Rivals: Kuroo Pt. 3

Hey, can I make nsfw requests?

Yes you very much can!! I have a lot of nsfw content on here lolol

I’d love to hear your ideas!!

Thank you to everyone who got me to 10000 likes!

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.

Unrequited Love: Oikawa

You’d known Oikawa for as long as you could remember. From messy sandbox battles to after-school practices that went late into the evening, he’d always been there—your first friend, your longest friend. The three of you—Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and you—had always been a unit, bound by years of shared childhood, inside jokes, and more than a few arguments.

But right now? Right now, Oikawa was testing every ounce of your patience.

“Hajime said you’ve been holed up in here for hours,” you said as you shoved open his bedroom door without knocking. “What’s your excuse this time?”

Oikawa groaned from the depths of his bed, a mess of blankets and pillows hiding all but the top of his ruffled hair. His room was a disaster zone: clothes scattered everywhere, an abandoned volleyball rolling lazily near the desk, and the faint smell of coffee from the cup Hajime must’ve left here earlier.

“Go away,” Oikawa muttered, voice muffled by his pillow.

“No,” you said firmly, kicking the door shut behind you. “I’m not letting you sulk forever. What happened?”

He rolled onto his back, his face pale and his eyes a little red. “She broke up with me,” he muttered, his voice cracking just enough to make you wince. “She said I was too focused on volleyball. That I didn’t care enough about her.”

Your heart squeezed. You’d seen the writing on the wall. Oikawa was intense about volleyball—obsessed, really. It was one of the things you admired about him, even when it frustrated you. But it was hard to hear him like this, even harder to know that he’d never think about you the way he thought about her.

You crossed your arms, steeling yourself. “Well, she’s not wrong,” you said, your tone blunt. “You’ve got a one-track mind, Tooru. Volleyball this, volleyball that. What did you think would happen?”

His face scrunched up in annoyance, and he reached out to grab a pillow, lobbing it weakly in your direction. “Gee, thanks for the support.”

You dodged it easily, smiling despite yourself. “I’m serious, Tooru. You’ve got to figure this out, or you’re going to keep pushing people away.”

He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You sound like Iwa-chan.”

“Maybe that’s because Hajime and I are the only ones stubborn enough to stick around while you throw yourself headfirst into everything,” you shot back, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Do you even realize how much we’ve put up with over the years?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You guys are too stubborn to leave me.”

“Damn right we are,” you said, reaching out to flick his forehead. “But don’t push your luck.”

Silence fell between you, the tension lifting slightly. You leaned back, resting on your hands as you studied him. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, and he looked younger somehow, like the kid you used to climb trees with instead of the volleyball star he was now.

“Come on,” you said eventually, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off your pants. “The team’s going out. You can’t stay in here forever.”

“I don’t feel like it,” he muttered, sitting up slowly.

“Tough.” You grabbed his wrist and tugged, ignoring his protests. “Go shower, change, and join us. I’ll wait in the living room to make sure you don’t crawl back into bed.”

He sighed, dragging his feet as he shuffled toward his dresser. “You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re so whiny,” you shot back, grinning. “Go!”

Just as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

You glanced back, raising an eyebrow. He stood there, clothes in hand, his expression softer than usual.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re a good friend.”

The words hit harder than they should have, settling like a stone in your chest. But you forced a smile, pushing the ache down where it belonged.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice steady.

You closed the door behind you, leaning against it for just a moment.

Being his friend was enough, you told yourself.

It had to be.

HIII can i request something abour Aone and Kunimi! Id love to see how you woukd write about them!

Oooh I can definitely do that heheh Thank you for your ask!! --

Aone was used to people avoiding him.

It wasn’t personal—at least, he didn’t think it was. He knew what he looked like. Tall, broad-shouldered, his expression unreadable even when he tried to seem approachable. And, of course, there was the fact that he had no eyebrows, which only seemed to add to the whole 'intimidating presence' thing. He had overheard people whispering about it before, speculating whether he was just naturally that way or if something had happened. He never corrected them. It wasn’t worth the effort.

He didn’t mind it, not really. It wasn’t like he needed constant conversation. If anything, he preferred the quiet. But that didn’t stop the occasional pang of irritation when someone flinched at his presence or whispered about how scary he was. He never let it bother him for long. It wasn’t worth dwelling on.

But then there was you, who never seemed to get the memo.

You greeted him every morning with a bright “Good morning, Aone!” as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You sat next to him during team lunches, never asking if it was okay, never making a big deal out of it—just plopping down beside him, completely unfazed. When the team joked and teased each other, you always made a point to include him, nudging his arm playfully or throwing in a comment like “Right, Aone?” as if it was obvious that he was part of the conversation.

At first, he thought maybe it was an accident. That you just hadn’t realized how others saw him. But when weeks passed and nothing changed, Aone started to realize something.

You weren’t scared of him. Not even a little bit.

And for reasons he couldn’t explain, that made his chest feel warm.

It started during practice one afternoon.

