Flashing hq men while in an arguement pls💗🤗🤗🤗💋💥💥💥💥💥💥
Well—your paper. Strewn across the floor, the desk, the couch, and even the corner of Akaashi’s neatly stacked planner.
“You said you’d clean it yesterday,” he said, arms crossed, brow tight.
“I was going to,” you argued, voice rising with every crumpled page he lifted like it was a war crime. “But then someone moved my binder!”
Akaashi let out a controlled sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re impossible.”
You were both heating up now—petty words thrown like darts, tension thick in the room. Your frustration hit a boiling point. And then—
Mid-rant, mid-glare, without thinking, you grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it just enough to derail the universe.
Akaashi blinked. Once. Twice.
“…Please,” he said slowly, voice even. “Put your shirt down.”
But his ears betrayed him—burning a deep, undeniable red. His eyes flicked anywhere but you. The bookshelf. The ceiling. His own hands. His composure stayed upright, but his soul? Shattered.
You stood there smug, the chaos fully unleashed.
“I’m waiting,” he added, half-glancing your way—then immediately regretting it. “We’re not done talking.”
“You sure?” you teased, already giggling.
His glare was weak. His lips twitched. And the planner he used as a shield? Shaking just a little.
He was so, so done with you. And so, so doomed.
You and Iwaizumi were in the middle of that kind of argument—the stubborn kind.
The kind where no one’s yelling, but everything's tense.
His arms are crossed. His jaw is tight. His tone is sharp.
“You can’t keep doing that,” he mutters through gritted teeth.
“And you can’t keep acting like you’re always right,” you snap back.
He starts pacing like a storm in a hoodie, muttering things under his breath and side-eyeing you every three seconds.
Mid-lecture.
You flash him.
Just a quick shirt lift. One second of chaos.
He stops moving. Stops breathing.
“…What the hell was that?”
His voice cracks. A little. But you catch it.
He turns his head away so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull something.
“Are you seriously trying to distract me right now?”
He’s fuming. But blushing. Oh, furiously blushing.
He drags a hand down his face like this is the worst test of patience he’s ever had.
“Put your damn shirt down—what are you, five?”
But he’s not looking at you anymore.
He’s talking to the wall.
Avoiding eye contact like you’ve got a superpower he can’t fight.
His ears are red. His neck’s red.
The fight is hanging by a thread and you cut it clean with one move.
He grumbles under his breath, trying to collect himself.
“Unbelievable,” he mutters, like he’s the victim here.
By the end of it, he’s sulking on the couch, arms crossed, still pink in the face.
“Next time you try that, I’m walking out,” he says.
You were done going in circles with him.
Tsukishima was being his usual snarky self, arms crossed, eyes narrowed behind those glasses like he was just barely tolerating your existence.
“Oh, wow. You’re mad again? What a surprise,” he says flatly, with the most condescending tone known to man.
You glare. He rolls his eyes.
"You never take anything seriously," you shoot.
"Maybe because you're always being ridiculous."
And just like that—your brain short circuits.
Your hands move before your logic can catch up.
Mid-rant. Mid-scowl. Mid-superiority complex.
His entire soul exits his body for a split second.
His mouth opens. Then closes.
His eyes snap away so fast you think he might give himself whiplash.
“…Are you kidding me right now?”
He hisses it through gritted teeth, like he just stepped on a LEGO.
He’s still standing tall, but oh—he’s red.
A furious, fuming, flustered kind of red.
"You’re an actual menace," he mutters, voice cracking ever so slightly.
He adjusts his glasses three times. He’s not even looking at you anymore—he’s looking at a very interesting corner of the ceiling.
But that blush? That tight grip on his sleeves? The way he’s definitely breathing harder now?
He tries to carry on like he’s unaffected.
Throws in one more dry jab:
“I’m telling Yamaguchi you’ve gone insane.”
But he won’t meet your eyes.
He keeps muttering about “immature behavior” while practically vibrating out of his skin.
He lost the argument.
