Favourite Positions: Ushijima

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Favourite Positions: Iwaizumi

Of all the positions Hajime loved you in, you on top riding him was definitely his favourite.

Maybe it was because he loved the way your tits bounced, how a quick pinch of your nipple would make you squeeze his cock in all the right places. Or maybe it was the way he could grab your hips, ass plush and perfect for smacking.

But if he really thought about it, it was probably because he adored your face when you rode him. No matter how many times you get on top, your reaction is always the same.

“Haj-Hajime…” You panted, face flush pink with effort as you repeatedly slammed yourself down on his thick cock, slight drool leaving the corner of your lips. Your hands were gripping the headboard for support, knuckles whitening as you used your full strength to roll and ride your hips against his, purposefully grinding right against that spot that made you see stars.

He loved watching you lose yourself in him, the once respectable and cohesive woman he fell in love driving herself rabid. All just for him.

Your movements, once smooth and consistent, start to falter with exhaustion, sweat beading down your lower back. Still, you don’t stop, lost in pleasure.

Seeing you like this always drove him wild.

“Can’t get enough, can you?” Hajime rumbled, his hand moving from your ass trailing up your spine in a way that gave you shivers. He stopped at your neck, to which he grabbed and pulled you with a newfound vigor, pulling you so close that your breasts were flush against his chest. He had the chance to look at your eyes, so lost in lust as you panted hotly in his face.

“My turn now.”

With that, his other handheld down your hips as he began to thrust up into you.

Hard.

Drool hit his neck, and Hajime began his own rhythm, with you either trying to form words or a sentence, he isn’t sure. Your moans emphasised with each thrust, mingling perfectly with his grunts. You call out his name, hands moving from the headboards to his shoulders, your fingernails pressing sharp crescent moons into his skin.

“Please, please, please!” You yell, and Hajime immediately understands you. His hand moves from your neck down to where you two become one, as he rubs your clit masterfully. It only takes a few seconds till your whole-body tenses with nirvana. He feels your walls clench around him, milking him to his finish right as you come down from yours.

With a few messy thrusts, he’s left with a soft cock, your juices all over him, and a very sleepy and happy you.

Oh, yeah. Definitely his favourite.

Colour practice with gojo :D

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell that to Sakusa’s ACL.”

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

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

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

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

The words hung in the air, heavy and begrudging.

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

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

His grunt of irritation followed you out the door.

--

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

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

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

He was still pissed.

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

Heads turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shut them up.

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

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

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

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

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

Iwaizumi said nothing.

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

The door shut with more force than necessary.

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

And all he could see was your face.

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

But it burned anyway.

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

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

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

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

So he typed. Adjusted. Modified.

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

The phone lit up before he even closed the tab.

You.

Of course.

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

Twice it rang. He let it.

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

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

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

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

“I factored in what matters.”

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

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

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

He froze for half a beat.

Your words landed hard, scraping under his skin.

And god, you weren’t done.

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

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

“Fine,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes.”

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

The line went dead.

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

The silence afterward rang louder than your voice.

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

Like something ready to burn.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I adjusted for mass and range—”

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he stood.

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

“To the gym?” you asked.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

“Pause,” you ordered.

He straightened slowly, setting the weights down.

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

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

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

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

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

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

You circled him once, sharp eyes on every joint.

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him through the mirror.

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

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

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

His fingers twitched where they rested against your leg.

You didn’t look up. Neither did he.

But the silence was loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good... Now hold.”

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

You swallowed hard, refocusing.

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

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

He froze.

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

Your brow rose. “Focus, Iwaizumi.”

He gritted his teeth. “I am focused.”

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

His breath came a little heavier now.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

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

Then—

“Ah—sorry!”

The door creaked open.

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

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

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

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

The janitor nodded and disappeared.

Silence returned.

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

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

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

Confessions: Atsumu

You’ve known the Miya twins for as long as you can remember. They were the loudest boys on the playground, all scuffed knees and sunburned cheeks, their laughter carrying across the schoolyard like a war cry. Atsumu, the loudmouth with a cocky grin that drove teachers insane, and Osamu, the quieter one who always seemed two seconds away from dragging his brother out of trouble. You were caught in the middle—sometimes willingly, sometimes not—but you never complained. Being with them was easy. Natural. Like breathing.

“Yer too slow!” Atsumu had whined once, standing at the edge of the sandbox with his hands on his hips while you struggled to keep up. “Then go ahead without me!” you’d huffed, kicking sand in his direction, cheeks flushed and breathless.

But he never did.

No matter how many times you fell behind, no matter how many times Osamu rolled his eyes and threatened to leave you both behind, Atsumu always waited. And somehow, that pattern never changed.

Years passed. Middle school turned into high school. The three of you didn’t hang out as much anymore—between club activities, exams, and life pulling you in different directions, it was harder to find the time. But you still showed up. For them.

You never missed a game, sitting in the stands with Osamu’s mom and cheering as loud as the rest of the Inarizaki fans. You watched Atsumu serve with impossible precision, eyes narrowing with focus before the ball left his hand. You watched Osamu spike with terrifying accuracy, his smirk barely contained afterward. You were proud of them both, proud to see them rise, proud to be part of the crowd that supported them.

“Yer comin’ to the next match, right?” Atsumu asked one afternoon after practice, leaning against the fence with his bag slung over his shoulder. His hair was damp, a few stray strands sticking to his forehead, and his uniform was loose, hanging casually over his broad frame. The sun was dipping lower, casting warm orange hues across the field where a few stragglers still kicked a soccer ball around. You glanced up from your phone, pretending to be nonchalant. “I always do, don’t I?” His grin stretched wide—cocky and confident, just like always—but there was something in his eyes. Something… uncertain. Hidden beneath the bravado. “Just checkin’.” He kicked at the dirt, scuffing his sneaker against the pavement. “Ya don’t gotta, y’know. Betcha got better things to do than watch us all the time.”

Osamu was the one who noticed it first, the subtle shift in Atsumu’s behavior. It was after another win, and the three of you had gone out to grab a bite. Atsumu was unusually quiet, barely picking at his food while you and Osamu bickered over the best dipping sauce for karaage. “Oi,” Osamu had muttered under his breath when you went to the counter to grab more napkins. “What’s with ya?”

“Nothin’,” Atsumu had mumbled, poking at his plate, but Osamu’s eyes had narrowed. “Ya never shut up. Now yer quiet? Somethin’s up.”

“Nothin’s up,” Atsumu insisted, but Osamu didn’t look convinced. He shot his brother a look but didn’t press further. Later that night, as you waved goodbye and promised to see them at the next game, Osamu lingered behind. “He’s actin’ weird,” he muttered, watching Atsumu walk ahead. “Ya notice?”