The team was running drills, the gym buzzing with the sound of sneakers squeaking against the floor and volleyballs smacking against hands. Aone was focused, blocking each spike that came his way, his body moving on instinct. He wasn’t paying much attention to anything else until he heard a sharp gasp from the sidelines.

He turned his head just in time to see you stumble, tripping over someone’s stray bag. It was one of the first years', carelessly left near the edge of the court, and you hadn’t noticed it in time. Your arms flailed slightly as you lost your balance, and Aone’s body moved before his mind could catch up.

In an instant, his hands were on your arms, steadying you before you could hit the ground. His grip was firm, grounding, keeping you upright with ease. You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, caught off guard by the sudden proximity. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then, to his surprise, you laughed.

“Wow, you’re really strong,” you said, your voice light, as if you hadn’t just nearly faceplanted in the middle of practice.

Aone swallowed. He wasn’t used to compliments—especially not ones directed at him. His ears burned slightly, but he managed a stiff nod, gently letting go of you once he was sure you were steady.

You dusted yourself off, still grinning. “Guess I should stick close to you, huh? Might need you to save me again.”

Aone blinked.

Most people avoided standing too close to him. You were… different.

Slowly, he nodded again.

Your smile widened. “Good. That settles it.”

And just like that, you carried on, moving as if nothing had happened, as if Aone catching you had been the most natural thing in the world. But Aone felt a little different now, his hands still tingling from where he had touched you. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

Later, when practice ended and the team started gathering their things, Aone noticed you walking in his direction. Without thinking, he shifted slightly, making space for you beside him. It was subtle, instinctive, but you noticed immediately, plopping down next to him with an exaggerated sigh.

“I think today’s the day I finally die,” you groaned dramatically. “Tell my family I love them.”

Aone huffed a quiet breath through his nose. It was barely anything, but you must have caught it because you turned your head and grinned at him.

“Was that a laugh?” you asked, eyes bright with mischief. “Oh, we’re making progress.”

Aone shook his head, but he didn’t deny it.

You tilted your head slightly, watching him curiously. “You know,” you mused, “most people get freaked out by you, but I don’t see why. You’re like… a human security blanket.”

Aone blinked at you, unsure of what to say to that. He had been called many things before—scary, intimidating, weird—but never a security blanket. He felt his ears burn again.

“I mean it,” you continued, stretching your arms above your head. “It’s nice having you around. Makes things feel a little more solid.”

He swallowed, staring down at his hands. He wasn’t sure how to respond, but before he could even try, you stood up, stretching out your back with a groan.

“Anyway, I better go before they make me do more work,” you said, nodding toward the rest of the team. “See you tomorrow, Aone.”

And then, like always, you left just as easily as you had appeared, leaving Aone sitting there, his mind spinning with thoughts he wasn’t sure how to process.

Maybe, for the first time, he didn’t mind having someone stick close to him after all.

hey!! I have a genuine question. Do you, by any chance use Ai to write??

No but I sometimes use it to help me flesh out ideas. Usually I just have a concept but it can be hard to see where it goes. It’s a great tool to really see out your ideas!!

But no the writings all me :D

Rivalry: Sakusa

The camera clicks, the flash reflecting off the sheen of sweat on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face as he stares down at you from behind his mask. Even in victory, there’s a sharpness to him, a quiet tension crackling beneath his cool exterior, and it’s aimed directly at you.

“Your defense wasn’t as sharp as usual tonight. Were you struggling to keep up, or was there another reason for the misreads?” you begin, voice steady as your pen glides across your notepad.

The press conference room is thick with anticipation, the air charged with a static-like tension. Reporters lean forward in their seats, pens poised, some shifting uncomfortably while others exchange intrigued glances. The bright overhead lights cast stark shadows on the players, emphasizing the sharpness of Sakusa’s features as he stares you down. They know what you’re doing. More importantly, he knows what you’re doing.

Sakusa’s gaze narrows slightly. Sakusa’s gaze doesn’t waver. "I adjusted to their offense. If that looked like struggling to you, maybe you should take another look at the final score."

You don’t relent. “I'm aware of your team's victory, Sakusa-san. Are you relying too much on your teammates?”

The silence stretches longer this time. You know you’re poking the bear. Sakusa is known for his perfectionism, for his unshakable self-discipline, and you’re prodding at the cracks just to see if they’re there.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. "If trusting my teammates to do their jobs is a problem, then maybe you don’t understand how a team sport works."

The room seemed to inhale at once, a murmur rippling through the crowd. Some reporters exchanged knowing glances, while others scribbled frantically in their notebooks, sensing that this was the kind of soundbite that would be making headlines by morning. Cameras clicked in rapid succession, the bright flashes punctuating the thick tension in the air. A few journalists whispered to each other, gauging the reaction of the MSBY players, but none of them spoke up to break the moment.

