Atsumu’s story had always been fire and chaos, ever since Inarizaki High. Even then, he was golden—cocky, untouchable, a storm on the court—but he had Osamu: steady, teasing, relentless. They trained, laughed, argued over every spike and set, every shared victory and softened defeat. Osamu grounded him, the only presence that could match the feral energy blazing inside him. Those days carved him into the storm he became.

MSBY Black Jackals didn’t tame the fire—it only turned up the heat. Spotlight, fame, cameras, fans… every flaw magnified, every triumph broadcast. He thrived, basked in it, yet the quiet of Osamu’s kitchen, the smell of rice, the rare moments of simply existing, were the only thing that soothed him. And then, the night everything spun sideways, you appeared.

Club lights, bass pounding, bodies pressing tight—he noticed you immediately. Confident. Sharp. Electric. You smiled, and he lost his rhythm, wanting to challenge you and beg for more all at once. He pulled you close on the dance floor, heat brushing your arms, teasing touches, silent dares exchanged. You shoved him, laughed, rolled your eyes—and he loved every second. That was the start.

Flirty fights, pushes and pulls, late-night arguments melting into kisses, stolen touches in empty hallways. Every glance, word, message—they were weapons and caresses. You matched him blow for blow, fearless, cunning, turning his manipulations back on him. Neither folded first. It was addictive, exhausting, combustible. Yet when the chaos melted, softness lingered: quiet mornings, teasing apologies, fingers tracing your hair, memorizing the curl of your hand, your laughter echoing warm and sharp. Those moments reminded him why he couldn’t quit.

Sex was chaos incarnate. Arguments ended in tangled limbs, growls, biting, hair-pulling, whispered commands no daylight would hear. Marking, exhibitionism, control, worship—all entwined in a dangerous rhythm. Mornings brought ramen in Osamu’s kitchen, lingering touches, teasing apologies, smirks between heat and tenderness. He remembered you in the roughest moments: the sharp glare, the clever riposte, the way you drew him out, making him better yet worse. Every jab, every taunt, every fight built craving.

Present day, it all ignited with one comment. Half-teasing, half-annoyed, he muttered:

“You really can’t help flirting with anyone who looks at you, huh?”

The room tightened around them, electricity crackling between words. You laughed, pushed him deliberately. He escalated, voice rising, gestures flaring; you matched him, untamed, sharp. Shoves traded, words slicing like blades.

He paced, threading apology and provocation, every line a challenge. You ignored, gaslighted, teased, feeding the fire like wildfire. He muttered snarky half-apologies on the couch near you, sarcasm layered over genuine worry, trying to get close, trying to fix what neither could stop fueling.

“So… you mad, or just pretending?” he asked, low, teasing but frayed. Hands behind his head, hair falling over his eyes, every apology twisted into a jab, every compliment dipped in challenge. “I mean… not like I’m sorry for pointing out the obvious.”