Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 4 (NSFW)

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.

Favourite Positions: Oikawa

Oikawa Tooru had always thought of himself as adaptable.

He prided himself on his precision, his control, his ability to read people. It was what made him an incredible setter, what gave him the edge both on and off the court. He could analyze, adjust, anticipate—always one step ahead.

And when it came to the bedroom, it was no different.

He had tried every angle, every pace, every way to make you fall apart beneath him. He loved variety, experimentation, keeping you on your toes, teasing you with the unexpected.

But tonight, when he had you on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist, his body flush against yours—

Everything clicked.

It started when he shifted just slightly, adjusting his hips, driving deeper into you.

You gasped—sharply, loudly—your entire body tightening around him, your fingers clawing at his back.

Oikawa’s rhythm faltered, his brows lifting in surprise. Then, his smirk curled, slow and knowing. "Oh?" His voice dripped with amusement. "That was cute."

You barely had the brainpower to glare at him, the pleasure crackling through your veins making it impossible to do anything but tremble beneath him.

Oikawa’s grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as he rolled his hips again, aiming for that exact spot.

Your reaction was immediate—a choked, broken moan spilling from your lips, your legs twitching around his waist.

"Bingo," he murmured, eyes darkening with something dangerous, something addictive.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Harder. Deeper. Hitting that perfect spot every single time.

Your breath hitched, turned into a gasp, then into something close to a sob, pleasure tightening inside you too fast, too strong, too much. Words spilled from your lips before you could stop them—nonsensical, desperate, completely unfiltered.

"Tooru, oh my god—fuck, fuck, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—right there, right there, please—"

His lips curled at your rambling, reveling in how unrestrained, how utterly gone you were.

"You really do like this, huh?" he teased, his voice honeyed, smug, but laced with something raw. "Didn't expect my pretty girl to get this desperate for me." His hips snapped forward, drawing another cry from your lips, your fingers tightening against his back. "Fuck, baby, you're shaking."

"T-Tooru—" your voice cracked, barely coherent.

"Mmm, that’s it," he murmured, watching you come undone beneath him, completely lost in the way your body trembled, the way your breath stuttered, the way you clung to him like you needed him to hold you together.

"Fuck," he continued, voice low, satisfied. "I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight, twitching every time I move—" he groaned, rolling his hips even deeper, grinding against you, drawing out another strangled moan. "I think…" He exhaled sharply, his cock twitching inside you at the way you fluttered around him, "I think this is my new favorite."

You barely had a moment to process that before he angled his hips just right, pressing deeper, harder—

And you shattered.

Your body arched beneath him, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, wracking through you in sharp, uncontrollable bursts.

Oikawa groaned at the feeling of you pulsing, tightening, coming undone around him. His head tilted slightly, breath catching at the sheer need in your voice, the way you were rambling, unraveling beneath him.

"God, you sound so fucking cute," he muttered, voice strained, watching your lips part, words tumbling out in gasping whimpers. "Didn’t know you’d lose it like this, baby."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he angled his hips just right, dragging out another broken moan from you. "Keep talking for me," he whispered, grinning as your words blurred into helpless sounds. "I wanna hear every little thing you feel."

His pace turned relentless, his hands gripping your thighs, his body pressing into yours so perfectly, so devastatingly right.

You couldn't think—your body a livewire of sensation, drowning in the heat of him, the way he filled you, the way he knew exactly how to break you.

"Tooru—" your own voice was a wrecked, incoherent mess as he drove you toward another peak.

"Hmm?" he hummed mockingly, watching your blissed-out expression, the way your nails raked down his back. "That close again? Fuck, you’re so easy like this, aren’t you? Falling apart every time I move."

You were trembling, every thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your already-sensitive body. Your head tipped back, vision hazy, mouth open in silent cries as he pushed you over the edge again, even harder than before.

Oikawa groaned as you convulsed beneath him, your body milking him as he buried himself deep, a sharp groan breaking past his lips as he came with you, spilling inside, his grip tightening, holding you down, grounding you as your bodies unraveled together.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of ragged breaths, the faint trembles of your body still reeling in the aftermath.

Oikawa was the first to break the silence, his lips pressing lazily against your jaw, grinning against your damp skin.

"Looks like I just found my sweet spot."

omgggg you're the sweetest (T_T)♡

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

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

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

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

Thank you for reading lovely 🥰

--

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

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

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

Kita’s eyes narrowed.

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

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

Kita hummed in agreement. “Too chatty.”

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

It got under his skin.

And you knew it.

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

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

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

Unfortunately, you were on his side of the court.

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

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

“Always do,” you chirped.

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

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

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

You blinked. “Was not.”

He turned away. “Yes, you were.”