You had laughed, brushing it off. “When isn’t he weird?”

It wasn’t until you started talking about someone else—Takahiro, a guy from your class—that things started to change. He was smart, funny, and polite in a way that seemed almost too perfect. You didn’t even realize how often you were mentioning him—how your eyes lit up when you talked about how he made you laugh during group projects, how he texted you after class to ask if you understood the material. At first, Atsumu barely reacted. Just a quirk of his brow and a half-hearted, “Huh. Cool.” But then it happened again. And again. And suddenly, Takahiro’s name was slipping into conversations more often than not, and Atsumu noticed. Every. Single. Time.

He didn’t say anything to you about it. But he did talk to Osamu.

“He likes her, don’t he?” Atsumu had muttered one afternoon, his voice low, barely audible as they sat in the back of the gym after practice. His knees were drawn up, elbows resting loosely on them while he picked absentmindedly at the tape around his fingers, pulling at the frayed edges like they held the answers to his problems.

Osamu raised a brow, glancing sideways at his brother. “Who? Takahiro?” His tone was neutral, but the way he looked at Atsumu was anything but.

“Yeah.” Atsumu’s jaw clenched as he peeled another strip of tape from his skin, eyes fixed on the floor. “She’s always talkin’ about him lately. Laughin’ at his dumb jokes. Her face lights up when she talks about him.”

“Since when do ya pay attention to that kinda thing?” Osamu’s tone was teasing, but there was something careful underneath it, something that probed deeper.

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s answer was too fast, too defensive. His fingers stilled against his knee, tape forgotten as he shifted, posture rigid.

Osamu tilted his head, watching his brother closely. “Right.” Silence stretched between them for a beat, thick and unspoken. “So, why do ya care?”

“I don’t.” Atsumu’s voice was quieter this time, almost too quiet. But his jaw was tight, his eyes dark with something Osamu didn’t need to ask about.

Osamu exhaled softly, leaning back and folding his arms behind his head. “Yer full of shit, y’know.” He didn’t push, didn’t ask any more questions. But his words lingered in the air, hanging heavy between them. Atsumu didn’t respond, and Osamu let it go—for now. But the silence that followed spoke louder than anything Atsumu could’ve said.

You started noticing the shift after that. Atsumu was different—quieter around you, shorter with his words. His usual sharp remarks didn’t carry the same playful edge anymore. They were clipped, like he was forcing himself to stay distant. At first, you thought he was just tired. Volleyball took its toll, and with nationals approaching, it wasn’t unusual for the entire team to be running on fumes. But this was different. His usual warmth was gone, replaced by something colder, something heavier that settled in the pit of your stomach. His eyes didn’t linger on you the way they used to, and when they did, there was something in them you couldn’t place. Frustration? Hurt? You weren’t sure, but it left a bad taste in your mouth.

It all came to a head during the next game.

It was an intense match—one where every point mattered, the air thick with anticipation. You were in your usual spot in the stands, cheering louder than most of the crowd, but this time… you weren’t alone. Takahiro was beside you, leaning in close, his shoulder brushing yours as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. You didn’t notice the way Atsumu’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and fleeting, but he saw it. He saw the way you smiled—soft and genuine, eyes crinkling at the corners—and it knocked the air out of his lungs.

It burned.

Atsumu’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling a little too tightly around the ball as he lined up his serve. He tried to shake it off, to focus on the game, but your laugh echoed louder than the roar of the crowd in his ears. His heartbeat pounded in his chest, faster, harder, until it drowned out everything else. The whistle blew. He tossed the ball, went through the motions—but his mind wasn’t in it. His focus was shattered, replaced by a tangled mess of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with.

The ball sailed too far.

Out of bounds.

By a mile.

The murmur that rippled through the crowd was deafening in his ears. Atsumu’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt, his teeth grinding together as he forced himself to breathe through the frustration. He didn’t look at you after that. He couldn’t. But he felt it—your eyes on him, concern etched into your features, even as you turned back to Takahiro. The tension settled like a weight in his chest, suffocating and inescapable.

Throughout the rest of the game, Atsumu was off. His sets were technically perfect, but they lacked their usual precision. His timing was a second too late, his movements a little too forced. The fire that usually burned in his veins, the one that made him relentless on the court, was barely a flicker. And no one noticed but Osamu.

“Get yer head outta yer ass, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu muttered under his breath during a timeout, his voice low enough that only Atsumu could hear. “Yer messin’ up, and I know why.”

Atsumu didn’t respond, eyes locked on the floor, jaw clenched. But Osamu wasn’t done. “If ya don’t fix it, we’re gonna lose. And if we do, it’s on you.”

By some miracle, Inarizaki still scraped by with a win—but barely. Atsumu was the first one off the court when the final whistle blew, not bothering to stick around as the team lined up to thank the crowd. His skin was crawling, frustration boiling beneath the surface as he tore off his sweat-soaked jersey and tossed it into his bag. He needed to clear his head. He needed to breathe.

And you? You noticed.

“Where’s Atsumu?” you asked, concern lacing your voice as you turned to Osamu while everyone congratulated the team. Osamu’s eyes flickered toward the gym, his expression neutral but his tone softer than usual. “Needed some air,” he muttered, his voice quiet but knowing. “Ya know how he gets.” And that was all it took.

Your chest tightened. Something told you this wasn’t just about a bad game.

“Oi, Miya!” Takahiro’s voice broke through the hum of post-game chatter as he stepped forward, flashing a bright smile. “Hell of a match out there. You guys pulled through in the end.” His words were polite, his tone smooth, but the second they left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.

Ginjima, who was standing nearby, narrowed his eyes, barely masking his distaste as he gave Takahiro a once-over. His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, it looked like he was about to say something. "So, ya think—"

But before he could finish, Aran stepped in, his usual easy-going demeanor firming up as he gave Takahiro a curt nod.

“Thanks,” Aran cut in smoothly, his tone polite but clipped just enough to send a message. “Appreciate it.”

Takahiro, oblivious to the silent exchange, just smiled and gave a thumbs-up. “No problem. You guys really pulled through.”

You felt the tension rolling off Ginjima, and even Kita’s usually neutral expression was unreadable as his eyes flickered between Takahiro and the team.

You lingered with the team for a little while longer, standing by Aran as he exchanged a few polite words with Takahiro, who was blissfully unaware of the underlying tension. You nodded along, adding the occasional "yeah" or "for sure" as Takahiro talked about how intense the game had been and how impressed he was by Inarizaki's performance. But your mind was elsewhere.

