Your gateway to endless inspiration
Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team was many things—talented, competitive, and, above all, nosy. But when it came to you, their manager, they had collectively accepted one simple fact: you lived in oversized, comfortable clothing.
Baggy sweatpants, hoodies, loose athletic shirts—if it wasn’t designed for maximum comfort, you didn’t wear it. Even during official team meetings outside of school, you opted for relaxed attire: a sweatshirt over leggings, sneakers, and maybe a jacket if it was cold. It wasn’t that you disliked fashion, exactly. You just didn’t see the need to dress up for them.
So when you casually mentioned you had to leave practice early for a family event, no one thought much of it.
"Skipping out on us?" Oikawa teased, tossing a volleyball in the air as you packed up your clipboard. "And here I thought we were your favorite people in the world."
"You’re absolutely not," you deadpanned, adjusting the strap on your bag.
"What’s the occasion?" Iwaizumi asked, more genuinely curious.
"Wedding," you muttered. "Family thing. My parents are making me go."
Matsukawa, stretching lazily, smirked. "That why you’re sneaking off?"
"Something like that," you grumbled, crossing your arms. "They’re making me wear this stupid dress. It’s all tight and uncomfortable, and the shoes are even worse. Who the hell decided that formalwear should be painful?"
Hanamaki raised an eyebrow. "What’s it look like?"
You groaned, already dreading the memory of trying it on. "It’s one of those straight-jacket ones that make you feel like you can’t breathe. Apparently, looking ‘put together’ is more important than basic human comfort. I swear, my mom picked this just to torture me."
"Sounds fancy," Watari mused.
"Sounds awful," you corrected. "I’m gonna suffer through this thing and then burn it the second I get home."
"Bet you’ll look nice, though," Kindaichi added hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You gave him a deadpan look. "If you call suffering looking nice, sure. Anyway, I’ll see you guys at the next practice. Don’t destroy the gym while I’m gone."
"No promises!" Hanamaki called as you walked off.
That was the end of it.
Practice was still in full swing when you stepped back into the gym, freshly changed and already regretting every single life choice that had led you to this moment. You had only come back because you’d stupidly left your phone on the bench, a mistake that now seemed far worse than just being phoneless for a few hours. The team was scattered across the court, finishing up drills and cooldowns, their chatter filling the space as they moved around. You had hoped—prayed, even—that you could slip in, grab your phone, and leave unnoticed. But fate, as always, was cruel.
Then you stepped forward.
And the entire gym stopped dead in its tracks.
Oikawa, who had been mid-sentence, visibly choked. His water bottle slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.
"Holy shit," Matsukawa whispered, not even trying to be subtle.
Iwaizumi, caught off guard, blinked hard, as if his brain needed an extra second to process what was happening. Yahaba, who had been chatting with Kunimi, turned so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, mouth opening but no words coming out. Kunimi, usually too lazy to react to anything, actually paused, his usual indifferent stare slightly wider than normal.
Even Kyotani, who rarely paid attention to anything that wasn’t volleyball or fighting, furrowed his brows, looking between you and the rest of the team like he had just walked into some elaborate prank. After a long pause, he finally muttered, "Why do you look like that?"
You shifted uncomfortably, hating every second of this. "My God. Can you guys stop staring?"
"We can’t," Watari blurted, sounding just as shocked as the rest.
Because, for the first time since they had met you, you weren’t wearing your usual baggy, oversized clothing. You weren’t hidden under loose layers of fabric that swallowed your frame. No, today, you had been dressed by your mother, which meant you were in something far more… put together.
The dress was sleek and form-fitting, something you never would have picked for yourself. The fabric hugged your silhouette in a way that felt unfamiliar, and you had spent the entire night feeling like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. To make matters worse, your mother had insisted on makeup—subtle, but noticeable enough to make you feel even less like yourself. The heels were even worse—unsteady, impractical, and making you curse whoever thought fancy shoes should hurt.
"Why—how—what?!" Kindaichi, who had been stretching, nearly tipped over from shock.
"Is that you?" Hanamaki added, pointing unnecessarily.
"No," you deadpanned. "I’m an imposter. The real me is at the wedding, plotting my escape."
