Pregnancy: Atsumu

You must have a lot of notepads in your place

A fair assumption but I'm just a freak who just uses one single word doc to write all my stories. sorry to disappoint lolol But as always thank you for the send!! <33

Rivalry: Oikawa

Oikawa Tooru was used to attention.

From the moment he stepped onto the court, eyes followed. Girls sighed when he passed by in the hallways, classmates lit up when he so much as looked in their direction. He had charm, he had skill, and he had a smile that could make anyone—anyone—melt.

Except for the manager.

And it drove him insane.

When she became Seijoh’s team manager, Oikawa expected the usual routine. A few flustered glances, maybe a nervous stammer or two when he spoke to her. Instead? She barely gave him the time of day. Her eyes never lingered, her voice stayed firm, and when he flashed one of his award-winning smiles, she only responded with a flat, unimpressed stare.

At first, it was amusing. A fun little challenge. But as weeks passed, that amusement turned to frustration. Why wasn’t she falling for him like everyone else? Why did it feel like the harder he tried, the more indifferent she became? It was unnatural—Oikawa had spent years perfecting the art of attention, the delicate balance of charm and arrogance that made people gravitate toward him. And yet, she stood there, unmoved, like he was just another player on the team.

It gnawed at him. It wasn’t just that she ignored his flirtation—it was that she treated him exactly the same as she treated everyone else. It made him feel… ordinary.

Oikawa made it a point to test her patience.

“Manager-chan, be honest,” Oikawa mused lazily, twirling a volleyball between his fingers, his tone laced with smug amusement. "Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re immune to my charm?"

She didn’t even look up from her clipboard, her fingers flying across the page as she made notes. "Do you ever get tired of being a desperate attention-seeker?"

Iwaizumi choked on his water, while Hanamaki and Matsukawa outright cackled, exchanging wide-eyed looks of glee. Even Kyōtani, who usually ignored their antics, raised an eyebrow, glancing up from his shoe-lacing. Oikawa, however, was left standing there, momentarily stunned by the sheer disrespect.

“That was uncalled for,” he gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.

She finally spared him a glance, her gaze flat and unimpressed. "So is your existence, and yet, here we are."

The team erupted. Hanamaki practically slid to the floor from laughing too hard, Matsukawa was bent over the bench wheezing, and even Iwaizumi wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head. "She’s got a point, though."

Oikawa scowled, gripping the volleyball just a little too tight. "Unbelievable. I slave away on the court, leading this team, and this is the gratitude I get? A cruel, heartless manager who refuses to appreciate my many, many talents."

"Oh, I appreciate your talents," she responded coolly, flipping to another page in her notebook. "Just not the ones you want me to."

His mouth opened, then closed, irritation flickering behind his eyes. She had played him—so effortlessly, so ruthlessly, and in front of the whole team, no less. He hated how easily she dismissed him, like he was some annoying background noise. It wasn’t just about her brushing off his flirting anymore—he wanted to rattle her, to break through that ridiculous indifference she seemed to have toward him.

And for the first time in a long while, Oikawa didn’t know how to win.

And that was how it started.

Oikawa made it his personal mission to get a reaction out of her. He turned up the charm, exaggerating his requests, leaving his jersey in the most inconvenient places just to force her to interact with him. And through it all, she remained perfectly unbothered.

Which only made things worse.

During practice, Oikawa's patience had started to fray. What once had been playful teasing was now laced with something sharper, something almost mean. He leaned in too close, his voice lower, more clipped. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get exhausting pretending I don’t bother you?"

She barely spared him a glance. "Not nearly as exhausting as listening to you grasp at straws for my attention."

His fingers twitched at his sides, irritation flaring. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one getting under her skin—not the other way around.. Whenever she’d pass by with the clipboard, he’d throw an arm over her shoulder, lean in just a little too close, and sigh dramatically. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get tiring, pretending you don’t like me?"

"Not as tiring as listening to you talk," she quipped back, shaking him off effortlessly.

That made the rest of the team howl with laughter, much to Oikawa’s dismay.

But the more she dismissed him, the more he found himself noticing her.

