Favourite Positions: Sakusa

Favourite Positions: (Haikyuu! x Reader)

A character-based NSFW drabble series exploring the position each Haikyuu boy thrives in—physically, emotionally, and filthily. Every piece dives deep into their unique personalities and the way they unravel you best.

1. Iwaizumi 2. Tsukishima 3. Meian 4. Osamu 5. Kuroo 6. Bokuto 7. Tendou 8. Matsukawa 9. Ushijima 10. Akaashi 11. Suna 12. Sugawara 13. Oikawa 14. Kenma 15. Aone 16. Kita 17. Kageyama 18. Atsumu 19. Sakusa 20. Hinata 21. Asahi

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Managerial Duties: Karasuno

The rhythmic sound of volleyballs being packed away and shoes scuffing against the polished gym floor filled the otherwise quiet space. Practice had ended, but cleanup was still in full swing. You, Yachi, and Kiyoko had stayed behind to help, making sure everything was back in place before leaving. The rest of the team was scattered around, gathering equipment and wiping down surfaces, their movements routine after countless practices.

Yamaguchi and Tsukishima were putting away the practice net while Asahi and Suga worked on reorganizing the stray volleyballs left rolling across the floor. Daichi had stepped out to check on something, leaving you with the quiet murmur of post-practice exhaustion settling in. Kageyama was off to the side, sipping from his water bottle while keeping an eye on Hinata’s usual spot. The gym carried an air of mild fatigue, a contrast to the high-energy chaos that had occupied it just minutes ago.

That’s when Yachi’s voice cut through the calm. "Where are they?"

You looked up from where you had been wiping down one of the benches, catching the way Yachi’s brows furrowed, her gaze darting around the gym like she had just realized something was missing.

"Who?" you asked, already bracing yourself for the answer.

"Tanaka, Nishinoya, and Hinata. They’re gone."

Your movements slowed as you scanned the gym again, this time with sharper focus. Sure enough, the usual ruckus that followed the three of them like a storm cloud was eerily absent. Your stomach dropped slightly, already knowing that their silence was far more concerning than their noise. It was never a good sign when they were quiet—never.

Kiyoko sighed, finishing her task before speaking. "Can you go find them? They need to be supervised."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Aye aye, captain."

But you knew what she meant. If they were up to something—and they most certainly were—it was better to find them before they actually did whatever half-brained scheme they had cooked up this time. With a nod, you handed your rag to Yachi and stepped out of the gym, making your way toward the clubroom with a sense of impending doom curling in your chest. The halls were eerily quiet, save for the occasional squeak of sneakers against linoleum, and that only furthered your suspicions.

As you got closer, muffled voices reached your ears, their tones a mix of excitement and hushed anticipation. That was never a good sign. You pressed closer, listening as Nishinoya’s voice carried through the door.

"Steady, steady! Just a little more—"

You didn’t hesitate, pushing the door open, and the sight before you made you stop in your tracks.

What the actual hell.

Nishinoya was perched on Tanaka’s shoulders, gripping a bucket of water with both hands while wobbling precariously. Tanaka, legs slightly bent, was visibly struggling to keep steady, his teeth gritted in effort. Off to the side, Hinata was bouncing on the balls of his feet, fists clenched in excitement, watching the process unfold like a kid on Christmas morning.

Your eyes flickered to the bucket, then back to the three of them. "What the hell are you guys doing?"

All three of them froze. Nishinoya’s grip tightened on the bucket, Tanaka swayed slightly, and Hinata turned toward you with an enormous grin, completely oblivious to the growing sense of dread pooling in your gut.

"Oh! Manager! You’re just in time!" Nishinoya chirped, grinning like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar but still thinking he could talk his way out of trouble.

Tanaka groaned under Nishinoya’s weight, his arms tightening around his legs as he tried to keep his balance. "We’re gonna prank Tsukishima!" he declared with absolute confidence, as if this wasn’t one of the worst ideas they had ever come up with.

Hinata, practically vibrating with excitement, threw his hands up like he had just scored the winning point. "I’m the bait!" he announced proudly, beaming at you like you should be impressed.

You blinked at him, not even bothering to hide your disbelief. "That’s not something to be proud of. Why did you guys drag him into this?" You jabbed a finger in Hinata’s direction, because there was no way he had come up with this on his own. He was many things, but this level of reckless planning was usually Nishinoya and Tanaka’s specialty.

Hinata blinked, looking genuinely confused as he tilted his head. "Tsukishima?" he asked, his tone innocent. "Or me?"

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "Never mind. This is a terrible idea."

Nishinoya, ever the stubborn one, pouted. "Come on, it’s perfect! Tsukishima walks in, bam! Instant karma!"

You crossed your arms, eyeing the way Tanaka’s legs were starting to tremble. "Yeah, except karma usually doesn’t involve potential concussions and water damage."

"Okay, but look!" Nishinoya beamed, adjusting his grip. "It’s balancing! We got this!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "No, you don’t—"

Too late. Nishinoya made the final adjustment, and the bucket settled, wobbling slightly before holding steady above the doorway. With a triumphant grin, Nishinoya pumped his fists—only to realize he was still on Tanaka’s shoulders. In a flash, he scrambled down, nearly toppling them both in the process. Tanaka staggered, arms flailing to keep himself upright as Nishinoya hopped off, landing with an eager bounce before spinning toward Hinata. "Alright! We’re good to go!" he whispered excitedly, rubbing his hands together like an evil mastermind.

Hinata gasped. "It worked!"

"It worked!" Nishinoya hissed.

You groaned. "This is still a bad idea."

But they weren’t listening. With a determined nod, Hinata scampered back toward the gym, his voice carrying through the hall. "Tsukishima! Oi, come here for a sec!"

Silence.

Then—

Footsteps, slow and steady, echoed through the hallway. Each step was deliberate, methodical, like the sound of impending doom marching ever closer. Tanaka, Nishinoya, and you turned toward the doorway in perfect synchronization, a creeping sense of dread washing over you like an oncoming storm. The playful anticipation that had been buzzing in the air evaporated, leaving behind only the cold bite of realization.

Daichi appeared in the doorway, and time seemed to slow. The bucket teetered precariously for a split second before tipping forward, a perfect arc of water cascading down in slow motion. The moment it made contact, Daichi’s entire frame stiffened, his breath hitching as the cold liquid soaked through his hair, dripping down his face and pooling in the folds of his jacket. His usually composed expression was eerily blank, too calm, too quiet, which somehow made everything infinitely worse.

Tanaka’s face morphed from exhilaration to pure horror, his eyes so wide they looked ready to pop out of his skull. Nishinoya’s grin faltered, his entire body rigid as his mind struggled to process the disaster that had just unfolded. And you? You could already feel the headache forming, your lips parting slightly in silent resignation.

Hinata, standing just behind Daichi, let out a small, strangled noise. "No, wait! Don’t—!"

Splash.

The air went still. Slowly, you peeked around the doorframe just in time to see Daichi standing there, drenched from head to toe. Water dripped from his hair, his jacket clinging to him in soaked patches. His expression was eerily blank, which was infinitely worse than immediate rage.

Hinata was mid-step, looking like he had seen his life flash before his eyes.

Tanaka and Nishinoya were frozen, as if staying completely still would erase what had just happened.

The silence stretched, unbearably tense.