"Hah—seriously, though! You clean up nice," Matsukawa mused, looking you up and down with a smirk. "Didn’t know you had it in you."
"No one did," Yahaba muttered, still looking at you like you had just shapeshifted before his eyes. "What the hell."
"I don’t," you grumbled, adjusting the hem of the dress uncomfortably. "My parents picked this out. Not my choice."
"Your parents should pick your outfits more often," Oikawa said before immediately ducking as Iwaizumi chucked a towel at his head.
Kunimi let out a short exhale. "So that’s what was under all those sweatpants. Huh."
Kyotani just grunted, arms crossed. "Tch. Whatever. Doesn’t change anything." But the way he kept glancing at you said otherwise.
"And that’s why I dress the way I do," you huffed.
Sensing your growing discomfort, Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand down his face. "Alright, that’s enough. Stop freaking out."
"I am freaking out," Oikawa retorted. "This is earth-shattering news."
"You’re an idiot," Iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You love me," Oikawa shot back, undeterred.
"I don’t," Iwaizumi deadpanned.
You exhaled, already exhausted. "Okay, I’m leaving now. If anyone makes another comment, I swear I’m quitting this team."
"No, wait!" Oikawa called. "Just one picture—"
You shot him a withering glare that promised pain if he continued that sentence. He wisely shut up.
With that, you turned on your heel and left, still muttering under your breath about hating dresses, hating heels, and how you were never letting your mother pick your outfits again. Behind you, the team was still buzzing, voices overlapping as they tried to make sense of what had just happened.
Matsukawa let out a low whistle. "Damn. We’re never gonna see that again, are we?"
"Nope," Hanamaki sighed. "Should’ve taken that picture."
"So we had a hot manager this whole time?" Yahaba muttered, still looking at where you stood like he was processing a cosmic revelation.
Oikawa, arms crossed, hummed thoughtfully. "Iwa-chan, do you think we could convince her to dress up again?"
Iwaizumi didn’t even hesitate. "No."
Oikawa Tooru was used to attention.
From the moment he stepped onto the court, eyes followed. Girls sighed when he passed by in the hallways, classmates lit up when he so much as looked in their direction. He had charm, he had skill, and he had a smile that could make anyone—anyone—melt.
Except for the manager.
And it drove him insane.
When she became Seijoh’s team manager, Oikawa expected the usual routine. A few flustered glances, maybe a nervous stammer or two when he spoke to her. Instead? She barely gave him the time of day. Her eyes never lingered, her voice stayed firm, and when he flashed one of his award-winning smiles, she only responded with a flat, unimpressed stare.
At first, it was amusing. A fun little challenge. But as weeks passed, that amusement turned to frustration. Why wasn’t she falling for him like everyone else? Why did it feel like the harder he tried, the more indifferent she became? It was unnatural—Oikawa had spent years perfecting the art of attention, the delicate balance of charm and arrogance that made people gravitate toward him. And yet, she stood there, unmoved, like he was just another player on the team.
It gnawed at him. It wasn’t just that she ignored his flirtation—it was that she treated him exactly the same as she treated everyone else. It made him feel… ordinary.
Oikawa made it a point to test her patience.
“Manager-chan, be honest,” Oikawa mused lazily, twirling a volleyball between his fingers, his tone laced with smug amusement. "Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re immune to my charm?"
She didn’t even look up from her clipboard, her fingers flying across the page as she made notes. "Do you ever get tired of being a desperate attention-seeker?"
Iwaizumi choked on his water, while Hanamaki and Matsukawa outright cackled, exchanging wide-eyed looks of glee. Even Kyōtani, who usually ignored their antics, raised an eyebrow, glancing up from his shoe-lacing. Oikawa, however, was left standing there, momentarily stunned by the sheer disrespect.
“That was uncalled for,” he gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.
She finally spared him a glance, her gaze flat and unimpressed. "So is your existence, and yet, here we are."
The team erupted. Hanamaki practically slid to the floor from laughing too hard, Matsukawa was bent over the bench wheezing, and even Iwaizumi wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head. "She’s got a point, though."
Oikawa scowled, gripping the volleyball just a little too tight. "Unbelievable. I slave away on the court, leading this team, and this is the gratitude I get? A cruel, heartless manager who refuses to appreciate my many, many talents."