How she always had a spare towel ready for anyone who needed it, how her lips twitched when she held back a smile, how she somehow always knew exactly where to be, exactly what needed to be done. The way she’d mutter under her breath when the gym got too chaotic, how she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows when she was in full focus mode.

Even worse, he noticed that she laughed at other people’s jokes. Not his.

It was infuriating.

The way she treated him—like he was just another player, no more important than anyone else—made something coil tight in his chest. It was wrong. He should matter.

As the season went on, their dynamic became something of a spectacle. Matsukawa and Hanamaki kept a running tally on how many times Oikawa failed to get a reaction from her. Even Kyōtani, normally disinterested in team antics, had muttered once, "Why does he even care?"

Practice was no different.

One day, he strolled in late, expecting to slide by unnoticed. Instead, the manager barely glanced up from her clipboard before sighing dramatically.

"And the king has graced us with his presence," she drawled, flipping a page without looking up. "Should we all kneel? Maybe throw some rose petals while we're at it?"

Oikawa's expression twitched. His fingers flexed around the strap of his bag before he forced a scoff. "You wound me, manager-chan. I’d expect at least a little appreciation for my presence."

She finally looked at him, unimpressed. "I’d appreciate it more if you actually showed up on time."

The snickers from the team were immediate. Matsukawa nudged Hanamaki, both grinning like they had front-row seats to the best show in town. Iwaizumi just shook his head, barely hiding his smirk.

Oikawa exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching slightly before he tilted his head, voice dropping just a fraction. "Careful, manager-chan. One of these days, someone’s going to mistake that attitude of yours for something else."

She arched a brow. "Oh? And what’s that?"

"Repressed admiration." His smirk was sharp, eyes locked on hers like he was waiting—daring her to react.

She let a slow smirk creep onto her face. "That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."

Oikawa stiffened for a half-second. It was barely noticeable, but she caught it. And it infuriated him.

Hanamaki snorted. Matsukawa muttered a quiet "brutal" under his breath, and Iwaizumi, ever the opportunist, smirked as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, Oikawa. You expecting a parade or something?"

Oikawa rolled his eyes, adjusting the strap of his bag. "I was—"

"Stretching starts now," she cut him off smoothly, pointing at the mats without even sparing him a second look. "If Iwaizumi yells at you for skipping, I’m certainly not covering for you."

Iwaizumi clapped a hand on Oikawa’s back, grinning. "Yeah, Shittykawa, stretching starts now."

Oikawa groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. "You just like bossing me around."

"Someone has to." She finally looked at him, gaze neutral, unimpressed. Then, before he could respond, she turned and walked off, already shifting her attention to something else, like he wasn’t even worth her time.

He scowled. Why did it feel like he lost that exchange?

The next few weeks were much of the same. The team noticed, amused by the ongoing battle. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore.

"Oikawa, just accept defeat," Matsukawa teased one afternoon, leaning against the gym wall as he watched her deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, clipboard in hand, discussing strategy. She was nodding at something Iwaizumi said, her brow furrowed in concentration, flipping a page in her notes. Oikawa barely heard the words being exchanged, too focused on the way she looked—completely absorbed in the discussion, giving Iwaizumi the full weight of her attention. It was so effortless for her, this back-and-forth, the way she actually cared about his vice-captain’s input, about the game.

His grip on the volleyball tightened. Why did it feel like she never talked to him like that? "She’s immune. It’s kind of inspiring."

Oikawa scoffed, crossing his arms. "I will win. Just wait."

But the truth was, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about charming her or getting a reaction—Oikawa realized, somewhere between watching her scribble notes on the clipboard and catching glimpses of her tying her hair back, that he wanted her attention. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the others, wanted to hear her laugh because of him.

And that was unacceptable.

The breaking point finally came after a game.

The team had secured another victory, but the entire time, Oikawa’s mind wasn’t on the match. It wasn’t on his perfectly placed serves, on the points he racked up, or even on the cheers from the crowd.

It was on her.

She had celebrated, high-fiving Kyōtani, clapping Iwaizumi on the back, beaming as she praised the team for their effort. The smile she wore was bright, uninhibited, the kind of happiness he had never seen from her before. She was laughing—actually laughing—carefree and glowing as if this win meant the world to her.

