Rivalry: Sakusa
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.
More Posts from Noorpersona and Others
Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 5
The sharp clang of the school bell signaled the end of class, jolting you out of your thoughts. You blinked, realizing you had barely absorbed a single word of the lecture. Your fingers mindlessly traced the spine of your textbook as students shuffled around you, chairs scraping against the floor, the din of conversation rising as everyone spilled into the hallway for lunch.
Your body moved on autopilot, gathering your belongings and slipping into the throng of students, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. The past few days had been a blur, a tangled mess of secrets, frustration, and moments you couldn’t quite categorize. Your lips tingled at the memory of his mouth on them, your skin still seemed to burn where he had touched you, and no matter how much you tried to shake it, you felt restless.
Lost in thought, you barely noticed when you stepped into the cafeteria—
Until a loud, unmistakable voice cut through the noise like a whip.
"Where the hell have you been?!"
You barely had time to process before Hana Yoshida came barreling toward you, her long dark hair swaying dramatically behind her, eyes narrowed with accusation and concern.
You winced. Shit.
"You have been straight-up ghosting me, and I swear to god if you say it's because of some stupid schoolwork, I will lose my mind."
Her hands found her hips as she planted herself in front of you, blocking your path with the kind of intensity only Hana could manage. She was radiating energy, a force of nature wrapped in an oversized school sweater and a skirt she had definitely rolled up against dress code.
You opened your mouth to protest, but she immediately cut you off, her sharp brown eyes narrowing further. "No. Don’t even try to make an excuse, because I know you. And I know when you’re hiding something."
You shifted uncomfortably, your hands gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. "I—uh—"
"Yeah, uh-uh, my ass." Hana scoffed, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward your usual lunch spot with zero room for argument. "Spill. Now. Before I start making up my own theories, and trust me, you won't like them."
You swallowed hard.
"I've just been busy," you tried weakly, avoiding her piercing gaze. "You know, school, club activities, the usual."
Hana’s eyes narrowed even further as she leaned in closer, scanning your face with an almost predatory level of scrutiny. And then, as if something suddenly clicked, her jaw dropped.
She gasped so loudly that a few students actually turned their heads in curiosity. Then, without missing a beat, she pointed an accusatory finger directly at your chest.
"Oh. My. God. You’ve been having sex!"
Your stomach plummeted.
Panic shot through you at lightning speed, your hand flying up to clasp over her mouth before she could blurt out another humiliating declaration for the entire cafeteria to hear.
"Shut up!" you hissed, your face heating up so fast you thought you might combust on the spot. "Would you keep your voice down?!"
Hana’s muffled laugh vibrated against your palm before she wrenched your hand away, eyes practically sparkling with glee. "Oh, I knew it! I knew something was up! And judging by how flustered you are, I’m right!"
She smirked, leaning in even closer, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "You look so mellow and relaxed lately. And honestly? You’re glowing. Whoever is dicking you down is doing a great job."
Your face erupted in flames. "Will you just shut up?!" you hissed, mortified beyond belief, your eyes darting around to make sure no one else had overheard.
Hana only grinned wider, clearly having the time of her life. "Oh, I am so not shutting up. I need details."
You stuttered, scrambling for a way out of this conversation. "T-there's nothing to say. It was just a fling," you lied through your teeth, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.
Hana's eyes narrowed like a predator locking onto its prey. "Oh, sure. Just a fling? You, Miss ‘I Don’t Do Hookups’? You expect me to believe that?"
Before she could press you further, a loud voice cut through the cafeteria noise, pulling you from Hana’s relentless interrogation.
"Hey, manager!"
You turned, internally sighing in relief, as Osamu, Atsumu, Aran, Suna, and Hitoshi made their way toward you. The group moved with familiar ease, their casual bickering bleeding into the air like background static. Even before they reached your table, you could tell they were in the middle of one of their stupid arguments.
"God, you guys can’t leave me alone, huh?" you teased, forcing yourself to sound as normal as possible while shifting slightly in your seat. You could still feel Hana's gaze boring into the side of your head, but for now, she was momentarily distracted.
Hana huffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, you guys get her before and after school. Can't I reserve her for lunch?"
"Don't worry, we only need her for a quick second," Suna added with a smirk, earning a roll of your eyes.
"We got a serious debate," Hitoshi declared, arms crossed, his expression dead serious. "Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?"
Osamu sighed, shaking his head. "A hundred duck-sized horses, obviously. A horse-sized duck would be terrifying."
Suna scoffed. "Nah, you’re thinking too hard about it. A horse-sized duck would have hollow bones. It wouldn’t even be that strong."
You blinked, deadpan. "That’s what you’re arguing about?"
Atsumu grinned, leaning forward, his golden eyes glinting with mischief. "C’mon, we need a tie-breaker."
You rolled your eyes, already feeling the familiar urge to snark back. "Knowing you, Miya, you’d lose to both."
Atsumu’s smug expression instantly dropped, replaced with mock offense. "Excuse me? I’d destroy that oversized poultry."
"Doubt it," you shot back. "You’d probably trip over your own ego before you could throw the first punch."
Atsumu’s golden eyes gleamed with challenge, his smirk widening as if he was ready to throw another quip your way. He leaned in slightly, opening his mouth—
"Oh, sweetheart, you really gotta work on your comebacks. That one barely stung."
"Oh, up yours, you insufferable—" you began with a sweet smile, voice dripping with venom, but before you could finish, Aran cut in with a sigh. "Okay, okay, let’s get food before this turns into another screaming match."
You raised your hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm the one with self-control."
Atsumu shot you a glare, clearly not amused, his mouth opening to retort, but you only grinned wider. "That being said—a horse-sized duck."
Half the boys erupted into a small but silent victory celebration, their smug grins a stark contrast to the ones rolling their eyes in annoyance. With that, the group turned and began heading toward the lunch line, still bickering about the logistics of fighting oversized poultry.
Atsumu threw you one last smirk, his golden eyes flashing with something too smug, too knowing, before turning on his heel to follow the rest of the team.
It was quick, almost imperceptible, but there was something in that fleeting glance—a silent challenge, a lingering amusement, a spark of something neither of you wanted to name. Your stomach twisted at the way his smirk lingered even as he walked away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the lunch crowd.
You barely had time to process it before Hana's nails dug into your arm with newfound intensity.
"Oh. My. God. Miya Atsumu?!"
Your stomach dropped, the cafeteria suddenly feeling too bright, too loud, every sound around you fading into a dull hum compared to the sheer horror of what had just left Hana’s mouth.
Hana’s voice was barely a whisper, but the absolute horror and uncontainable glee in her tone made your face burn hotter than the sun, the heat creeping up your neck and settling into your ears.
"What?! You are out of your mind—" you sputtered, words tumbling out before you could even think of a solid defense. Your hands instinctively gripped the edge of the table, like you needed something to ground yourself before you keeled over in embarrassment.
But Hana just grinned, completely unfazed, watching you with a predatory kind of giddiness, like she had just unearthed the juiciest gossip of the century.
"I mean, it makes sense," she continued, tapping her chin as if she were solving a grand mystery, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He’s stupid pretty, and you both hate each other’s guts."
You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to tell her she had completely lost her mind, but then—
Hana’s expression shifted.
As if a switch flipped.
Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and then—
She gasped, loud and dramatic, clutching your arm so tightly you thought she might dislocate your shoulder.
"You’ve been having hate sex and didn’t tell me?!"
You winced, her words cutting through the already overwhelming noise of the cafeteria, but to you, they felt magnified, exposed, like she had just put you on trial in the middle of lunch hour.
A groan ripped from your throat, your hand dragging down your face as if you could physically wipe this moment from existence.
"Goddamn it, can you stop being so perceptive?" you gritted out, your voice half a plea, half a curse, the mortification settling deep in your bones.
Hana, however, looked delighted, her grin only stretching wider, eating up your suffering like it was the most entertaining thing she’d ever witnessed.
Your shoulders slumped in defeat, your head dropping onto the desk with a resigned sigh.
"What do you want to know?" you mumbled, knowing full well you had just opened the floodgates to hell.
--
You told her everything—from the late-night encounters to the insults exchanged between breathless moans, the ridiculous tension that neither of you acknowledged in daylight, the way he was just so frustrating even when he wasn’t talking. Every stupid detail, every infuriating moment, all of it. The way his smirk made your skin prickle with annoyance, how his hands always seemed to leave behind an unbearable heat, the way he had this infuriating ability to push every single one of your buttons. And yet, somehow, you kept going back. Again and again.
By the time you finished, Hana was just staring at you, blinking slowly, like she needed a moment to actually process the sheer absurdity of the situation you had just described. Then, she leaned back, exhaled slowly, and with the most deadpan expression, simply said:
"Wow. I'm so jealous."
A snort escaped you before you could stop it, your body tensing and relaxing all at once. "Only you would be jealous of this kind of situation."
Hana shrugged, her lips pulling into a lazy, knowing grin. "I mean, what’s not to like? The sex is good, he’s not bad to look at—"
"I hate his guts," you cut in, scowling, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table. There was no way in hell you were letting her finish that sentence.
Hana just stopped, her eyes scanning your face with undisguised skepticism, her head tilting slightly like you had just said the dumbest thing imaginable.