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

He didn’t reply.

You, of course, took that as a challenge.

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

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

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

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

“Yup. I like the view.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

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

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

You hadn’t expected that.

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

“I’m focused.”

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

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

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

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

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

Kita didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because you were right. And he hated that.

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

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

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

You sucked in a breath.

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

And that was the moment.

The shift.

The crack in the dam.

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

Then—

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

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

No words passed between you.

The look he gave you said everything.

He was absolutely going to snap.

And you were absolutely going to be the reason why.

Rivalry: Shirabu

"You’re insufferable."

That was the last thing you hissed at Shirabu Kenjirō before the attending physician turned, red-faced and barely breathing through his nose, and barked loud enough to make half the emergency department flinch:

"Both of you—out. Now."

But that wasn’t how the day started.

It started with an argument.

“0.25 milligrams,” you said evenly, eyes flicking from the tablet to the patient. “He’s seventy-two. With a documented history of hepatic impairment. We’re not doing a full dose.”

Shirabu didn’t look up from the vial in his gloved hand. “He’s metabolizing fine, vitals are steady, and the attending’s notes—”

“—don’t override the risk of oversedation,” you cut in, sharper this time. “We need to adjust it. I already cleared it with Pharmacy.”

He glanced at you then, that cool clinical stare that always made your blood boil. “I triple-checked the chart. We’re wasting time.”

“You’re going to put a seventy-two-year-old man into respiratory depression.”

“And you’re going to let him seize while we argue.”

Your mouth opened, ready to fire back—and that’s when it happened.

The patient’s monitor screamed.

A violent shudder rocked through his body, limbs jerking, back arching off the gurney.

“Shit!” you both snapped in unison.

“Code blue!” you shouted into the hallway. “We need Ativan, now!”

The room exploded into motion. Nurses poured in. A crash cart slammed into the doorframe. Someone started chest compressions. And you—helplessly gripping the IV tubing you hadn’t primed—stood frozen beside Shirabu, both of you silent, horror pooling in your throats.

The attending shoved through seconds later, eyes wild. “Get the hell out!”

__

Now.

“You’re done here for today,” the attending had spat, voice blistering. “Go help the nurses. Clean linens, supply runs, sit with waiting patients—I don’t care. You’re both liabilities right now.”

Shame swirled in your gut. Not because you were wrong—no, you were right about the dosage—but because you’d let Shirabu get under your skin. Again. And someone paid for it.

You stormed out of the trauma bay, white coat flaring behind you like a war banner, and Shirabu followed half a step behind, not saying anything yet, which was somehow worse. The moment you passed the threshold into the hallway, you whirled on him.

“You’re unbelievable,” you snapped. “I told you the dose was too high—”

“And I told you I triple-checked the chart,” he said coolly, not even looking at you. “But of course, you think you’re always right.”

“Because I usually am. You never listen to anyone, you just go with your arrogant little gut—”

“My gut?” He turned then, sharply, eyes like frost over steel. “You mean the one that finished top of its class in diagnostics and surgical prep?”

“Oh, congratulations,” you snarled, hands tightening into fists at your sides. “You got a gold star while you ignored the actual patient in front of you.”

"You don't know how to read the room half the time," he snapped. "You’re so busy being morally superior, you forget we’re on a clock. You want to argue philosophy while someone’s bleeding out? Grow up."

You could feel your pulse in your teeth. Heat flooded your face. You weren’t even sure when the two of you had gotten so close—but now he was right in front of you, all sharp lines and cold fire, his jaw tight, breath shallow, his stupidly pretty mouth parted like he had one more insult on the tip of his tongue.

“You’re a condescending prick, you know that?” you hissed. “Always acting like you’re the only one with a functioning brain.”

“And you’re a self-righteous control freak who can’t take being challenged.”

“You don’t challenge, Shirabu. You bulldoze.”

“And you let your emotions run the whole goddamn room.”

You stared at him, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if you’d just sprinted across the hospital. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Cold. The kind of person who drove you absolutely insane. And yet—

His mouth was moving again, eyes still sharp—but all you could think about was how close he was. How flushed his skin had gotten. How your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since that patient flatlined. The adrenaline still burned in your chest like a furnace. And how long had it been since anyone had touched you, really touched you—looked at you like more than just a coat with a badge and a clipboard?

When was the last time I had sex?

The thought shot through your brain like a live wire. The frustration, the tension, the sheer exhaustion of existing inside a pressure cooker like this day after day—it all exploded behind your eyes.

Sixteen-hour shift. A missed lunch. A mistake that rattled your bones.

Fuck it.

You grabbed the front of his coat, yanked him forward, and shoved him—hard—into the nearest door. It flew open with a groan, revealing the dim, cramped supply closet, the air inside cold and sterile and completely indifferent to what was about to happen.