And she hadn’t looked at him once.

He hated it.

Hated how effortless it was for her to shower attention on everyone else, how easily she smiled at them, joked with them, treated them as if they were worth her time. But him? She barely acknowledged his existence, acting as if he was nothing more than a passing nuisance.

His grip on his jersey tightened. Something inside him burned, sharp and unsettled, curling hot in his chest like an ember waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t fair. He had worked harder than anyone for this win, pushed himself beyond exhaustion to make sure they came out on top. And yet, when she smiled, when she laughed—it wasn’t because of him.

And that was the moment Oikawa snapped.

So when he saw her alone in the hallway after the match, clipboard in hand, he didn’t think.

"Why do you act like that?" His voice was tight, laced with frustration that he couldn't contain anymore.

She glanced up, brow raised. "Act like what?"

Oikawa stepped closer, his jaw clenching, heat simmering beneath his skin. "Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t exist. You joke with them, you celebrate with them, but with me? It’s like I could disappear and you wouldn’t even notice."

Her smirk was slow, taunting. "Oh, is that what this is about? You need me to fawn over you like everyone else? Poor Oikawa. Is it finally sinking in that I don’t care about stroking your over-inflated ego?"

His eyes darkened. "That’s not—"

She cut him off, stepping forward so the space between them all but disappeared. "You think I didn't know about you before I joined the team? You think I didn't know you'd try with me? I will not swoon and kiss your feet, Tooru."

Oikawa opened his mouth, but the words tangled. He wanted to refute it, to tell her it wasn’t about that, but the way she was looking at him—bold, unshaken, challenging—knocked the thoughts from his head.

He groaned in frustration, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave up fighting it. Before she could say another word, his hands shot up, gripping her waist as he yanked her toward him, lips crashing into hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was messy, desperate, filled with months—years—of unresolved tension. His fingers curled against her hips, pulling her closer, his kiss carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say. It was a demand, a declaration, a fight in its own right.

And the worst part? She kissed him back.

Her fingers curled into his jersey, yanking him closer as if daring him to take it further. He could feel her heartbeat, hammering against his own, and suddenly, nothing else mattered—not the game, not the team, not the rivalry that had defined them for so long.

Just him.

Just her.

When he finally pulled away, both of them breathless, Oikawa rested his forehead against hers, his hands still gripping her waist. He exhaled sharply, lips curving into something between a smirk and disbelief.

"You looked at me just now," he murmured, voice rough.

She huffed a laugh, fingers still tangled in his jersey. "Shut up," she whispered, then pulled him down and kissed him again.

It was just as desperate as before, just as fevered, but this time, there was something else—acceptance. She wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t stopping to argue. She was right there with him, matching his intensity, giving as much as she took. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. It was everything.

And then—

Footsteps.

A sharp intake of breath.

Both of them froze just as Iwaizumi and Matsukawa turned the corner.

Iwaizumi stopped mid-step. Matsukawa, wide-eyed, blinked once, then twice. The hallway fell into a suffocating silence.

Then, slowly, in perfect synchronization, both of them took a single step backward.

Another.

Without a word, they turned around and walked the other way, as if they had just stumbled into something forbidden.

Matsukawa exhaled as they rounded the corner. "Damn. He really did get her."

Iwaizumi nodded. "Yeah."

A beat of silence.

"I hate him," Iwaizumi muttered.

Matsukawa sighed. "Me too."

waiting for megumi's class to end so they can play ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ა

Unrequited Love: Kenma

Kenma Kozume had never been good with change.

He liked things predictable. Safe. Video games had taught him that if he kept his strategy consistent, if he memorized the patterns and played smart, he could survive anything. Life was just another game to him—one where he preferred to stay in the background, keep things stable, and avoid unnecessary risks.

But nothing about this felt stable. Nothing about this felt safe.

Because you were leaving.

Kenma sat on the floor of your apartment, legs crossed, a cardboard box in his lap. Around him, the room looked smaller than it used to, packed with boxes stacked high, shelves stripped of their usual clutter. The air smelled like old books, packing tape, and a faint trace of your perfume, and for the first time since he had known you, your space didn’t feel like home anymore.