"Right." She dragged the word out, voice drenched in disbelief, as if she was humoring a child who just declared they didn’t like sugar.
Your teeth clenched, frustration flaring hot in your chest. "I’m serious, Hana. I can’t stand him."
She raised an eyebrow, her smirk only growing, clearly unimpressed. "But you can stand him inside you."
Your mouth fell open in horror, your entire body locking up before you slapped her shoulder—hard enough to make her burst out into uncontrollable laughter.
"Oh my god, shut up!" you hissed, your face burning.
Hana just grinned, completely unrepentant, rubbing her arm with mock injury. "I’m just saying. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a thing for him."
You scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Absolutely not. I could never see myself with him. It’s just physical. That’s it."
"Mmhmm," Hana hummed, tapping her chin dramatically, like she was filing away her own private analysis of your situation. Then, after a few seconds, she tilted her head, as if casually remembering something.
"Then you shouldn’t care that Ayumi Tanaka is planning on asking him out."
Your entire body tensed before your head snapped toward her so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.
"What?" you blurted out, voice sharper than you intended.
Hana blinked, her lips quirking as if she knew exactly what she was doing. "Oh, yeah. She was talking about it in the locker room the other day. Said she’s been into him for a while and figured she’d shoot her shot."
Your jaw locked, a strange heat curling in your chest. "And… he said what?"
Hana shrugged. "Dunno. She hasn’t asked him yet. But she was pretty confident."
You hated the way your stomach twisted at that. Absolutely despised it. Because it shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t. This thing with Atsumu? It wasn’t real—just something to get out of both your systems. That’s it. That was the agreement. And yet, the thought of him with someone else, letting someone else touch him, whisper things into his ear, run their hands over his skin—
No. Absolutely not.
Wait. Why do I care?
Hana leaned forward, watching your expression with obvious amusement. "Oh, wow. You hate him so much, yet here you are, looking like you just swallowed a lemon."
You tore your gaze away, forcing yourself to breathe. "I don’t care."
Hana smirked. "Right. Totally buying that."
Before you could snap back, the sharp ring of the school bell split the air, signaling the end of lunch. You shot up from your seat so fast it nearly knocked your tray over.
"Oh wow, the bell! Gotta go!" you rushed out, grabbing your bag and making a beeline for the exit like your life depended on it.
Hana, still seated, only crossed her arms, watching you flee with an exasperated shake of her head. "This isn’t over!" she called after you, her voice carrying over the cafeteria noise.
You barely heard her as you pushed through the hallway, her words still rattling in your head. Your stomach twisted as you replayed the conversation, the image of Atsumu with someone else digging its claws into your brain like an itch you couldn't scratch. The idea of another girl sliding her hands over his skin, pulling those same groans from his throat, whispering in his ear—it sent a fresh, unwanted wave of irritation crawling through your veins.
You trudged down the hallway, weaving through the clusters of students lingering outside their classrooms, your mind still clouded with the lingering conversation you had barely escaped from. Hana’s words played on a loop in your head, irritating and persistent, no matter how much you tried to shake them off.
It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.
Confessions: Oikawa
(This is connected to another drabble I made in my series 'Unreq Love' so here is context if you'd like the full experience: Oikawa & Bonus)
--
The gym is quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles like dust in the corners—heavy, still, waiting. The lights are off, but the late afternoon sun filters through the high windows, painting the floor in long strokes of gold. The volleyball net hangs limply between its poles, no longer taut with purpose. There are scuff marks everywhere, like memories burned into the wood—ghosts of spikes, dives, the relentless rhythm of ambition. The echoes of laughter, shouting, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers still seem to hum beneath the silence, like the gym itself refuses to forget.
You spot him immediately.
Oikawa stands near the back wall, his figure backlit by sunlight, facing the net with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders are drawn tight, his posture still and unreadable. He doesn’t move when you step in, but he knows it’s you. No one walks into a gym like you do—especially not after hours. Especially not him.
You take your time crossing the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little, but he doesn’t flinch. The air smells like dust and floor polish, and something sharper underneath—like endings. Like goodbye.
“I figured I’d find you here,” you say, coming to a stop beside him.
He huffs, a soft, humorless sound. “You always do.”
“Well,” you shrug, “someone’s gotta make sure you’re not brooding yourself into an existential crisis.”
Finally, he glances at you. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, something far quieter than the version of him everyone else sees. You know it well. You’ve seen it before, behind locker room doors, in the quiet of bus rides home, in the way his voice would sometimes crack when no one was supposed to hear. He looks like someone who's been chasing a shadow for too long and just realized it was always out of reach.
“I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, it’d feel different,” he murmurs, gaze shifting back to the net. “But it still hurts.”
“Of course it hurts,” you reply, arms crossing over your chest. “You gave everything to this place. You bled for it. You obsessed over every drill, every stat sheet, every match. Losing was never going to be painless.”
He chuckles, and it’s low and bitter. “We didn’t even make it to nationals. What was the point of all of it?”
You frown, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Tooru, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”
That earns you a sidelong glance, the barest glimmer of amusement.
You soften. “You weren’t just chasing wins. You built something here. A team that trusted you. A legacy. People are going to remember you—not because of a scoreboard, but because you made them better. You made them believe. You pushed them to be more.”
He doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tics. He always does that when he’s trying not to feel something. The weight of three years rests on his shoulders like armor that no longer serves him.
“And what about you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you more fully. “You stuck by me through everything. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
You scoff, leaning back on your heels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Tooru.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. You think I followed you around like a lost puppy for three years because I enjoyed your tantrums and diva moments?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a little?”
“God, you’re insufferable.” You shake your head, but your voice loses its edge. “I stayed because you were worth it. Because you’re more than volleyball. You always have been. Even when you were too busy being dramatic to see it.”
The silence that falls between you is thick with years of shared glances, missed chances, and words left unspoken. The light shifts across the floor, turning everything gold like the last flicker of a day that tried its best.
You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not when he’s already unraveling.
You glance at him again, then down at your hands. Your voice comes out low, more to yourself than to him. “God, I can’t avoid this, can I?”
But it’s been sitting in your chest for too long, and something about the way the light hits his face—the rawness there, the quiet ache—makes it impossible to keep in.
“I love you.”
His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “...What?”
You inhale slowly, like that’ll steady the thundering in your chest. “I said I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met. Since you made that dumb joke during orientation and somehow managed to trip over your own feet.”
Your voice wavers slightly, but you push through. “I thought it was just a crush. Something stupid. But it never went away. Through every win, every loss, every time you walked into a room and lit it up like you didn’t even know—through all of it, I kept falling. I knew every version of you—the charming captain, the insecure overthinker, the friend who stayed behind after practice to help pick up stray balls—and I still fell.”
You swallow hard, heart aching in your chest. “And I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think I had the right to. I thought I’d be a distraction, or worse—just another person you’d feel responsible for. But standing here with you, watching you look at that net like it still owes you something... I couldn’t walk away without telling you. Because it’s not just about volleyball. Not for me. Not when it comes to you.”
You take a step back, the burn of embarrassment creeping up your neck, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get it out of my system.”
You turn, ready to bolt before you make a bigger fool of yourself—but before your foot even hits the line, his hand wraps around your wrist.
You freeze.
His grip isn’t desperate, but it’s firm—anchoring. When you look back, he’s already there—closer than you thought, close enough that you can see the flicker of emotion dancing in his eyes. His breath is uneven. So is yours.
His gaze lingers on your face, moving from your eyes to your mouth, then back again, as if trying to piece together something he should’ve realized long ago. You see it hit him all at once—the memories, the missed moments, the way you’ve always been right there. His shoulders loosen like something inside him’s finally cracking open.
His hand moves slowly to your face, tentative but gentle, and his thumb brushes against your cheek like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers tremble just slightly, and the warmth of his palm grounds you in place.
“How did I never see you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question meant for you. It’s a confession all on its own, shaped by regret and wonder.
Then he kisses you.
Soft at first, hesitant—like he’s asking permission.
Then again—deeper, fuller, with the kind of reverence that comes from finally seeing someone who’s been standing in the light all along. His hand curves behind your neck, the other still holding your wrist like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.
And for once, Oikawa doesn’t say a single word.
He just pulls you closer, holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and lets the silence speak for itself.
In that quiet, there is no loss. No disappointment. No game that slipped through trembling fingers.
There’s just you.
And it’s enough.
Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 4 (NSFW)
Two months had passed, and despite every rational part of you screaming that this was a terrible idea, you had found yourself tangled up in a routine that made it impossible to stop.
Atsumu had become a habit—one that was filthy, consuming, and utterly reckless. The secrecy of it all only made it worse. Late nights, locked doors, hushed whispers, and rough hands in dark rooms. You hated him. He pissed you off. And yet, here you were, again, back in his bed, completely at his mercy.
Your thighs trembled, muscles tight with anticipation as you gripped the sheets, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps as his mouth worked you open. Wet, hot, relentless.
"Fuck, Tsumu—" your voice broke as his tongue flicked over your clit, teasing, taunting, making you feel like you were unraveling at the seams. Your fingers tangled into his messy blonde hair, pulling him closer, but the bastard hardly needed the encouragement.
He was devouring you.