You exhaled through your nose and turned away. "I told you."

Then, without another word, you walked off, leaving them to their fate.

Behind you, all hell broke loose.

"YOU IDIOTS!" Daichi’s voice roared, shaking the very foundation of the building.

"RUN!" Nishinoya shrieked, bolting toward the hallway with the kind of agility that came only from the fear of divine punishment. His feet barely touched the ground as he shot past you, arms pumping as if sheer speed could somehow make him disappear from Daichi’s wrath.

Hinata scrambled backward, hands raised in surrender. "It wasn’t me, I swear!"

Kageyama, who had been returning from the locker room, took one look at the chaos and deadpanned, "You guys are so dumb."

Asahi groaned, covering his face. "I don’t want to be associated with this."

Back in the gym, you rejoined Yachi and Kiyoko just as Daichi’s furious yelling echoed in the distance.

Kiyoko barely looked up from where she was stacking volleyballs. "They’re idiots."

You sighed, running a hand down your face. "Hundred percent."

Rivalry: Atsumu

It had been years of this.

Years of Atsumu Miya being an unrelenting, aggravating presence in your life.

From the moment you met, he had been insufferable. Smug, fiercely competitive, and persistently irksome, he thrived on pushing every button you had. Every interaction with him was a battle—whether it was a disagreement over training schedules, a critique of his technique, or a casual observation about his erratic setting. He never let anything slide, twisting every word into an argument, every comment into an opportunity to outmaneuver you.

The worst part? You never backed down.

If he provoked, you retaliated. If he smirked, you sneered. He could infuriate you faster than anyone else, and he knew it—and he reveled in it.

And now, in your third year as the Inarizaki team manager, you had mastered the art of tolerating Atsumu Miya—

Until tonight.

Tonight, he’d finally gone too far.

The entire team had long since caught on to your dynamic.

Atsumu didn’t merely annoy you—he made a sport out of it.

If you walked into practice? He was already waiting, arms crossed, a cocky grin stretching across his face as he prepared some quip guaranteed to get under your skin.

“Yer late, manager,” he’d say, despite the fact that you never were.

If you so much as tried to correct something? He’d smirk, feigning surprise. “Oh? Maybe I should just hand ya my setter position, huh?”

And the worst part? The others loved it.

Osamu, Futakuchi, and even Kita occasionally leaned back and observed your fights like a live-action drama, amused by how predictably you two clashed.

“Ya know, at this point, I think ya like the attention,” Atsumu teased one afternoon, casually tossing a volleyball between his hands. “Yer always gettin’ worked up over me.”

You scoffed, arms crossed. “Oh, please. The day I enjoy anything about you is the day hell freezes over.”

Futakuchi nudged Osamu. “Tension’s thick today.”

Osamu smirked. “Give it five minutes. They’ll be yellin’.”

And five minutes later, Atsumu had said exactly the right thing to set you off, and the shouting commenced.

Practice had gone as usual, with only a few sharp remarks exchanged between you and Atsumu before it was over. You were exhausted, your muscles aching from running errands for the team all day, your patience wearing thin. All you wanted was to head home, collapse into bed, and forget that Miya Atsumu existed for a few blessed hours.

The team packed up in the club room, their chatter filling the space as they slung their bags over their shoulders. You barely noticed that Atsumu wasn’t among them as they filed out, too focused on getting the final tasks done so you could lock up and leave.

But when you walked into the gym, your plans crumbled.

Atsumu was still there, alone, setting balls into the air with effortless precision. His expression was intense, brows drawn together in concentration, jaw tight, a bead of sweat rolling down the side of his face. The only sounds in the gym were the rhythmic thud of the volleyball meeting his hands and the slight squeak of his sneakers against the polished floor as he adjusted his stance.

You sighed, dragging a hand down your face. Of course. Of course he couldn’t just leave like a normal person.

His shirt clung to his body, damp with sweat, emphasizing the broad set of his shoulders and the way his forearms flexed every time he made contact with the ball. He moved with precision, power behind every motion, muscles tensing and releasing like a well-oiled machine. As much as you hated to admit it, he was good. Infuriatingly good.

But you didn’t care about that right now.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and sighed. "Seriously, Miya? Go home."

He barely looked at you before responding. "Suck my dick."

You scoffed. "You wish. Now pack up, or I’m locking you in here."

He ignored you, setting another perfect ball into the air. That was the last straw. Marching onto the court, you grabbed the nearest volleyball and chucked it at him. He caught it effortlessly, smirking.

"You gonna help, or just be a pain in my ass?" he taunted.

You turned on your heel and stormed toward the supply closet, yanking the door open with more force than necessary. The overhead light buzzed faintly as you stepped inside, the scent of disinfectant and old volleyballs filling your nose. Without hesitation, you grabbed a laundry basket full of towels and shoved it into Atsumu’s chest the moment you returned.

“You’re gonna help clean up tonight,” you said sharply, your voice edged with exhaustion and frustration.

Atsumu scoffed, letting the weight settle against his chest. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You stayed late to practice, and I have the keys to the gym. That means you’re packing up before I lock up for the night.”

Atsumu smirked, that lazy, infuriating smirk that made your blood boil. "But you're so much better at those kinds of things, ya know? We all have our strengths."

“Oh? And what's yours?”

He shrugged. “I score points.”

You wanted to strangle him. “I mean off the court, Miya. You brainless egomaniac.”

That smirk widened. "Damn, sweetheart, say it like ya mean it."

Your entire body tensed. If there was one thing—one thing—that set your blood boiling faster than anything, it was that nickname. The way he said it, like it was his own personal joke, a word meant to patronize, to needle at you in a way that no one else dared. It was never affectionate, never playful—not in the way others might say it. No, when Atsumu called you sweetheart, it was dripping with arrogance, a smirk wrapped around syllables meant to get under your skin.

And god, did it work.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, jaw tightening so hard it ached. "Don't. Call. Me. That."

His smirk only grew, as if he had been waiting for that exact reaction. "What? Don't like it? Thought ya might warm up to it by now."

"I'd rather set myself on fire."

Atsumu chuckled, slow and smug, like he'd already won this round. "Now that is dramatic."

You threw a towel at his face, and he caught it effortlessly, his smirk widening. "Temper, temper," he taunted, shaking his head like you were the one being unreasonable. "Y'know, if ya wanted me to get all sweaty cleanin' up, ya coulda just asked nicely." You only roll your eyes in disgust.

“Take those to the supply closet. And don’t start with your usual bullshit, just do what I say for once.”

Atsumu tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something sharp. “Bossy.”

You inhaled sharply, jaw clenching. The way he looked at you—like he thrived on how easily he could rile you up—made your skin prickle. “Miya, I swear to—”

“Fine, fine,” he drawled, rolling his eyes as he slung the towels over his shoulder. His smirk deepened as he eyed you, a flicker of amusement dancing behind those infuriatingly sharp eyes. "Must be exhausting bein’ so uptight all the time. Ya ever tried just... relaxin'? Oh, wait, guess that'd require ya to actually remove that stick from  yer ass."

Your blood boiled instantly, a sharp sting of irritation spreading through your chest. Exhaustion and frustration swirled together into something combustible, something that snapped your already frayed patience. Your hands clenched into fists at your sides as you fought the urge to throw something harder than a towel at his smug, insufferable face. Without thinking, you stomped past him, heading into the supply closet, letting out a frustrated breath as you grabbed another piece of equipment to throw at him if necessary.