Maybe because it wasn’t. Not for much longer.

You had been a part of his life for so long that he barely remembered what it was like before you. Since childhood, you had been there—first as a quiet presence at his side in elementary school, then as the only person who could sit with him for hours, gaming in comfortable silence. You never questioned the way he was, never pushed him to be anything other than himself. And as the years passed, you became his constant, his safe place, his person.

And now, you were leaving.

“So, you’re really going, huh?” His voice was quiet, neutral, but even he could hear the strain in it.

You looked up from where you were sorting through a pile of miscellaneous things—old letters, tangled earbuds, random trinkets you had shoved into drawers over the years. You smiled, but it was the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. It’s happening.”

Kenma’s fingers curled around the edges of the box. He had known about this for weeks now, ever since you told him about the job opportunity in another city. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He had told himself it wouldn’t change anything. That you would still text him, call him, visit when you could.

But now, with everything packed up and your walls bare, the reality of it all settled like a weight in his chest.

He had never thought about a life where you weren’t here. Where he couldn’t just send a message and have you show up at his door an hour later with takeout, where you weren’t sitting beside him on his couch, watching him play through whatever new game he was obsessed with that week. Where you weren’t just…

Here.

You sighed and flopped onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m kind of freaking out,” you admitted, voice light, almost playful. “New place, new people, new job. It’s exciting, but also terrifying.”

Kenma swallowed. He should say something. Something encouraging, something that made it sound like he was happy for you, like he wasn’t falling apart inside.

“You’ll be fine.”

You turned your head to look at him, and for a second, he thought you could see right through him. That you could tell he was barely keeping it together. But then you smiled—soft, familiar, warm.

“Thanks, Ken.”

He nodded, looking away. He focused on the box in his lap, on the way his hands clenched the cardboard just a little too tightly.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He had never needed to say anything before. He thought you just knew—that you had always known. That there was no rush, no deadline, no moment where he would run out of time. Because you were always here.

But now, you weren’t going to be.

And Kenma realized, too late, that he had never even given himself a chance.

The packing took hours, and Kenma stayed through all of it. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, and he didn’t want to be anywhere else, anyway. He helped you sort through things, separate what you were keeping from what you were leaving behind. Every item had a story, a memory attached to it. The hoodie he had lent you once and never got back. The game controller he had bought for you so you could play co-op with him. The tiny cat figurine you had won at a festival and insisted looked just like him.

All these little things that made up you.

All these little things that reminded him of what he was losing.

He wasn’t good with words. He never had been. He wasn’t like Kuroo, who could charm his way through anything, or Bokuto, who could wear his heart on his sleeve without fear. Kenma had always been quiet, reserved, hesitant. But when it came to you, his feelings were loud, screaming inside him, demanding to be acknowledged.

But he had never said anything.

Because what if he did, and you left anyway? What if it changed everything? What if losing you as a friend hurt worse than losing you to distance?

“You should take this,” you said at one point, holding out an old, well-loved game case. “We never finished it together.”

Kenma stared at it, then at you. “Then take it with you.”

“I don’t have my console anymore. Sold it.” You grinned sheepishly. “New city, new start.”

His grip tightened on the game. He didn’t like that answer. He didn’t like any of this. He had never been an emotional person, but right now, something bitter sat at the back of his throat, something wrong.

You were leaving. You were letting go of all these things, of this life, of him—and you were acting like it was just something that had to happen.

Kenma had spent years convinced he had all the time in the world. But time was up. And for the first time, he didn’t know what to do about it.

It was late by the time everything was packed. The apartment looked empty now, stripped of everything that made it yours. You stretched, yawning, then turned to him with an expression that was far too casual for what this moment felt like.

“This is it, huh?” You nudged his arm lightly. “One last night before I go.”

Kenma’s stomach twisted. He forced himself to nod. “Yeah.”

“Hey.” You tilted your head, watching him. “Are you okay?”

No. No, he wasn’t. Because this wasn’t fair. Because he should have said something sooner. Because he didn’t know how to deal with the fact that tomorrow, you wouldn’t be here anymore.

“Yeah.”