Atsumu’s absence gnawed at you. The way he’d left the court so quickly, the frustration rolling off of him in waves—it didn’t sit right. Something was wrong, and no matter how much you tried to focus on the conversation happening around you, the pit in your stomach wouldn’t go away.

Eventually, as the crowd began to thin out and the post-game buzz started to fade, Takahiro turned to you with that same easy smile. "We’re all gonna grab something to eat after. You coming?"

You hesitated, your heart tugging you in a different direction. "Hey… I think I’m gonna head home," you said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I’m kinda tired."

Takahiro’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering across his face. "You sure? We were all gonna hang out for a bit."

“Yeah, I’m sure,” you replied, offering him a quick, reassuring smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

He hesitated for a moment before nodding. "Alright… text me when you get home, yeah?"

“Of course.”

But you had no intention of going home.

As Takahiro rejoined the group, you slipped away, weaving through the crowd without a second glance. Your feet moved on instinct, carrying you back toward the gym, where you knew exactly where Atsumu would be. Something gnawed at your gut, telling you this wasn’t just about a bad game. You could feel it, a weight settling in your chest, making it hard to breathe.

As you got closer to the gym, the familiar sound of volleyballs slamming against the floor echoed through the quiet night. The steady thump reverberated through the empty halls, each hit carrying a frustration that was almost palpable. Your steps slowed as you approached the entrance, the muffled grunts of effort and the sharp sound of rubber meeting wood growing louder with each step.

When you reached the doorway, you stopped, heart hammering in your ears as you took in the sight before you. Atsumu was there, just as you’d known he would be. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his hair damp and sticking to his skin. His jersey was clinging to his back, soaked through, and the gym floor was littered with scattered volleyballs, some rolling lazily across the surface after missed targets. But Atsumu wasn’t slowing down.

His jaw was clenched, his eyes locked on an invisible target as he tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, body coiling with raw power. The crack of the ball echoed through the gym as it slammed into the floor, and a grunt of frustration escaped his lips, reverberating off the walls.

You stood there, frozen for a moment, watching him pour every ounce of frustration and anger into each serve. He didn’t notice you. Not yet.

“You're gonna break the damn floor at this rate.”

Your voice echoed across the empty gym, but Atsumu didn’t stop. He tossed another ball into the air, his muscles flexing as he jumped, slamming it with a grunt that reverberated off the walls. The ball ricocheted off the floor and hit the back wall with a loud thud. His breathing was heavy, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged inhale.

“Go home.” His voice was clipped, laced with exhaustion and something sharper. He didn’t turn to look at you, eyes locked on the next ball he was already lining up.

“Atsumu,” you said softly, stepping further into the gym. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about.” He tossed the ball, and another loud thwack echoed through the gym as the ball hit the floor. “Go home.”

But you didn’t move.

“Not until you tell me what’s wrong.” Your voice was firmer this time, crossing your arms as you stood your ground. But then, as Atsumu lined up another ball, ready to serve, you couldn’t take it anymore. Your feet moved before your brain caught up, and you stepped forward, planting yourself right in front of him.

“Atsumu, stop.”

His eyes widened in surprise, the ball still gripped tightly in his hand, but you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, heart pounding as you met his gaze head-on.

“Move,” he muttered, his voice low, but there was no real heat behind it.

“No,” you said firmly, your voice unwavering. “I’m not moving until you talk to me.”

“Why even bother?” His voice was sharper now, but there was something raw beneath the anger. “Go back to yer boyfriend. Bet he’s waitin’ for ya.”

You blinked, stunned by the venom in his words. “Boyfriend? You mean Takahiro?”

“Yeah, him.” He finally turned, eyes blazing with something you couldn’t quite place—hurt, frustration… jealousy? “Bet he’s real smitten with ya, sittin’ in the stands, watchin’ ya smile at him like that.”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Atsumu snapped, his voice rising. “I saw ya. Laughin’ at his jokes, lettin’ him get close. Ya looked real happy. Real fuckin’ happy.”

“That’s what this is about?” Your voice sharpened, anger bubbling to the surface. “You’re pissed because I was talking to Takahiro?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Atsumu drawled, his tone dripping with mock sweetness as he dropped the ball and crossed his arms. “‘Takahiro’s so nice,’” he mimicked, his voice going higher, mimicking yours in an exaggerated, sing-song way. “‘Takahiro helped me with my assignment.’ ‘Takahiro said the funniest thing today.’” He scoffed, his expression darkening as he took a step closer, his eyes flashing with something dangerously close to jealousy. “Ya never shut up about him.”

If you weren't pissed before, you sure as hell were now.

Your jaw clenched, heat rushing to your face as your hands balled into fists at your sides. “What the hell is your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” He let out a bitter laugh, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just sick of listenin’ to ya gush about him like he hung the damn moon.”

“Are you serious right now?!” You raised your voice, the frustration bubbling over. “You’re actin’ like a damn child, Atsumu!”

“Maybe I am!” Atsumu’s voice shot up, matching yours as his face flushed with anger. He stepped forward, closing the distance between you, his eyes locked on yours with a heat that made your pulse race. “But at least I’m not the one actin’ blind to what’s right in front of me!”

“Blind to what?!” You threw your hands in the air, voice sharp and cutting as you took a step toward him, closing the space between you until there was barely any room left. Your chest brushed his as you tilted your chin up to meet his fiery gaze. “Why do you even care so much, Atsumu?!”

“Why do I care?!” He was practically towering over you now, his breath hot and ragged as his jaw clenched, his eyes burning with frustration. “Because ya never stop talkin’ about him! ‘Takahiro this, Takahiro that!’ It’s all I ever fuckin’ hear!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you didn’t act like you don’t give a damn about me!” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t back down, standing your ground even as the tension between you became suffocating.

“I don’t give a damn?!” Atsumu’s voice was louder now, the frustration bleeding into his tone as he stepped even closer, his chest brushing against yours. “You’re the one who’s been actin’ like I’m invisible! Like I’m just—just some guy while yer out there with him!”

“Then why didn’t you say something?!” You screamed, voice echoing through the gym, your frustration boiling over. Your hands were trembling now, knuckles white from how hard you were clenching them at your sides. “Why do you even care so much?!”

“Because I love you!”

The words erupted from him, loud and raw, his voice breaking as the confession echoed through the gym and filled the space between you. His chest heaved, his face flushed from a mix of anger and desperation, and his eyes—wide, vulnerable, and filled with something you hadn’t seen before—were locked onto yours.

You froze, the weight of his words crashing down like a tidal wave, leaving you breathless, your heart pounding in your ears. The world went silent, and for the first time since you’d stepped into that gym, neither of you had anything left to say.