Atsumu let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. Bokuto, who had been grinning just moments before, straightened slightly, his golden eyes flicking between you and Sakusa like he had just caught wind of something interesting. Even Meian, typically unfazed by media antics, raised an eyebrow at the way Sakusa’s fingers curled slightly against the table, his entire frame wound tight as if forcing himself to stay still.

You? You simply smirked, tapping your pen against your notebook before lifting your chin slightly. "No further questions."

That pisses him off more than anything. Because he knows—he knows—you got exactly what you wanted.

Sakusa clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring just slightly beneath his mask. It wasn’t just the question that irritated him—it was the way you delivered it, the way you smirked, the way you dismissed him like you had already gotten what you needed and he was no longer worth your time. The fact that you didn’t even look at him again as other reporters jumped in with their far more standard, predictable questions made something coil tight in his chest.

Sakusa forced himself to focus on the next question, but his grip on the microphone was just a little too firm, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of your pen scratching against paper as you took notes from the other players, like he wasn’t even worth your time anymore.

From then he knew who you were.

Knows your name, your face, the way your voice always cuts straight through to him no matter how many journalists crowd these post-match briefings. You’re a nuisance, an irritant, and yet—he never ignores your questions. Never brushes them off with the indifference he grants others.

You challenge him. And deep down, you both know he likes it.

~~

The first time you wrote about Sakusa Kiyoomi, your article had been direct and biting, dissecting his play with ruthless precision. Where others hailed his natural talent, you highlighted the flaws—the inconsistency in his service pressure, the occasional lapse in his blocking reads. Not to degrade him, but because you saw the potential for more. And apparently, so did he.

Since then, every time you covered an MSBY match, there was an unspoken expectation—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. But it wasn’t just that.

Sakusa remembers the very first time he noticed you. The first time you called him out in a press conference, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade, sharp and deliberate. He remembers how his fingers clenched under the table, how the irritation simmered low in his chest—not because of what you said, but because it made him feel something. It should’ve been just another question, just another reporter, but it wasn’t.

And it never has been since.—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. Over time, the rivalry evolved into something else, lingering in the way his gaze would flicker toward you during games or how his answers in press conferences were always a little sharper when you were the one asking the questions. Something neither of you had acknowledged.

The away game had been intense, but MSBY had emerged victorious. The final set had been a test of endurance, forcing the team to dig deep against an opponent determined to push them to their limits. The last point had come from a perfectly executed block—Sakusa reading the setter and shutting down the cross-court spike with a decisive palm. The crowd erupted, the whistle blew, and the scoreboard solidified their win.

Post-game adrenaline still ran through Sakusa’s veins as he walked into the media room alongside his teammates, their jerseys still damp with sweat. The moment they sat down at the press table, cameras flashed, and the room filled with a cacophony of voices as reporters fired off questions left and right.

“Your blocks were key in the third set! How did you adjust so quickly?”

“What do you think made the biggest difference against the opposing team’s hitters?”

“Your receives looked more inconsistent compared to last game. Do you think fatigue played a factor?”

Meian, as captain, answered first, offering the usual post-match reflections on team effort and strategy. Bokuto, beaming from ear to ear, leaned into the microphone and laughed about how ‘every game should be that intense!’ Hinata, still buzzing, nodded along, interjecting whenever he got the chance.

Sakusa answered each question he was asked with measured precision, keeping his responses brief but informative. He had done enough press to know how to maneuver through them without revealing much.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Shinohara was dominating the net in the second set, and you looked like you were scrambling to keep up. Would you say he got the better of you?”

Sakusa’s eyes snapped to the crowd of reporters, and there you were—standing among them, notebook in hand, your expression composed but sharp. The same way it had been earlier, when you had watched him from the sidelines and smirked before scribbling something down.

“Or was it frustration? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were second-guessing your reads more than usual. Did he force you to change your approach?”

The room held its breath, the shift in atmosphere nearly tangible. A few reporters traded quick looks, some leaning forward slightly, eager to see how Sakusa would respond. The usual rustling of notepads and scribbling of pens slowed, all eyes trained on the exchange.

His jaw tightened, fingers pressing into the table with restrained force. "Is that what you saw?" His voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, like a rope pulled too tight. The question wasn’t dismissive—it was a challenge. He adjusted his mask, fingers pressing into the fabric before exhaling slowly. “I was focused. Not frustrated.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind that said you knew exactly what you were doing. That you had dragged him into this, and he had walked right into it. Without another word, you lowered your pen and let the other reporters take over, shifting their questions toward Meian and Bokuto instead.

At the table, Atsumu and Bokuto shared a look.

“Didja see that?” Atsumu muttered under his breath.

Bokuto grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Sakusa ignored them, but he could feel their eyes on him, burning with interest.

The banquet hall is grand, an opulent display of polished marble floors and cascading chandeliers that bathe the room in warm, golden light. The scent of decadent dishes—slow-roasted meats, rich pastas, fresh seafood—intertwines with the subtle notes of fine wine and aged whiskey. Servers weave gracefully through the throngs of athletes, journalists, and executives, their trays balancing crystal goblets and plates laden with gourmet delicacies. The atmosphere is both relaxed and electric, the hum of voices, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain blending into an effortless symphony of post-match revelry. It was a post-match tradition for away games—a chance for players, staff, and members of the media to unwind.