You frowned, unconvinced, but you let it go. Instead, you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him in a tight hug. Kenma stiffened for a moment, caught off guard, before his body reacted on instinct, arms lifting to hold you back just as tightly.

“I’m gonna miss you, Ken.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. He closed his eyes, trying to steady his breathing, trying to memorize this—the feel of your arms around him, the warmth of you against his chest, the way your head fit perfectly against his shoulder. Trying to ignore the aching thought that this might be the last time.

He wanted to say don’t go. Wanted to tell you to stay, that you didn’t have to leave, that he—

But he didn’t.

Instead, he whispered, “Me too.”

And he held on for as long as he could.

omgggg you're the sweetest (T_T)♡

oh! can i request a fic about rivalry with kita? i'd love to see him fuming and stuff since he rarely mad about anything. by anything, i mean ANYTHING. and... i don't mind a pinch of nsfw in it btw (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ but if it's not necessary for the plot you can take that away, that's okay. thanks in advance ^^♡

(you don't have to rush, take your time writing it (*ゝω･*))

Thank you so much for the sweetest request!! ♡ I had so much fun exploring what it would take to actually get under Kita’s skinn heheheh

no smut just yet! but trust me—I’ve got some spicy ideas brewing for part two 👀

Thank you for reading lovely 🥰

--

The gym echoed with squeaking sneakers and shouted drills, the clash of balls against hardwood punctuated by the shrill calls of coaches on either end. Co-ed training camps were chaos on a good day. On this day, it was warfare—at least, it felt that way to Kita Shinsuke.

Across the net, you stood with your hands on your hips, eyes cool and sharp, as if you could predict every move his team made. And worse—you smirked when you were right.

“That’s the fourth time your middle’s fallen for the cross,” you called out across the net, voice far too casual for his taste. “You might wanna switch it up before he tears his ACL.”

Kita’s eyes narrowed.

He didn’t respond. He rarely did. But he filed it away. Like he always did.

Osamu muttered beside him, “They’re good.”

Kita hummed in agreement. “Too chatty.”

You were, admittedly, talented. Strategic. A good captain. But the way you barked directions with a bite of sarcasm, the way you smirked when things went your way, the way you carried yourself with this insufferable looseness like volleyball wasn’t sacred—

It got under his skin.

And you knew it.

You took every opportunity to needle him. Subtle things. Walking just a little too close when switching drills. Offering sly suggestions to his players during breaks like you knew them better. Commenting on his rigidity with a grin that never met your eyes.

Today was only day three of the camp. And he was already counting down to the end.

Later that afternoon, the teams broke into a scrimmage. Mixed lineups, random assignments.

Unfortunately, you were on his side of the court.

“Wow,” you said, eyes scanning the rotation chart as you stepped into place beside him, “I didn’t think they’d actually put us together. Do you think they’re trying to test how long you can tolerate me?”

Kita didn’t even glance at you. “Keep your mind on the game.”

“Always do,” you chirped.

The first serve came, and to your credit, you didn’t miss a beat. Your timing was perfect. Your approach was clean. You called the ball clearly, landed sharply, and turned back with a smirk.

“What, no feedback?” you asked breathlessly. “Not even a little pointer?”

Kita stared at you, flat and unimpressed. “You were slightly late on your first step.”

You blinked. “Was not.”

He turned away. “Yes, you were.”

You scoffed. “Kita, if I was any more precise, I’d be a stopwatch.”

He didn’t reply.

You, of course, took that as a challenge.

Practice ended, finally, after a brutal hour. Kita dismissed his team with a bow and collected the stray balls with quiet efficiency. You lingered, sweat still clinging to your brow, hair pulled back, muscles humming with exertion.

You approached slowly, ball in hand, rolling it against your palm.

“You know,” you said mildly, “I can’t tell if you hate me or if that’s just your default personality.”

Kita didn’t look at you. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”

“Yup. I like the view.”

His jaw ticked. His shoulders squared just slightly, a subtle but unmistakable signal of irritation.

You came a step closer. “What is it about me, huh? The fact that I don’t shut up? That I challenge you? That I coach with instinct instead of a clipboard?”