"Oh, I appreciate your talents," she responded coolly, flipping to another page in her notebook. "Just not the ones you want me to."
His mouth opened, then closed, irritation flickering behind his eyes. She had played him—so effortlessly, so ruthlessly, and in front of the whole team, no less. He hated how easily she dismissed him, like he was some annoying background noise. It wasn’t just about her brushing off his flirting anymore—he wanted to rattle her, to break through that ridiculous indifference she seemed to have toward him.
And for the first time in a long while, Oikawa didn’t know how to win.
And that was how it started.
Oikawa made it his personal mission to get a reaction out of her. He turned up the charm, exaggerating his requests, leaving his jersey in the most inconvenient places just to force her to interact with him. And through it all, she remained perfectly unbothered.
Which only made things worse.
During practice, Oikawa's patience had started to fray. What once had been playful teasing was now laced with something sharper, something almost mean. He leaned in too close, his voice lower, more clipped. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get exhausting pretending I don’t bother you?"
She barely spared him a glance. "Not nearly as exhausting as listening to you grasp at straws for my attention."
His fingers twitched at his sides, irritation flaring. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one getting under her skin—not the other way around.. Whenever she’d pass by with the clipboard, he’d throw an arm over her shoulder, lean in just a little too close, and sigh dramatically. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get tiring, pretending you don’t like me?"
"Not as tiring as listening to you talk," she quipped back, shaking him off effortlessly.
That made the rest of the team howl with laughter, much to Oikawa’s dismay.
But the more she dismissed him, the more he found himself noticing her.
How she always had a spare towel ready for anyone who needed it, how her lips twitched when she held back a smile, how she somehow always knew exactly where to be, exactly what needed to be done. The way she’d mutter under her breath when the gym got too chaotic, how she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows when she was in full focus mode.
Even worse, he noticed that she laughed at other people’s jokes. Not his.
It was infuriating.
The way she treated him—like he was just another player, no more important than anyone else—made something coil tight in his chest. It was wrong. He should matter.
As the season went on, their dynamic became something of a spectacle. Matsukawa and Hanamaki kept a running tally on how many times Oikawa failed to get a reaction from her. Even Kyōtani, normally disinterested in team antics, had muttered once, "Why does he even care?"
Practice was no different.
One day, he strolled in late, expecting to slide by unnoticed. Instead, the manager barely glanced up from her clipboard before sighing dramatically.
"And the king has graced us with his presence," she drawled, flipping a page without looking up. "Should we all kneel? Maybe throw some rose petals while we're at it?"
Oikawa's expression twitched. His fingers flexed around the strap of his bag before he forced a scoff. "You wound me, manager-chan. I’d expect at least a little appreciation for my presence."
She finally looked at him, unimpressed. "I’d appreciate it more if you actually showed up on time."
The snickers from the team were immediate. Matsukawa nudged Hanamaki, both grinning like they had front-row seats to the best show in town. Iwaizumi just shook his head, barely hiding his smirk.
Oikawa exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching slightly before he tilted his head, voice dropping just a fraction. "Careful, manager-chan. One of these days, someone’s going to mistake that attitude of yours for something else."
She arched a brow. "Oh? And what’s that?"
"Repressed admiration." His smirk was sharp, eyes locked on hers like he was waiting—daring her to react.
She let a slow smirk creep onto her face. "That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."
Oikawa stiffened for a half-second. It was barely noticeable, but she caught it. And it infuriated him.
Hanamaki snorted. Matsukawa muttered a quiet "brutal" under his breath, and Iwaizumi, ever the opportunist, smirked as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, Oikawa. You expecting a parade or something?"
Oikawa rolled his eyes, adjusting the strap of his bag. "I was—"
"Stretching starts now," she cut him off smoothly, pointing at the mats without even sparing him a second look. "If Iwaizumi yells at you for skipping, I’m certainly not covering for you."
Iwaizumi clapped a hand on Oikawa’s back, grinning. "Yeah, Shittykawa, stretching starts now."
Oikawa groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. "You just like bossing me around."
"Someone has to." She finally looked at him, gaze neutral, unimpressed. Then, before he could respond, she turned and walked off, already shifting her attention to something else, like he wasn’t even worth her time.