"Maybe if your setting was as reliable as your big mouth, I wouldn’t have to waste my breath on you,” you spat, voice cold and cutting.

Atsumu went rigid. His smirk flattened into something unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp, burning eyes—flashed with something dark, something livid.

In an instant, he was storming after you. Before you could react, he followed you into the supply closet, his movements sharp and full of barely restrained anger. The door slammed behind him, the echo bouncing off the walls.

"The fuck did you just say to me?" His voice was low, lethal, his usual teasing edge completely gone.

You whirled around, arms crossing over your chest. "You heard me, Miya. Maybe if you focused on actually being consistent instead of running your mouth, you wouldn't have to work overtime trying to convince people you're the best."

His nostrils flared, jaw clenched so tight you could practically hear his teeth grinding. "You think I got this far by bein' inconsistent? By bein' a fuckin' joke?"

"I think you got this far because you talk so much shit, people actually start to believe it," you bit back. "But I'm not like the rest of your fangirls, Miya. Your act doesn’t work on me."

Atsumu let out a low, humorless laugh, stepping closer. Too close. "Ya really think you know me, huh?" His voice was dangerous now, quiet and sharp like a blade pressed just beneath your skin. "Yer full of shit."

"And you're full of yourself."

The air was thick, charged with something volatile, something unstable. His hands were curled into fists, his breath coming in sharp exhales. You could feel the heat radiating off him, his fury rolling off in waves.

You scoffed in disgust, shaking your head as a bitter smirk pulled at your lips. "You're pathetic."

Atsumu’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightening dangerously, but you were already turning away, reaching for the door handle to get as far away from him as possible.

Then your stomach dropped.

The knob refused to turn.

Atsumu frowned. "The hell are ya doin’?"

You twisted the knob again, harder. Still nothing.

Your throat went dry. "The door is locked."

Atsumu snorted, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, sure it is." He reached out, confidently twisting the handle—

Nothing.

Atsumu frowned, twisting harder. Still nothing.

Silence.

Then, without missing a beat—

“Yeah, like I didn’t try that,” you deadpanned.

Atsumu’s scowl deepened, his frustration crackling in the air between you. "You’ve gotta be fuckin' kidding me. This is all your fault."

You exhaled sharply, crossing your arms. "Oh, right, because I totally planned to lock myself in a closet with you of all people."

"Yer mouth sure makes it sound like ya did." His voice was low, edged with something sharp. "Maybe ya just wanted me all to yourself."

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Please. If I wanted something all to myself, it sure as hell wouldn’t be you."

Atsumu took a step closer, his presence closing in on you like a storm. "Keep talkin’, princess. Let’s see if ya can keep that smart mouth runnin’ when we’re stuck in here all night."

"Oh, fuck you, Miya," you snapped, stepping forward to meet his glare head-on. "You are without a doubt the most infuriating, self-obsessed asshole I have ever met."

His lips curled into a sneer. "And you’re the most uptight, high-strung pain in the ass I’ve ever met."

"Oh yeah? Well, at least I don’t have to spend every waking second convincing everyone I’m the best. News flash—if you actually were, you wouldn’t have to try so hard."

His eyes darkened, his entire body stiffening at your words. "You wanna talk about trying too hard? How ‘bout ya take a fuckin’ look in the mirror? Always actin’ like ya hate me, but yer always up in my business. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think ya like this."

You scoffed, tilting your head in disbelief. "God, you’re delusional."

"And you’re a fuckin’ hypocrite." He was even closer now, his breath hot, his voice tight with rage. "You always act like ya can’t stand me, but here ya are, pushin’ up against me like ya wanna make this somethin’ else."

The worst part?

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

Your chests were nearly brushing, your ragged breaths intermingling. Your skin was burning, your hands clenched at your sides, every inch of you wound too tight. The anger, the frustration, the way he always got under your skin—it was all-consuming.

And then, suddenly, neither of you were talking anymore.

Atsumu’s mouth was on yours before you could process it, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was just as furious as your fights. You yanked him down by the collar, fingers tangling into the damp fabric of his shirt, pulling him in hard enough to hurt. He groaned into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist, pressing you back against the closet shelves as if he needed to feel every inch of you against him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was years of pent-up aggression and frustration, a battle neither of you wanted to win. Teeth clashed, hands grabbed, nails dug into skin. The heat between you was unbearable, suffocating, and neither of you had the willpower to pull away.

Atsumu nipped at your bottom lip, his breath hot against your mouth as he muttered, "Knew ya wanted me."

Shut up, Miya." You bit back.

And then you kissed him again, drowning out whatever cocky response he had left.

Atsumu wasn’t satisfied with just kissing you. His frustration, his irritation, his hunger bled into every movement as he pushed forward, backing you up until your spine hit the cold surface of the supply closet door. The impact barely registered, not when his hands were gripping at your waist, fingers digging into your sides like he was trying to mark you, claim some kind of dominance even here.

You gasped against his mouth, the moment of vulnerability only spurring him on. His lips left yours for half a second—just long enough for him to smirk. “Told ya,” he murmured, voice husky, breath hot against your skin. “You just needed me to shut ya up properly.”

You barely had time to react before he was kissing you again, harder, more desperate. Your hands found their way to his hair, gripping the strands at the nape of his neck and pulling—a move that ripped a deep, guttural groan from his throat. The sound shot straight down your spine, heat pooling in your stomach, making your breath hitch.

His hands slid down, gripping the backs of your thighs, and without a second of hesitation, you wrapped your legs around his waist. He held you effortlessly, as if supporting your weight meant nothing to him. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath your ear, making you shudder. He lingered there, his teeth scraping before his mouth latched onto your skin with deliberate pressure. You barely registered the sensation, too caught up in the heat of the moment, too focused on the way his body pressed against yours. But his smirk against your neck said otherwise—like he knew exactly what he was doing, leaving his mark before trailing his lips back to yours.

The warmth of his touch burned through the thin fabric of your clothes, his fingers pressing into your skin in a way that made your head spin. His hands started to wander, moving up beneath your shirt, his touch searing—

And then the door burst open.

Atsumu lost his balance. With a startled grunt, he stumbled forward, dragging you with him as you both spilled out of the closet and onto the hard gym floor.

“What the hell?!”

You barely had time to register the situation before a voice rang out above you.

“The fuck are you two doin’ in here?”

Your eyes shot up to see the janitor, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, face twisted in the most unimpressed expression you had ever seen.

Silence.

Neither you nor Atsumu moved. You were still on top of him, his hands still on your thighs, your arms still wrapped around his shoulders. The position was beyond compromising.

The janitor raised an eyebrow. “I ain’t cleanin’ up after this.”

Atsumu let out a breathless chuckle beneath you, his smirk returning full force. “Guess we got caught, huh, sweetheart?”You shoved him off you so hard he hit the floor with a thud, scrambling to your feet, face burning with embarrassment. “Shut up, Miya!”

Dry humping meian shugo 😈

Literally say less

--

Anon Asks: Meian (NSFW)

He was supposed to be working.

Head down, glasses sliding low on his nose, fingers tapping against the keyboard with focused precision. The glow from his laptop screen bathed him in blue light, casting shadows over the sharp line of his jaw, the furrow of his brow. His hair was slightly tousled from running his hands through it, tension in his shoulders from hours of sitting still. He hadn't said a word in over an hour, only the steady clack of his keys filling the quiet room.