Your heart hammered against your ribcage as you stared at him, his chest still heaving from the force of his confession. The air felt thick, suffocating, as your mind raced to process what he had just said. Seconds stretched on, but you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

Then, without thinking, without giving yourself a chance to second-guess it, you stepped forward. Your eyes locked on his, your expression unreadable, and before he could say another word, you grabbed the front of his jersey, yanking him down.

"You’re so fucking stupid," you whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear.

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant. It was fierce, fueled by weeks—no, months—of pent-up frustration, confusion, and feelings you had pushed down for far too long. Your lips crashed into his, and Atsumu froze for half a second before he was kissing you back with just as much desperation. His hands found your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, and the world around you blurred until nothing else existed.

The anger, the yelling, the unspoken words—they all melted away, leaving only the two of you, tangled in the heat of the moment, finally giving in to everything you’d both been too stubborn to admit.

Rivalry: Tendou

You had mastered the art of keeping your cool.

In school, you were the picture of perfection—organized, ambitious, meticulous in everything you did. You had a system for everything: color-coded planners, perfectly curated study schedules, and a resume that outshined most adults in the workforce. When you took on the role of manager for the Shiratorizawa volleyball team, it wasn’t because you particularly cared about the sport—it was another challenge to conquer, another achievement to stack onto your spotless record.

But then there was Tendou Satori.

A gremlin in human form.

He was your one roadblock to peace, the singular entity determined to ruin your composed demeanor. From the first day, he had made it his mission to push your buttons. Whether it was teasing you during practice, dramatically announcing your arrival every time you walked into the gym, or deliberately causing mild chaos when you were trying to focus—he was always there, getting under your skin.

And today? He was worse than usual.

“Oi, Manager-chan, you look tense~” Tendou’s mocking voice rang through the gym as you diligently took notes on the team’s stats. “Is the weight of perfection getting to ya?”

You exhaled sharply, choosing to ignore him.

Big mistake.

Tendou, sensing weakness, immediately invaded your space, leaning over your shoulder to peer at your clipboard. “Ooooh, look at you, all serious and focused.” His smirk widened as he snatched the clipboard from your grasp before you could react. “Hey, Semi, you see how intense she gets? It’s almost scary.”

Semi barely glanced up from where he was stretching. “Tendou, give it back before she kills you.”

“Oh, but she’d never. She’s too put together for that.” He turned back to you, grinning. “Right, Manager-chan?”

Your eye twitched.

“You’re making her mad again,” Ohira noted from across the gym, shaking his head. “Not a great idea.”

“She’s always mad,” Goshiki mumbled, tying his shoes. “Maybe she should just—”

“Finish that sentence, Goshiki, and I’ll have you running laps,” you snapped, finally lunging for your clipboard.

Tendou yanked it just out of reach, stepping back with a playful glint in his eyes. “I swear to—Tendou, I am not in the mood for this!” you snapped, lunging for it again. He effortlessly dodged, making a show of flipping through your neatly written notes.

“Wow, you even color-code these?” he mused. “You are a perfectionist.”

Your patience snapped.

“Give it back, Tendou, or I swear—”

“Or what?” His smirk widened. “You gonna scold me? Ground me? Maybe write me up in one of your little reports?”

“Manager,” Shirabu called over, “just hit him.”

Your fists clenched, but before you could blow up completely, a voice cut through the tension.

“Tendou,” Ushijima’s calm yet authoritative voice silenced the entire exchange. “You are wasting time.”

Tendou sighed dramatically. “Awww, but Ushi, I’m just having a little fun—”

“Tendou.” Ushijima’s stare was unwavering.

With an exaggerated sigh, Tendou reluctantly handed the clipboard back. “Fine, fine. No need to get all intense about it.”

“You are intense,” Yamagata muttered under his breath, but it was enough to make Tendou chuckle. You snatched the clipboard from his hands, shooting him a murderous glare before stomping back to the bench. The rest of practice continued with you actively ignoring him, though you could feel his smug gaze on you the entire time.

After morning practice, you thought you had finally earned a few moments of peace, but of course, that was never the case with Tendou.

It started when he 'adjusted' the team’s training schedule—doubling the number of drills without any warning, replacing the usual post-practice cooldown with an endurance challenge that he personally designed, and worst of all, swapping your neatly organized equipment labels with absolute nonsense.

The first red flag was Ushijima approaching you, arms crossed. "Manager. Tendou says you approved these changes."

You blinked, gripping your clipboard. "I absolutely did not."

Ushijima simply nodded. "I thought so."

Tendou, leaning against the net with a smug grin, waved lazily at you. "Ohhh, Manager-chan, you wound me. I thought you’d appreciate my initiative."

Your blood boiled.

“Tendou," you said through gritted teeth. "What did you do?"

“Oh, nothing serious~ Just thought the team needed a little extra spice. Gotta keep 'em on their toes, y’know?"

The entire team was now staring.

"Fix it," you snapped, already pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Oh, but it’s too late! I’ve already made some executive decisions. Like renaming the storage bins! Now instead of boring labels like ‘knee pads’ and ‘water bottles,’ we’ve got ‘Mystery Box #1’ and ‘Cursed Liquids.’”

You stared at him, absolutely seething.

Ohira muttered, "...‘Cursed Liquids’?"

Tendou beamed. "Oh yeah! And the balls are labeled ‘Fragile: Handle With Extreme Caution.’ I’m really fostering an atmosphere of uncertainty and excitement."

Yamagata walked over to a cart and squinted. "Why does this one say ‘Definitely Not Volleyballs’—?"

He opened the cart and yelped as half the contents spilled onto the floor.

Tendou laughed. "Oops. Guess I should’ve labeled that one better."

You could actually feel your soul leaving your body.

"TENDOU, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!" The words ripped out of you like a volcano finally erupting, and the entire gym fell into silence. You marched up to him, fists clenched so tightly your nails dug into your palms. "You don't just get to—" you sucked in a breath, visibly shaking with rage. "Undo. Everything. Right. Now."

Tendou merely tilted his head, hands still stuffed in his pockets, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oooh, scary."

That was it.

With a frustrated noise, you threw down your clipboard and turned on your heel, storming out of the gym before you could do something truly regrettable—like chucking a volleyball at his smug face.

The doors slammed shut behind you, leaving behind a heavy silence.

Semi exhaled. "Okay, yeah, that was bad."

"Dude," Yamagata muttered, shaking his head. "That was the loudest she’s ever yelled."

Ushijima, ever direct, simply said, "You should apologize."

Tendou scoffed. "Apologize? For what? I'm fostering team morale!"

