Unrequited Love: Kenma

Favourite Position: Akaashi

Akaashi Keiji was always composed.

He prided himself on control—measured movements, careful touches, a steady rhythm that never wavered. But right now? Right now, control was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he was powerless to stop it.

Because you were in his lap, your back pressed flush against his chest, his arms wrapped firmly around your waist. He was buried deep inside you, the warm, slick heat of you squeezing him so perfectly that his breath kept hitching, his hands tightening against your skin as he tried—tried so hard—to keep his pace slow.

But he was losing it.

"Keiji…" Your voice was soft, breathless, and he could feel it everywhere—your body shifting against his, your pulse hammering under his fingertips.

His forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath heavy against your skin. "Feels too good," he admitted, voice strained, nearly shaking. "I—"

He swallowed hard as you rolled your hips, and a groan ripped from his throat.

Fuck. Fuck.

Akaashi had never felt like this before—this weak, this desperate, this close to breaking apart. He’d always been able to focus, always been able to last as long as he wanted. But this? This position?

With you like this, stretched out against him, your body molding so perfectly to his—

It was wrecking him.

"You’re shaking," you murmured, fingers reaching back to tangle in his dark hair, your nails scraping lightly against his scalp. He groaned at the sensation, his hips jerking up involuntarily, forcing himself even deeper into you. Your breath caught, and the way you clenched around him made his vision blur.

Shit.

"I can't—" He exhaled sharply, his grip on you tightening, his muscles tensing as he felt himself teetering on the edge. "I don't think I can—"

You turned your head slightly, pressing a teasing kiss to the side of his jaw. "You don’t have to hold back."

Akaashi cursed under his breath, his composure unraveling completely.

His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, his thrusts turning needy, frantic, desperate. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his moans muffled against your skin as he fucked into you—

Hard. Deep. Sloppy.

He was unraveling with every motion, every clench of your body around him, every little sound you made that sent fire through his veins.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice raw, his rhythm stuttering. "I'm—" He sucked in a breath, his entire body shaking, trembling, losing control.

You reached back, dragging your fingers through his hair again, your voice a whisper. "Let go, Keiji."

And that was it.

The coil in his stomach snapped so violently he almost blacked out.

A deep, shuddering groan tore from his throat as pleasure crashed through him like a tidal wave. He spilled into you, hips jerking as his entire body trembled, the overwhelming intensity making him bury his face deeper into your neck. His breathing was ragged, erratic, completely wrecked.

He had never come that hard before. Ever.

For long moments, he just held you, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his body still shaking from the aftershocks. His fingers traced absentminded patterns against your waist, his breath slowing, but his mind was still reeling.

What the hell just happened?

You shifted slightly, and he groaned at the oversensitivity, his arms instinctively tightening around you, keeping you still. You giggled softly, your voice laced with exhaustion and satisfaction. "I think you liked that, huh?"

Akaashi swallowed hard, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder before murmuring—"Didn't know I could feel like that."

His grip on you softened, fingers brushing against your thigh. He exhaled a slow, shaky breath, the realization settling in.

This was his favorite.

And now that he knew?

He wasn’t sure he could ever have you any other way again.

Rivals: (Haikyuu! x Reader)

A sharp-edged, slow-burn collection exploring the tension-filled dynamics between Reader and various Haikyuu characters. Fueled by banter, unresolved competition, and the kind of chemistry that crackles under the surface, each drabble blurs the line between hate and something dangerously close to desire.

1. Tsukishima 2. Terushima 3. Atsumu, Part 2 (NSFW), Part 3, Part 4 (NSFW), Part 5, Part 6 (NSFW) 4. Akaashi 5. Kuroo, Part 2, Part 3 (NSFW) 6. Sakusa 7. Oikawa 8. Kyotani/Mad Dog (NSFW) 9. Tendou 10. Iwaizumi, Part 2, Part 3 (NSFW) 11. Shirabu 12. Kita 13. Suna

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Rivalry: Kyotani/Mad Dog (NSFW)

You had always been a hothead. It was something the team had come to accept, even appreciate, over time. Your sharp tongue and refusal to take anyone’s crap made you the perfect manager for Seijoh—especially when it came to keeping the chaos of Oikawa and the others in check.