And you couldn’t stop staring.

You’d tried to behave. Really, you had. But every time he shifted in his seat or exhaled through his nose in that sharp, focused way, it made heat curl low in your belly. You watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed with every movement, how his thigh bounced occasionally under the desk, thick and strong where it stretched the fabric of his joggers.

He was so close. So focused. So completely unaware of how much you were squirming on the couch across from him.

You padded over quietly, slipping behind him with a slow smile.

“Baby,” you whispered, hands gently landing on his shoulders.

He didn’t look away from the screen. “Working, sweetheart.”

You hummed, bending down to press a soft, lingering kiss to the side of his neck. “Thought I could help you relax.”

“You relaxing usually ends with me not getting anything done,” he muttered, though his voice had already dipped a little lower.

“Then you better finish fast,” you teased, sliding your hands down his chest.

Before he could argue, you climbed into his lap, straddling one of his thighs. You didn’t straddle him fully—just perched on the broad muscle of one leg, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck. His fingers paused above the keyboard as your weight settled over him.

“You're distracting,” he said flatly, but his hands found your waist anyway.

You leaned in and kissed him—soft and slow at first, lips brushing his with teasing patience until he tilted his head and deepened it. His tongue slid along yours, slow and claiming. You whined into the kiss, rocking your hips forward just slightly, testing.

The pressure was perfect.

Your thin shorts did nothing to hide how wet you already were. You could feel the fabric of his joggers rough against you in the best way, feel the strength in his leg as it tensed under your movement.

You rolled your hips again. His hands tightened on your waist.

“That needy, huh?” he murmured, breath hot against your lips.

You nodded, eyes glassy. “Please, Shugo.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Then—

“Ride it. Go ahead. Take what you need.”

Your breath caught.

You started moving, slow at first, dragging your core along the firm curve of his thigh. The pressure, the heat, the drag of your slick fabric against the muscle he kept deliberately flexing—it sent shivers shooting up your spine. Meian tensed his thigh even harder, locking it in place, and you nearly cried out.

“There you go,” he muttered, voice like gravel. “You feel that? All for you, baby.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you rocked harder, faster, the friction building with every shift of your hips. You couldn't stop the sounds leaving your throat—little whimpers and gasps, punctuated by desperate moans every time he tensed his leg and gave you just a little more.

“Fuck,” you gasped, forehead pressing against his. “I’m gonna—Shugo, I’m…”

“Then do it,” he growled. “Make a mess on my thigh. Let me feel how much you want it.”

It snapped something in you.

You came with a high, breathy cry, body seizing up as pleasure exploded through your nerves. You rode it out, grinding helplessly through the aftershocks, fingers clutching at his shirt like you were afraid to let go.

He held you there, solid and unmoving, breathing heavy as he watched you fall apart.

But even as your body sagged against him, spent and shaking, you felt the tension still coiled in his muscles.

You felt the hard line of him pressing into your hip.

And then his hands were gripping your ass, pulling you against him with a growl.

“You think we’re done?” he muttered, low and dark.

He stood, lifting you effortlessly into his arms as your legs wrapped weakly around his waist.

“I let you come once. That was me being patient,” he said, mouth brushing your ear. “Now it's my turn.”

Hello, i love your writing sm, u my fave writer atm! ❤️

With that said: car sex with Sakusa? 👀

Ahhh thank you so much!! You have immaculate taste because Sakusa + car sex? Yeah, you’re onto something 😩

Enjoy my lovely <333

--

Anon Ask: Sakusa (NSFW)

The silence in the car wasn’t how the night started.

In fact, the ride began with fire.

“You’re unbelievable,” you seethed, gripping the edge of the seat with white-knuckled hands. Your body was turned halfway toward him, even as you stared furiously at the dashboard, shoulders tight and chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths. “Dragging me to that stupid event just to pretend we’re some picture-perfect couple? You barely even looked at me!”

Sakusa’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the black leather. His jaw flexed, a slow grind beneath smooth skin, eyes locked on the road but burning with restraint. “You said you wanted to be part of things. That was me including you.”

You scoffed and whipped your head toward him, brows pinched in disbelief. “Don’t act like you were doing me a favor. You stood across the room for an hour and didn’t say a word to me. Not even one.”

“I didn’t think I had to babysit you,” he snapped, his voice cold, cutting through the tension like a scalpel. His hands didn’t leave the wheel, but his fingers drummed once—sharp and anxious—before stilling.

Your mouth dropped open. You turned your whole body toward him now, arms crossed so tightly over your chest it looked like you were holding yourself back. “That’s not what I wanted, Kiyoomi. I just wanted to feel like I was actually with you, not standing on the outside of your perfect little world.”

His nostrils flared. “Oh, right,” he bit out, eyes still locked forward. “Because you’re the victim here. Because I’m the one who constantly pushes people away, right?”

You opened your mouth, then stopped yourself, your expression twisted in a mix of anger and disbelief. Your knee bounced—restless, fidgety—as you turned to glare out the passenger side window.

“Say it,” he growled after a beat. His voice dropped low, quiet and seething. “Say what you’re thinking.”

“I’m fucking thinking I should’ve stayed home,” you spat, voice tight with unshed tears and heat.

The car swerved slightly as Sakusa’s grip on the wheel tightened. His breathing came faster, more shallow. Then, without a word, he flicked the turn signal with a decisive snap and veered off onto a side road. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled into an empty lot with the aggressive stillness of someone holding back a scream.

He slammed the gear into park, the jolt throwing your body forward slightly in your seat. Then the engine cut. Complete silence fell.

He turned to face you slowly. His posture was rigid, tie loosened just enough to reveal the strong line of his throat. His chest heaved beneath his dress shirt. When he met your eyes, they burned.

“Backseat. Now.”

You blinked, breath caught in your throat. “What?”

His voice was low and unshaking. “You want honesty? You want attention? Get in the backseat and I’ll show you exactly how much I’ve been holding back.”

You stared at him for a moment, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. And then, without another word, you unbuckled and climbed over the console, limbs shaky, breath quick and tight.

He was right behind you.

The doors clicked locked as he slid in after you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into him, lips crashing into yours with none of the finesse he usually carried. This wasn’t slow. This wasn’t soft. This was everything you’d been stewing in for the last hour coming to a boil.

You yanked at his suit jacket, fingers curling into the sleek fabric as he shrugged it off with a growl, leaving him in his dress shirt and loosened tie. Your nails dug into the starched cotton at his back as he pushed you down against the seat, slotting himself between your legs.

“You think I don’t want you there?” he growled, mouth hot against your neck. “You think I wasn’t losing my mind every time someone else looked at you tonight?”

You gasped, back arching. “You didn’t show it.”

“No,” he muttered, dragging his teeth along your jaw, “because if I did, I wouldn’t have made it through the damn dinner without taking you apart under the table.”

Clothes were shoved aside, breaths lost in the fogging windows. Your moans tangled with the storm still raging between you, every movement fueled by frustration and desire, until it was all the same heat.

His tie was the first thing he reached for after his shirt was undone, tugging it free from his collar with one hand while his other stayed braced beneath your thigh. He looped it behind your neck, tugging you forward by the silk until your lips collided again, the fabric tightening slightly as he pulled. The pressure was intoxicating.