“You coach with your ego,” he replied, finally turning toward you. His voice was sharp—colder than you’d ever heard it. “You don’t respect the game. You treat it like a stage for your mouth.”

You raised a brow, momentarily taken aback by the vehemence in his tone.

“And you treat it like a religion,” you said evenly, though the smirk had faded from your voice. “But not everyone worships like you, Kita.”

He stepped forward once, not quite in your space but close enough to make your breath hitch. His posture was tense now, fists loosely clenched at his sides, back straight like he was trying not to launch into a full tirade. His voice was low, deadly quiet.

“You think being loud makes you better. You think swagger makes up for gaps in discipline. But this—this isn’t your team. These aren’t your players. And I’m not going to stand by while you make a spectacle of the game I’ve spent years building.”

You stared at him.

For a moment, all your usual wit dried on your tongue. Your hands curled tighter around the volleyball in your grip. His jaw was set, the muscle twitching, and his brows were drawn low, eyes locked on yours with a kind of restrained heat you didn’t expect.

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just anger. Real, burning anger.

You hadn’t expected that.

“You’re mad,” you said finally, voice quieter.

“I’m focused.”

“No.” You took a step forward this time. “You’re mad.”

His nostrils flared. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.

“And why is that?” you continued, cocking your head. “Because I’m not like you? Because I don’t worship your little routines? Or is it because someone finally rattled that polished little mask of yours?”

His mouth parted slightly, but he didn’t answer.

“Right,” you murmured, taking another step closer—close enough to see the veins in his neck standing taut, the slight tremble in his fingertips. “Because someone like you would never snap, right? You’re too composed. Too perfect.”

Kita didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because you were right. And he hated that.

The silence buzzed between you, thick and electric. And something shifted in the air—sharp, magnetic, inevitable.

“Say it,” you whispered. “Say you hate me.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, firm but not painful.

You sucked in a breath.

“I don’t hate you,” he said, voice low and strained. “I just don’t know how to stand you.”

And that was the moment.

The shift.

The crack in the dam.

Your fingers twitched. His hold tightened. And for one suspended heartbeat, it felt like the entire gym faded around you.

Then—

“Everyone outta the locker rooms!” a coach barked from the entrance.

Kita dropped your wrist like it burned. You took a full step back, breath sharp, eyes wide.

No words passed between you.

The look he gave you said everything.

He was absolutely going to snap.

And you were absolutely going to be the reason why.

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.

Iwaizumi, Rivals, part 3, nsfw..? Please 🥹 only if you have time ofc.. but like.. please don’t leave me hanging.. the cliffhanger… please..

You ofc, don’t need to do it. It’s totally up to you. Also please remember to drink water & eat full meals!

Just posted (read here) after eating a full meal and drinking all my water :D I hope you enjoy the spice eheheh thank you for the ask lovely <333

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.

hey i loveee your stufff . really amazing. do you think you could do a yaku x female reader NSFW? you really dont have to . all loveee ☺️

Hiiii thank you for reading hehehe

Also, I'd love to 😩

Enjoy <333

--

Anon Asks: Yaku (NSFW)

You hadn’t expected Morisuke to be like this.

Not when you first started dating. Not when he’d leaned against the lockers with that sharp tongue and tight jaw, the kind of guy who made jabs at your clumsiness and then lingered a little too long when he thought you weren’t looking. He wasn’t the flirty type. He didn’t flirt—he challenged.

So you gave it right back.

At first, it was banter. Sidelong glances. Him stealing the last protein bar from your bag. You calling him a pest under your breath when he caught your stumble in practice and wouldn’t stop grinning for the rest of the week. You weren’t even sure when it started to feel like something else.

But the first time he kissed you—short, hard, like he couldn’t help himself—you felt it.

Tension. Power. A pressure right under the skin.

And what surprised you most was how fast that pressure exploded the second the door shut behind you.

You didn’t remember how you ended up against the wall, just the way his hands gripped your thighs and hauled you up like you weighed nothing. The sound of the towel hitting the floor. The warm thud of your back against tile. And the way he looked at you—really looked at you—like he was done talking. Like he was ready to prove a point.

“Morisuke—” you gasped as his mouth brushed your collarbone, teeth grazing your skin before he lined himself up and pushed in.