He hummed against you, sending a delicious shiver through your core. Atsumu lived for this—for the way you twisted beneath him, for the way you couldn't stop yourself from falling apart in his mouth. His grip on your thighs tightened, spreading you wider, giving him full access to ruin you.
"Missed me, huh?" he murmured between slow, deliberate strokes, his voice thick with amusement.
You wanted to smack that smugness off of him, to snap back with something sharp and cutting, but when his tongue pushed inside, any semblance of thought vanished.
"Oh, fuck—"
His chuckle was dark, pleased, vibrating against your sensitive skin. "That's it."
You should have kicked him in the face. Should have. But all you could do was arch, pressing yourself closer, giving in to the intensity, letting him take whatever he wanted—because fuck, you wanted it too.
The pleasure built fast, coiling tight in your stomach, every nerve burning with overstimulation. He knew exactly what he was doing, and worse, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed keeping you on edge. Enjoyed the messy, breathless moans spilling from your lips, the helpless way you moved against him.
Atsumu was playing you like a damn game, and he was winning.
"Tsumu—" you gasped, back bowing off the mattress, hands fisting into the sheets. Your thighs shook, dangerously close to clamping around his head, but he wouldn’t let you—his grip was iron.
"Let go," he murmured, his voice rough with hunger, his tongue swirling slow and deep, his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking.
And that was it.
The tension snapped.
A sharp cry tore from your throat as you shattered, pleasure crashing over you in hot, violent waves. Blinding, overwhelming, too much. Your body locked up, then trembled, your release hitting you so hard you nearly saw stars.
Atsumu groaned against you, his fingers digging into your hips as he licked you through it, his tongue still fucking teasing, dragging out every aftershock until you were whimpering, too sensitive to bear it.
Your body felt like liquid, your limbs useless, your mind still floating in the aftermath when the bed shifted. Through half-lidded, hazy eyes, you watched as Atsumu sat up, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, golden eyes dark, hooded with satisfaction.
He was so fucking pleased with himself.
"Goddamn," he muttered, voice thick with satisfaction as he reached for the condom on the nightstand, rolling it on with practiced ease. "Ya look so good when ya come."
You barely had time to glare at him before—
The front door swung open.
Your entire body froze.
"Oi, 'Tsumu! You home?"
Fucking Osamu.
Atsumu cursed, already moving, his reflexes sharp as hell as he grabbed your wrist and yanked you off the bed. Your half-fogged brain barely caught up before you were being shoved toward the only hiding place available—
Under his damn bed.
You scrambled beneath it just as Osamu’s footsteps approached the room, your skin still burning, every nerve still buzzing from your orgasm. Still fucking naked.
And worse? It was disgusting under here.
A layer of dust clung to the floor, a few stray socks shoved against the far wall—probably unwashed—and your stomach turned when your elbow knocked into a bottle of lotion next to what was clearly a magazine filled with dirty pictures.
Oh, my god.
Your jaw clenched in horrified realization, but there was no time to react because above you, Atsumu was scrambling.
You heard the distinct sound of fabric being yanked as he snatched the nearest shirt off the floor, shoving it over his head in record time. The bedsprings groaned as he moved, no doubt trying to cover his raging hard-on with a blanket before his brother walked in.
"Yeah, I'm here. What d'ya want?" Atsumu called, his voice just barely holding its usual casual edge.
From your position on the goddamn floor, your heart hammered, breath caught in your throat.
This was a fucking disaster.
Osamu stepped inside, his gaze immediately narrowing in suspicion as he took in the sight of Atsumu sitting stiffly on the bed, a blanket haphazardly draped over his lap, hair ruffled, and his shirt clearly thrown on in a panic.
"What are you doing?" Osamu asked, crossing his arms, his tone carrying the weight of deep skepticism.
Atsumu floundered for a response. "Uh—just—nappin’."
Osamu raised a brow, his eyes flickering to the blanket, the slight tension in Atsumu’s posture, the way his twin wouldn’t meet his gaze. Slowly, a look of realization—followed by deep, profound disgust—settled over his face.
"Oh, gross." Osamu took a step back like he’d been personally offended. "The bathroom exists for a reason, ya know."
Atsumu’s eyes widened in horror. "What? No! That’s not—"
"Dude, I don’t wanna know!" Osamu cut him off, throwing up a hand. "I walked in on ya once when we were kids and I still haven’t recovered. I ain’t doing this again."
Atsumu groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "I wasn’t jackin’ off, dumbass!"
Osamu, looking entirely unconvinced, took another step toward the door. "Hey, look, I don’t care what ya do in here—just let me know when you’re done and I’ll come back." His lip curled in mild disgust before he turned and left, shutting the door behind him.
The front door clicked closed a moment later, signaling that Osamu had left the house.
Silence.
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding before crawling out from under the bed, glaring at Atsumu as you brushed dust and questionable particles off your skin.
"That," you said, voice flat, "was humiliating. And disgusting. Can you vacuum under your bed once in a while? I think I inhaled ten years' worth of filth."
You plucked a lint ball from your hair in disgust, shaking it off your fingers as Atsumu flopped dramatically onto the mattress with a groan.
"Not my fault ya had to go crawlin’ under there," he shot back, smirking despite himself. "Bet ya got real acquainted with my side of the world, huh?"
You scowled. "I got real acquainted with the fact that you're a goddamn slob."
Atsumu scoffed, propping himself up on his elbows. "Ya got outta there alive, didn’t ya? No harm done."
You folded your arms, leveling him with a hard stare. "Listen, that was way too close. We need to be more careful."
Atsumu hummed, tapping his fingers against his stomach in thought before flashing that infuriating smirk. "We could always get a motel."
You snorted, shaking your head. "And be seen in public with you? Not a chance."
Atsumu laughed, but there was something too satisfied in the way he looked at you, eyes dark and knowing. "Talkin’ a lotta shit for someone who just came on my tongue, sweetheart."
Your breath hitched, heat crawling up your neck at the way he said it, like he was ready for another round.
And judging by the way his gaze dropped to your still-naked body, he was.
Atsumu sat up, moving toward you, fingers skimming over your thigh, his intent crystal clear. "C'mon, we still got time."
You caught his wrist before he could get any further, leveling him with a pointed glare. "No. I need to shower."
His smirk deepened. "You need an extra set of hands?"
"I'd rather stick forks in my eyes."
Atsumu laughed as you stormed off toward the bathroom, ignoring the heat lingering in your stomach, ignoring the fact that a tiny, stupid part of you was tempted.
The moment you shut the door behind you, you exhaled sharply, bracing yourself against the sink as you stared at your reflection. Your face was still flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses, and your neck—God, your neck—was littered with faint marks that were dangerously close to being noticeable. Scowling, you turned away, peeling off the remnants of the night before and stepping into the shower.
The warm water was a relief, soothing your aching muscles, washing away the sweat, the scent of Atsumu, the overwhelming reminder of what had just happened. But no matter how much soap you scrubbed into your skin, you couldn’t erase the feeling of him—his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on you, the way he had looked at you like he knew he’d ruined you.
You groaned, pressing your forehead against the tiled wall. What the hell were you doing?
This was supposed to be a one-time thing. A mistake that you could brush off, pretend it never happened. But instead, it had become a habit, a reckless, intoxicating cycle that neither of you seemed willing to break.
By the time you stepped out, towel-drying your hair, you dressed quickly, shoving your clothes on with every intention of getting the hell out of there before anything else happened.
You cracked open the door, listening for any signs of Osamu’s return, but the house was quiet. Atsumu was probably still in his room, lounging around like he hadn’t just forced you into a near-death situation under his bed.
With careful steps, you grabbed your bag and slipped out of his house, the cool night air hitting your skin as you finally felt like you could breathe.
That was, until you ran right into Osamu, nearly sending a bag of gas station snacks flying from his hands.
He looked like he had been killing time, dressed casually in a hoodie and sweats, the plastic bag in his grasp rustling as a bottle of tea and a pack of chips shifted inside. His hair was slightly mussed from the evening air, his expression easygoing at first, clearly not expecting to bump into you.
"Oh, hey," he greeted, his tone friendly, his expression relaxed at first. "Didn’t expect to see ya ‘round here."
You cursed internally, forcing a casual smile. "Yeah! Uh—just had some errands to run."
Osamu tilted his head slightly. "Errands? Thought ya lived on the other end of town."
Your brain scrambled for an answer, anything that wasn’t oh, just fucking your brother senseless and then hiding under his bed like a cockroach.
"Uh—dentist appointment."
Osamu blinked. Once. Twice.
"At this time?"
You hesitated, painfully aware that it was nine at night, and absolutely no sane dentist operated at this hour. "Yeah, my dentist is a night owl," you blurted out before you could stop yourself.
His eyebrows pulled together, his expression shifting from friendly curiosity to mild confusion. "...A night owl. Right."
You could feel the weight of his slowly dawning suspicion as he took another look at you—at the way you were a little too quick to answer, at how your shirt looked slightly ruffled, at the fact that you were clearly in a rush to leave.
Abort. Abort. Abort.
Before he could press you for details that would only dig you deeper into this stupid-ass lie, you rushed out, "What about you? What are you doing out here?"
Osamu sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Just gettin’ some air. My brother's bein' gross. Well… you would know."
Your entire body seized up, but you forced a light, slightly awkward laugh, as if that wasn’t the most terrifying statement you’d heard all day. "Ha. Yeah."