“You want my attention?” he rasped, panting against your lips, “You have all of it now. Every last fucking bit.”

You whimpered as his hands pushed your underwear to the side, fingers brushing over your soaked heat with maddening slowness. His eyes flicked up to meet yours as he slid two fingers inside, curling just enough to make your spine arch.

“I should’ve done this the second you started running your mouth in the car,” he muttered, voice low and ragged. “Should’ve bent you over the hood and fucked that attitude right out of you.”

Your hips rocked down against his hand, breath hitching with every motion. “Then stop talking,” you whispered, “and do it.”

Something cracked.

He pulled his fingers out, slick and slow, only to unbuckle his belt with one hand and tug you forward by the tie with the other. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the fight from your memory—teeth and tongue, bruising and desperate.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he lined up and pushed in with one slow, devastating thrust. Your back arched off the seat, a moan torn from your throat as he filled you completely.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“Keep looking at me,” he ordered. “You wanted to feel it? Feel this.”

He started to move, hard and deep, each thrust grinding your hips against the cushion, the car rocking gently with each snap of his body into yours. The windows fogged, your moans echoing off the leather and glass, drowned out only by the rain hammering the roof above you.

Sakusa’s hand slid up your stomach, under your shirt, pushing the fabric up until your bra was bunched against your ribs. His mouth found your chest, biting, licking, marking with open-mouth kisses that burned.

Every snap of his hips was frustration, every groan was something he hadn’t said earlier, and every time he gripped your thighs tighter was a reminder: you belonged to him.

Your orgasm hit fast—unforgiving, white-hot. Your vision blurred as your body tightened, clutching at him with everything you had.

He didn’t stop.

He kept moving through it, chasing his own release, one hand holding your hip, the other still gripping that tie like a leash.

When he came, it was with a low, wrecked groan into the crook of your neck, his body pressed so tightly against yours you could barely breathe.

Later, when you lay tangled together in the backseat, breathless and wrecked, Sakusa pulled you against his chest, still panting.

“Next time,” he murmured into your hair, “you stay by my side.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Only if you actually look at me.”

He kissed your temple, lips finally soft. “Deal.”

Broken Telephone Pt. 5 (Finale)

You’ve finally reached the end of your rope.

With seemingly everyone in the universe knowing, it was only a matter of time before Fushiguro found out too. You had doomsday approaching, but you didn’t know when.

And this was the worst kind of psychological torment.

Now that Gojo was in on it too, this added a whole new layer of terror with him being a whirlwind of unpredictability. You quite literally did not know what to do.

But you did know what you wanted to do.

You burst into one of the common areas, one that you knew where they were. They both jumped at the sound when they turned around to peer at your rage-induced state. You watched your fellow first-years go wide-eyed as they could feel your ferocity ebbing off you in waves, flames of fury practically swirling around you.

”Who. Did. It?” You asked, voice terrifyingly calm, looking is slight satisfaction as you watched your friends (tentative at the moment) squirm and sweat. Itadori stuttered, while Kugisaki only avoided the question. “What are you talking about? Did what?” You walked up to them, not breaking eye contact as you grabbed the sorcerer’s shoulders, grip so tight she couldn’t pull away, eyes boring into her soul.

“I am seconds away from collapsing in on myself like a dying star. If you don’t tell me right now what happened and why, I will do everything in my power to take you down with me.” You actually saw her gulp before Itadori stepped in. Arms up at the ready to prepare for any hellfire you might reign down upon them (though he was genuinely terrified he wouldn’t be able to stop you).

Before Itadori could say anything, Kugisaki finally spoke up, her voice trembling slightly. "Okay, okay, fine! We may have let it slip to Gojo-sensei that you… have a thing for Fushiguro." As Kugisaki and Itadori nervously awaited your response, you felt a tidal wave of emotions crashing over you. Your mind was a whirlwind of frustration, embarrassment, and sheer disbelief at the mess they had dragged you into. You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure, but it was like trying to hold back a flood with your bare hands.

"Are you kidding me?!" you finally exclaimed, unable to contain your frustration any longer. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"

Itadori winced, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I-I'm sorry, [Name], we didn't think it would—"

“Oh wow, I’m not surprised! Like you two haven’t run me through the mud five times over!” You snarled. “I said one thing! ONE! And now I’m suddenly being shipped to marriage?!” You had yelled, but just the absolute ridiculousness of the sentence, once it had run through your mind, made you burst out in only slightly insane laughter. Your classmates only looked at you in bewilderment as you wheezed, tears welling up in your eyes as you sighed with the realization.

“I’m gonna have to tell him aren’t I?” The question was mostly asked to yourself, with neither Itadori nor Kugisaki answering.

“Tell who what?” It was his voice that snapped you out of hysterics, head whipping to Fushiguro standing at the open doors, confused and concerned. The three of you made eye-contact before the brightly hair-coloured duo stumbled through their exits with shitty excuses such as ‘I think I hear Jennifer Lawrence calling me’ and ’I need to run to Home Depot’ before scurrying off like rats.

True to form.

“What was that about?” Fushiguro asks, still confused as hell. You huff out a chuckle, before shaking your head. “Who honestly knows with those two?” You ask rhetorically, before meeting the sorcerer’s eyes to find them already staring at you. “I heard yelling. What were you chastising them for this time?” You smile to yourself, mentally preparing for what you have to do. What you needed to do.

For some strange reason, you felt a wave of calm over you. You realized that really, deeply, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

It never was.

“They’ve been tormenting me over a secret I have. About you.” At his mentioning, he tilts his head, eyes unreadable. Your smile widens emptily. “I stupidly told Kugisaki I had feelings for you. You can imagine how that went.” You chuckle, devoid of humour. You refused to meet his eyes as you continued.

“Don’t worry, I don’t expect anything from you. I just figured it’d be less awkward if it came from me instead of Gojo.” You shivered at the thought. “I just knew that I had to tell you to not lose my mind.” You shrugged at the end, before sighing.

“I’m really sorry—“

“Why are you sorry?” His words made your heart stop. Face flushing with heat and surprise, you look up to him finding his face attempting to be neutral, but an extremely strong blush flooding his cheeks. “This isn’t really big news, either. I could sort of tell.” You gasp, somewhat jokingly.

“Was I really that obvious?” You rub your cheeks in embarrassment, “Well, I promise there won’t be anything else like that.” Fushiguro didn’t say anything, only walking up towards you so close you could feel his body heat and smell him. Of course, he smelled amazing. You looked up meekly, not knowing how to react.

“Our profession is one filled with loneliness and pain. It only makes sense that when you share that profession with others you’ll form any and all feelings. You want someone to stand still when you’re in constant motion.” He explains, and you’re not quite sure where you’re going with this until he looks away from you.

“I… Wouldn’t mind standing still with you.” You could tell your eyes shined at his words. Never in a million years would you have expected to hear that.

It wasn’t exactly a confession, but you sure as hell wouldn’t want anything else. His reassurance was like a balm to your frazzled nerves, soothing the turmoil within you and offering a glimmer of hope in the midst of the chaos. And when he confessed his own feelings in his own quiet, understated way, you couldn't help but feel a rush of emotion overwhelm you.

It wasn't the grand declaration of love you had always dreamed of, but it was something real, something genuine, and in that moment, it was more than enough.