You shoved him inside.

He barely had time to stumble backward before you stepped in after him, kicked the door shut with a sharp slam, and crashed your lips to his.

It was a mistake. It was impulsive. It was heaven. A desperate, furious kind of salvation.

Shirabu froze for half a second—just long enough for you to think oh god, what have I done—before he growled low in his throat and kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this, like he had been burning too. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into your hips like he wanted to leave bruises, like he needed to anchor himself to something real.

You gasped when he walked you backward, guiding you with rough, hurried steps until your back hit the shelves. The plastic bins and paper-wrapped gauze rattled with the force of it.

“This,” he rasped against your jaw, breath hot and uneven, “is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, clawing his lab coat open. “I don’t want to hear your voice right now.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to use it.”

You dragged him down again.

The kiss deepened, turned frantic, messy. Teeth. Tongue. Hot breath and sharp nails. The smell of antiseptic and the sting of fluorescent lighting faded into nothing. The only thing you could feel was the press of his mouth, the grind of his body against yours, the heat blooming low and hungry in your belly.

He yanked your scrub top up, pushed it out of the way with impatience, and bit down along your collarbone like he meant to leave a mark. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. You wanted him closer. You wanted him rougher. You wanted to feel anything but the burn of regret and the echo of the code blue.

And you let him.

Because you’d been burning for too long.

And because, for once, Shirabu Kenjirō had finally shut the hell up.

Jealousy: Oikawa

Barcelona was always golden in the evening.

Sunlight spilled between buildings like warm syrup, painting the cobblestones in hazy orange light, alive with motion and music and voices raised in too many languages to count. The streets pulsed with energy, and Oikawa moved through it all like he belonged there—because he did.

You walked beside him, fingers laced loosely through his, sunglasses pushed up into your hair as you studied a nearby plaza, smiling at the crowd. You'd only stopped for a quick drink before heading home, but somehow a ten-minute rest turned into lingering.

Which was exactly how it happened.

He came out of nowhere—tall, handsome in that slightly too-smooth way, and a native speaker who clearly wasn’t shy about using his charm. He was friendly, casual, and you—being you—were nothing but warm in return. Oikawa was used to it. You made friends everywhere. Waiters, baristas, strangers on trains. He wasn't usually the jealous type.

Usually.

But today? You were laughing a little too softly. Tilting your head a little too far. And the guy? Oh, he was leaning in like he had a damn chance.

Oikawa didn't say anything right away. He just sipped his drink and watched, sunglasses shielding the slow burn building behind his eyes. Your fingers were still in his, but even that wasn’t grounding him tonight. Not when the guy started complimenting your accent. Not when he gestured toward the nearest bar with an easy smile and said,

"If you're looking for local recommendations, I could show you a few places."

That was when you felt it.

Oikawa's hand tightened slightly around yours, his thumb no longer stroking circles over your skin but now still, firm.

You turned toward him innocently, blinking up at his too-perfect face with a feigned sweetness that you knew drove him insane.

"Tooru," you said, voice syrupy, "he says he can show us some local spots. Isn't that nice?"

Oikawa set his glass down with a clink, but instead of stepping in front of you—he stepped behind. His arms slid smoothly around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back as he dipped his head low, his lips brushing just below your ear when he spoke.

"You’re playing dangerous games," he whispered, voice like silk and warning all at once. The way his breath fanned across your skin made you shiver, your back unconsciously arching into him. He chuckled against your neck, low and warm, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

The guy took a half-step back, visibly caught off-guard now as his eyes darted between you and the very obviously possessive arms wrapped around your waist.

Oikawa turned his head, resting his chin on your head, and finally spoke aloud—his tone still pleasant, still polite, but tinged with something sharper.

"Oh, you didn’t know?" he said, gaze locking with the man’s. "She’s very much taken. Tragic, I know. Don't worry though, I've lived here for years."

The guy blinked, awkward laugh faltering. "Ah—right. My mistake. Sorry, man. Just being friendly."

"Of course," Oikawa said with a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Happens all the time." The guy took the hint and left, vanishing into the crowd, and you finally let the smile stretch fully across your face.

"You're so dramatic," you hummed, stepping closer, chest brushing his as you leaned into his space.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes, even as his arms slid around your waist.

"Do I really need to wear a sign?" he muttered.

You batted your lashes. "Maybe. Or just keep doing that thing where your voice gets all cold. It's kind of hot."

His brows lifted.

"You're doing it on purpose."

You grinned. "Maybe."