He scowled. Why did it feel like he lost that exchange?
The next few weeks were much of the same. The team noticed, amused by the ongoing battle. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore.
"Oikawa, just accept defeat," Matsukawa teased one afternoon, leaning against the gym wall as he watched her deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, clipboard in hand, discussing strategy. She was nodding at something Iwaizumi said, her brow furrowed in concentration, flipping a page in her notes. Oikawa barely heard the words being exchanged, too focused on the way she looked—completely absorbed in the discussion, giving Iwaizumi the full weight of her attention. It was so effortless for her, this back-and-forth, the way she actually cared about his vice-captain’s input, about the game.
His grip on the volleyball tightened. Why did it feel like she never talked to him like that? "She’s immune. It’s kind of inspiring."
Oikawa scoffed, crossing his arms. "I will win. Just wait."
But the truth was, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about charming her or getting a reaction—Oikawa realized, somewhere between watching her scribble notes on the clipboard and catching glimpses of her tying her hair back, that he wanted her attention. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the others, wanted to hear her laugh because of him.
And that was unacceptable.
The breaking point finally came after a game.
The team had secured another victory, but the entire time, Oikawa’s mind wasn’t on the match. It wasn’t on his perfectly placed serves, on the points he racked up, or even on the cheers from the crowd.
It was on her.
She had celebrated, high-fiving Kyōtani, clapping Iwaizumi on the back, beaming as she praised the team for their effort. The smile she wore was bright, uninhibited, the kind of happiness he had never seen from her before. She was laughing—actually laughing—carefree and glowing as if this win meant the world to her.
And she hadn’t looked at him once.
He hated it.
Hated how effortless it was for her to shower attention on everyone else, how easily she smiled at them, joked with them, treated them as if they were worth her time. But him? She barely acknowledged his existence, acting as if he was nothing more than a passing nuisance.
His grip on his jersey tightened. Something inside him burned, sharp and unsettled, curling hot in his chest like an ember waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t fair. He had worked harder than anyone for this win, pushed himself beyond exhaustion to make sure they came out on top. And yet, when she smiled, when she laughed—it wasn’t because of him.
And that was the moment Oikawa snapped.
So when he saw her alone in the hallway after the match, clipboard in hand, he didn’t think.
"Why do you act like that?" His voice was tight, laced with frustration that he couldn't contain anymore.
She glanced up, brow raised. "Act like what?"
Oikawa stepped closer, his jaw clenching, heat simmering beneath his skin. "Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t exist. You joke with them, you celebrate with them, but with me? It’s like I could disappear and you wouldn’t even notice."
Her smirk was slow, taunting. "Oh, is that what this is about? You need me to fawn over you like everyone else? Poor Oikawa. Is it finally sinking in that I don’t care about stroking your over-inflated ego?"
His eyes darkened. "That’s not—"
She cut him off, stepping forward so the space between them all but disappeared. "You think I didn't know about you before I joined the team? You think I didn't know you'd try with me? I will not swoon and kiss your feet, Tooru."
Oikawa opened his mouth, but the words tangled. He wanted to refute it, to tell her it wasn’t about that, but the way she was looking at him—bold, unshaken, challenging—knocked the thoughts from his head.
He groaned in frustration, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave up fighting it. Before she could say another word, his hands shot up, gripping her waist as he yanked her toward him, lips crashing into hers.
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was messy, desperate, filled with months—years—of unresolved tension. His fingers curled against her hips, pulling her closer, his kiss carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say. It was a demand, a declaration, a fight in its own right.
And the worst part? She kissed him back.
Her fingers curled into his jersey, yanking him closer as if daring him to take it further. He could feel her heartbeat, hammering against his own, and suddenly, nothing else mattered—not the game, not the team, not the rivalry that had defined them for so long.
Just him.
Just her.
When he finally pulled away, both of them breathless, Oikawa rested his forehead against hers, his hands still gripping her waist. He exhaled sharply, lips curving into something between a smirk and disbelief.
"You looked at me just now," he murmured, voice rough.
She huffed a laugh, fingers still tangled in his jersey. "Shut up," she whispered, then pulled him down and kissed him again.