As you stood there, basking in the warmth of Fushiguro's presence, you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude for the unexpected turn of events. Despite the messiness of it all, despite the chaos and confusion, you couldn't help but feel grateful for the opportunity to stand still with him, if only for a moment.

You couldn’t believe after this broken telephone, you finally got a message you saw truth in.

Confessions: Oikawa

(This is connected to another drabble I made in my series 'Unreq Love' so here is context if you'd like the full experience: Oikawa & Bonus)

--

The gym is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes from peace, but the kind that settles like dust in the corners—heavy, still, waiting. The lights are off, but the late afternoon sun filters through the high windows, painting the floor in long strokes of gold. The volleyball net hangs limply between its poles, no longer taut with purpose. There are scuff marks everywhere, like memories burned into the wood—ghosts of spikes, dives, the relentless rhythm of ambition. The echoes of laughter, shouting, the rhythmic squeak of sneakers still seem to hum beneath the silence, like the gym itself refuses to forget.

You spot him immediately.

Oikawa stands near the back wall, his figure backlit by sunlight, facing the net with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket. His shoulders are drawn tight, his posture still and unreadable. He doesn’t move when you step in, but he knows it’s you. No one walks into a gym like you do—especially not after hours. Especially not him.

You take your time crossing the floor. Your sneakers squeak a little, but he doesn’t flinch. The air smells like dust and floor polish, and something sharper underneath—like endings. Like goodbye.

“I figured I’d find you here,” you say, coming to a stop beside him.

He huffs, a soft, humorless sound. “You always do.”

“Well,” you shrug, “someone’s gotta make sure you’re not brooding yourself into an existential crisis.”

Finally, he glances at you. There’s a tiredness in his eyes, something far quieter than the version of him everyone else sees. You know it well. You’ve seen it before, behind locker room doors, in the quiet of bus rides home, in the way his voice would sometimes crack when no one was supposed to hear. He looks like someone who's been chasing a shadow for too long and just realized it was always out of reach.

“I thought maybe if I stayed long enough, it’d feel different,” he murmurs, gaze shifting back to the net. “But it still hurts.”

“Of course it hurts,” you reply, arms crossing over your chest. “You gave everything to this place. You bled for it. You obsessed over every drill, every stat sheet, every match. Losing was never going to be painless.”

He chuckles, and it’s low and bitter. “We didn’t even make it to nationals. What was the point of all of it?”

You frown, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Tooru, you seriously need to get your head out of your ass.”

That earns you a sidelong glance, the barest glimmer of amusement.

You soften. “You weren’t just chasing wins. You built something here. A team that trusted you. A legacy. People are going to remember you—not because of a scoreboard, but because you made them better. You made them believe. You pushed them to be more.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but his jaw tics. He always does that when he’s trying not to feel something. The weight of three years rests on his shoulders like armor that no longer serves him.

“And what about you?” he asks suddenly, turning to face you more fully. “You stuck by me through everything. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”

You scoff, leaning back on your heels. “Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Tooru.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. You think I followed you around like a lost puppy for three years because I enjoyed your tantrums and diva moments?”

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Maybe a little?”

“God, you’re insufferable.” You shake your head, but your voice loses its edge. “I stayed because you were worth it. Because you’re more than volleyball. You always have been. Even when you were too busy being dramatic to see it.”

The silence that falls between you is thick with years of shared glances, missed chances, and words left unspoken. The light shifts across the floor, turning everything gold like the last flicker of a day that tried its best.

You don’t mean to say it. Not like this. Not when he’s already unraveling.

You glance at him again, then down at your hands. Your voice comes out low, more to yourself than to him. “God, I can’t avoid this, can I?”

But it’s been sitting in your chest for too long, and something about the way the light hits his face—the rawness there, the quiet ache—makes it impossible to keep in.

“I love you.”

His head snaps toward you, eyes wide. “...What?”

You inhale slowly, like that’ll steady the thundering in your chest. “I said I love you. I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met. Since you made that dumb joke during orientation and somehow managed to trip over your own feet.”

Your voice wavers slightly, but you push through. “I thought it was just a crush. Something stupid. But it never went away. Through every win, every loss, every time you walked into a room and lit it up like you didn’t even know—through all of it, I kept falling. I knew every version of you—the charming captain, the insecure overthinker, the friend who stayed behind after practice to help pick up stray balls—and I still fell.”

You swallow hard, heart aching in your chest. “And I wasn’t going to tell you. I didn’t think I had the right to. I thought I’d be a distraction, or worse—just another person you’d feel responsible for. But standing here with you, watching you look at that net like it still owes you something... I couldn’t walk away without telling you. Because it’s not just about volleyball. Not for me. Not when it comes to you.”

You take a step back, the burn of embarrassment creeping up your neck, your voice quieter now. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed to get it out of my system.”

You turn, ready to bolt before you make a bigger fool of yourself—but before your foot even hits the line, his hand wraps around your wrist.

You freeze.

His grip isn’t desperate, but it’s firm—anchoring. When you look back, he’s already there—closer than you thought, close enough that you can see the flicker of emotion dancing in his eyes. His breath is uneven. So is yours.

His gaze lingers on your face, moving from your eyes to your mouth, then back again, as if trying to piece together something he should’ve realized long ago. You see it hit him all at once—the memories, the missed moments, the way you’ve always been right there. His shoulders loosen like something inside him’s finally cracking open.

His hand moves slowly to your face, tentative but gentle, and his thumb brushes against your cheek like it’s something fragile he’s afraid to break. His fingers tremble just slightly, and the warmth of his palm grounds you in place.

“How did I never see you?” he breathes, and it’s not a question meant for you. It’s a confession all on its own, shaped by regret and wonder.

Then he kisses you.

Soft at first, hesitant—like he’s asking permission.

Then again—deeper, fuller, with the kind of reverence that comes from finally seeing someone who’s been standing in the light all along. His hand curves behind your neck, the other still holding your wrist like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

And for once, Oikawa doesn’t say a single word.

He just pulls you closer, holds you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded, and lets the silence speak for itself.

In that quiet, there is no loss. No disappointment. No game that slipped through trembling fingers.

There’s just you.

And it’s enough.

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 Pt. 3 (NSFW)

The overhead lights in your office buzzed faintly, casting a sterile sheen across your desk, your tea, your meticulously arranged files. Every folder sat aligned at a perfect angle, every spreadsheet tabbed and color-coded to hell and back. You had done it all this morning, trying to distract yourself—trying to settle your mind with clean lines and predictable logic. The problem was, your hands weren’t moving. Your cursor blinked on the empty field of the player report form, waiting for an input that wasn’t coming.

You were still in last night’s gym.

You could feel it—his hand at your waist, his breath ghosting along your neck, the focused burn in his eyes like he’d been trying so hard not to look and failing anyway. That single brush of his fingertips over your lower back had lingered longer than it should have. You’d felt the press of his palm even after the janitor’s voice startled you both apart.

You clicked your pen hard against the desk, leaving a dent in the paper beneath it. No. You are not spiraling over Iwaizumi Hajime’s fucking triceps. This wasn’t high school. You didn’t have a crush. You had standards—and a job to do.

So why the hell couldn’t you stop replaying how his eyes had dropped—not to your clipboard, not to your notes—but to your mouth, right before the door opened?

