Aw, you’re embarrassed. How adorable~”

That earned him a deep frown as Wakatoshi finally pulled back, his brow furrowing. “I am not embarrassed.”

“Mm... sure,” Tooru hummed, tracing a finger along his jaw. “But you know, this means there’ll be rumors before we even start dating.” His voice was light, teasing, but there was something softer beneath it—something almost expectant.

Wakatoshi stilled. His eyes darkened, sharp and piercing, locked onto Tooru’s with an intensity that made his breath catch.

“…Start dating?” Wakatoshi repeated, voice slow, careful, something searching in his gaze.

Tooru’s smirk softened into something quieter, more genuine. He cupped Wakatoshi’s face between his hands, his thumbs stroking over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. 

“It can only happen if you deal with that little mouth of Hinata first.” He hummed, tilting his head, his smile lazy but his eyes soft. “He’s more afraid of you than he is of me.”

Wakatoshi’s frown deepened, his brows knitting together and for some reason, Tooru found it so endearing that he couldn’t resist—he leaned in, pressing a soft, teasing peck to his lips.

Then another. Slower this time. Lingering.

“And then, yes, we can date,” Tooru whispered, resting his forehead against Wakatoshi’s. “If only you ask properly. Not like last time, when you just confessed and left me an umbrella.”

Wakatoshi’s expression shifted—realization dawning in his eyes, something raw and unspoken settling between them. Then, without hesitation, he moved, one arm looping under Tooru’s back as he lifted him effortlessly, pulling him into his lap. 

“Tooru,” Wakatoshi murmured, leaning in, their noses brushing, his gaze soft yet unshakable—like Tooru was the only light he had ever seen. “I love you, most ardently. Would you do me the honor of being my lover and date me?”

Tooru’s chest ached.

For all his strength, all his dominance, Wakatoshi had always been like this—honest, unwavering, laying his heart bare without hesitation. It was so simple, so utterly him.

And Tooru—Tooru had spent so long running, pretending, pushing away what had always been inevitable.

His lips curved, his fingers threading into Wakatoshi’s hair, pulling him close until their breaths tangled, their hearts beating as one.

He answered without words, sealing his promise in a kiss—deep, certain, endless.

Yes, Wakatoshi. A thousand times, yes.