Oikawa sighed, burying his face in your neck, lips brushing the skin there.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"Mmm. But I’ll make it fun."

where are you bae imy 💔

BAE FEAR NOT I'VE RETURNED

apologies I took a couple days to recuperate from the hellish time that is exam season lolol I'm back and writing like normal :D

thank you for the ask <33

Favourite Positions: Tendou

Of all the ways Tendou loved to fuck you, taking you from behind while standing was his absolute favorite.

It was the way you had to hold onto anything in front of you for dear life, your legs barely working as he pounded into you from behind. The way your ass bounced against his hips, how your body arched every time he drove deeper, filling you up so perfectly that your words turned to breathless gasps.

But the best part? The sounds you made.

Your moans were already deliciously wrecked, but what really did it for him was when you started whimpering his name.

“Satori—”

Tendou groaned, fingers digging into your hips, yanking you back onto his cock.

“Satori—oh my God—”

His grip tightened, and suddenly, his palm cracked against your ass, a sharp smack that had you gasping.

“Oh? What’s wrong, baby?” he taunted, grinning wickedly even as his thrusts didn’t slow. “Thought you were gettin’ all cocky earlier? What happened?”

You tried to respond, but it was impossible—he was fucking you too good, too deep, too fast, and all that came out was a choked moan.

Tendou loved it.

“Not so mouthy now, huh?” he teased, snapping his hips forward, grinding in deep, feeling you flutter around him. “Bet you thought you were gonna be in charge. So cute.”

You let out a frustrated little whine, your fingers clenching against the table in front of you, nails dragging against the surface as another sharp thrust stole your breath.

Still—you weren’t going down without a fight.

With whatever strength you had left, you tilted your head back just enough to meet his gaze over your shoulder, your eyes glassy but defiant as you bit out:

“Then—shut up and fuck me, Satori.”

Tendou froze for half a second—his cock twitching at your tone—before letting out a low, dark chuckle.

“Ohhh, you’re gonna regret that, sweetheart.”

His fingers slid up your spine, fisting in your hair, yanking your head back, forcing you to arch, forcing you to take him even deeper.

Then, he wrecked you.

His thrusts turned brutal, relentless, hitting that spot inside you over and over until your mouth fell open in a silent scream, pleasure crashing over you in waves.

Your legs buckled, but he held you up, laughing against your ear as you trembled, shaking apart in his grip.

“Satori—” you gasped again, your voice high, needy, broken.

“Oh yeah, baby,” he panted, grinning against your neck. “That’s what I wanna hear.”

And just to seal the deal, his hand snaked down between your legs, fingers rubbing your clit in messy, frantic circles—

And you shattered.

Your whole body locked up, your walls clenching so hard around him that Tendou groaned deep, his thrusts stuttering as he followed you over the edge, spilling inside you with a deep, shuddering moan.

For a long moment, all that was left was panting, shaking, the heat of his body pressed against yours.

Then, Tendou grinned against your skin, pressing lazy, teasing kisses along your shoulder.

“Still got somethin’ smart to say, babe?”

You tried—tried so hard—to come up with a response. But your brain was pure static, and all you could do was let out a soft, exhausted whimper:

“… Satori…”

Tendou laughed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Rivalry: Suna

This was supposed to be a career-maker.

You’d been selected to shoot the promotional campaign for the Japan National Volleyball Team’s off-season fundraiser—portraits, motion stills, and digital spreads for press releases. High-profile. High-pressure. This was the kind of assignment that could land you on the map, get your name known, secure you work for the next five years. You’d planned meticulously: shot schedules, lighting plans, subject rosters, backup batteries labeled by time stamp.

And still, you were already behind schedule because some players couldn’t grasp the concept of being on time.

Most were manageable. Bokuto was loud but sweet, Hinata actually listened, even Sakusa—grumpy and allergic to public attention—cooperated if you kept things sterile enough. You had to work around quirks, sure, but it was doable.

The only real problem?

Rintarō Suna.

Tall, smug, unbothered—he made disinterest an art form. It wasn’t just the tardiness (though that was frequent and infuriating). It was the casual disregard, the deliberate poking. Like he enjoyed watching you unravel, one eye-roll and bored shrug at a time. Like he thrived on getting under your skin.

You were halfway through setting up for his shoot—adjusting the overhead lights for the third time, irritation clawing at your spine—when the door creaked open.

12:17. Seventeen minutes late.

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

A pause. Then, his voice—dry, bored, and tinged with something close to amusement.

“Traffic.”

You glanced at him, eyes cold. “You live five minutes away.”

Rintarō Suna leaned against the doorframe like he’d just wandered in off the beach. Hoodie loose, hair messy, sweatpants slung far too low to be appropriate for professional media. His duffel bag hung lazily off one shoulder, and he was sipping a drink from a vending machine cup like he had all the time in the world.