At the MSBY table, Sakusa swirled his drink lazily in his glass, only half-listening to the conversation between his teammates.

“You got grilled again,” Bokuto laughed, nudging him. “Man, she’s relentless.”

“Pretty sure she enjoys making your life difficult,” Meian added, smirking over the rim of his beer.

Hinata grins. “She really goes for you in those press conferences. Think she’s got a thing for you?”

Sakusa scoffs, setting his drink down. “Doubtful.”

Atsumu, who has been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Nah, I think you got a thing for her.”

Sakusa tenses, shooting him a glare. “Shut up.”

“Oooh, he didn’t deny it,” Bokuto teases, laughing as he throws an arm around Hinata’s shoulders. “Kiyo, you like the attention, don’t you?”

Meian shakes his head. “I’d believe that if he wasn’t always so pissy after talking to her.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just doing her job.”

Atsumu grins. “So are you, but ya sure get all riled up when she’s around.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. Not one he wants to say out loud, anyway.

His teammates exchange looks, sensing that the teasing has gotten under his skin more than usual. But before any of them can make another comment, Sakusa stands abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hinata asks, blinking up at him.

Sakusa doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flickers across the room—to the bar, where you’re seated, nursing a drink while scrolling through your phone. His fingers tighten around his glass.

Atsumu follows his line of sight and grins. “Ah. Interesting.”

Sakusa ignores him and walks off.

You notice him before he even reaches the bar, that unmistakable presence making your pulse pick up just slightly.

He slides onto the stool beside you, his mask now tucked under his chin. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You’re hovering."

He mirrors your words from earlier, tone dry. "I haven’t said anything yet."

"You’re about to."

Sakusa exhales through his nose, gaze flickering briefly toward the drink in your hand before settling back on you. The air between you is thick, the usual sharpness in his stare now laced with something else—something unreadable.

You tilt your head slightly, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before speaking again. "You seemed irritated earlier."

"I wonder why."

You smirk. "I’d say it’s part of my job, but you already know that."

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans back against the bar, fingers tapping idly against his glass. "You enjoy it, don’t you? Getting under my skin."

"If it gets me the truth, then yeah."

His jaw tightens slightly at that, and for a second, you think he might say something else. But instead, he just watches you, eyes dark, expression unreadable.

You swirl the last of your drink in your glass, tilting your head as you watch him. Then, with a half-smirk, you say it—mostly as a joke. "You know, if you’re that desperate to defend yourself, I could offer you a private interview."

You don’t expect anything to come of it. In fact, you’re already preparing for him to scoff and dismiss the idea entirely.

But instead, Sakusa blinks, his fingers pausing on his glass. "When?"

That one word nearly makes you choke on your own drink. You open your mouth, close it, then recover with a casual shrug. "My recorder’s upstairs."

His gaze sharpens. "You’re still looking for an angle."

You shrug. "I’m looking for an answer."

Sakusa exhales, slow and measured, before finally nodding. "Fine. Let’s go." Neither of you move for a second. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, you both stand at the same time. The air between you tightens with something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name yet.

Across the room, Meian lets out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that."

Atsumu elbows Bokuto, barely able to contain his excitement. "Oh my god, Kiyoomi is getting some."

You weren’t expecting him to agree so easily, but you mask your surprise, finishing your drink before sliding off the stool. The walk out of the banquet hall is silent, the tension between you threading tighter with every step. You don’t look at him as you press the elevator button, and he doesn’t look at you when the doors slide open.

But the weight of his presence lingers, undeniable and electric.

The two of you walk toward the elevators in silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s charged, simmering beneath the surface. Neither of you say a word, but every step forward feels deliberate, like a move in a game neither of you are willing to lose. The walk is silent, tension threading between you, thick with something unspoken.

The moment the door to your hotel room clicks shut behind you, the atmosphere shifts—becomes something heavier, charged. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts elongated shadows along the sleek, modern furnishings, bathing the space in an intimate warmth. The distant murmur of the city beyond the window seems inconsequential compared to the weight of the silence stretching taut between you and Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately. He lingers near the entrance, his hand still resting lightly on the door handle, as if debating whether he should turn around and walk away. A flicker of hesitation ghosts across his face—so brief that most wouldn’t catch it, but you do.

Why is he here?

The easy answer is the interview. But deep down, he knows that’s not the truth. It hasn’t been for a while. You get under his skin in ways no one else does, and despite how much it infuriates him, he’s still here, standing in your hotel room, waiting for a reason not to be.

But you don’t give him one. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately, just lingers near the entrance, as if deciding whether he regrets agreeing to this. You, on the other hand, are already setting your recorder on the desk, flipping open your notebook with practiced ease. There’s no hesitation in your movements, no indication that you’d been thinking about the way he reacted back in the press conference.