Until Kyōtani arrived.

They called him Mad Dog for a reason, and from the moment he stepped onto the court, you knew he was going to be a problem. He was raw, aggressive, barely listening to anyone, and his sheer refusal to be controlled made him the biggest wildcard the team had ever seen. Even Oikawa—who had made a sport out of getting under people’s skin—had to take a step back and re-evaluate.

The coach, Oikawa, and Iwaizumi had even pulled you aside before his first official practice, practically begging you to not bite his head off.

“Look,” Iwaizumi had said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just… try not to engage with him too much. He’s got a short fuse.”

Oikawa sighed dramatically. “And you have a much shorter one, which makes this whole thing a recipe for disaster.”

You had rolled your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m not going to start anything. But I’m not going to stand by and let him run the show, either.”

And true to your word, you hadn’t gone looking for a fight. But Kyōtani made it impossible not to fight back.

The team tried to adjust to him, letting his rough playing style integrate into their system, but you could see it plain as day—Kyōtani wasn’t playing with them. He was playing through them, like they were just obstacles in his way instead of teammates.

So when he nearly took out Matsukawa during a reckless play, you didn’t hold back.

The tension in the gym shifted the second you opened your mouth.

“Kyōtani, if you’re going to keep playing like a brainless lunatic, at least do it outside of practice where you’re not dragging the rest of us down.”

The words sliced through the gym, sharp and unapologetic.

Silence.

The entire team froze. Even Oikawa, who usually thrived on chaos, hesitated mid-laugh, his expression shifting into something wary. Iwaizumi muttered a curse under his breath, already preparing for the fallout.

Kyōtani’s head snapped up so fast it was almost inhuman, his eyes burning with a fury that could’ve set the entire gym on fire. His entire body stiffened before he was already charging toward you, a force of pure, unrelenting anger.

“The hell did you just say to me?” His voice was gravel, rough and unrestrained, like he was barely holding himself back.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Just folded your arms and stepped toward him, meeting his fire with your own. “I said you’re reckless. A liability. And if you keep playing like an idiot, you’re going to cost us more than just a few points.”

Kyōtani’s jaw locked. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The one who has to clean up after your messes,” you shot back, eyes gleaming with defiance. “You think playing like a rabid dog makes you stronger? It just makes you sloppy.”

The muscle in his jaw ticked dangerously. He took another step forward, close enough that you could feel the heat of his fury radiating off him. His fists clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles went white. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Oh? Then tell me,” you challenged, tilting your head mockingly. “Are you deliberately making the same dumbass mistakes, or is it just a bad habit?”

A few strangled sounds came from the team behind you. Hanamaki visibly recoiled, while Matsukawa mouthed, Holy shit. Oikawa, however, looked absolutely delighted.

Kyōtani’s breath hitched, nostrils flaring as his rage boiled over. “The hell’s your problem?!?”

You smirked, unbothered. “Right now? You.”

That was it.

Kyōtani lunged—actually lunged—shoulders tensing like he was about to tear through you.

“Oi! Enough!” Oikawa’s voice cut through the thick tension as he shoved himself between you, hands raised in an attempt to de-escalate. “Let’s not murder our manager, yeah? Not exactly great for team morale.”

Neither of you budged.

“Back off, Oikawa,” Kyōtani growled, eyes still locked onto yours like a predator locked onto prey.

“Yeah, no, I don’t think I will,” Oikawa shot back, still grinning but with thinly veiled nerves. “How about we all take a deep breath and—”

“Kyōtani,” Iwaizumi cut in, voice sharp, stepping in beside Oikawa. His hand slammed into Kyōtani’s chest, holding him back with unquestionable force. “That’s enough.”