Semi arched a brow. "No, you’re fostering a migraine."

"And an aneurysm," Shirabu added dryly.

Ohira sighed. "Tendou, come on. We all know you do this because you like her."

Tendou exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. "Well, yeah. Obviously."

The gym fell into silence.

Goshiki blinked rapidly. "Wait, what?!"

Semi threw his hands up. "Oh, now you admit it?! After months of this? After making our manager nearly combust on a daily basis?"

Tendou shrugged. "What can I say? It’s fun. She’s cute when she’s pissed."

Ohira groaned. "This is so much worse."

"Yeah, no kidding," Yamagata muttered. "Dude, go fix it."

Ushijima nodded. "You should apologize."

Tendou let out a dramatic sigh, already making his way toward the exit. "Fine, fine. But if she throws something at me, just remember—I did this for you guys."

Shirabu scoffed. "No, you’re doing this for you."

"Same difference!" Tendou sang, pushing through the doors.

"Oh, this is gonna be a disaster," Semi muttered.

__

Outside, your footsteps pounded against the pavement as you stormed away from the gym, rage thrumming under your skin like an electrical current. The nerve of that man—! You were going to kill him. No jury would convict you.

Behind you, quick footsteps echoed. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

"Of course," you seethed under your breath.

"Oi, Manager-chan!" Tendou’s voice rang out, obnoxiously cheerful despite the fact that he had just single-handedly ruined your entire day. "Wait up!"

You didn’t wait. Instead, you walked faster.

"Hey, hey, don’t ignore me! I came to apologize!"

His mock sincerity made something snap inside you.

"Go to hell, Tendou!" you barked over your shoulder, barely slowing down.

Tendou let out a dramatic sigh, then jogged ahead, stepping directly into your path before you could escape.

Your body nearly collided with his. He was too close, all lazy grins and infuriating confidence, like he hadn’t just been the source of your current blood pressure crisis.

"Move, Tendou," you snapped, your voice low and dangerous.

He put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "Oof. I come all this way to make amends, and that’s how you treat me? Harsh."

"If this is another joke, I swear to god—"

"No jokes," he interrupted smoothly, his smirk still present but eyes sharp. "I’m serious—okay, mostly serious. I did kinda push you hard today, huh?"

You scoffed. "Oh, so you do have a functioning brain?"

"I do, in fact. And contrary to popular belief, I also have self-awareness." His smirk deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "I just happen to enjoy making you... expressive."

Your teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached. "I am expressive. You’re just a walking migraine."

Tendou hummed, looking you up and down like you were an interesting puzzle to solve. "Mmm... no, I think you’re a little too put together, actually." His grin sharpened, a slow, deliberate smirk. "All wound up so tight, afraid to let loose."

Your rage flared hotter than ever.

"I AM NOT WOUND UP," you spat, fists curling at your sides.

"Oh, no?" His gaze flickered down—just for a split second—noticing the way your hands shook with restrained anger, the tension in your shoulders, the way your breath came out just a little too fast.

Then, his smirk turned dangerous.

"Prove it."

Your eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Tendou tilted his head, mocking thoughtfulness, his voice casual yet edged with something wickedly taunting.

"Go out with me. Saturday."

Your entire brain short-circuited.

"WHAT?!"

His grin only widened. "C’mon, Manager-chan~ What’s one little date?" His tone was syrupy sweet, full of mocking amusement. "You said I was wrong—so show me."

You opened your mouth—ready to refuse, ready to tear him apart—but then you saw it.

Something hidden beneath the teasing.

There was a challenge in his expression, a dare, a glint of something genuine underneath all the bravado.

Your pulse spiked.

You were going to regret this.

You exhaled sharply, glaring daggers at him. "No pranks?"

Tendou raised three fingers, mock solemn. "Scouts honor."

You stared him down, searching his face for any sign of deception. His smirk remained, but there was a flicker of something undeniably serious in his gaze.

Before you could think better of it, before your rationality could kick in, the words slipped past your lips.

"Fine."

Tendou’s grin split into something truly devious.

"That’s my girl."

Your entire body jerked with fury. "Don’t. Say. It like that."

But he was already walking away, laughing as he turned his back on you, hands tucked behind his head like this was just another game he’d won.

"See you Saturday, Manager-chan~"

You stood there, rooted to the ground, your mind replaying everything that had just happened.

And then reality hit you like a truck.

Oh. Oh no.

WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?

Pregnancy: Iwaizumi

The second the double doors of the weight room open, it’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe—a world of metal clanks, low grunts, chalk-dusted air, and the constant thud of iron plates hitting the floor. And now, slicing clean through that rhythmic storm of testosterone and hyper-focus, is you: very pregnant, slightly annoyed, and holding the wallet your husband managed to leave behind on the kitchen counter this morning. You didn’t think twice about walking the ten minutes over from your place. It’s not like you hiked a mountain—you waddled across pavement in sneakers. But by the way the entire Olympic volleyball team turns toward you in unison, you might as well be carrying a live grenade instead of a baby.

“WOAHHH—LOOK OUT! Civilian on the floor!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the room, sweaty hair sticking up, arms mid-air like you’d broken the rules of gravity just by showing up.

Atsumu, flat on a bench press with Kageyama spotting him, twists his head far too dramatically toward you and lets out a long, low whistle. “Ain’t no civilian, Bo. That’s Iwaizumi’s wife. And she’s lookin’ like she’s about to drop that baby right here in front of the dumbbells.”

You don’t even get the chance to sigh before you spot him—Hajime, towel around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm, halfway through barking cues at someone doing squats. His head snaps toward you the second he hears Bokuto’s yell, and his entire body goes rigid. The clipboard hits the bench with a clatter. The towel is forgotten. His mouth moves, but there’s no time for words—he’s already weaving through machines and teammates, practically charging toward you like the floor itself might crumble under your feet.

“You walked here? Alone?” he demands as soon as he’s within a few feet, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s checking for bruises.

“I’m not made of paper, Hajime. I walked from the apartment. Not across a battlefield.” You hold the wallet up between two fingers, giving him a pointed look. “You left this on the counter, by the way.”

He takes it, but barely spares it a glance. His attention is completely on you—his wife, his very-pregnant-wife, standing in the middle of the Olympic team’s weight room surrounded by free weights, kettlebells, unstable mats, and volleyball players who think balance training on BOSU balls is a personality trait.

“This place isn’t safe for you,” he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing at a barbell someone just let crash onto the floor nearby. “You shouldn’t be around this equipment. There’s too many ways you could trip, or get knocked, or—hell—slip on a chalk patch.”

You raise your eyebrows and gesture around you. “I am standing still, Hajime. On flat ground. Wearing shoes. Holding a wallet. This is not a life-threatening activity.”