But he knows you have.

He watches as you click your pen once, twice, before finally meeting his gaze. "Take a seat, Sakusa-san."

His jaw flexes, but he steps further into the room, pulling out the chair across from you with just a little more force than necessary. The scrape of the wood against the floor is sharp, punctuating the air between you. He doesn’t slouch, doesn’t let himself sink into the seat—no, he sits with his back straight, arms crossed, like he’s bracing for impact.

You hit record.

"So, let’s start with the game," you begin, voice even, measured. "Despite your win, Shinohara’s attack percentage was noticeably higher than yours. Do you think his presence on the court pushed you to your limits?"

Sakusa exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tensing. "He’s a strong player, but I wouldn’t say he ‘pushed me to my limits.’ I adjusted accordingly."

"You adjusted, but his success rate didn’t drop. So was the issue with your defense, or was he just the better player tonight?"

A pause. A sharp inhale from Sakusa. The muscle in his jaw twitches again.

"I don’t recall losing."

You tilt your head slightly. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Sakusa’s fingers curl against his arms, his nails pressing into the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes narrow, but there’s something else there too—something almost like intrigue beneath the irritation.

"If you’re looking for a soundbite, you’re not getting one."

You smirk, tapping your pen against your notebook. "Oh, I already got one."

His eyes flicker over your face, scanning, analyzing, before his irritation shifts into something else. Something darker. More intent.

The recorder sits between you, capturing every word, but neither of you are really thinking about the interview anymore. The weight of the tension settles thick in the air, lingering in the space between your crossed arms and his unwavering stare.

Sakusa exhales through his nose. "Next question."

You hesitate.

It’s barely a second—just long enough for your fingers to falter on your notepad, for your breath to catch as you take in the weight of his stare. And he sees it.

That single moment of doubt.

It fuels him more than anything else.

But you both know—this interview isn’t ending the way it was supposed to. He leans against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“So,” you start, keeping your voice even. “How do you think the game went?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You saw it.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Sakusa leans forward slightly. “You always want to hear it from me.”

You smile. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. “That’s my job.”

“Is it?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your notepad. There’s something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. “You tell me.”

For the first time, his mask is completely gone—not just the physical one, but the carefully measured distance he keeps between himself and the world. His gaze dips to your lips for half a second before snapping back up, something sharp and intent in his expression.

And then, he’s moving.

That night, nothing else matters. Not the rivalry, not the press, not the game. Just Sakusa Kiyoomi and the way he finally lets go—just for you.

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Part 2

The office door clicked shut behind you, tension coiled tight in your shoulders like a spring ready to snap. The argument with Iwaizumi had dragged on longer than either of you expected, every word exchanged like a verbal spar, blades dulled by professionalism but no less sharp.

Coach Fuki Hibarida sat behind his desk like a man who’d already fielded more than his share of chaos before lunch. His fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze sharp as it flicked between you and Iwaizumi. The air in the office was thick enough to choke on.

“I appreciate both of your passion,” he said finally, voice flat and uncompromising. “But if you keep at it like this, the only thing we’re going to accomplish is splitting the damn team in two.”

You leaned forward in your chair, back ramrod straight, the fire in your voice only barely tempered. “With all due respect, Coach, I’m not trying to split anything. I’m trying to protect these athletes from outdated training philosophies that completely disregard their medical history.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw flexed, arms crossed so tight across his chest it looked like he was trying to restrain himself from lunging across the room. “And I’m trying to prevent injuries before they happen. Without a baseline of strength, flexibility means jack shit.”

“Tell that to Sakusa’s ACL.”

He scoffed, sitting forward just enough that your knees almost touched. “You think I don’t know their files? I’ve worked with these guys longer than you’ve even been part of this team.”

“And yet your ‘expertise’ almost put Yaku back in a brace.”

“Enough!” Hibarida barked, and the room dropped into silence.

His eyes moved from Iwaizumi to you and back again. “You’re both right.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and begrudging.

“I’m signing off on your proposed changes,” he continued, nodding toward you. “Flexibility and personalized conditioning will take precedence moving forward. But Iwaizumi—your job is to ensure the training stays rigorous and strategic. Adjust programs for injury history. No exceptions.”

There was a long pause.

Iwaizumi’s voice, when it came, was stiff as granite. “Understood.”

Hibarida’s chair creaked as he stood, clearly eager to be done with the two of you. “I want the updated plan submitted by Friday. Together.”

You stood without looking at Iwaizumi. But as you passed him, shoulder nearly brushing his, you said under your breath, “Try not to screw this one up.”

His grunt of irritation followed you out the door.

--

Iwaizumi stood at the front of the gym, clipboard clutched tightly in his calloused hands, the glossy finish damp where his fingers curled. The fluorescent lights hummed above the Olympic training gym, casting cold, clinical shadows over the rows of elite athletes stretching and rotating through warm-ups. Despite the early hour, the place buzzed with restless energy.

But Iwaizumi wasn’t paying attention to any of that.