Kyōtani was breathing hard, his shoulders rising and falling erratically, but he didn’t move. Iwaizumi’s hold was unyielding—and everyone in the gym knew that when Iwaizumi shut something down, it was over.

For now.

Kyōtani’s chest heaved, but after a long, tense beat, he jerked his arm away and stormed toward the other side of the gym, hands clenched at his sides.

Kyōtani didn’t bother with another word. His jaw was locked, his entire frame radiating barely-contained rage as he turned on his heel and stormed out of the gym altogether, the doors slamming behind him with enough force to make the walls tremble. The silence he left in his wake was deafening, the air still crackling with tension even after he was gone.

You watched him go, arms still folded, expression neutral. But inside?

You were already looking forward to the next round.

And you could tell—so was he.

By the time the rest of the team had filtered out of the gym, you were still lingering, scribbling down notes on the practice report. The tension from earlier was still humming beneath your skin, but at least Kyōtani was gone, having stormed out long before practice had officially ended.

Just as you were about to finish up, Iwaizumi’s shadow loomed over you.

"What the hell was that?" His voice was low, firm, and pissed—the kind of tone that immediately told you there was no wriggling out of this one.

You let out a light scoff. "What? He started—"

"No. Stop." His voice was sharp enough to cut through any excuse you were about to give. "You can't keep having explosive arguments like this. This isn't some damn street fight. You're the manager. You're supposed to be keeping things together—not provoking him into ripping the gym apart."

Your mouth snapped shut, irritation prickling under your skin. "I wasn’t provoking him, I was holding him accountable. Someone has to."

Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling through gritted teeth. "Someone will. And that someone is not you."

Oikawa whistled low from a few feet away. "Yikes. Parent mode activated."

Iwaizumi shot him a glare so lethal that even Oikawa had the good sense to shut up.

"Here's what's going to happen," Iwaizumi continued, his gaze back on you. "You're going to apologize."

Your head snapped up. "Absolutely not—"

"You will apologize," he emphasized, his tone brooking no argument, "because he's been instructed to do the same. And for the next week, you’re both staying late every night to clean up the gym together. Since you apparently need time to warm up to each other.""

You gaped at him. "Iwaizumi, if we're left alone together, we will kill each other."

His lips pressed into a thin, unimpressed line. "Either or—it’s a win-win."

Oikawa lingered for a moment, tilting his head at you with an all-too-pleased smirk. "You know, this is probably the funniest thing that’s happened all week. You having to play nice with Mad Dog? I might just have to stick around and watch."

You shot him a glare, but before you could fire back, Iwaizumi grabbed him by the collar, dragging him toward the exit. "No, you won’t."

Oikawa laughed, waving over his shoulder. "Good luck! Try not to get mauled!"

And with that, Iwaizumi yanked him out of the gym, leaving you standing there, seething. __

The morning air was crisp, and players filtered into the gym one by one, stretching and murmuring in hushed conversations about the previous day’s events. In the back of the building, hidden away from curious eyes, you and Kyōtani stood rigid, staring each other down like caged animals, with Iwaizumi standing between you both, arms crossed and absolutely fuming.

“Now,” Iwaizumi started, his tone flat and deadly, “apologize. Both of you.”

You scoffed, arms crossing tightly over your chest. “I have nothing to apologize for—”

“Neither do I,” Kyōtani snapped immediately, jaw locked tight.

Iwaizumi’s glare was sharp enough to cut steel. “That wasn’t a request.”

The weight of his voice left no room for argument, but that didn’t stop you from trying. “Fine,” you muttered begrudgingly, narrowing your eyes. “Sorry for calling you a brainless lunatic. No matter how accurate that name is.”

Kyōtani gritted his teeth so hard you could hear it before muttering, "And I'm sorry for calling you a raging bitch behind your back."