It was just as desperate as before, just as fevered, but this time, there was something else—acceptance. She wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t stopping to argue. She was right there with him, matching his intensity, giving as much as she took. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. It was everything.
And then—
Footsteps.
A sharp intake of breath.
Both of them froze just as Iwaizumi and Matsukawa turned the corner.
Iwaizumi stopped mid-step. Matsukawa, wide-eyed, blinked once, then twice. The hallway fell into a suffocating silence.
Then, slowly, in perfect synchronization, both of them took a single step backward.
Another.
Without a word, they turned around and walked the other way, as if they had just stumbled into something forbidden.
Matsukawa exhaled as they rounded the corner. "Damn. He really did get her."
Iwaizumi nodded. "Yeah."
A beat of silence.
"I hate him," Iwaizumi muttered.
Matsukawa sighed. "Me too."
Matsukawa’s fingers have always been dangerous—long, skilled, patient. The kind of touch that never rushes, never fumbles—always intentional, always knowing exactly how to pull you apart.
And right now, he’s enjoying himself.
“Fuck, babe,” he murmurs, his deep voice laced with amusement as his fingers curl inside you just right. His other hand rests lazily against your thigh, keeping it spread while his dark, hooded gaze drinks you in. “You’re really soaking my hand like this?”
You don’t even have the breath to answer—not when his pace is slow, teasing, deliberate. Each drag of his fingers sends pleasure curling up your spine, each flick against that sweet spot making your thighs twitch.
Matsukawa just smirks. He likes seeing you like this—messy, desperate, coming undone because of him.
He drags his fingers out almost completely before sinking them back in with an infuriatingly slow roll of his wrist, the slick sound of your arousal making his smirk widen. “Hear that?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “So fucking wet for me.”
His fingers work in deeper this time, curling just so, rubbing in slow, purposeful strokes against that sensitive spot that makes your breath stutter. He watches your face, reveling in the way your brows pinch, your lips parting in a desperate little gasp.
"You can take it," he coaxes, thumb circling your clit in lazy, wet strokes. "I know you can."
He starts a rhythm—his fingers thrusting deep, dragging back, his thumb applying just the right amount of pressure. The sensations build in slow waves, each motion pulling you higher, tightening the coil in your belly until it’s unbearable.
Your back arches, a choked moan slipping past your lips. He hums at the sound, clearly pleased, and then—he speeds up.
The shift is devastating—his fingers pumping harder, his thumb pressing just a little firmer, dragging you toward the edge so effortlessly it makes your head spin. He angles his wrist slightly, pressing his fingers deeper, rubbing in steady strokes that make your whole body tighten.
“Shit—Issei—”
“Yeah?” His grin is slow, teasing, as he leans in, lips grazing the inside of your knee. “You close, baby? Feels like you’re about to—”
He shifts again, pressing the heel of his palm against your clit, working you with practiced ease, and that’s all it takes. Your stomach tenses, pleasure snapping through you like a lightning strike.
You cry out as the pressure inside you snaps, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes over you—white-hot, overwhelming, electric.
Matsukawa groans as you clench around his fingers, but he doesn't stop.
"That's it," he praises, still working you through it, his voice dropping to a rasp. "Fuck, that's so hot."
Your body jerks as another wave builds too fast, too intense—your moan cuts off into a strangled whimper as the overstimulation crashes through you, and suddenly—
"Ohh, shit—look at that."
Heat floods your face as pleasure rips through you again, liquid gushing over his hand, dripping onto the sheets. Your thighs shake, muscles spasming, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your body writhes in the aftershocks. A strangled whimper escapes you, your legs instinctively trying to close, but Matsukawa's firm grip keeps them spread. Your fingers clutch desperately at the sheets, your body trembling, overwhelmed and spent.
Matsukawa just watches—his tongue flicking over his lips, his expression damn near predatory.
"Fuck," he breathes, finally slowing his movements, letting you collapse against the bed. His fingers slip out of you, glistening, and he hums, clearly impressed.
"Didn't know you could do that, babe," he muses, bringing his soaked fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a smirk. "But now that I do…"
He leans down, voice dropping to a wicked whisper.
"Bet I can make you do it again."