“And yet,” he said, taking another slow sip, “I’m here. Aren’t you glad?”

“Take off your jacket and shirt,” you snapped, already adjusting your camera settings, fingers tight on the dial.

He blinked, exaggeratedly. “That’s aggressive.”

“No. You’re aggressive to my time.”

He didn’t move. Just gave you that flat look, the one that made your blood itch. “So bossy. Did no one ever teach you how to ask nicely?”

You dropped your hand from the camera, straightened to your full height, and glared. “Did no one ever teach you how to respect someone’s job?”

That actually made him smirk—low and slow, like he was settling into a familiar game. You watched his gaze flicker across the studio, land on your lighting setup, the gear cases lined up against the wall, the stool you’d carefully marked with tape for positioning. He took in every detail like none of it mattered.

You crossed your arms. “Shirt. Off. Or I’m switching you out with Komori and sending you to the end of the rotation.”

He gave a soft whistle. “Cold.”

“And still warmer than your sense of professionalism.”

Suna sighed like this was the hardest thing anyone had ever asked of him, but peeled off the hoodie in one slow pull. Then the shirt followed—revealing lean, cut muscle, smooth planes and sharp lines that even you had to admit photographed well. Unfortunately.

“Happy now?” he asked flatly, chest rising and falling with deliberate boredom.

You lifted your camera. “Hardly.”

Flash.

He winced, and you didn’t hide the satisfied smirk that flickered over your face.

“Consider that payback for last week,” you said, angling for another shot. “You were thirty-five minutes late and came in with an iced matcha.”

“Should’ve brought you one,” he muttered, half to himself.

“You wouldn’t survive the fallout.”

“I’d go down smiling.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. “God, you’re infuriating.”

“I get that a lot.”

He settled into the chair you’d positioned, slouching immediately, arms dangling over the sides like a ragdoll. You hissed under your breath and gestured for him to sit up.

He stared at you. “You’re fun when you’re mad.”

“And you’re only photogenic when you shut up.”

You lifted the lens again. Behind it, you scowled.

I hate him. The thought pulsed with every snap of the shutter.

And of course—of course—he looked like a goddamn magazine cover. But in the same fashion, he rarely made it easy for you to capture it.

Because here you were, staring down the barrel of a nightmare: the man himself, draped across the chair like it was a hammock, posture all wrong, arms sprawled like he didn’t have a single working bone in his body. Slouched so far down he could have been auditioning for the role of human puddle.

"Back straight," you barked from behind the camera, adjusting your focus ring with a little more aggression than necessary. "Stop slouching."

He didn’t budge. If anything, he leaned further into the chair, eyelids heavy with boredom, like your orders were more of a gentle breeze than direct instruction.

"Suna."

He tilted his head at a lazy angle, all dry amusement and half-lidded interest. "I am straight."

You set the camera down. Firmly. The slap of the base against the table echoed far louder than it needed to.

He didn’t flinch. Of course he didn’t. He just watched you approach like you were the most interesting thing to happen all day, which you knew damn well wasn’t a compliment. His gaze slid over your body with that practiced, bored sort of curiosity, like he was cataloguing all the ways you might explode.

You stepped into his space, squatted slightly behind the chair, and shoved a hand between his shoulder blades. He didn’t react. Didn’t resist. Just let you press into the muscle there and guide him upright like he was a mannequin.

"There," you muttered, voice tight. "Like that. Hold it."

A beat of silence. Then: "You touch all your clients like this?"

Your hand dropped instantly. "Only the ones who act like toddlers."

He chuckled, low in his throat, and the sound crawled over your skin like static. "That explains a lot."

You turned on your heel, ready to toss something back, but froze mid-pivot when you saw his eyes.

They weren’t where they were supposed to be. Not on the lights, or the set, or even your face.

They were on your hands.

Lingering.

He blinked slowly, like he wasn’t even pretending to hide it. And when his eyes flicked up to meet yours, there was something in them that hadn’t been there before. Something molten. Heavy. A heat that made your stomach pitch and your spine go stiff.

"You done staring?" you snapped, jaw clenched.

He shrugged, as if the motion took effort. "Didn’t say it was a bad view."

You turned so fast you nearly tripped over a light stand, heart thundering in your ears. The temperature in the studio was suddenly unbearable.

You didn’t want this heat.

"Hands on your thighs," you bit out. "Chin down. Eyes here."

He obeyed—not quickly, but without any more smartass comments. For once, the air between you felt still. But it wasn’t calm. No, it was charged. Like the moment before a summer storm—hushed, tense, humming with something about to break.

You snapped three photos. Then five. Then a dozen more. Through the viewfinder, he was a dream. The kind of subject you could build an entire portfolio around. Not because he was cooperative—God no. But because he was magnetic in a way that made you want to curse.