A tense silence stretched between you both, the mutual death glare unwavering. Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a slow, controlled exhale. "Not great, but whatever. I’m done babysitting you both. Just remember—you’re staying late tonight. Every night. Until you actually learn how to work together."

Your lips curled in frustration, and beside you, Kyōtani’s nostrils flared in irritation. But there was no use arguing with Iwaizumi when he was like this. You both knew it.

Instead, you stomped off toward morning practice, shoulders tense, eyes locked in a wordless standoff with Kyōtani. His glare was like a challenge, sharp and unyielding, but you refused to be the first to break. If anything, you held his gaze harder, your jaw clenching as if sheer force of will could make him combust.

It was infuriating how he just stood there, equally stubborn, like he could go on all day. The tension between you two felt suffocating, thick like the summer heat just before a storm. Every second that passed only made it worse, only made you more determined not to give him the satisfaction of winning something as stupid as this.

The moment you stepped into the gym, you grabbed the clipboard harder than necessary, scowling as you checked off drills. Every muscle in your body was wound tight, and no matter how much you tried to focus, you could still feel him. Every movement Kyōtani made was too loud, every breath too noticeable, like he was doing it on purpose just to annoy you.

When he slammed a ball into the floor a little harder than necessary, you snapped.

"Could you not act like you're trying to break the court? We actually need it to play."

Kyōtani whipped his head toward you, scowl deepening. "Maybe if you stopped staring at me, it wouldn’t bother you so much."

Your fingers twitched. "Oh, please. Your presence is just naturally irritating."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing about you."

Iwaizumi, watching from the sideline, let out a deep sigh, already regretting his life choices.

Oikawa strolled up beside you, hands casually tucked into his pockets, and leaned in slightly. "Remember to take a deep breath."

You turned to him immediately, eyes still blazing. "You're not helping."

Oikawa straightened, backing away quickly. "Right. Sorry."

The day dragged on, and your irritation refused to fade. Every small thing set you off—Kyōtani’s heavy footsteps, his reckless spikes, even the way he existed just within your space. By evening practice, your patience was nonexistent. Your responses were sharper, your glares colder, and everyone in the gym could feel the storm brewing.

As the team filtered out for the night, Matsukawa cast a sideways glance at Iwaizumi. "Are you sure it’s a good idea to leave them alone together? I’m not confident I won’t wake up and find out there’s been a homicide."

Iwaizumi grunted, arms crossed stubbornly. "They’ll be fine."

Matsukawa didn’t look convinced, but with one last wary glance, he left with the others, leaving just you and Kyōtani standing on opposite sides of the now-empty gym, the tension still thick enough to choke on.

You exhaled sharply through your nose, rolling your shoulders and trying to shake off the irritation that had clung to you all day. "Let’s just get this over with," you muttered, moving toward the storage area. "We’ll split the work. You pick up the stray balls on the court, and I’ll handle the gear." You turned back toward him, narrowing your eyes. "Think you can handle that?"

Kyōtani’s scowl deepened instantly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." You turned on your heel before he could bark back another response, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort.

He muttered something under his breath, but you didn’t catch it. Instead, you focused on sorting through the practice gear, trying to ignore the obnoxious way Kyōtani stomped across the gym, each step somehow louder than the last. You could hear him roughly snatching up the scattered volleyballs like they had personally offended him, his movements jerky and aggressive. Then came the sound—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The rhythmic slam of volleyballs hitting the ground as he hurled them over the net, one after another. It was like a slow, torturous metronome designed specifically to piss you off.

You gritted your teeth, trying to ignore it. Thud. Thud. Each impact echoed through the empty gym, grating on your nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Thud. Thud.

"Can you not?" you snapped finally, voice tight with irritation.

Kyōtani didn’t even look up. "What?"

"Quit throwing them like that. Just pick them up and put them in the cart like a normal person."

He scoffed, grabbing another ball and slamming it down even harder than before. "Get off my ass. It’s faster this way."