Another sharp click. Another unfinished line of text. The memory flushed through your chest like static, and you were just about to stand and walk it off when a knock sounded on your door.

It was brisk. Familiar. Firm.

You barely managed to school your features into something neutral before the door cracked open—and there he was.

Iwaizumi Hajime, looming like a storm cloud, his Olympic-branded laptop tucked under one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins tracing his forearms like tension maps, his jaw tight, unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside your office with the restrained efficiency of a man too used to high-stakes situations.

“I’ve updated the training program,” he said, voice rough and clipped, as if last night hadn’t happened. “Based on what you showed me yesterday.”

He moved toward your desk, tilted the screen toward you. The moment the spreadsheet opened, your eyes skimmed the rows—and your stomach tightened.

Komori’s lateral sequences had been scaled down. Hyakuzawa’s overhead load was decreased. Flexibility modules were individualized. The wording was precise. The ratios were accurate.

You couldn’t believe it.

“It looks… solid,” you said, cautiously. “You actually listened.”

Iwaizumi’s mouth quirked. “I always listen.”

“You just don’t usually believe me,” you muttered, fingers tapping the edge of the keyboard.

He shrugged. “I believe you when you’re right.”

You were about to fire back when the door slammed open.

“Whoa—no yelling?” Bokuto’s voice rang out with playful disbelief as he peeked in, already grinning.

Behind him, Yaku gave a nod like he’d seen this coming from a mile away. “Told you they’d mellow out eventually.”

You crossed your arms, glaring. “What the hell are you two doing?”

“Seeing if the explosion already happened,” Bokuto chirped, eyes darting between you and Iwaizumi. “But this? You’re practically cozy. Suspicious.”

“Get out,” Iwaizumi growled, his voice all grit and warning.

“Wait, are you two—” Bokuto began.

“Absolutely not,” you cut in, sharp enough to decapitate.

Yaku raised a brow. “You’re denying it a little too fast, Doc.”

Iwaizumi’s glare could have melted iron. “Say one more thing and you’re benched for the week.”

“Okay, okay!” Bokuto backed up, laughing. “Damn. Just saying—it’s new energy.”

You stood, jaw clenched. “Out. Now.”

The two Olympic players exchanged a final glance before Bokuto tossed over his shoulder, “If it does happen, call me for the wedding.”

As the door shut behind them, you exhaled sharply. “They are insufferable.”

Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Because we let them be.”

He turned toward the door, laptop still under his arm. Before leaving, he hesitated—just for a beat—and looked at you over his shoulder.

“Seriously. You were right. Yesterday.”

The words landed heavy. Too heavy.

“…Thanks.”

He nodded once, then walked out. Door closing on his way out.

And you didn’t move for a long time.

Not until your pulse calmed and the sound of his voice stopped buzzing in your ears.

--

You’d barely made it back to your office from your lunch break and shut the door behind you before there was another knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That rhythm was far too obnoxious to belong to anyone else.

“Doc!” Atsumu Miya strolled in like he owned the place, grinning with all the charm of a cat who’d just knocked something off a counter. “Got a second? My shoulder’s actin’ up again—figured you’d be thrilled to poke around in it.”

You rolled your eyes, but gestured toward the exam bench anyway. “Sit. Shirt off. Keep the commentary to a minimum.”

“That’s no fun,” he mumbled, but obeyed, peeling his shirt off with the practiced flair of someone who knew exactly what his arms looked like in fluorescent lighting.

You slipped on your gloves, moving around him with practiced ease. “Still some impingement from the inflammation?”

“Mmhm,” he replied, rotating his arm slightly. “Worse after I sleep on it wrong.”

You pressed gently along the front of the shoulder, assessing the rotation with subtle shifts. He winced once, which you noted.

Then, predictably, the smirk returned.

“Ya and Iwaizumi-san looked cozy earlier,” he said casually, not even trying to be slick. “Should I be worried?”

You froze for half a second, just enough for him to catch it.

“Worried he might kill me?” you deadpanned, fingers still pressed to his deltoid. “Absolutely.”

Atsumu huffed a laugh, but his eyes narrowed, too observant for your liking.

“I was thinkin’ the opposite,” he mused. “Didn’t look like hate to me.”

Your brows twitched.

You narrowed your eyes. “Did the rest of the team put you up to this?”

Atsumu’s smirk deepened. “What? Can’t a guy notice things on his own?”

You scoffed and reached for his shoulder again. “I’m going to press deeper into the joint now.”

Atsumu, still grinning, relaxed his shoulder—and immediately yelped when your fingers dug just slightly harder into the inflamed tissue.

“Still tender, I see?” you asked innocently, lifting a brow.

“Ow—damn, Doc!” he hissed, rubbing the area as you pulled back. “That was a low blow.”

You offered a thin smile. “Consider it a reminder to keep your theories to yourself.”

He winced, stretching his shoulder slowly. “You wound me. Here I am, bringin’ you a little entertainment in your dull clinic, and you repay me with violence.”

“I repay you with diagnostics,” you replied coolly, stepping around to the back of his shoulder. “And unsolicited opinions get the treatment they deserve.”

“Don’t know why you’re actin’ like this is such a scandal,” he muttered. “Half the gym’s been waitin’ for you two to snap and jump each other.”

Your glove-clad fingers stilled mid-rotation.

Atsumu grinned like a shark. “C’mon, you mean to tell me ya don’t see it? All that arguing—feels like foreplay.”

"It is not in your best interest to continue that train of thought."

You moved to the back of his shoulder and rotated the joint again, this time met with less resistance.

But your heart was suddenly in your throat.

Atsumu didn’t push further—blessedly—but his silence was far louder than any teasing remark. He watched you finish the check-up with a strange sort of calm, the air between you humming with something unsaid.

“You’re good,” you said finally, peeling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Still keep the compression sleeve on when you’re not on court. I’ll send you some updated stretches.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He hopped off the bench, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. But just before he stepped out, he paused at the door.

“Y’know,” he said, almost too casually, “it’s kinda wild. Iwaizumi’s been here for years, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”

The door shut behind him before you could ask what the hell that meant.

And you hated—hated—the way your face warmed.

--

The lights in the hallways were dim, the soft hum of the facility settling into its nightly lull. Most of the staff had already cleared out—offices darkened, doors locked, the echo of your footsteps the only thing keeping the silence company. You rolled your shoulder, spine aching after another long day of meetings, treatment notes, and dodging the smug glances Atsumu kept throwing you every time he passed your office.

You were halfway to the exit, bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand, when something made you stop. A dull, rhythmic sound. The muted clang of weights meeting padded flooring.

Your eyes cut to the side.

The training gym was lit only by a single overhead bulb in the far corner, flickering slightly above the racks. Inside, shirtless, sweat-slicked, and visibly focused, stood Hajime Iwaizumi. Alone.

You didn’t mean to stop. But your feet planted themselves anyway.

He was mid-lift—some kind of upright barbell press—and the curve of his back shifted with every rep, sweat rolling down between the muscles that flexed and released with practiced rhythm. His sweatpants clung to the powerful line of his hips, and a notebook sat open beside him on the bench, filled with scrawled corrections and diagrams. He wasn’t just working out. He was testing.

Your breath snagged, and before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to gently push the door open.

Iwaizumi looked up.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Just kept lifting, jaw tight, eyes catching yours.