The stretch was instant and overwhelming. Sharp, fast, brutal in the best way. Your head tipped back, mouth falling open in a wordless cry as your legs tightened around his waist. He felt everywhere. Deep, filling, steady in a way that made your entire body light up.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. His breathing was rough, his jaw clenched tight, his arms flexed as he adjusted your weight with practiced control.

You clung to him, nails dragging across his back.

He started moving, and your breath caught.

Tight, efficient thrusts, the kind that lifted you up and slammed you back down—over and over—with a rhythm so controlled it bordered on cruel. One hand held your thigh in a vice grip. The other pressed into the base of your spine, anchoring you while he drove into you with focused, brutal precision.

The slap of skin echoed sharply against the tile, water steaming around you from the still-running shower you’d forgotten to shut off. The air was wet, heavy, fogged with heat, but nothing was hotter than him—than the fire under his skin, the muscles straining against yours, the sheer force of his focus.

You buried your face in his shoulder, gasping into his skin, trying to keep the sounds in.

“Mori—fuck, I can’t—”

His grip tightened.

“You can,” he said, voice barely more than a breath. “You already are.”

You were. Falling apart in his arms. Your thighs burned. Your stomach clenched. Your mouth couldn’t form real words anymore—just moans and broken sobs of his name. You were trembling, barely hanging on.

And then he adjusted.

Just a small shift—his hips angled higher, deeper—and your gasp cracked into a cry.

“Right there?” he rasped, voice wrecked but smug. “Yeah. I know.”

You nodded—or tried to. Your head was tipped back, hair clinging to your damp forehead, and your body was too far gone to do anything but take it.

Then his thumb found your clit.

The pressure was firm, steady. Unrelenting.

You shattered.

The orgasm tore through you so hard it knocked the breath from your lungs. Your body locked up, every nerve alight, your walls clenching around him so tight he nearly buckled.

You cried out, voice cracking, thighs quaking in his arms.

He swore—sharp and raw—and shoved into you harder, hips grinding in deep as he came with a guttural sound against your neck. He spilled inside you, fingers bruising into your skin, his chest pressed flush to yours like he needed to keep you pinned there forever.

You didn’t come down—you just collapsed. All of you. Muscles limp, lungs empty, brain blank.

He held you up like it was nothing.

Didn’t let go.

Just stood there, still inside you, your legs tight around his waist, his mouth pressed against your jaw.

“Morisuke,” you whined, too soft, too shaken.

He kissed your cheek. Then your temple. Then lower.

With a voice hoarse and wrecked, he breathed against your skin, “Say that again.”

You did.

And his hands started to move again.

Because Morisuke wasn’t even close to done.

Can you please do osamu with fav position too? Im on your knees now 🧎🧎🧎

You may rise, fellow simp... I've come 🫡 ------------

Osamu Miya was a man of simple pleasures and needs. So long as had had a roof over his head, some good food to munch on and a bed, he wouldn’t complain.

But for some reason, you were the one thing he could never get enough.

Your legs are wrapped around his hips, Osamu reveling in the way your pussy sucked him whole when he filled you. You were panting in his face, hands clutching at his back for any sort of anchor. He thought you were absolutely delicious like this. Melting at his touch, your eyes drowning in lust, trying to muster up a coherent sentence. Osamu can’t help the groan that rumbles out from his throat, moving his head into the crook of your neck as he leaves kisses and bites all down your neck. “’Samu..!” You squealed at a harsher nip, your pants turning into moans as he licks and suckles at the bite.

“What? I can’t enjoy my meal?” Osamu’s honestly surprised how even his voice sounded, even though he could’ve finished at the way you called his name. He traces his fingers down your chest, circling your nipple before giving it a few flicks. He adored how reactive you were when he did that. You gasp, calling out his name as he continued to fuck you, the room filling with the sound of skin slapping alongside your screams. Your nails claw down his back as you continue to sputter muffled versions of his name. Your orgasm triggers his, and you’re both coming down from a blissful high. You’re both panting, room reeking of sex when you try to get up to get a towel, when you feel Osamu’s hand gripping your arm. Cock still red and hard. “I’m still hungry.”