Your fingers curled into a fist, your nails pressing into your palm as you inhaled sharply through your nose. "I swear to god—"

"What? Gonna throw another tantrum? Go ahead, maybe Iwaizumi will pat you on the head and tell you what a good little manager you are," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. Another ball crashed against the floor with an especially sharp, echoing thud, rattling against the empty gym walls.

You stiffened. Thud. Again. Thud. Your eye twitched. Thud.

"Honestly, it’s almost cute how obsessed you are with what I do. Maybe if you focused more on your actual job instead of breathing down my neck, you'd get through this week without crying," he drawled, lazily tossing another ball over the net.

That was it.

Before you could stop yourself, you snatched up one of the stray volleyballs and hurled it straight at his head. It hit dead-on, bouncing off with a sharp thunk that was deeply satisfying.

Kyōtani froze mid-motion, shoulders locking up.

Then, slowly, he turned to face you, expression dark and dangerous. His breath was heavy, nostrils flaring, and for a second, the silence was deafening. Then—

He lunged.

Before you could react, his hands gripped your wrists, shoving you back against the gym wall with enough force to send a sharp jolt up your spine. Your breath hitched, the impact knocking the air out of your lungs, but you barely had time to register it before you were pushing right back.

"What the hell is your problem?!" you snapped, struggling against his hold.

"You," he growled, his voice low and rough, pressing in closer until his breath fanned against your skin. His grip was tight, keeping you in place even as you tried to shove him off.

"Let me go, you psycho," you hissed, jerking your wrists, but he only leaned in harder.

"You throw a ball at my head and expect me to just let it slide?" His voice was a snarl, but there was something else underneath it—something sharp, hungry.

And, of course, you pushed back.

"Yeah, actually," you bit out, lips curling into something close to a smirk. "Considering you deserved it. You’re lucky I don’t throw another."

Something in him snapped.

His hands shifted, and before you knew it, his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was a clash of teeth and frustration, of fury and heat, like neither of you could decide if you wanted to keep fighting or tear each other apart.

Your hands shot up to shove him away, but instead, they curled into his jersey, yanking him closer. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a sharp bite that made you gasp, and he took full advantage, pressing in harder, deeper.

His hands dropped to your waist, gripping you tight, like he was staking a claim, and you met him head-on, pulling his hair, dragging your nails down his neck, taking just as much as he was giving.

Everything blurred into heat and rough touches, the way his body pressed against yours, the way your hips shifted instinctively, the way neither of you were thinking—just reacting.

Kyōtani pulled back, panting, his forehead pressing against yours, his grip still firm on your waist. His breath was hot against your skin, his eyes blown wide with something between rage and hunger.

"This is a bad idea," you muttered, voice breathless but defiant.

His fingers tightened on your hips.

"Yeah?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Then tell me to stop."

You didn’t.

"You always run your fucking mouth," he growled, voice sharp, jagged. His hands were rough, unforgiving as they gripped your thighs, spreading them apart with purpose. "Let’s see if you can still talk after this."

You huffed a laugh, fingers yanking down his shorts, not bothering to be gentle. "Bet you won’t last long enough to find out."

That was all it took.

Kyōtani didn't waste a second—he slammed inside you in one punishing thrust, forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. It was too much, too fast, too deep—but fuck, it was exactly what you wanted.

The first thrust knocked the air from your lungs. The second had you arching, dragging your nails down his back, marking him, spurring him on.

"Fucking tight," he gritted out, his buzzed hair scraping against your jaw as he bit at your neck, your shoulder—anywhere he could sink his teeth into. He was holding you like he owned you, like he needed to break you apart just to put you back together.

It was raw, messy, desperate. Each snap of his hips was brutal, slamming you harder into the wall, forcing pleasure and pain to blur together.

It should’ve been a fight for dominance, but neither of you were losing—you were meeting him with everything you had, clawing, grinding, biting.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, yanking hard. He snarled, gripping your hips so tight it would leave bruises, slamming into you harder, deeper.