You know it.
He knows it.
So when he snaps, “Put your shirt down and grow up,” just know:
That’s Tsukishima language for “you win, but I’ll die before I admit it.”
You’re arguing.
Not just snapping at each other—arguing.
There’s fire in your voice, and he’s got that annoying little tilt to his head, hands in his pockets, barely blinking as he listens to your rant.
“Oh, so now you’re just gonna stand there and act like it’s all my fault?!”
You’re fuming. Genuinely ready to throw a pillow at him.
But Suna just yawns.
“I mean… I wasn’t not listening. I just stopped caring halfway.”
(OK LMAO WHY DID THAT SOUND TOXIC...)
So you do the most unhinged thing you can think of—flash him mid-fight.
Shirt up.Boom.Zero hesitation.
His reaction? A slow blink. A low whistle. That familiar smirk curling on his lips.
“…Seriously?” he says, and it’s not judging—it’s amused. It’s interested.
He leans against the nearest wall like he’s front-row at a private concert.
“Didn’t think the argument was going that badly,” he adds, eyes dragging all the way down and back up with no shame. “But hey, I’m not complaining.”
You meant to throw him off.
Instead, he’s thriving.
And then—he flips it on you.
Takes one confident step forward and murmurs, “Gonna do that every time we fight? ‘Cause I could start more arguments if you want.”
Now you’re the flustered one.
He tilts his head, smile lazy, watching you struggle for words.
“Oh? You mad? Still mad? Or did you forget?”
He’s the type to walk past you, tap your chin with a finger, and say,
“Thanks for the view, though. 10/10—argument over.”
You were trying to win.
He just walked away with your dignity and a mental screenshot.
The argument had been quiet but firm—just like him.
No yelling, no dramatics, just clipped words, heavy sighs, and that disappointed tone he uses when he’s really not mad, just… tired.
“You could’ve handled that better,” he says, standing by the doorway with arms crossed.
“And you could stop acting like I messed up everything!” you shoot back, arms thrown wide.
It’s tense. Not explosive—just sharp. Cold air between you.
You huff. Your face is warm with frustration. And without thinking—you do it.
You lift your shirt mid-rant.
No warning. No explanation. Just—bam.
And then—a tiny noise leaves his throat. A tiny startled sound like a hiccup that should not be as adorable as it is.
His ears go pink instantly. His back stiffens like someone hit pause on a statue.
“…Please put your shirt down,” he says, voice calm but clearly struggling. “That’s not… appropriate.”
He’s looking everywhere but at you—at the floor, at the clock, at a nearby plant for some reason.
He clears his throat. Adjusts his shirt. Mutters something under his breath about “minding his manners” and “this not being the time.”
But his voice is a little shaky. His fingers fidget at the hem of his own shirt.
He’s not yelling.
He’s not falling apart.
But he is absolutely short-circuiting inside.
You swear you catch him blinking rapidly, like he’s forcing his brain to reboot without making it obvious.
One deep breath later, he finally meets your eyes—and it takes every ounce of strength in his being.
“…We’re not done talking,” he says, and it would be intimidating—if not for the way his neck is still tinted red like sunset light creeping across his skin.
And when he walks away?
It’s fast. Awkward. Like he’s running from temptation in the name of discipline.
You giggle.
He definitely hears it.
From the other room, you hear a quiet, flustered
“…Ain’t fair at all.”
You’re pissed. You’ve been talking for like ten minutes.
Kenma? Half-listening at best.
One earbud in, eyes flicking toward his phone every few seconds, thumbs still tapping the screen mid-fight.
“Are you seriously playing right now?”
“I am listening,” he mutters, not looking up.
Spoiler: he is not listening.
“You don’t pay attention to anything I say anymore!”
“I do. You said—uh…”
He trails off, squinting like he’s buffering the last ten minutes of your rant.
You say nothing. You just—lift your shirt.
Out of nowhere. No warning. Boom. Unhinged main character moment.
His head shoots up like you just pulled the fire alarm.