Every line of his body, every tilt of his head, the lazy sprawl that shouldn’t have worked on camera but did? It translated into something raw. Compelling. Something that sold.

You adjusted the lens. Moved closer. Framed his face in the shot. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just stared straight through the camera like he knew it would rattle you.

And then he smiled.

Not a real one. Not the wide, winning kind the sponsors loved. Just the faintest pull of one corner of his mouth. Just enough to sharpen his cheekbone and twist his mouth into something between a smirk and a secret.

Click.

The flash snapped.

You dropped the camera from your face, brow furrowed.

"You smiled."

"You looked like you needed the win."

You wanted to scream.

Instead, you checked the preview screen. And sure enough, it was perfect. Lighting. Angles. Expression.

Damn him.

You turned the screen toward him like it was a slap.

"You’re welcome," he said, not even looking.

"You’re not that charming."

"But I am photogenic."

Your teeth ground together so hard your jaw ached.

You hated that he was right.

And you hated even more that he knew it.

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 5

The sharp clang of the school bell signaled the end of class, jolting you out of your thoughts. You blinked, realizing you had barely absorbed a single word of the lecture. Your fingers mindlessly traced the spine of your textbook as students shuffled around you, chairs scraping against the floor, the din of conversation rising as everyone spilled into the hallway for lunch.

Your body moved on autopilot, gathering your belongings and slipping into the throng of students, but your mind was somewhere else entirely. The past few days had been a blur, a tangled mess of secrets, frustration, and moments you couldn’t quite categorize. Your lips tingled at the memory of his mouth on them, your skin still seemed to burn where he had touched you, and no matter how much you tried to shake it, you felt restless.

Lost in thought, you barely noticed when you stepped into the cafeteria—

Until a loud, unmistakable voice cut through the noise like a whip.

"Where the hell have you been?!"

You barely had time to process before Hana Yoshida came barreling toward you, her long dark hair swaying dramatically behind her, eyes narrowed with accusation and concern.

You winced. Shit.

"You have been straight-up ghosting me, and I swear to god if you say it's because of some stupid schoolwork, I will lose my mind."

Her hands found her hips as she planted herself in front of you, blocking your path with the kind of intensity only Hana could manage. She was radiating energy, a force of nature wrapped in an oversized school sweater and a skirt she had definitely rolled up against dress code.

You opened your mouth to protest, but she immediately cut you off, her sharp brown eyes narrowing further. "No. Don’t even try to make an excuse, because I know you. And I know when you’re hiding something."

You shifted uncomfortably, your hands gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter. "I—uh—"

"Yeah, uh-uh, my ass." Hana scoffed, grabbing your wrist and dragging you toward your usual lunch spot with zero room for argument. "Spill. Now. Before I start making up my own theories, and trust me, you won't like them."

You swallowed hard.

"I've just been busy," you tried weakly, avoiding her piercing gaze. "You know, school, club activities, the usual."

Hana’s eyes narrowed even further as she leaned in closer, scanning your face with an almost predatory level of scrutiny. And then, as if something suddenly clicked, her jaw dropped.

She gasped so loudly that a few students actually turned their heads in curiosity. Then, without missing a beat, she pointed an accusatory finger directly at your chest.

"Oh. My. God. You’ve been having sex!"

Your stomach plummeted.

Panic shot through you at lightning speed, your hand flying up to clasp over her mouth before she could blurt out another humiliating declaration for the entire cafeteria to hear.

"Shut up!" you hissed, your face heating up so fast you thought you might combust on the spot. "Would you keep your voice down?!"

Hana’s muffled laugh vibrated against your palm before she wrenched your hand away, eyes practically sparkling with glee. "Oh, I knew it! I knew something was up! And judging by how flustered you are, I’m right!"

She smirked, leaning in even closer, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. "You look so mellow and relaxed lately. And honestly? You’re glowing. Whoever is dicking you down is doing a great job."

Your face erupted in flames. "Will you just shut up?!" you hissed, mortified beyond belief, your eyes darting around to make sure no one else had overheard.

Hana only grinned wider, clearly having the time of her life. "Oh, I am so not shutting up. I need details."

You stuttered, scrambling for a way out of this conversation. "T-there's nothing to say. It was just a fling," you lied through your teeth, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

Hana's eyes narrowed like a predator locking onto its prey. "Oh, sure. Just a fling? You, Miss ‘I Don’t Do Hookups’? You expect me to believe that?"

Before she could press you further, a loud voice cut through the cafeteria noise, pulling you from Hana’s relentless interrogation.

"Hey, manager!"