His lips flatten into a tight line. “You’re thirty-eight weeks. You should be sitting, preferably somewhere padded, with a bottle of water and a snack within reach.”

You blink. “Are you reading off a checklist right now?”

He doesn’t answer.

At that moment, Komori jogs up with his usual bounce, sweat still gleaming on his forehead and a towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “Wait—this is your wife? The one we keep hearing about?”

“He doesn’t talk about her,” Kiryu calls from the dumbbell rack, not even bothering to look up. “He says stuff like ‘my wife made soup’ and ‘my wife needs pickles.’ That’s it. That’s all we get.”

You offer a small, amused smile and rest both hands on your stomach. “Hi. Yes. I’m Soup-and-Pickles. Thirty-eight weeks along. Full of baby. And apparently one bad step away from being put in a medically induced nap.”

There’s a chorus of laughter, though it’s mixed with soft whistles of awe as more of the team gravitates toward you. Aran strolls over with a light smile, while Hinata’s practically vibrating behind him.

“You really came all the way here?” Aran asks.

“It’s ten minutes from home,” you reply, shooting a glance up at your husband who still looks like he’s trying to map the safest escape route out of the gym for you. “I’m pregnant, not cursed.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re standing next to iron weights in Converse. That’s a hostile environment.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting the strap on your bag. “They’re high-tops. Extra support.”

Before he can scold you further, Hinata suddenly leans forward with stars in his eyes. “Is the baby kicking?”

“Oh yeah,” you nod, hand moving instinctively to the right side of your belly. “She’s training for nationals, I think. My ribs are her new personal practice net.”

“Can I feel?” Komori blurts out, his expression open and hopeful.

You’re about to say yes, but Hajime moves before you can answer, shifting his stance ever so slightly to put his body between you and Komori with the quiet intensity of a dad who’s already protective before the baby’s even born.

“She’s not a mascot,” he says flatly.

You place your palm on his chest. “Hajime. It’s fine.”

His eyes flicker to yours. He relents with a small sigh, stepping aside like it physically pains him to do so.

Komori gently places his hand on your stomach, and when the baby kicks, his face lights up like someone handed him a puppy. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”

Kageyama peers over curiously. “Does it feel weird?”

“Like an alien living under your skin,” you say cheerfully. “And sometimes the alien cries when you don’t feed it grilled cheese at exactly 3 a.m.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Sakusa mumbles nearby, adjusting a band on his wrist.

“Iwaizumi,” Yaku calls from where he’s doing banded lunges, “you better give that kid rock-solid calves. I don’t care how. It’s your duty.”

“Oh, we’re starting this already?” you laugh. “Pressure before she’s even out of the womb?”

“Oh, we’ve been taking bets,” Suna says, finally looking up from his phone with the laziest smile. “Due date, hair color, position they’ll play.”

“Definitely not libero,” Bokuto adds, puffing his chest. “That baby’s got outside hitter energy.”

“I swear to god,” Iwaizumi mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

You press a soft kiss to his jaw and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, hand resting low and protective on the curve of your stomach. He kisses the top of your head. Quiet. Steady.

You nudge him lightly and lift a brow. “Still mad I walked into the weight room?”

He looks down at you, expression flat. “I am always mad when you walk into a room with flying metal plates and men with the coordination of blindfolded rhinos.”

“I brought you your wallet.”

“And almost gave me a stroke in the process.”

You grin, dig into his pocket, and pull out one of his protein bars. “And I’m stealing your snack.”

“…Unbelievable.”

Gurllll

So we're in college and tsuki get dragged into a party, but he ends up chilling in the back just drinking or smoking and listening to music

That's where we first spot him,and like we knew each other from the high-school team but not really know each other y'know?

Then they end up talking and chilling and playing some gamesss like truth or dare or sm

Idk I'm kinda imagining it just chilling and having deep conversations and talk about things in common

Gorl I gotchu ;p ~~

Anon Ask: Tsukishima

Tsukishima had no idea why he was here.

Correction—he knew exactly why. Yamaguchi had guilt-tripped him into coming, saying something about how he needed to "expand his social life" and "stop being a recluse." He hadn't been able to argue much when he was already agreeing just to get his best friend off his back.

Of course, Yamaguchi wasn't even here. Some excuse about having an early morning study session had conveniently surfaced at the last second; Leaving Tsukishima alone at a party he had no interest in attending when a better use of his Friday night would be staying in his dorm with his headphones on, zoning out to some documentary about prehistoric marine life.

All he felt was betrayal.

This was the same useless chatter, the same shallow interactions, the same pointless noise that made him want to walk right back out the door. He leaned against the back wall, drink in hand, half-listening to whatever trash playlist was blaring through the speakers. His gaze occasionally flickered over the room, not because he was interested in anything but because it gave him something to do other than stand there like an idiot.

He didn’t recognize most of the people here. He barely cared to. Drunken laughter rang in his ears, a couple stumbled past him, and someone yelled something incomprehensible from the other side of the room. His patience was already wearing thin. His foot tapped against the ground, a subtle tick of irritation.

Then, through the shifting bodies and dim, flickering lights, his gaze caught on someone who was familiar.

You.

You were weaving through the party, clearly uninterested, your expression giving away just how much you didn't want to be here. There was something oddly reassuring about that—someone else in the same predicament. A memory clicked into place after a few seconds. Second-year. Same class. You'd sat a row over by the window, always making snide remarks under your breath whenever the teacher said something ridiculous. He'd smirked at a few of them but never actually talked to you.

And now, here you were. And you’d seen him too.

Your eyes met across the room, a quiet recognition passing between you. Then, without hesitation, you started making your way over. He briefly considered looking away, pretending he hadn’t noticed, but it was already too late.

"Hey... Tsukishima, right? We had a class together in second year." You stopped beside him, tilting your head slightly. "Never thought I’d see you at a party. Let me guess—you lost a bet?"

He huffed, taking a sip from his drink. "Close. My friend thought I needed to ‘socialize more.’"

You deadpanned. "That’s disgusting. I’m sorry for your loss."

A snort left him before he could stop it. "Yeah, well. He’s not even here."

You raised a brow. "He ditched you?"

"Told me he had ‘studying’ to do." Tsukishima made air quotes with his free hand. "Like that wasn’t his plan all along."

"Brutal." You leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed. "And yet, here you are. Holding up your end of the deal like a good little soldier."

Tsukishima rolled his eyes. "For now."

You smirked, turning your gaze back to the chaotic mess in front of you. "This place is awful."

"Yeah." His gaze flicked over the crowd, unimpressed. "Not sure what’s worse—the music or the people."