His game drops. Literally. Phone slips from his hands and hits the blanket. His eyes go wide—wider than when he misclicks in the middle of a clutch match.
“…What the hell are you doing,” he says, but it comes out way too soft.
He's blinking like you just jump-scared him.
The flush creeps up his neck like betrayal.
His voice cracks: “That’s not—You can’t just do that in the middle of an argument!”
He grabs a nearby pillow and holds it up like a shield, physically tilting away from you like proximity is making him combust.
“I was paying attention!”
(blondie stop lying rn)
His hoodie is now halfway over his head. His fingers are twitching like he doesn’t know where to put them. His mouth opens like he wants to keep arguing—closes again when his brain short-circuits.
“Are you even taking this seriously?” he huffs, refusing to meet your eyes, cheeks boiling.
You shrug, smug as ever. “I mean… now I have your attention.”
He groans, collapsing into the couch with a dramatic sigh, burying his face like he wishes he could respawn in another room.
Later that night, he’s still red. Still pouting.
And now? Oh, he’s paying attention very closely.
It started over something so dumb.
"You weren’t even listening to me, Shoyo!"
"I was! You said something about—uh—laundry and… cat food?"
You don’t even have a cat.
"SEE?! You weren't paying attention again!"
"I—Okay, maybe I zoned out a little! But that’s because you talk kinda fast sometimes!"
You’re both fired up. You’re standing your ground, and Hinata’s pacing in little angry circles like an offended golden retriever, cheeks already a little pink—not from embarrassment yet, but from the sheer emotional overload of arguing with someone he really doesn’t want to fight with.
And then—mid-sentence, mid-pacing, mid-life—
Not sexy. Not teasing. Just blam.
The most unserious, chaotic flash in the middle of a full-on emotional rant.
He freezes in place like someone yanked the batteries out of him.
You swear you can hear the error message in his brain.
“W-WHA—?! W-WHAT—WHAT ARE YOU—?!”
His hands fly to his face so fast it’s like muscle memory.
He looks like he just witnessed a glitch in the simulation.
“I WAS TRYING TO BE SERIOUS!!” he squeaks.
“Y-YOU CAN’T JUST—!! That’s—That’s ILLEGAL!!”
He can’t look at you. He’s peeking through his fingers like you’re the sun.
Then he turns around, still red as a chili pepper, mumbling things like:
“Y-You’re evil…”
“That’s not even fair…”
“I think I forgot how to breathe…”
Now he’s hiding behind a couch cushion, his argument forgotten, his dignity obliterated.
He’s crouched on the floor muttering, “You can’t use your shirt like a weapon!”
Meanwhile, you’re just standing there. Calm. Smug. Argument won.
Mission accomplished.
The argument was steady. Measured. Like a volleyball rally that just wouldn't end.
"I just feel like you don’t get what I’m trying to say sometimes!"
"I am listening. I just… do not understand why you're upset."
Classic Ushijima. Calm, straightforward, and totally missing the emotional context.
You were spiraling. He was blinking slowly.
And it was driving you insane.
So, naturally, you made a choice.
A powerful, chaotic, absolutely uncalled-for choice.
Mid-lecture. Mid-eye roll. No hesitation.
Silence.
He just… stared.
Not in a pervy way—more like a caveman discovering fire for the first time.
His brows furrow. His eyes go slightly wide. You can practically see the gears grinding in his head.
There’s zero panic in his voice. Just confusion.
Like you’ve thrown a completely unrelated plot twist into a very serious documentary.
You try not to laugh as he stands there, blinking like an emotionally repressed NPC trying to figure out what facial expression to make.
Then—slightly—his ears turn pink.
"I am still not sure what point you're making," he mutters. "But I… cannot look at you right now."
He turns around slowly. Stiffly. Like his operating system is updating.
"…That was… distracting."
He’s flustered, but he’s too logical to know how to handle it.
So now he's just awkwardly staring at the wall, as if it holds the answers to why you are the way you are.
The argument?