"That all you got?" you taunted, voice breathless, challenging.

Kyōtani laughed—a dark, wrecked sound. "You really wanna test me, huh?"

His pace turned brutal, every thrust hitting deep, devastating. The sharp drag of his cock against your walls, the angle, the overwhelming pressure— it was too much. Too good.

You felt yourself unraveling, the heat coiling tight, pleasure pooling low in your stomach, ripping through you like fire.

"Fuck, I—"

He could feel it. The way your body tightened around him, trembling, desperate, right on the edge. And he wanted to push you over.

"Come on," he rasped, voice strained, his rhythm stuttering as he chased his own release. "You talk all that shit—let me hear you now."

That was all it took.

Pleasure slammed through you, violent and overwhelming, tearing a moan from your lips as you came, clenching around him, dragging him down with you.

Kyōtani cursed, low and guttural, hips jerking as he spilled inside you, his breath ragged, sharp teeth sinking into your shoulder like he needed to leave proof of what just happened.

For a long moment, the only sound was the ragged mix of your breathing. Your body was wrecked, trembling, weak—but so was his.

Kyōtani didn’t pull out. Didn’t move. Just gripped your jaw, tilting your face toward him, his forehead resting against yours as he panted through the aftershocks.

And then, voice rough, breathless, still full of that bite, he muttered—

"Still got something smart to say?"

You panted, barely able to catch your breath, a smirk tugging at your swollen lips. "Yeah—" you exhaled, voice rough, body still trembling. "I know what we're doing tomorrow."

Aran-kun is just…so cool!! (he can hear youuu)

Jealously: Tsukishima

Tsukishima had never been the jealous type.

Or so he liked to believe.

But as he stood a few feet away from you at the museum’s fundraising gala, swirling the last bit of whiskey in his glass, he couldn’t help the slow simmer of irritation building in his chest.

Some guy—some obnoxiously confident guy—was standing way too close to you.

Tsukishima watched as the man leaned in just slightly, flashing a charming grin, his hand gesturing a little too animatedly for whatever mindless conversation he was trying to impress you with. You were polite, nodding at whatever he was saying, but Tsukishima caught the way your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your dress—the telltale sign that you were uncomfortable.

His jaw clenched.

Tsukishima was a logical man. He knew you weren’t interested, knew you were his in every way that mattered—but that didn’t stop the irrational flicker of annoyance coursing through him.

So he drained the rest of his drink, set the glass down on the nearest table, and made his way over.

“Excuse me,” his voice came out smooth, a fraction lower than usual as he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side. His hand rested just above your hip, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress in a silent claim. Mine.

You blinked up at him, momentarily surprised, before a small smile tugged at your lips.

The man, however, didn’t seem to take the hint. “Oh, I was just having a great conversation with—”

“She’s not interested.”

There was no venom in Tsukishima’s tone—just a matter-of-fact finality that left no room for argument.

The man blinked, looking between the two of you before finally stepping back with a sheepish laugh. “Ah… right. My mistake.”

He made some excuse to leave, and as soon as he was out of earshot, you turned to Tsukishima with an amused look. “Jealous, Kei?”

He scoffed, adjusting his glasses. “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, sure,” you teased, poking at his chest. “That wasn’t possessiveness at all.”

Tsukishima exhaled sharply, but his arm around your waist didn’t loosen. If anything, his grip on you tightened.

“…I just didn’t like how he was looking at you,” he muttered.

Your teasing softened. Tilting your head, you leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I only look at you, you know.”

Tsukishima’s eyes flickered to yours, something unreadable behind his gaze. Then, as if satisfied with your answer, he let out a small “Tch,” and pulled you even closer.

“…Good.”

Unrequited Love: Oikawa

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

Being his friend was enough, you told yourself.

It had to be.

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.

My JJK OC

Nameless atm but I know that she's an illusionist that uses a singular kistune shikigami and its abilities

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.

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.