The silence that followed was excruciating, stretching far too long as Osamu watched you, his gaze weighing heavier by the second. He wasn’t stupid. The Miya twins might have been frustrating, but they weren’t clueless. He was piecing things together, connecting dots that you desperately needed to keep apart.
Time to go.
"Okay, bye! See you at practice!" you said a little too quickly, spinning on your heel and scurrying away before he could say anything else.
Your heart pounded against your ribs as you walked, resisting the urge to sprint as you put as much distance between yourself and Osamu as possible.
As soon as you were far enough, you yanked your phone out of your pocket, typing out a single text to Atsumu:
Find a motel.
Favourite Positions: Suna
Suna Rintaro was patient. Too patient.
He liked to take his time, to watch, learn, memorize—every reaction, every sharp inhale, every way your body responded to his touch. He was never in a rush. Never let his ego get ahead of him. But this?
This was new.
You were pinned beneath him, legs hooked around his waist, your body shaking as he pushed into you—deep, slow, relentless. His hands were firm against your thighs, keeping you open, keeping you exactly where he wanted. The feeling of your warmth wrapped so tight around him sent a slow, burning pleasure through his spine, but what really had him losing his mind was you.
The way your breath stuttered every time he rolled his hips. The way your nails scraped at his arms, your legs twitching as he stretched you out. The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you knew.
And then it happened.
The moment he angled his hips just right, just deep enough to press against that sweet spot—
Your breath hitched—
Your entire body tensed—
And then, you came.
Fast. Hard. Too hard.
Suna felt it, the way your walls squeezed him tight, the way your legs locked up, a choked cry breaking past your lips. The way your hands clawed at his back, searching for anything to hold onto as you shattered underneath him.
He stilled—just for a second—his sharp eyes flicking up to watch you completely fall apart beneath him.
Oh.
Oh, yeah. This was it.
A slow, wicked smirk stretched across his lips. He liked that.
"Didn’t even last a minute," he murmured, voice low, teasing, smug.
You barely registered his words, your body limp, your mind foggy with the aftershocks. But Suna wasn’t done.
He let you catch your breath for a second, his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles over your thighs. But then—
He pressed his weight into you, rolling his hips again—deeper, slower this time, dragging out the pleasure until you gasped, your body twitching from oversensitivity. And he felt it. The way you clenched involuntarily, still on edge, still sensitive.
"Oh?" His grip on your thighs tightened, his smirk deepening as his voice dipped into something darker, lower. “Still sensitive?”
A deep chuckle rumbled in his chest as you whimpered, your nails digging into his arms. He was going to have fun with this.
One of his hands left your thigh, sliding up the length of your body—slow, teasing, purposeful—before wrapping around your throat, his thumb brushing over your pulse. His mouth hovered just above yours, his breath warm, teasing, his words coated in amusement.
"That was too fast, baby," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, watching your dazed expression with something like satisfaction. "Guess that means this is my new favorite."
His thumb pressed against your jaw, tilting your face up toward him. His dark, lidded gaze roamed over your features, soaking in the flush on your cheeks, the parted lips, the way your chest heaved. You were wrecked. And that made something primal twist in his stomach. He wanted to see it again.
So he moved.
Slow. Deep. Unrelenting.
The pace was different this time—no teasing, no holding back. He wanted to feel you come apart again. Wanted to feel your walls flutter around him, to watch you drown in the sensation. He wanted to chase that reaction again and again until it was burned into him.
"Too much?" he mused, his voice dripping with false innocence as his thrusts got sharper, pushing you right back toward that edge.
Your response was lost between a gasp and a moan, and Suna grinned.
"Nah, I think you can take it," he murmured. "You were made for this, weren't you?"
You barely had time to process his words before he angled his hips just right again— and that coil in your stomach snapped.
Your head tilted back, a cry tearing from your lips as pleasure flooded through you, crashing over you even harder than the first time.
Suna groaned, feeling your body clamp down around him, squeezing him so tight that his rhythm stuttered for half a second. His grip on your throat loosened, his hand sliding down to grasp at your waist instead, holding you steady as you shook beneath him.
"Fuck," he muttered, watching the way your body trembled, the way your fingers scrambled at the sheets. He let his hips slow, dragging out your high, letting you feel every second of it.
And when you finally collapsed, boneless and wrecked beyond belief, Suna pressed a kiss to your jaw, his smirk returning as he murmured—
"Yeah... definitely my favourite."
Favourite Positions: Ushijima
Ushijima Wakatoshi had never paid much attention to positions before.
He had always focused on precision, control, endurance. He knew his own strength, the way his body worked, the way he could move with purpose. Most of the time, he stuck to the same tried-and-true motions, favoring what was familiar and effective. But tonight, you had looked at him with those eyes, voice soft and teasing as you asked, "Wakatoshi, can we try something different?"
He hadn’t expected much of a difference. A position was a position, right? But when he had you pressed against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly—
Everything changed.
The first deep thrust had your breath hitching. The second had you whimpering, nails clawing at his shoulders. And by the third—
You were gone.
Your body tensed up so fast, so hard, that Ushijima nearly stopped, his brow furrowing as he felt you clench down tight around him, your head dropping back against the wall, mouth open in a silent moan.
His grip on your thighs tightened instinctively, muscles flexing as he kept you lifted, held, pinned completely at his mercy.
And then he felt it.
The sharp, desperate way you squeezed him. The way your entire body shuddered, overwhelmed and trembling.
Ushijima’s breath caught.
“Already?” His deep voice was laced with something close to wonder.
You gasped, hands gripping his broad shoulders, nails pressing into his skin. Your thighs quivered around his waist, your body limp from the force of your release. Overstimulated, wrecked—completely unraveled.
A slow, deliberate breath left him as realization settled in.
This position had made you lose control.
His jaw clenched, something dark flickering behind his usually calm expression. He wanted to see it again.
His grip on your thighs adjusted, his large hands spreading your legs wider, securing you against the wall like you weighed nothing. And before you could even recover, before the aftershocks of your first orgasm had fully settled, he started moving again.
Deep. Steady. Unforgiving.
His pace was measured, controlled, devastating. Each thrust pressed you tighter against the cold surface, the contrast of his warmth and the chill of the wall making your senses blur. Your body twitched in response, oversensitive and already on the edge again.
Your breath hitched, your back arching against the wall, and Ushijima watched.
His sharp eyes took in everything—the way your lips parted, the way your hands clawed at his skin, the way you gasped his name between every movement. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your thighs as he picked up the pace just slightly, enough to make you shudder.
“You like this.” His voice was calm, deep, but something about it felt different now. Like he was coming to terms with something new. Something he didn’t know about himself before.
Something dangerous.
The way your body reacted to him, the way you broke apart so quickly in his arms— he liked it.
A lot.
His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping even lower. “I like it too.”
Your head tipped forward, forehead pressing against his shoulder as your nails raked down his back, the pressure inside you tightening so fast it was unbearable.
You whimpered, the sensation of being lifted, stretched, completely at his mercy making your head spin. Ushijima could feel it. The way you clenched down around him again, the way your thighs trembled in his grip.
He exhaled sharply, holding you even tighter.
“Cum,” he ordered, voice like gravel and heat.
Your entire body obeyed.
Pleasure slammed through you like a tidal wave, your moan caught somewhere between a cry and a gasp as you shattered all over again, trembling in his grasp, body locking up completely. The force of it left you whimpering, completely spent, completely undone.
Ushijima groaned at the feeling of you convulsing around him, his pace unwavering as he rode you through it, relishing in how easily he could pull you apart.
When you finally collapsed, head lolling back against the wall, Ushijima didn’t move.
He kept you pinned against him, breathing deeply, grounding himself in the sensation of you still trembling in his arms.
His lips ghosted over your jaw, warm and firm as he pressed a kiss to your temple—but he wasn’t finished.
With a sharp inhale, he pulled back slightly, shifting his grip on your thighs before his hips snapped forward, hard. A strangled cry tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at his back as the sudden force sent pleasure crashing through your system all over again.
“Too much?” His deep voice rumbled against your skin, deceptively calm despite the way his movements turned unrelenting.
You barely managed a response—your mind too fogged, your body too overwhelmed as he pounded into you, each thrust deeper, harder, perfectly precise.
The intensity coiled tight inside you, every nerve on fire as you felt it creeping up again—fast, uncontrollable.
His grip on you tightened as he felt it too. The way your walls fluttered, how your legs trembled around him. He knew.
“You’re going to cum again.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—a promise.
And he made sure of it.
Another deep thrust, another perfectly timed roll of his hips, and your vision whited out. The pleasure hit like lightning, your entire body jerking, shaking, completely wrecked as you gushed around him, soaking his thighs, the sound obscene in the air.
Ushijima groaned, his jaw clenching as the feeling dragged him over the edge with you. His hips stuttered, his pace faltering as he drove in one last time, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural moan, his fingers bruising into your skin as he held you against the wall, his.
For a moment, neither of you moved—just the sound of ragged breaths and the faint, aftershocking trembles of your body in his grip.
Then, slowly, his lips brushed your jaw once more, voice deep, steady, satisfied.
“We'll have to do that again.”
Favourite Positions: Sakusa
Sakusa Kiyoomi had never liked mess.