His eyes tracked every movement with practiced detachment, but his thoughts were far from the court. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his eyes, and the usual rhythm of morning practice only aggravated it. The pressure building in his temples had nothing to do with lack of sleep—and everything to do with you.

He was still pissed.

“We’re holding off on the strength circuits until the new plan is finalized,” he said, voice clipped, tone leaving no room for discussion.

Heads turned.

Atsumu blinked up from the mat where he’d been balancing his ankle on his opposite knee. “Wait, what? We’re not lifting today?”

Bokuto, halfway through a forward lunge, perked up instantly. “What happened to ‘no excuses’? Did we slip into an alternate universe or something?”

Even Sakusa raised a brow. “Did she win the argument?”

Yaku’s smirk was slow, subtle. “Feels like she won.”

Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched so tightly it made the muscle near his ear twitch. “I said they’re on hold,” he growled, tone sharpening. “New guidelines. End of discussion.”

“Wow,” Suna muttered, droll as ever. “He’s actually mad.”

“I will make you run drills until your legs fall off,” Iwaizumi snapped, voice a low bark. “Stretch. Now.”

That shut them up.

A beat of tense silence passed before the team shifted into their warm-ups. The sounds of light chatter and sneakers resumed, but the atmosphere was noticeably stiffer. The undercurrent of curiosity and amusement didn’t go unnoticed by Iwaizumi, but he shoved it down beneath years of discipline.

The rest of the session moved efficiently. Too efficiently. Every minute felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

By noon, the players filtered out of the gym in loose, staggered groups, sweat-darkened shirts clinging to lean muscle and jerseys half-hanging from relaxed shoulders. The air in the locker hallway was humid with effort, and banter floated lazily through the corridor.

Bokuto swung a towel behind his neck like a cape, laughing at something Suna had deadpanned. Sakusa lingered by the door for a beat, casting Iwaizumi a thoughtful glance before slipping out.

“Wonder if she’ll sign my cast when he snaps,” Aran muttered, nudging Hinata, who bit back a laugh.

Iwaizumi said nothing.

He turned on his heel, movements stiff, and marched toward the small office tucked off the side of the gym.

The door shut with more force than necessary.

He dropped the clipboard onto the desk. Papers slipped free, fluttering to the surface like discontent made manifest. The training revisions glared up at him.

And all he could see was your face.

The way you’d challenged him in Hibarida’s office—calm but cutting, your words sharpened like scalpels. The way the coach had leaned in your favor, as if your voice carried a gravity his didn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t accept change—he wasn’t stupid. He knew you were right about the numbers. About the science. About the goddamn knees.

But it burned anyway.

It was personal. He couldn’t separate the two. Not when you looked at him like that, like every disagreement was some gleeful test of willpower. Like you were waiting for him to crack so you could claim the final point.

Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, sighing harshly. His shoulders were still tight from holding his voice steady all morning.

He sat down with a grunt, chair creaking beneath him as he opened his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised but reluctant.

He didn’t want to change the entire system. Didn’t want to concede. But the damn truth was already there, glaring back at him from between the numbers and patient logs.

So he typed. Adjusted. Modified.

And when he hit send, the sting of it settled low in his stomach.

The phone lit up before he even closed the tab.

You.

Of course.

He stared at the screen, jaw tight, teeth grinding as your name lit up the caller ID.

Twice it rang. He let it.

On the third, he answered—no greeting, no softness. Just barked, “What now?”

“This revision is still garbage,” came your voice, flat and scathing. “Komori’s and Hyakuzawa’s circuits are identical. One has chronic shoulder fatigue, the other doesn’t.”

“The adjustments are proportional,” he snapped back, voice low and sharp. “That’s how progressive loading works.”

“Progressive loading my ass. You copy-pasted three damn circuits and called it a day. You didn’t even touch their mobility metrics.”

“I factored in what matters.”

You laughed. Cold. “What matters is that Hyakuzawa won’t last another month if you keep pretending his joints aren’t glass.”

His hand slammed against the desk before he could stop himself, palm stinging. “You’re not his goddamn physical therapist.”

“No,” you snapped. “I’m the idiot burning her day off trying to keep him out of a hospital.”

He froze for half a beat.

Your words landed hard, scraping under his skin.

And god, you weren’t done.

“I’m not playing translator for whatever bullshit this is. If you want my sign-off, you’re getting it the right way. You clearly don’t understand the changes, so I’m coming in to explain them. In person. Like a teacher walking through homework with a slow student.”

He tilted his head back, jaw ticking, breath exhaling like steam. He glared at the ceiling tiles like they’d give him strength.

“Fine,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes.”

“Good,” you hissed. “Try not to screw anything else up in the meantime.”

The line went dead.

Iwaizumi stared at the phone for another second, his thumb hovering above the darkened screen.

The silence afterward rang louder than your voice.

And under his breastbone, the pulse of it—his rage, his pride, the heat of your words—all of it throbbed, slow and persistent.