"Tough call," you mused. "The music is bad, but at least it doesn’t try to hold a conversation with you."

Tsukishima let out a quiet, amused exhale. "Fair point."

A beat passed before you sighed, shifting your weight. "You wanna get out of here?"

He glanced at you, gauging if you were serious. He wasn’t usually the type to just leave somewhere with someone he barely knew. But this was unbearable. And you? You at least had a functional brain in your head.

His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. "God, yes."

Neither of you said anything more as you slipped through the party, out the door, and into the cold night air. The shift was immediate—the tension of the party dissipating the moment you stepped onto the sidewalk, the dull hum of the city streets far more tolerable than whatever chaotic mess was happening inside.

You walked without a real destination, just following the quiet rhythm of the night, side by side under streetlights casting long shadows across pavement. The city wasn’t asleep, but it was quieter now, the occasional car passing by, a few other night-walkers making their way home.

"So, what’d you do to deserve being dragged here?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"I thought I could be like everyone else our age." You sighed dramatically. "Clearly, I make poor choices."

Tsukishima huffed. "Yeah, you and me both."

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The streets were mostly empty, the occasional passing car throwing streaks of light across the pavement. You kicked a stray pebble down the sidewalk, watching it bounce before speaking again.

"So, are you still doing that volleyball thing?"

Tsukishima looked at you, unimpressed. "Wow. Stalker much?"

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah, totally. I spend all my free time keeping tabs on people I barely spoke to in high school."

Tsukishima let out a quiet scoff but found himself smirking despite himself. "Right. Of course."

You nudged him lightly with your elbow before switching topics. "So, what’s your major?"

He glanced at you, wondering if you actually cared or if you were just making conversation. "Geology."

You raised a brow, a knowing look crossing your face. "Dinosaurs, huh?"

Tsukishima tensed. "What? No. Rocks."

You let out a low laugh. "Sure. Totally not related."

He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his lips twitched. "What about you?"

"Oh, I don't really have one. I prefer to just float. You know, jack of all trades and that jazz."

Tsukishima found that slightly funny, though he didn’t show it beyond a slight shake of his head. "So you plan to graduate with nothing, then?"

"That’s the dream."

The back-and-forth was easy, natural. Neither of you felt the need to fill every silence with meaningless words, and yet, the conversation kept flowing. Complaints about professors, stupid classmates, the absurdity of group projects—somehow, it all felt lighter when it was shared.

At some point, your steps slowed, and you both lingered near a street corner, neither of you saying anything for a few beats. A breeze rolled past, cool against the lingering warmth of the night, and you rocked back on your heels before tilting your head slightly to glance at him.

"You know," you started, drawing out the words, "I half-expected you to be a bigger ass."

Tsukishima blinked at you, arching a brow. "And I expected you to be less annoying."

You let out a low laugh, shaking your head. "So we’re both disappointed. Great."

Tsukishima didn’t answer, but he huffed out something close to a laugh, subtle but there. The conversation had been nothing but casual snark and easy complaints, but there was something oddly comfortable about it—like the banter wasn’t just passing time but filling a space that neither of you had realized was empty until now.

Eventually, you stopped at the entrance to the subway station. You looked up at him, hands stuffed in your pockets, shifting slightly on your feet before smirking.

"I like complaining about things with you," you said, voice lighter than before. "Let’s do it again sometime."

And then, just like that, you turned and disappeared down the stairs.

Tsukishima stood there, watching as the train rumbled to life, departing into the tunnels with you on it.

A sigh slipped out of him, and he muttered to himself, "... yeah... me too."

Then, like an idiot, it hit him.

He didn’t ask for your number.

Great.

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.

Confessions: Iwaizumi

The overhead lights buzz faintly, casting a dim yellow glow over empty desks and scattered papers. Practice ended hours ago, but you’re still here—half because you’re sorting through lineup sheets for Coach, and half because Iwaizumi never knows how to leave when Oikawa’s still in the gym pretending he’s immortal.

It’s just the two of you now. Oikawa finally gave up ten minutes ago, muttering something about stretching at home, and the silence that follows his absence is a rare kind of peace. You can hear Iwaizumi breathing again. That quiet, controlled rhythm he always slips back into once he isn’t yelling, chasing, fixing. The gym’s been quiet, too, like it’s exhaling after hours of pounding sneakers and shouting voices.

He’s sitting across from you now, chair turned backward, arms crossed over the backrest. Watching you. Probably not even trying to. He just does that—studies you like you’re part of the game plan, like your existence needs analyzing in case it ever falls out of line.

“You should go home,” you mutter without looking up, thumbing through one of the stat sheets. “You’re gonna pass out before you make it up the hill.”

“I could say the same to you,” he fires back, voice low, tired but still that familiar gravel that’s embedded itself into the fabric of your after-practice routine.

You shoot him a look, but it doesn’t have much heat. “Yeah, but I’m not the one who’s been diving face-first into the court all evening.”

He smirks. Leans his chin onto his forearm and shrugs, like the ache in his shoulder isn’t something he’s been carrying for weeks now. You wonder if he even notices the way he favors it. Probably. He just ignores it.

“You never quit,” you murmur, half to yourself.

“Neither do you.”

You don’t say anything to that. Mostly because it’s true. He sees right through you. Always has.

The silence stretches. It’s comfortable, warm in the way only Iwaizumi can make it feel. There’s no pressure to fill it. No need to perform. He’s always been like that—solid, grounded, the kind of person you could fall into without worrying if they’d catch you. And he would. Every time.

You’re not sure when you started noticing it. The way his hands lingered when he handed you a towel. The way he remembered how you liked your drinks cold, not iced. The way he always checked your clipboard before practice started, just in case you forgot something. He never made a show of it. He just… did. Like breathing.

You look up at him, and he’s already watching you.

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs again. “Nothing.”

“Creepy.”

His smirk deepens. “You’re the one talking to yourself.”

“I was talking to you.”

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and you hate that it’s so easy with him. So natural. Like your heart hasn’t been clenching in your chest for months now, like every little moment with him doesn’t echo louder than it should. It’s loud right now. Deafening.

You look back at the papers. “Seriously, though. You should rest. You’ve got a game this weekend, and if you overdo it now—”

“I know.”

Of course he knows. He always does. That’s part of the problem.

You press your thumb into your temple, eyes scanning over messy handwriting. Your back aches. Your stomach’s been growling since the second set ended. You know you should pack it up and go home, but there’s something sticky in the air tonight. Something that hasn’t settled.

“Here,” Iwaizumi says suddenly, and before you can react, he’s pushing something across the table.