He wasn’t fond of anything sticky, anything uncontrolled, anything that demanded he surrender to chaos.
And sex, by nature, was a little chaotic.
But with you—it wasn’t. With you, it was something else. Something he could control, savor, memorize.
And when you sat on his face?
It became his favorite thing in the world.
You’d asked him, once—quietly, maybe even shyly—if he wanted to try it. You’d been hesitant, even as you knelt over him on the bed, thighs trembling with anticipation. But Sakusa hadn’t hesitated.
He had only looked up at you with those dark, focused eyes and said, “Sit.”
And now?
Now, your thighs were trembling around his head.
His hands were firm around them, fingers digging into your skin, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth. His curls were damp with sweat and slick. His jaw worked with slow, punishing precision.
Every time his tongue dragged up between your folds, he flattened it against your clit and flicked—just once, just enough to make your body twitch—and then he did it again.
And again.
And again.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Your hands were buried in the sheets behind you, hips tilted forward as he held you steady, held you still, held you open.
"Kiyoomi—" you gasped, but it was barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His mouth was too busy—working you apart, slow and relentless, tongue curling, lips sealing around you with devastating pressure. He sucked you down, drew another sharp moan from your throat, and when you twitched above him, tried to lift off just a little—
His grip tightened.
“Don’t move,” he rasped against you, voice low, strained, and muffled by the heat of your cunt. "I’m not done yet."
Your breath caught.
You could barely hold yourself up. Your legs were shaking violently, muscles screaming, your entire body flushed with heat. You were soaked. You could feel it dripping down your thighs, clinging to his cheeks, smearing against his lips.
And he was loving it.
He groaned into you, hands pulling you down harder, deeper, locking you into place as his tongue fucked into you—slow, deep, precise. He was savoring you.
You sobbed. Loud, wrecked, desperate.
“I—I can’t—Kiyoomi—”
His only response was a low moan, like he was addicted to the taste of you, to the way you sounded. His nose was pressed against your clit, tongue working deeper, messier now, grinding slow and firm until your thighs were twitching with every stroke.
Your vision blurred. The knot in your stomach pulled tighter, tighter, too tight.
And then—
You broke.
You came with a scream, hips jerking, grinding into his face as your orgasm crashed through you in one white-hot wave. Your whole body locked up, the pleasure too intense, too much, almost unbearable.
But Sakusa didn’t stop.
Not even when your thighs started to shake uncontrollably.
Not even when you whimpered, “Please,” so softly it was barely sound.
He shifted the angle of his mouth, focused entirely on your clit now, his tongue flicking rapidly, pressure sharp and steady. His hands held you down as your entire body jolted with overstimulation.
You cried out again, voice cracking, hands flying forward to claw at his hair, at the headboard, anything you could reach.
He was going to make you come again.
And he did.
The second orgasm was worse. Sharper. It tore through you like lightning, and you couldn’t even scream this time—you just gasped, mouth open, eyes wide, legs clamping tight around his head as you sobbed through it.
And still—he didn’t stop.
Your body shook. Collapsed. Melted into his mouth.
Only when your hips bucked too hard—when your voice gave out entirely, when your whole body spasmed in his hold—did he finally relent.
He kissed your inner thigh once, slow and deliberate, then another kiss to your slick, swollen folds, almost reverent. You slumped forward, collapsing onto the bed, shaking.
Sakusa pushed himself up slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, curls stuck to his forehead. His face was soaked. His lips were flushed, chin wet with you, and he looked completely ruined.
And satisfied.
He crawled up beside you, his hand gentle on your hip.
“Still breathing?” he murmured, voice hoarse.
You could only nod, barely.
He leaned down and kissed your shoulder, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your spine.
“You’re going to do that again,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a question.
And in that moment, you knew he’d found his favorite position.
Pregnancy: Atsumu
You’re two months pregnant and absolutely glowing. There’s a nervous excitement in your every breath, your hand constantly drifting over your still-flat belly as if to check that it’s real. That there’s really a little life growing inside you. A little Miya, curled up and getting bigger by the day.
You’re in the passenger seat of the car, heading toward your very first ultrasound appointment. The windows are down, and the soft spring breeze is curling through your hair as the late morning sun streams through the windshield. Everything feels light. Hopeful. Surreal.
Atsumu is driving one-handed, his other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against your leggings. He hums quietly to the radio, lips twitching into a smile every time he glances over at you.
“Y’know,” he says after a moment, “I been thinkin’ about what kind of nose they’ll have. Hopefully yours. Mine’s too pointy.”
You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “As long as they don’t have your drama.”
“Hey!” he protests, though he’s still smiling as he squeezes your leg. “They’re allowed a little flair. They are mine, after all.”
You roll your eyes fondly, fingers tangling with his at the next red light. He lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before driving on.
When you pull into the clinic parking lot, your nerves start to set in—low and creeping. It’s your first time seeing the baby. Hearing a heartbeat. It makes everything feel suddenly, painfully real.
The waiting room is quiet, with soft instrumental music playing and the smell of hand sanitizer hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Atsumu, your knees bouncing ever so slightly as your mind races ahead. His hand is still in yours, firm and grounding.
When the nurse finally calls your name, you squeeze his fingers a little tighter.
The exam room is dimly lit, calm, with a monitor beside the table and soft instructions given as you lie back. You wince slightly at the cold gel, heart pounding in your ears as the technician glides the wand over your stomach.
She squints at the screen. Tilts her head.
Then her eyes widen slightly.
“Oh.”
You stiffen. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”
She’s quick to reassure you. “No, no—everything looks good. It’s just... you’re having twins.”
Silence.
Atsumu leans in closer, eyes squinting at the screen. “Twins?”
“Twins,” the technician repeats, pointing to two distinct little shapes. “You see here? Two sacs. Two heartbeats.”
Your gaze locks onto the screen. Two. Not one. Not the tiny flutter you’d been preparing for, but two.
A sudden wave of panic crashes over you.
“Two?” you echo, your voice a shaky whisper. “Like... two babies? At the same time?”
The technician gently clears her throat. "Well, it’s a little early to know for sure if they’re fraternal or identical, but yes—twins."
You feel your breath hitch, the room growing smaller around you. “That’s two car seats. Two cribs. Two births. Two newborns crying at once—”
Your hand grips Atsumu’s forearm, eyes wide as your mind races. “I don’t—I wasn’t ready for two. I barely wrapped my head around one.”
You’re still staring at the screen when Atsumu shifts closer to the bed, his hand still resting lightly on yours.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe for me, okay?”
You turn toward him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “Tsumu... that’s two babies. That’s two of everything. What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough for both of them?”
“You are,” he says instantly, without hesitation. “You will be. We will.”
But your hand flails toward his forearm like it needs something to latch onto. “This is your fault. You and Osamu. You cursed me with twin genes!”
He stares at you, stunned. “What?! How is this my fault?”
“Because you’re a twin! That’s how!”
The technician offers a gentle smile, still watching the monitor. “Actually, twins are likely influenced by the mother’s genetics. So if anyone ‘passed it down,’ it’s likely you.”
You blink slowly. “So... it’s me?”
Atsumu exhales—relieved. “See? I didn’t do this! You doubled down on your own.”
Your head snaps toward the technician, eyes wide and blinking rapidly, a storm of disbelief swirling behind them. You don’t say anything—but your look says plenty.
The technician catches the expression immediately and offers a placating smile, lifting her hands lightly. "I’ll give you two a minute," she says gently, already stepping toward the door, and quietly slips out of the room, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.
You drop your head back onto the exam pillow with a muffled groan. “I don’t know how to do one baby. Let alone two. That’s double the crying. Double the diapers. Double the college funds.”
Atsumu leans down until his forehead presses softly to yours. His hand finds yours again, grounding you with the warmth of his palm and the way his thumb strokes soothingly across your skin.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
You don’t answer right away, eyes still locked on the monitor where two flickering heartbeats pulse in rhythm.
He kisses your forehead, slow and reassuring. “We’ll go one diaper at a time. One bottle at a time. One late-night rocking session at a time. We’re gonna be okay.”
Your lip trembles. “Are we?”
He smiles, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not lettin’ you do this alone. You’re stuck with me, baby. Me, and the two little monsters we made.”
You laugh wetly, a mix of shock and affection tangled in your chest. He leans down and kisses you again—cheek, then jaw, then temple—before turning to look back at the screen.
And in the glow of that monitor, with two tiny heartbeats tapping out the rhythm of your future, Atsumu squeezes your hand and whispers:
“They’ve already got the best mom in the world. The rest’ll be easy.”
You sit up slightly and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, your chin resting against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that.”
Your writing is incredible!! You’re so good at being immersive oh my GOSH! (I can’t count the number of times I’ve re-read Jealousy: Kageyama, you characterize him so well 😭)
And the favorite positions series is getting me into characters I didn’t even like reading about before it’s SO good!
If you’re up for it, I’d love to see a favorite position for Kageyama! But regardless, I always look forward to your posts and I hope you’re doing well 💜
Thank you so, so much for this message—you have no idea how much it means to me 🥹💜
The fact that you’ve reread my work and that the Favorite Positions series has you loving characters you didn’t think you would?? That’s literally the dream 🫠
And of course—Kageyama? I had to do him justice. I’m so happy you asked because this one poured out of me lolol Thank you and Enjoy heheh <333
--
Favourite Positions: Kageyama
Kageyama had always been a little obsessive.