Gone. Left the planet.
Now he's just standing there, arms crossed, back turned, muttering,
"You startled me."
"I think we need to return to the topic once you are… dressed again."
Congratulations.
You confused the strongest man alive into surrender.
It had started as a small disagreement.
But with Bokuto, everything feels big.
You hadn’t meant to upset him.
You just pointed something out—a little jab, a comment, a joke, maybe—and suddenly his smile had dimmed.
Now he was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, eyebrows scrunched, pout forming like a storm cloud.
"So… you do think I’m annoying sometimes."
He looked genuinely hurt.
The worst part? His hair was a little droopy. His voice was quieter. You’d poked at something sensitive without meaning to, and now guilt was creeping in like a wave.
You did the dumbest thing possible.
Mid-sulk.
Mid-emotional spiral.
Mid-“I guess I’ll just be quiet then…”
You lifted your shirt with all the grace of a gremlin and just—boom.
Chaos deployed.
His mouth dropped open, eyes huge and completely stunned.
His entire face went red in 0.3 seconds.
He staggered back like he’d just been physically hit by your existence.
Now he’s flailing. He nearly trips over his own foot, arms waving like he’s trying to land a plane.
"THAT’S NOT FAIR!! I WAS BEING SAD!!"
You're biting back laughter, guilt already shrinking under the pure shock on his face.
"YOU CAN’T JUST FLASH ME TO WIN!!"
He’s yelling but he’s smiling now—wide, flustered, and trying so hard to stay upset. But it’s gone.
The pout? Obliterated.
The sadness? Vaporized.
Now he's hiding behind his hands, peeking through his fingers like a broken vending machine.
"You're EVIL!!"
"I CAN’T EVEN BE MAD ANYMORE!!"
He whines but scoots closer anyway, tugging your shirt back down like it’ll protect his poor soul.
You wrap your arms around him in apology and he hugs back so tight you can barely breathe.
You whisper, “Still annoyed?”
And he mumbles into your neck, voice high and muffled:
“I was gonna cry, you know.”
“Now I’m just embarrassed and in love.”
He was trying to stay calm.
Trying really, really hard.
The two of you were mid-argument—well, more like a debate with attitude.
Suga had that signature teacher-tone on, arms crossed, eyebrows lifted, trying to keep his voice level like some kind of saint.
"I’m not upset. I just think you’re being immature."
He’d said it with the most composed, reasonable expression.
Like you were in class and he was trying not to give you detention.
Meanwhile, you were pacing, fired up, throwing your hands around.
And he was standing there. Calm. Controlled. Saint-like.
But you knew that twitch in his brow. That tiny sigh through his nose.
Suga was clinging to composure by a thread.
So you did what any chaos gremlin would do when logic fails.
Mid-rant. Mid-lesson. Mid-his Saint Sugawara Mode.
His words hit the wall.
The man who had just been giving you a full grown-up lecture was now short-circuiting like someone had just unplugged and replugged his soul.
Now he’s covering his face with both hands, a deep blush spreading across his cheeks as his calm facade disintegrates.
His voice cracks so hard you swear a window somewhere just shattered.
He tries to act unbothered for a millisecond longer, peeking between his fingers like a scandalized old lady.
"I was winning that argument!"
"You can’t just throw your shirt into the mix and expect me to—"
He pauses. Chokes a little. Then finally throws his hands in the air with a dramatic sigh.
"Okay. You win. Whatever. I surrender. I’m too pretty for this kind of emotional warfare."
He turns around like he’s gonna go pace dramatically but ends up just bumping into the wall and standing there, flustered and quietly panicking.
"I need a second. Or a nap. Or… maybe an ice bath."
You giggle. He groans. You walk over. He melts the second you hug him.
"I hate how well that worked," he mumbles, red to his ears.
But he’s smiling now, hands on your waist, forehead resting against yours.
Argument: forgotten.
Victory: yours.
Suga’s composure: rest in peace.
might do a second part since this request definitely amused me hihi