You turned, internally sighing in relief, as Osamu, Atsumu, Aran, Suna, and Hitoshi made their way toward you. The group moved with familiar ease, their casual bickering bleeding into the air like background static. Even before they reached your table, you could tell they were in the middle of one of their stupid arguments.

"God, you guys can’t leave me alone, huh?" you teased, forcing yourself to sound as normal as possible while shifting slightly in your seat. You could still feel Hana's gaze boring into the side of your head, but for now, she was momentarily distracted.

Hana huffed, crossing her arms. "Yeah, you guys get her before and after school. Can't I reserve her for lunch?"

"Don't worry, we only need her for a quick second," Suna added with a smirk, earning a roll of your eyes.

"We got a serious debate," Hitoshi declared, arms crossed, his expression dead serious. "Would you rather fight a hundred duck-sized horses or one horse-sized duck?"

Osamu sighed, shaking his head. "A hundred duck-sized horses, obviously. A horse-sized duck would be terrifying."

Suna scoffed. "Nah, you’re thinking too hard about it. A horse-sized duck would have hollow bones. It wouldn’t even be that strong."

You blinked, deadpan. "That’s what you’re arguing about?"

Atsumu grinned, leaning forward, his golden eyes glinting with mischief. "C’mon, we need a tie-breaker."

You rolled your eyes, already feeling the familiar urge to snark back. "Knowing you, Miya, you’d lose to both."

Atsumu’s smug expression instantly dropped, replaced with mock offense. "Excuse me? I’d destroy that oversized poultry."

"Doubt it," you shot back. "You’d probably trip over your own ego before you could throw the first punch."

Atsumu’s golden eyes gleamed with challenge, his smirk widening as if he was ready to throw another quip your way. He leaned in slightly, opening his mouth—

"Oh, sweetheart, you really gotta work on your comebacks. That one barely stung."

"Oh, up yours, you insufferable—" you began with a sweet smile, voice dripping with venom, but before you could finish, Aran cut in with a sigh. "Okay, okay, let’s get food before this turns into another screaming match."

You raised your hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm the one with self-control."

Atsumu shot you a glare, clearly not amused, his mouth opening to retort, but you only grinned wider. "That being said—a horse-sized duck."

Half the boys erupted into a small but silent victory celebration, their smug grins a stark contrast to the ones rolling their eyes in annoyance. With that, the group turned and began heading toward the lunch line, still bickering about the logistics of fighting oversized poultry.

Atsumu threw you one last smirk, his golden eyes flashing with something too smug, too knowing, before turning on his heel to follow the rest of the team.

It was quick, almost imperceptible, but there was something in that fleeting glance—a silent challenge, a lingering amusement, a spark of something neither of you wanted to name. Your stomach twisted at the way his smirk lingered even as he walked away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the lunch crowd.

You barely had time to process it before Hana's nails dug into your arm with newfound intensity.

"Oh. My. God. Miya Atsumu?!"

Your stomach dropped, the cafeteria suddenly feeling too bright, too loud, every sound around you fading into a dull hum compared to the sheer horror of what had just left Hana’s mouth.

Hana’s voice was barely a whisper, but the absolute horror and uncontainable glee in her tone made your face burn hotter than the sun, the heat creeping up your neck and settling into your ears.

"What?! You are out of your mind—" you sputtered, words tumbling out before you could even think of a solid defense. Your hands instinctively gripped the edge of the table, like you needed something to ground yourself before you keeled over in embarrassment.

But Hana just grinned, completely unfazed, watching you with a predatory kind of giddiness, like she had just unearthed the juiciest gossip of the century.

"I mean, it makes sense," she continued, tapping her chin as if she were solving a grand mystery, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He’s stupid pretty, and you both hate each other’s guts."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, to tell her she had completely lost her mind, but then—

Hana’s expression shifted.

As if a switch flipped.

Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and then—

She gasped, loud and dramatic, clutching your arm so tightly you thought she might dislocate your shoulder.

"You’ve been having hate sex and didn’t tell me?!"

You winced, her words cutting through the already overwhelming noise of the cafeteria, but to you, they felt magnified, exposed, like she had just put you on trial in the middle of lunch hour.

A groan ripped from your throat, your hand dragging down your face as if you could physically wipe this moment from existence.

"Goddamn it, can you stop being so perceptive?" you gritted out, your voice half a plea, half a curse, the mortification settling deep in your bones.

Hana, however, looked delighted, her grin only stretching wider, eating up your suffering like it was the most entertaining thing she’d ever witnessed.

Your shoulders slumped in defeat, your head dropping onto the desk with a resigned sigh.

"What do you want to know?" you mumbled, knowing full well you had just opened the floodgates to hell.