It came with the territory. The long hours spent perfecting tosses, the constant demand for precision, the way his mind clung to rhythm and structure like lifelines. He wasn’t the kind of man who acted on impulse. Every action had intent. Every motion, down to his breathing, felt like it came with weight. Control wasn’t just a habit. It was a necessity.
But when it came to you, all of that discipline started to unravel.
He liked watching you ride him.
More than liked it—he craved it.
Not just because of the view, though that alone could bring him to his knees. Not just because of how warm, how tight, how slick you felt around him. It was because, when you were on top, he could finally let go. Let his body move without thinking. Let his focus shift away from control and into sensation. Into you.
Let go of pressure. Let go of performance. Let go of everything except you.
Tonight, it was slow.
Dim lighting spilled across the room, golden and soft. The sheets were tangled beneath you both, slightly damp from heat and friction. Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs flushed pink with effort. He lay back against the pillows, hands resting on your waist like he was grounding himself, knuckles white from restraint.
His head was tilted back, jaw slack, brows drawn together, his breath hitching every time you sank down onto him. The soft gasps he tried to bite back made your skin prickle.
“F-fuck,” he whispered, voice already hoarse, fingers digging into your waist. "You feel so good."
You moved slowly, intentionally, savoring every second of the way his cock dragged inside you. You could feel every twitch of his muscles beneath your palms, every exhale he let out between clenched teeth. Kageyama couldn’t tear his eyes away. He was transfixed.
Your hands slid up his chest, finding purchase at his shoulders as you rolled your hips just right—and he let out a low, broken moan, his entire body twitching beneath you.
His fingers flexed like he wanted to grab you tighter. Like he wanted to take over. But he didn’t.
He didn’t ask to change positions. Didn’t flip you beneath him. Didn’t thrust up into you like he had so many times before when desperation overtook his instincts.
He just watched.
Like he was memorizing everything.
The way your body moved in the low light. The soft sheen of sweat on your collarbones. The way your lips parted every time you dropped your hips a little faster. The soft gasp you made when you ground your hips down and caught just the right angle that made your thighs tremble.
It was overwhelming.
He was trying so hard to hold back. You could see it—the tension in his neck, the way his abs flexed with every movement, how his grip on your hips kept faltering between loose and desperate.
And then you leaned in.
You kissed his jaw. Traced your lips down to his throat. Murmured something against his ear. Something soft. Something filthy. Something about how good he felt inside you. How wrecked he looked. How badly you wanted to see him come apart.
His whole body jolted.
His eyes fluttered shut. His hips bucked up into you before he could stop himself. His hands grabbed your hips, pulling you down hard onto him—deep, tight, perfect.
That was it.
He came hard.
Breath caught in his throat, head tipping back into the pillows, brows pinched tight as he groaned your name like it was the only word he knew. His whole body trembled, thighs flexing beneath you, abs tightening, cock twitching inside you as he spilled into you, hot and sudden and overwhelming.
You blinked down at him in surprise, breathless and flushed, still pulsing around him as your own orgasm threatened to catch up to his. The heat between you was dizzying.
His hands softened, moving to cradle your hips gently as he blinked up at you, dazed, skin flushed all the way to his chest.
"Sorry," he muttered, cheeks red, voice thick with apology. “I didn’t mean to—”
You cut him off with a quiet laugh, brushing his damp bangs back from his forehead, fingers gentle. "Don’t apologize."
You leaned down, kissed his cheek, and let your forehead rest against his.
His hands ghosted over your thighs, uncertain, still grounding himself.
And that’s when it hit him.
You hadn’t been trying to overwhelm him.
You were savoring it.
The way he looked beneath you—blushed, breathless, barely holding it together.
The way his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to do with all the sensation.
The way he let you have him.
And for the first time in his life, Kageyama realized he liked being the one who lost focus.
Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 6 (NSFW)
The last thing you needed was to entertain whatever ridiculous emotions Hana had planted in your head. This was nothing—casual, meaningless, irrelevant. So what if Ayumi had her sights set on him? That wasn’t your problem. That wasn’t supposed to be your problem.
You tightened your grip on your bag as you pushed through the thick crowd flooding the hallways after the final bell. Students jostled past in waves, the air thick with chatter and the slamming of lockers, and you kept your head down, determined to get outside, to breathe fresh air, to put as much distance as possible between yourself and whatever stupid feelings were currently threatening your sanity.
You almost succeeded.
Until you caught sight of him.
There, just a few lockers down, leaning lazily against the wall like he didn’t have a care in the damn world—Miya Atsumu.
Your feet slowed before your brain could tell them not to. And when you lifted your gaze, your stomach dropped.
Of course she was there.
Ayumi Tanaka.
Standing far too close, laughing far too brightly, her hand reaching out to graze his forearm like she had every right to touch him.
You should have looked away. You wanted to look away. But your gaze locked onto the scene like a car crash—horrifying and impossible to tear your eyes from.
Atsumu, for his part, didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked downright amused, his trademark smirk tugging at his lips, golden eyes glinting with some private joke as he leaned in just slightly, replying with something you couldn’t hear but Ayumi clearly found hilarious.
Your jaw clenched.
It was nothing. You told yourself that firmly. You had no claim, no right, no reason to feel anything other than mild, passing irritation.
And yet—your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag, knuckles whitening.
Because he didn’t move away when she touched him. He didn’t look annoyed or uncomfortable. He looked entertained.
And that hot, bitter feeling you refused to name burned a little brighter.
You stood frozen for a moment longer than you should have—long enough that Ayumi’s laugh floated through the hallway and Atsumu’s eyes, lazy and unbothered, drifted up—
And met yours.
The second your gazes collided, it was like being struck.
His smirk faltered. Just slightly. But enough.
Your breath caught.
You whipped your head away, face burning, shoving your way through the crowd with sudden, frantic urgency.
God. What the hell was wrong with you?
You ducked your head and walked faster, heart pounding in your ears, as if you could outrun the flush creeping up your neck. As if you could outrun the way your chest was tight, painfully so, with something ugly and irrational you refused to name.
You weren’t jealous. That would be stupid. Ridiculous. Absolutely insane.
And yet, you could feel the slight prickle of irritation rising beneath your skin, your jaw tightening as you watched their all-too-pleasant exchange. It was short—nothing more than a few words, a soft laugh from her, an amused smirk from him—but it was enough.
Your feet carried you toward the gym building, the familiar path offering some sense of normalcy. Volleyball practice was soon, and you just needed to focus on that, not whatever unnecessary emotions had latched onto you.
But just as you stepped onto the school grounds, a voice cut through the air.
"Hey!"
You barely had a second to react before Atsumu jogged up to you, his usual smirk in place, golden eyes flickering with something far too amused for your liking. His easy stride barely looked like he had exerted any effort catching up to you, as if he knew you wouldn’t be able to outrun him even if you tried.
"Damn, ya bolted outta there fast," he said, tilting his head, watching you closely. "Didn’t even wait for me."
You barely glanced at him, keeping your face carefully neutral. "Didn’t think you’d notice."
His smirk widened, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "I notice a lotta things about ya."
You rolled your eyes, fighting the sudden prickle of heat rising up your spine. "Don’t start."
Atsumu ignored you completely, falling into step beside you, rocking back slightly on his heels as if he were debating something in his head. Then, with an air of mock innocence, he said:
"So, I’m free tonight. If ya wanna hang out."
Your jaw clenched before you could stop it.
"Maybe not tonight, I'm a little busy," you bit out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could think them through. Then, before your brain could stop your mouth from making an absolutely catastrophic mistake, you added, "Why don't you ask if Ayumi Tanaka is free?"
Atsumu blinked, his smirk momentarily faltering. "Why on earth…?" His brows furrowed in genuine confusion—until something in his expression shifted.
And then, his smirk stretched into something completely insufferable.
"Are you jealous?"
Your spine stiffened. "What is there to be jealous of?" you scoffed, but you could already feel the warmth creeping up your neck.
Atsumu wasn’t buying it. "Oh, I dunno," he mused, tilting his head, watching you like a predator playing with its food. "Maybe ‘cause ya got a front-row seat to Ayumi flirtin’ with me and now ya can’t stand the thought of someone else takin’ your place?"
Your teeth ground together, a sharp flash of irritation lancing through your chest. "You're absolutely delusional if you think I’d ever feel threatened by some 2nd-year girl batting her eyelashes at you."
Atsumu let out a short laugh, full of nothing but mockery. "Right, ‘cause ya definitely didn’t look ready to rip her head off earlier."
You exhaled sharply through your nose, turning your gaze forward like you could force this conversation to be over. "Believe whatever lets you sleep at night, Miya. I don’t care."
"Oh yeah?" His voice was taunting, relentless, as he stepped in closer, his shoulder nearly brushing against yours. "Then why’re ya actin’ so weird? Feels like someone’s a little… bothered."
You whirled to face him, scowling. "The only thing that’s bothering me is you and your incessant need to make everything about yourself. Not everything is about you, Atsumu."
"Nah, see, that’s where yer wrong," he shot back, his smirk widening, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. "When it comes to you, sweetheart, I think everything’s about me."