"You just gonna stand there," he said, voice gravelled with fatigue and something warmer, "or you planning to come in?"

Your heart gave an inconvenient lurch.

You stepped in. Slowly. The door clicked shut behind you, the echo bouncing off the gym walls like a warning shot.

"Didn’t think you’d still be here," you said, keeping your voice neutral.

He lowered the weights, rolling his shoulders back with a grunt. "Didn’t finish the work. That thing you won’t stop nagging me about."

Your lips twitched. "Right. That thing."

A beat of silence. Thick and heavy.

You moved closer, eyeing the open notebook.

"You’ve changed a lot," you said, voice quieter.

He arched a brow. "Excuse me?"

You pointed at the program updates. "The circuits. You adjusted the progression intervals. And you finally stopped overloading the endurance drills."

A shrug. "You were right."

Your eyes flicked up, surprised to hear it from his mouth.

"Don’t get smug," he muttered.

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

The corner of his mouth quirked, and for a moment, the silence between you was less heavy. Just taut. Like a pulled wire.

You pointed to the bar. "May I?"

His brow raised, but he stepped aside. You brushed past him—just barely—but the heat that rolled off his skin followed you like static. You wrapped your fingers around the bar, adjusted your stance.

"Like last night," you murmured, reaching back with your hand, brushing your palm across the taut muscle of his abdomen. "You’re still tensing too soon. Posterior tilt’s off."

He let out a rough exhale. "You always this picky?"

"You always this stubborn?"

He caught your wrist. Not hard—just firm enough that your eyes snapped to his.

"You know what you’re doing."

Your pulse jumped. "Do I?"

His mouth crashed into yours before you could answer.

Everything went hot and messy.

His lips were rough, desperate, teeth scraping your lower lip like it was a grudge he meant to settle. You gasped into his mouth as his hands found your waist, calloused fingers digging into the soft give of your skin like he could anchor himself there. The gym’s cold air was a distant thing, barely felt beneath the furnace of your bodies colliding, friction turning tension into fire.

You didn’t remember moving, only the wild clutch of your limbs and his, the stumble of your shoes across the floor. One step. Two. Then you were walking him backward toward the center mat, his chest rising beneath your touch. He was tugging your shirt up, shoving it over your head with a grunt of impatience, and it hit the ground somewhere behind you. You didn’t care. You needed more—needed his skin under your palms, needed to feel him, solid and hot and here.

"You’re such a pain in my ass," you growled, teeth flashing as you wrestled with the waistband of his sweats.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his hand already sliding past the waistband of your leggings, fingers curling possessively around your ass. "Then why do you keep showing up?"

You shoved him. Hard.

He hit the mat with a thud, breath whooshing out of him—and still he grinned like the bastard he was, even as he yanked you down on top of him.

Your thighs spread across his hips as you straddled him, your palms braced on his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath each ragged breath. You kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. Your tongue slid against his, your hips beginning to roll, teasing friction where your bodies met. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and hot and barely contained.

"Take them off," you muttered.

He obeyed. Sweats shoved down, boxers next, and his cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and ready. You stared for a beat too long.

"What?" he panted, eyes dark and glassy.

"Nothing," you lied. "Just shut up."

Clothes hit the floor in a trail of skin and fabric. Your leggings. Your panties. His shirt. Everything discarded in your frantic need.

He sat up just enough to run his hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts, then down to your thighs as you shifted above him. You held his gaze as you reached between you, guiding him to your entrance. Your breath caught at the first stretch—then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

You both froze.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body adjusting to the thickness of him. The sensation was overwhelming—stretching you open, the slow drag of every inch sending a shiver down your spine. It had been too long since something felt this good. Since someone felt this good.

He groaned, hands trembling against your waist, gripping you like he might come undone.

"Fuck," he whispered. "You—"

"Don’t talk," you snapped, breathless.

You rocked forward, and he moaned. A sound from deep in his throat, guttural and raw. You did it again—slow, dragging circles with your hips, feeling every ridge, every inch, the way he filled you so completely you could barely breathe. The pleasure curled through you hot and tight, blooming in your belly, liquid heat spreading with every thrust.

His mouth found your neck, tongue tracing the line of your throat before he bit, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper.

"You drive me insane," he muttered against your skin, and this time, you didn’t argue.

You set a rhythm, your hands on his chest, his hands on your ass, guiding you down harder, deeper, every motion building heat in your belly. Sweat slicked your skin, your thighs trembled, and every thrust sent sparks up your spine. The tension climbed higher, unbearable, addictive.

He met you thrust for thrust, rising to meet you, hips snapping up as you dropped down, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gym walls. You felt yourself unraveling around him, muscles tightening, your body shaking.

"You like this, don’t you?" he growled, voice low and fucked out. "Being in charge. Getting your way."

"Shut up, Hajime."

He grinned—and flipped you.

You hit the mat with a gasp, his body heavy and hot above you. He braced one arm beside your head, the other slipping under your thigh as he pulled your leg higher around his waist.

"Not gonna let you win everything, Doc."

Then he was pounding into you, unrelenting, deep and fast, and your fingers clawed into his back, desperate to hold onto something as pleasure overtook you. Each thrust filled you to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him, slick and tight and aching.

You cried out, eyes fluttering shut, hips canting up to meet his every thrust.

"There," you gasped. "Right there—"

He didn’t stop. Not until your back arched, legs locking around his waist, and you came with a broken moan, pleasure snapping through you like lightning. You pulsed around him, body locking up as ecstasy tore through you.

He followed seconds later, groaning into your neck, his body trembling with release.

For a long moment, all you heard was breath. Harsh. Labored. Yours and his.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his hand tangled in your hair.

You stared at the ceiling.

Oh, fuck.

What now?

Favourite Positions: Tsukishima

Kei has always loved your ass.

Even before you were together, he never could stop himself from sneaking a glimpse and hating how good your ass looked in your uniform as you stormed away from him. The shape, the perkiness, everything about it drove him crazy.

Probably why he loved fucking you from behind.

“Kei…!” Your voice is muffled from the bed, but your pleasure could be heard loud and clear as he piled into you. The room filled with the sound of his hips slapping your ass, with Kei reveling in the recoil with each thrust. “Sorry, I can’t hear you. What?” Kei purposefully evens his voice to sound unbothered, even though he himself is fighting the urge to groan. He loved teasing you like this, and he could tell you loved it too, considering the squeezes you keep giving him. “Keep going!” You managed to squeal out, turning your head to the side. Kei then stops abruptly, just long enough to hear your whimpers and whines before he smacks your ass, grabbing it at its fleshiest. “Is that how we ask?” Kei knew his tone was cocky, and even though that’s what made you hate him in the first place, it was also what made you jump into bed with him. “Please! Fuck me!” The desperation in your voice is something Kei would definitely bring back up later, but that didn’t mean he could wait anymore either. With a growl, he watched you writhe under him as he plowed as deep as he could, and with a shout you were cumming. Kei gives you a second to breathe, his hard cock slipping out of you making you flop onto the bed like an exhausted fish. He wastes no more time though, grabbing your ass all the while jerking himself off with other hand. It’s not long before he finishes too, his hot cum spurting all over your ass and back. The room settles, a musk weighing heavy in the air. There’s only breathing before Kei can’t help himself. “Seems like you needed that.” “Fuck off.”