Like something ready to burn.

--

You stormed into Iwaizumi’s office like a gust of controlled fury, not bothering to knock.

He barely had time to glance up before your voice cut through the air like a scalpel.

“It’s my day off, Iwaizumi. You know that, right?”

His brows lifted, clearly caught off guard—not just by your tone, but by your clothes. Joggers clung snugly to your hips, your tank top fitted and dipped in a way your usual business-casual never did. A jacket hung loose around your shoulders, unzipped, and your hair was tied up messily, strands falling out in a way that was entirely unfair.

Still, he bristled at your tone. “You didn’t have to come in.”

“Then maybe don’t make me rewrite your entire plan for you,” you snapped. “I told you Hyakuzawa’s shoulder range isn’t compatible with Komori’s. And you still sent it over like I wouldn’t notice.”

“I adjusted for mass and range—”

“You adjusted by copy-pasting,” you cut in. “Do you even read the assessments I send you?”

His jaw flexed. “I read everything. And I know how to train a team.”

“And I know how to prevent torn rotator cuffs.”

A sharp silence settled between you. You stood with your hands on your hips, breathing hard, Iwaizumi staring at you from behind his desk, every muscle in his arms coiled with tension.

He should’ve barked at you to leave. Should’ve snapped something back just as biting.

Instead, he stood.

“I’m not arguing with you in here,” he said, voice tight. “Let’s go.”

“To the gym?” you asked.

He nodded once, already stepping past you. “You said you’d show me. So show me.”

--

The weight room was empty save for the two of you. Echoes of distant foot traffic from the other side of the facility drifted in and out through the thick walls. Overhead, a single bank of lights buzzed faintly.

“Start with the squats,” you said, tossing a pair of 40-pound dumbbells his way.

He caught them with ease. “Loaded squats? Really?”

You folded your arms. “Humor me, Captain.”

He rolled his eyes but turned to face the mirror, feet shoulder-width apart, and dropped into his first rep. His form was solid—predictably—but your eyes tracked the subtle tremors in his posture, the way his shoulders bore tension even during a movement that should be driven by legs and core.

“Pause,” you ordered.

He straightened slowly, setting the weights down.

“You’re bracing too much in your upper back,” you said. “You’re engaging traps when you should be isolating quads and glutes. Komori compensates the same way, which is exactly the problem.”

You moved behind him, slid your hand down between his shoulder blades, pressing lightly.

“Here,” you murmured. “You feel how stiff this is?”

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

“Try it again, but keep this area loose. Let the legs drive.”

He picked up the weights again and dropped down, this time more controlled.

You circled him once, sharp eyes on every joint.

“That’s better,” you said. “Still not perfect.”

He huffed through his nose. “Then what is?”

Your lips twitched, eyes gleaming. “I’ll show you.”

You stepped forward, picked up a lighter set of weights, and took your stance in the mirror. Your movements were deliberate, slow, each line precise. You dipped into a squat, spine long, and spoke as you moved.

“This is full isolation. Core tight. Knees over toes. Glutes firing.”

You looked at him through the mirror.

“Here—” You set the weights down and grabbed his wrist, tugging him forward. “Put your hand here.”

You placed his palm on your thigh, just above your knee.

“That’s the difference between alignment and load. You feel that tension? That’s what Hyakuzawa can’t hold for more than five reps. So when you give him a template that pushes twelve, you’re training him into injury.”

His fingers twitched where they rested against your leg.

You didn’t look up. Neither did he.

But the silence was loud.

You finally moved, stepping back, letting the contact fall away. His hand lingered for half a second before he pulled it back and flexed his fingers into a fist.

“Alright,” you said, exhaling. “Shoulders next.”

He didn’t speak, just nodded tightly and picked up a new set of dumbbells.

“This one’s more relevant for Komori. Upright rows. Don’t use momentum—go slow.”

He stood tall, lifting the weights to chest height with steady control.

You stepped in again, brushing your fingertips along his forearms as he moved.

“Good... Now hold.”

His muscles tensed, veins stark beneath tan skin, the curve of his biceps flexed just enough to make your breath catch.

You swallowed hard, refocusing.

“Lift from the delts, not the biceps,” you murmured. “They’re stabilizers here.”

Your hand moved to his chest, palm flat over his pec. The contact startled him—just enough for his eyes to flicker up and land right on the exposed line of your cleavage through your tank.

He froze.

And you saw it. That split second of his eyes widening before snapping back up to yours like he hadn’t seen a damn thing.

Your brow rose. “Focus, Iwaizumi.”

He gritted his teeth. “I am focused.”

You pressed a little firmer into his chest. “Then stop compensating here.”

His breath came a little heavier now.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

The tension snapped taut between you. Neither of you moved, the air thick with something sharp, electric.

Then—

“Ah—sorry!”

The door creaked open.

You both jolted, stepping back so fast you almost tripped.

A janitor stood in the doorway, expression blank. “Didn’t realize the room was still in use.”

You cleared your throat. “We were just wrapping up.”