--

You told her everything—from the late-night encounters to the insults exchanged between breathless moans, the ridiculous tension that neither of you acknowledged in daylight, the way he was just so frustrating even when he wasn’t talking. Every stupid detail, every infuriating moment, all of it. The way his smirk made your skin prickle with annoyance, how his hands always seemed to leave behind an unbearable heat, the way he had this infuriating ability to push every single one of your buttons. And yet, somehow, you kept going back. Again and again.

By the time you finished, Hana was just staring at you, blinking slowly, like she needed a moment to actually process the sheer absurdity of the situation you had just described. Then, she leaned back, exhaled slowly, and with the most deadpan expression, simply said:

"Wow. I'm so jealous."

A snort escaped you before you could stop it, your body tensing and relaxing all at once. "Only you would be jealous of this kind of situation."

Hana shrugged, her lips pulling into a lazy, knowing grin. "I mean, what’s not to like? The sex is good, he’s not bad to look at—"

"I hate his guts," you cut in, scowling, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table. There was no way in hell you were letting her finish that sentence.

Hana just stopped, her eyes scanning your face with undisguised skepticism, her head tilting slightly like you had just said the dumbest thing imaginable.

"Right." She dragged the word out, voice drenched in disbelief, as if she was humoring a child who just declared they didn’t like sugar.

Your teeth clenched, frustration flaring hot in your chest. "I’m serious, Hana. I can’t stand him."

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk only growing, clearly unimpressed. "But you can stand him inside you."

Your mouth fell open in horror, your entire body locking up before you slapped her shoulder—hard enough to make her burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

"Oh my god, shut up!" you hissed, your face burning.

Hana just grinned, completely unrepentant, rubbing her arm with mock injury. "I’m just saying. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you have a thing for him."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes so hard it almost hurt. "Absolutely not. I could never see myself with him. It’s just physical. That’s it."

"Mmhmm," Hana hummed, tapping her chin dramatically, like she was filing away her own private analysis of your situation. Then, after a few seconds, she tilted her head, as if casually remembering something.

"Then you shouldn’t care that Ayumi Tanaka is planning on asking him out."

Your entire body tensed before your head snapped toward her so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

"What?" you blurted out, voice sharper than you intended.

Hana blinked, her lips quirking as if she knew exactly what she was doing. "Oh, yeah. She was talking about it in the locker room the other day. Said she’s been into him for a while and figured she’d shoot her shot."

Your jaw locked, a strange heat curling in your chest. "And… he said what?"

Hana shrugged. "Dunno. She hasn’t asked him yet. But she was pretty confident."

You hated the way your stomach twisted at that. Absolutely despised it. Because it shouldn’t matter. It really, really shouldn’t. This thing with Atsumu? It wasn’t real—just something to get out of both your systems. That’s it. That was the agreement. And yet, the thought of him with someone else, letting someone else touch him, whisper things into his ear, run their hands over his skin—

No. Absolutely not.

Wait. Why do I care?

Hana leaned forward, watching your expression with obvious amusement. "Oh, wow. You hate him so much, yet here you are, looking like you just swallowed a lemon."

You tore your gaze away, forcing yourself to breathe. "I don’t care."

Hana smirked. "Right. Totally buying that."

Before you could snap back, the sharp ring of the school bell split the air, signaling the end of lunch. You shot up from your seat so fast it nearly knocked your tray over.

"Oh wow, the bell! Gotta go!" you rushed out, grabbing your bag and making a beeline for the exit like your life depended on it.

Hana, still seated, only crossed her arms, watching you flee with an exasperated shake of her head. "This isn’t over!" she called after you, her voice carrying over the cafeteria noise.

You barely heard her as you pushed through the hallway, her words still rattling in your head. Your stomach twisted as you replayed the conversation, the image of Atsumu with someone else digging its claws into your brain like an itch you couldn't scratch. The idea of another girl sliding her hands over his skin, pulling those same groans from his throat, whispering in his ear—it sent a fresh, unwanted wave of irritation crawling through your veins.

You trudged down the hallway, weaving through the clusters of students lingering outside their classrooms, your mind still clouded with the lingering conversation you had barely escaped from. Hana’s words played on a loop in your head, irritating and persistent, no matter how much you tried to shake them off.

It didn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

Fun Story to Share.

I got my (now 18-year-old) daughter into Ao3 back in 2021. I taught her she should always comment - even if the fic looks old or abandoned or whatever. She did.

Well - she got this email this morning:

The fic was written in 2014 and essentially abandoned.

Bethy read and reviewed in 2021 (and was actually the only person who had commented at all).

Today in 2025 - the final chapter was posted by the author and this was her reply to Bethy’s comment.

———

Never question whether a fic is too old to comment on.