Your hands curled into tight fists, your nails digging into your palms, irritation crawling beneath your skin. He was impossible.
Just as you opened your mouth to snap back, another voice interrupted the moment.
"Oi! What are you two doin’ over there?"
Aran’s voice cut through the air, sharp and expectant.
Your heart lurched as you immediately shoved Atsumu back, blurting, "Nothing!"
Atsumu barely stumbled, laughing as he shot you a look that screamed this isn’t over before turning toward Aran. You, on the other hand, were left standing there, pulse thrumming, trying desperately to ignore the heat still buzzing beneath your skin.
Aran’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his brows furrowing slightly before he shook his head. "Well, practice is startin’. Get a move on."
"Yeah, yeah," Atsumu muttered, still too damn smug as he turned back toward you, the teasing look in his eyes shining.
You glared at him, lips pressed into a thin line, before storming ahead, putting as much distance as possible between you and the walking migraine that was Miya Atsumu.
__
Practice went on as usual, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished gym floor, the rhythmic thuds of volleyballs being set and spiked filling the air. Yet, beneath it all, something felt off.
Atsumu, despite his best efforts, was being completely ignored.
And that was entirely intentional.
You were still fuming from earlier, his words grating against your skull like nails on a chalkboard. When it comes to you, sweetheart, I think everything’s about me.
Fine.
If he thought it was all about him, you’d make it impossible for him to think that.
You knew exactly how to get under Atsumu’s skin, how to piss him off in the most excruciating way possible. It wasn’t yelling, it wasn’t fighting—it was silence. He thrived on your reactions, fed off your irritation like it was oxygen. And you were going to starve him of it.
He tried everything. A few jabs at your form when you walked past, some pointed remarks meant to get a reaction, even purposefully setting the ball too high and glancing your way to see if you’d scowl at him.
Nothing.
You didn’t so much as spare him a glance.
The rest of the team noticed. It was impossible not to.
"Since when was she too high and mighty to bite back?" one of the first-years muttered, watching the scene unfold like it was some strange phenomenon.
"Are you honestly complaining?" Hitoshi responded flatly, shaking his head as he bent down to pick up a stray volleyball. "If anything, this is the quietest practice we’ve had in months."
Suna watched with mild amusement, his sharp eyes darting between the two of you. Atsumu, visibly simmering, and you, acting as if he didn’t exist. Fascinating.
By the time practice ended, Atsumu was pissed—more so than usual. The tension rolled off him in waves, his usual post-practice confidence completely overshadowed by the frustration bubbling beneath his skin.
Osamu, ever the observant twin, didn’t miss it.
As they left the gym, Osamu glanced over, catching the permanent scowl etched onto Atsumu. "What’s with your face?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, expecting the usual smart-ass response.
But Atsumu wasn’t even looking at him.
His gaze was locked ahead, fixated on you, watching as you took the keys from Kita, nodding as you prepared to lock up the gym. His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his bag strap.
"Don’t wait for me," he muttered, voice clipped.
Osamu blinked, looking between him and you—you, walking away, completely unbothered. And Atsumu? Absolutely bothered.
Osamu exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something vaguely amused before he shrugged. "Alright…?" he said, but his voice held a knowing edge.
He didn’t need to say it out loud.
He had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen.
Atsumu stormed after you the moment Osamu walked away, his footsteps heavy, purposeful, his irritation practically radiating off him. You had just slipped into the supply closet, stacking away the last of the gear, when his gritted voice reached your ears from outside the gym.
"Are ya fuckin’ kidding me?!"
You couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at your lips. Oh, he was livid.
Taking your time, you walked out of the closet, not bothering to acknowledge him right away. He stood at the entrance of the gym, chest rising and falling, his golden eyes sharp with anger, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was barely holding himself back.
"I’m talkin’ to you," he bit out as you stepped past him toward the doors.
Still, you said nothing.
You pulled the doors shut with a slow deliberation, the sound echoing through the empty gym, and locked them behind you. Then, finally, you turned, meeting his gaze.
Atsumu’s face was furious, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to rein in everything he wanted to say. His hair was tousled from practice, damp at the edges, his skin flushed from exertion. The way his arms tensed, his stance rigid, the way his breathing came a little too sharp—all of it sent something thrumming hot in your stomach.
The heat only grew when you noticed the way his jaw ticked, his fingers flexing at his sides, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to shake you or pin you to the nearest wall.
You smiled. Sweet. Taunting. "Night. See you tomorrow."
You barely took two steps before his hand caught your wrist, yanking you back toward him. The movement sent you stumbling slightly, your body colliding with his, the force of it stealing the breath from your lungs.
His voice was low, rough, his breath hot against your cheek. "You think I don't know your game?"
You arched a brow, playing it off as coolly as possible, though instinctively, your spine straightened, your back arching slightly, pushing your chest forward. You hated how your body reacted to him, the heat swirling deep in your stomach, and for a split second, the thought flickered through your mind—why am I so turned on by this?
"What game?" you said, your voice smooth, controlled. "I told you I wasn’t free tonight."
Atsumu let out a sharp scoff, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make you hyperaware of how strong his hands were. "Bullshit. You’re pissed at me for flirtin’ with that girl."
Your jaw locked, your teeth clenching. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting, so instead, you blinked up at him, expression unreadable, and said, "Are you going to let me go?"
Atsumu didn’t flinch. If anything, his hold shifted, his other hand coming to rest against your waist, fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him.
"Do you want me to?" His voice dropped, dark and teasing, and before you could snap back, you felt it—the hard press of his arousal against your stomach.
You gasped, a sharp inhale betraying the last shred of control you had. Fuck.
Atsumu smirked, catching the way your lashes fluttered, the way your body momentarily tensed before you steadied yourself, fighting the reaction. But it was too late—he felt the shift.
Without another word, you glanced around, ensuring the coast was clear before grabbing his wrist and dragging him toward the back of the building.
"Take your pants off," you ordered, voice tight, breathless, already unraveling.
Atsumu didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers worked quickly at his belt, the sharp clink of metal and the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet night. You turned, pressing your palms flat against the rough brick wall, heart hammering against your ribs. Your breath came in uneven bursts, every inhale feeling too shallow, too hot. His body heat was suddenly right there, an overwhelming presence against your back, making your skin prickle with anticipation.
His hands found your hips, large and possessive, squeezing once before slipping beneath the hem of your skirt, his fingers grazing the soft skin of your thighs. With one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and dragged them down, the night air rushing against your exposed skin, sending a sharp shiver up your spine. The contrast between the cold air and the heat pooling between your legs made you suck in a sharp breath, pressing your forehead against the brick, trying to steady yourself.
"You thought I was gonna fuck that other girl?" His voice was a low growl against your ear, hot, dangerous, all-consuming. "This pussy is mine. Mine alone. You're mine."
Your breath hitched. A spark of indignation flared in your chest, instinct demanding you push back, to scoff, to tell him to fuck off—
But then he was pushing inside.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body jolting forward, hands splaying against the wall as he filled you slowly, deeply, completely. Your nails scraped against the brick, legs trembling as you adjusted to the overwhelming stretch. The sensation was too much, his cock pulsing inside you, pushing against that perfect spot that sent white-hot pleasure sparking through your veins.
Fuck.
Atsumu let out a low, guttural groan, one hand wrapping tightly around your waist while the other braced against the wall beside your head. He was breathing hard, his forehead nearly pressing against your shoulder, like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers flexed against your waist before gripping tighter, his hips pulling back only to slam forward again, forcing another cry from your lips.
"You feel that?" he rasped, his voice rough, unsteady, his pace already picking up. "Ain't nobody gonna fuck you like this. Ain't nobody gonna make you feel this good."
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out except a strangled moan. His hands were everywhere—gripping, branding, making sure you felt him in every possible way. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed into the night, mingling with your breathless gasps and his sharp groans.
He set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a desperation that left no room for thought. Every thrust sent you higher, pleasure knotting too quickly, your body already struggling to hold itself together. His fingers dug into your hips, dragging you back against him, making you take all of him, forcing you to feel just how much he was losing himself in this.
"Shit—" he groaned, his voice nearly breaking. "You fuckin' love this, don’t ya?"
His hand slid down, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing tight, punishing circles that had you whimpering, your body jerking forward from the intensity. Your hands clawed at the brick wall, nails scraping against the rough surface as heat coiled in your core, winding impossibly tight.
"There—right there—fuck, don’t stop," you gasped, voice ragged and desperate, each word punctuated by his relentless pace. Your legs trembled beneath you, your entire body taut with anticipation, every nerve on fire.
Atsumu groaned, low and guttural, his hips snapping forward harder, sharper. "Yeah? That’s the spot?" His grip on your hip tightened, holding you in place, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure. "Feels so fuckin’ good takin’ me like this."
Your head dropped forward, eyes squeezing shut as your body burned under his touch. Every thrust, every flick of his fingers, sent you spiraling closer to the edge. The pressure in your stomach coiled tighter, tighter, until you were gasping, eyes rolling back.
"Tsumu—I’m—" You barely got the words out before your body seized up, pleasure detonating inside you, shattering through every nerve. A sharp cry ripped from your throat, your walls clenching tight around him, milking every inch as your climax ripped through you.