Iwaizumi grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead, still avoiding your eyes.

The janitor nodded and disappeared.

Silence returned.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, trying not to show how fast your heart was racing. “I’ll expect the revised plan tomorrow.”

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

He was still staring at the spot where your hand had been.

Pregnancy: Yaku

It was supposed to be one of your favorites.

Yaku stood proudly in front of the stove, dishing up a steaming plate of oyakodon—fluffy egg, juicy chicken, perfectly seasoned rice. You’d been craving something warm and comforting, and he’d been more than happy to oblige. He even made miso soup on the side, garnished just the way you liked it, with the little tofu cubes floating lazily in the bowl. The apartment smelled like soy sauce and dashi, rich and nostalgic.

You waddled into the kitchen with one hand on your lower back, the other absentmindedly tracing the edge of your growing bump, already smiling at the scent you knew so well.

But then—

It hit you.

The smell.

Hard.

You stopped short. The smile slipped from your face. Your nose crinkled, your eyes went wide, and your stomach lurched.

You gagged once, loud and sudden.

Yaku turned from the stove instantly, eyes narrowing with alarm. “Hey—are you okay?”

You waved him off, trying to speak, trying to play it off like you could power through it.

“Yeah, I just—” You gagged again, louder this time, one hand flying to your mouth. “It’s fine, I think I just need a second—”

Then your stomach gave up entirely.

The rich scent of simmered egg and soy sauce suddenly turned rancid in your senses, and before you could say a word, both hands flew to your mouth. You staggered toward the sink, breathing hard through your nose.

Yaku turned just in time to watch you sprint the rest of the way.

You barely made it. Gripping the edges of the basin, you gagged violently, doubling over as your body heaved with no warning. Your knees buckled slightly from the effort, and tears sprang to your eyes as you fought to keep control.

“Oh—oh my god,” Yaku choked out, dropping the plate onto the counter with a sharp clatter. His hand hovered midair, frozen, like he wasn’t sure if he should run toward you or flee entirely.

He chose you.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” he said, voice slightly high-pitched, his mouth tugging awkwardly to one side as he fought against his visible discomfort. His nose wrinkled despite himself, but he pressed a hand to your back, rubbing slow, shaky circles. “It’s okay. Just breathe. You got it.”

You were sobbing before you even lifted your head.

“I loved that dish,” you wailed, tears streaming freely now. “You made it perfectly and I—I threw up in front of you, and I can’t even eat it now, and I’m so sorry—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said quickly, helping you upright and handing you a cool cloth from the fridge. “None of that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You wiped your mouth, sniffling. “But I ruined dinner.”

He glanced warily at the plate, now abandoned and beginning to cool. “Yeah, well, it’s not my best memory of oyakodon anymore, but that’s fine. It’ll survive.”

You hiccupped a wet laugh. “You’re grossed out.”

“I’m... challenged,” he admitted with a strained smile. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll gag quietly in the corner if I have to.”

You buried your face in his shoulder. “I hate that my body’s doing this. I hate that I wanted something so badly and then just—rejected it like that.”

He stroked your back, gentler now. “It’s not rejection. It’s just... a rebranding.”

You pulled back slightly, puffy-eyed. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he said, tipping your chin up, “that we’re finding new favorites now. So tell me what you can stomach, and I’ll make it happen.”

You hesitated.

“…You’re not gonna like it.”

“I just watched you throw up mid-step and I stayed. Try me.”

“…Pickles.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

“With peanut butter.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And crushed ice.”

He blinked. “Separate or…?”

“Side dish.”

“Of course.”

“And I want a plain bagel. But I want to dip it in cream cheese and ketchup.”

He exhaled. “Naturally.”

“And maybe some frozen corn niblets? Not cooked. Just... straight from the freezer.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Making a list.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” he interrupted, already walking to the counter. “Because you’re growing a whole human, and apparently that human is very specific.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too. Even if I hate this list.”

And with that, he kissed your temple, grabbed his keys, and set off to hunt down every absurd craving you’d dreamed up—with only a faint grimace and a stomach made of steel.

--

It took him two corner stores and a specialty deli, but Yaku returned triumphant, arms full of grocery bags and a look of determination on his face. He laid everything out on the coffee table like it was a five-star buffet: pickles, peanut butter, crushed ice in a big bowl, a plain bagel, cream cheese, ketchup, and a bag of frozen corn.

You were already curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, and your face lit up like the sun when you saw it all. “Oh my god,” you gasped, reaching for the pickles first and dipping one straight into the peanut butter without hesitation. “This is perfect.”

Yaku sat on the edge of the couch, watching with a blend of horror and awe as you crunched down on your Frankenstein meal with pure, genuine joy.

You munched happily, cheeks puffed out, eyes dreamy as you chewed. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”

He smiled, soft and full of affection. “I love you too.”

Then, quieter, barely a mumble as he stared at the bagel going into the ketchup-cream cheese dip: “This kid is gonna be weird.”