A protein bar. Slightly squished, but still sealed.

Your brow furrows. “You brought this for me?”

He scratches at the back of his neck. “You always forget to eat after practice. Thought I’d try being useful.”

You stare at him. “You’re already useful. Like, medically essential. You’re the only reason Oikawa still has knees.”

He snorts. “I mean to you.”

The air shifts.

It’s subtle. Barely a tremor. But it leaves everything a little quieter, a little sharper.

You don’t answer. Just take the protein bar and turn it over in your hand. You trace the crinkled edges of the wrapper with your thumb like it’s a puzzle.

“Thanks,” you say finally, soft. “That’s… thoughtful.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. But his eyes are still on you. Warmer now. He looks like he wants to say something else but doesn’t know if he should.

You try to focus on the sheets again, but your fingers don’t move. The pen in your hand feels suddenly pointless.

“You ever get tired of it?” you ask, your voice quieter now. “Doing everything for everyone else?”

He hums, leaning back. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

Another pause. His voice, when it comes, is soft. Almost too soft.

“Because I care.”

You glance up at him.

His eyes don’t waver. “It matters to me. That people are okay. That you’re okay.”

Your breath catches.

You open your mouth to say something, anything—but the words knot up in your throat. They don’t come.

And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says it.

“I love you.”

Just like that. No lead-up. No dramatics. Just the truth, falling out of his mouth like it’s been there the whole time. Like he’s been saying it in a hundred other ways already.

You freeze.

He freezes.

It’s only a heartbeat of silence, but it stretches. Stretches until it feels like the air might snap.

He blinks. Swallows hard. “I—shit. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I did, but I wasn’t gonna—fuck.”

You just stare at him.

He runs a hand through his hair, the picture of calm unraveling. “Forget I said that.”

“Hajime—”

“No, seriously. I didn’t want to make this weird. I just—shit, I don’t know. You were just… sitting there, and I—”

“Stop talking.”

He does. Immediately.

You reach for him without hesitation—close the space between you, one hand curling into the collar of his sweatshirt as you pull him down and press your lips to his.

It’s soft at first, like you’re testing the waters. But he responds almost instantly, his hands rising to your back, grounding you like always. Like he’s been waiting. Like he’s been holding his breath.

The kiss is short, almost clumsy, but it burns. You can feel every second of restraint he’s practiced up until this point unraveling between you.

When you finally pull away, breath shallow, he’s staring at you like he’s still trying to catch up. Like he’s not sure it really happened.

And then you smile, smug but breathless.

"Took you long enough," you whisper, your voice barely grazing the space between you before you're kissing him again—firmer this time, with all the words neither of you said until now pressed into the space where your mouths meet.

He smiles against your lips.

This time, he kisses you back like he means it.

Favourite Positions: Kenma

Kenma didn’t mind most positions.

He liked slow sex. Quiet sex. Something easy, something lazy—skin against skin while the rest of the world went quiet. He didn’t like being overwhelmed, didn’t like chaos, didn’t like the kind of intimacy that made him feel too seen. Too vulnerable. Too much.

But then there was you.

And you liked control. You liked watching him blush, watching his breath hitch, watching his hands tighten on your thighs as you rolled your hips just right. You liked when his focus shifted from the glowing screen in his hands to the way your body responded to him. You liked riding his face.

At first, Kenma thought he wouldn’t enjoy it. Not because he didn’t want to please you—he always wanted that—but because he assumed he wouldn’t be good at it. That he wouldn’t know what to do with his hands, or how to breathe, or how to make you come apart just from his mouth. He overthought it, worried he’d be awkward or freeze up.

But the first time you sat on his face? Something changed.

He liked the weight of you on his tongue, the pressure of your thighs trembling around his head, your hands fisting in his hair as you got louder, needier, completely undone. The way you moved, desperate and trembling, grinding down into his mouth like you couldn’t help it—it awakened something in him.

It felt powerful.

It felt intimate in a way he didn’t expect.

And that’s what made it his favorite.

Tonight, the room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of his monitor left on in the background, some menu music humming quietly in the silence. The air was warm, still, thick with tension as you straddled his chest, slowly shifting forward until your thighs framed his face.

Your knees hovered above him, thighs already trembling from anticipation, slick dripping down onto his waiting tongue as you tried to hold back—tried to be gentle with him.

Kenma wasn’t having it.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he pulled you down, anchoring you right where he wanted you.

You gasped, spine arching, one hand flying back to the headboard to steady yourself. “K-Kenma—!”

He groaned into you, eyes fluttering shut, tongue lapping firm, slow stripes from your entrance to your clit, flicking it with just enough pressure to make your hips buck.

“Sit,” he murmured, voice muffled against you. “Don’t run.”

You whimpered at the command. The heat pooling in your core flared violently, and you dropped your weight onto him with a moan. His fingers tightened in approval, guiding you to rock your hips slightly, grinding into his mouth at a pace he set.

That was what he wanted.

He didn’t need to see your face. Didn’t need to speak. He wanted your thighs around his head, your breath hitched and stuttering, your body twitching every time he dragged his tongue in just the right way. He wanted to hear the way you lost yourself.

You gripped the headboard harder, panting, your thighs starting to quiver. "Kenma, f-fuck, I can't—"

He moaned into you, nose nudging against your clit as his tongue moved faster, more deliberate, savoring every whimper you gave him. The vibrations of his groan made your hips jerk, your eyes fluttering shut as you got closer.

You were close. He could feel it.

Your thighs tensed, hips jerking, and suddenly your fingers were yanking at his roots, grounding yourself as you cried out, back arching. Your body bucked against his face, and Kenma didn’t stop. Not even when your orgasm surged through you, not even when your voice broke from how hard you were panting. He kept going, working you through it, tongue relentless, until your thighs twitched around his head.

Only when your hips tried to lift away did he ease up, licking you through the aftershocks like he was savoring dessert, mouth sticky with you, breathing heavy but content.

Your entire body was trembling.

You collapsed onto the bed beside him, flushed and panting, eyes glazed over and lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath.

Kenma wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gold eyes flicking over to meet yours.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse but laced with quiet amusement.

You nodded quickly, still catching your breath, then whimpered when your thighs twitched again. Your skin was buzzing, hypersensitive, your body limp with exhaustion and pleasure.

Kenma smirked faintly, eyes soft but smug. “Good. You were loud.”

You let out a breathy laugh, covering your face with one hand, still dazed. “Shut up.”

He pulled the blankets over you, kissed your cheek softly, and curled in beside you like he hadn’t just ruined you with his mouth.

Lazy. Soft.

Still your favorite gamer boy.

But now?

He had a favorite position, too.