Atsumu cursed sharply, his thrusts stuttering, becoming frantic and sloppy as he chased his own high. His grip on you tightened, his pace desperate, his breath coming in uneven groans until finally—
He buried himself to the hilt, his entire body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, muffling the wrecked moan that ripped from his throat.
For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies pressed together, trembling, still trying to come down from the high. Your own breathing was ragged, your forehead pressed to the wall, your legs barely holding you up. His grip on your hips slackened slightly, but he didn’t pull away—instead, he leaned into you, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his lips brushing the back of your neck as if he was too lost in the aftershocks to fully regain himself.
And then—
Reality hit.
Your eyes snapped open, your breath still ragged, heart still hammering in your chest. But something was wrong.
A sudden wave of realization crashed over you as you felt the sticky warmth between your legs. Your stomach dropped.
"You came inside me, asshole!" you blurted, twisting your head to glare at him over your shoulder.
Atsumu was still holding onto you, his forehead resting lazily against your back, his grip loose but unwilling to let you go. His chest rose and fell in heavy, sated breaths, completely lost in his own bliss.
It took him a second to even register your words. When he finally did, all he managed was a dazed, "Huh?"
You groaned, your forehead knocking lightly against the brick. "I swear to god—" You sucked in a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. "You're buying me Plan B."
Atsumu, still catching his breath, let out a low, breathy chuckle, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Babe, I'll buy ya anything ya want if ya let me do that again."
You sighed, exasperated, exhausted, and somehow still too weak in the knees to shove him off you properly. His hands lingered on your hips for a moment longer before finally releasing you, but even as you adjusted your skirt and tried to gather yourself, you could feel his gaze burning into your back.
You refused to acknowledge the way your body still thrummed with heat, the way your legs still trembled, the way your pulse still jumped every time he spoke. Instead, you turned, fixing him with a glare.
"You’re taking me to the pharmacy.”
Atsumu grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever ya say, sweetheart."
Rivalry: Iwaizumi
You didn’t knock.
The door slammed open against the wall with a thud, reverberating through the quiet of the gym offices as you stepped in like a storm on legs. Iwaizumi barely looked up from his tablet, but the hard flicker of his eyes said everything.
“You want to tell me what the hell this is?” You threw the clipboard down onto his desk—hard enough that the pens rattled.
He set the tablet down slowly, deliberately, like he was resisting the urge to match your energy. “You’ll have to be more specific. I get a lot of aggressive paperwork these days.”
You narrowed your eyes. “The new conditioning plan. The one that overemphasizes lower-body strength for half the defensive line—including Yaku, who, if you remember, has two prior knee injuries and doesn’t need another one.”
“It’s a generalized strength cycle,” he said, already starting to sound annoyed. “And Yaku’s cleared. His knees aren’t glass.”
You leaned forward, voice clipped. “And he’s cleared with a note that says he needs flexibility emphasis. You’re pushing reps on a recovering joint. That’s not generalized, that’s reckless.”
His jaw ticked. “I’m not pushing anything he can’t handle. He’s an elite athlete, not a porcelain doll.”
You scoffed, shaking your head, pacing a few steps across the room. “Jesus, Hajime, sometimes I think you forget you’re not just coaching weight numbers—you’re managing people. People with injuries, with thresholds. If he gets benched because you want him to hit a personal best on a squat—”
“—Then that’s on me,” Iwaizumi cut in, standing now, matching your gaze, his voice sharp. “Not on you.”
You turned slowly, cold fury in your expression. “You’re damn right it won’t be on me. Because I’m not signing off on that.”
He stepped around the desk. “You don’t get to unilaterally veto a team decision.”
“You don’t get to override medical flags like you’re some goddamn authority on joint physiology.” You jabbed a finger into his chest. “Your job is to keep them strong. Mine is to keep them playing. If they’re hurt, no one wins.”
The tension hung thick between you both, barely bridled, mouths drawn tight like you were both holding back everything you really wanted to say.
“God, you’re infuriating,” he muttered under his breath.
“Right back at you.”
You turned sharply, storming to the door. You needed air. You needed to not strangle a nationally-ranked strength coach in the middle of an Olympic facility.
But when you threw the door open, two bodies fell inward with a crash.
Bokuto hit the ground first, limbs flailing like he’d just been knocked out of a tree. Atsumu came next, barely catching himself on the wall, eyes wide as he winced dramatically.
“Ow—shit—”
“Uh… hi?” Bokuto grinned sheepishly from the floor. “We were just… stretching.”
You stared down at them, blinking once. Then twice.
“Stretching,” you repeated flatly.
“In the hallway,” Atsumu added quickly, brushing himself off. “Gotta stay limber, you would know Doc.”
Your glare could’ve turned them to ash.
Behind you, Iwaizumi groaned under his breath.
“I’m going to kill both of you,” you muttered.
“No need!” Bokuto said, already scrambling back. “We were just leaving! Right, ’Tsumu?”
“Yup. Definitely not eavesdropping. Totally respect privacy.”
They both darted off like startled dogs, leaving behind only the faint sound of snickering down the hall.
You didn’t say another word. You just stepped out, slammed the door behind you, and willed your heart to stop pounding through your ribs.
—
The door had barely stopped vibrating when Iwaizumi let out a slow, audible sigh. He turned back to his desk, ran a hand through his hair, and stared blankly at the clipboard you’d left behind like it was personally mocking him.
God, you were impossible.
And you were right.
He wasn’t about to admit that—not to your face, not in front of a pair of eavesdropping idiots, and definitely not when your voice still echoed in his head like a challenge he hadn’t yet figured out how to win.
“Yo, Iwa.”
Iwaizumi turned, slowly, to see Atsumu leaning against the gym wall with all the subtlety of a spotlight. Bokuto was standing beside him, whispering something that earned him a smack on the arm.
“What,” Iwaizumi snapped. Not a question. A warning.
Atsumu raised his hands innocently. “Nothin’. Just, uh… wonderin’ if we’re still runnin’ through defensive drills. Or if you need a minute to, y’know, recover.”
“I’m fine.”
“You sure?” Bokuto grinned, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “’Cause that sounded brutal. Like, she murdered you with words.”
Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “Do either of you want to do ten extra sets of burpees?”
“Shutting up!” Atsumu said quickly, throwing a thumbs-up before jogging off toward the court.
Bokuto lingered a second longer. “Hey,”
Iwaizumi looked up again.
“She’s not wrong. Yaku’s been wincing during cooldowns.”
Then he jogged off too, leaving Iwaizumi alone with nothing but the echo of your voice and the weight of the truth.
He grunted under his breath, shaking his head as he walked toward the training area, jaw tight. His athletes were waiting. The whistle was in his hand. He’d deal with you later.
But even as he barked out the next drill set, his mind drifted back to the fire in your voice, the way you jabbed a finger into his chest like you weren’t afraid of anything—not even him.
And for some goddamn reason, that wasn’t just infuriating.
It was distracting.
Worse: it was getting harder to ignore.
-
cristalania liked this · 1 month ago -
arcanefeelings liked this · 1 month ago -
crafty-galaxy-cat liked this · 1 month ago -
weazele liked this · 1 month ago -
cindereyna liked this · 1 month ago -
nikobibii liked this · 1 month ago -
havingloveisfun liked this · 1 month ago -
ghostt-child liked this · 1 month ago -
masterofnone00 liked this · 1 month ago -
haesify reblogged this · 1 month ago -
haesify liked this · 1 month ago
-
alpha-mommy69 liked this · 1 month ago -
zen1n liked this · 1 month ago -
a-simp-20 liked this · 1 month ago -
mang0nells liked this · 1 month ago -
acereads liked this · 1 month ago -
toria175 liked this · 1 month ago -
vynrichterlover liked this · 1 month ago -
cloudylidy liked this · 1 month ago -
strawberrymilkobsessed liked this · 1 month ago -
delulurking reblogged this · 1 month ago -
iamnotsakusakiyoomi liked this · 1 month ago -
ryk-a liked this · 1 month ago -
champagne-swizzle reblogged this · 1 month ago -
novelkiss liked this · 1 month ago -
chuupetsicepops liked this · 1 month ago -
mjemrys18 liked this · 1 month ago -
afire24 liked this · 1 month ago -
a0kira liked this · 1 month ago -
nusosdeldesti liked this · 1 month ago -
mysteriouslyjoyfulpeach liked this · 1 month ago -
oldermenlvr liked this · 1 month ago -
idklol237 liked this · 1 month ago -
d34th-4-st4r liked this · 1 month ago -
thepsychicartist liked this · 1 month ago -
straybrownie liked this · 1 month ago -
kinocio liked this · 1 month ago -
yshzai07 liked this · 1 month ago -
akidefender liked this · 1 month ago -
hai1q reblogged this · 1 month ago -
hai1q liked this · 1 month ago
-
soysoops liked this · 1 month ago -
nicerthanu liked this · 1 month ago -
signofthetimes69 liked this · 1 month ago -
kinaskorner liked this · 1 month ago -
betterthanmostofyou liked this · 1 month ago -
alphasigma0 liked this · 1 month ago -
luvsleeps liked this · 2 months ago -
miycutie liked this · 2 months ago
20 | She/Herjust a writer and a simpAsk for requests I love talking to people and need ideas 😩
148 posts