Tension - Blog Posts

Gojo SMAU - The Art of Falling Fake

Chapter 1 - Invisible in the Spotlight

Summary: The campus buzzes with life, but you feel like a shadow slipping through the cracks—unnoticed, unimportant. At home, it’s no better. Your parents dote on your step-sister, the star tennis player, while you’re the afterthought they barely acknowledge. She’s here too, her perfect reputation casting an even bigger shadow over your existence. College was supposed to be your escape, but living at home and walking the same halls as her makes it impossible. Then he shows up—Satoru Gojo, the rich, arrogant engineering major everyone seems to worship. His smug grin and effortless charm are the kind of things you can’t stand, but when a ridiculous twist of fate forces your lives together, you find yourself fake dating the most insufferable man you’ve ever met. It’s just a deal, temporary and harmless—or so you try to convince yourself.

an: Welcome to chapter one guys! Feedback is appreciated as always hehe. Also, the taglists for all of my stories are still OPEN, so make sure to get tagged so you don’t miss out on any new chapters! SMOOCHES 💋💋💋

{introduction} ; {next}

taglist: @hanakotateyama @sleepykittyenergy

࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚 𝜗𝜚 ࣪˖ ִ𐙚

Campus is chaos, as always. The sidewalks are packed with students rushing to their next class or chatting in tight little groups like they’ve known each other forever. It’s the first month of the semester, but it feels like everyone’s already found their place—everyone but you. You walk with your head down, weaving through the crowd as quietly and invisibly as possible. That’s been your strategy for years now. It works. Mostly.

You didn’t think living at home while attending college would feel so… stifling. At first, it seemed like the logical choice: save money, stay close to the familiar, and avoid the pressure of navigating both a new school and a new city. But now you’re not so sure. Sharing a roof with your parents and your step-sister, Mia, is starting to feel like you’re suffocating.

The comparisons never stop. Mia, the perfect daughter with her flawless tennis career and her endless achievements. She’s a campus celebrity in her own right—everyone knows her name, her face, her victories. And then there’s you. The one people glance at for a second before looking past you. The one who never quite measures up.

You pull your hoodie tighter around you as you pass a group of students standing by the fountain. One of them mentions Mia’s name, and you feel your stomach twist. Something about her latest tournament win, how she’s heading to the finals soon. It’s not surprising, but it still stings. She’s everywhere. Even here.

You shake the thoughts away and head toward the coffee shop near the engineering building. It’s your usual escape—a place to grab a moment of quiet before your next class. The line is long when you step in, but the familiar smell of coffee and the soft hum of indie music make it worth the wait. You tug your phone out of your pocket, scrolling mindlessly through messages you’re too tired to respond to.

That’s when it happens.

The force of someone slamming into you from behind nearly sends you tumbling forward. Your bag slips off your shoulder, and your coffee almost flies out of your hands.

“Whoa, careful there,” a smooth voice says, almost lazily, as though you were the one at fault.

You turn around, already annoyed, and find yourself face-to-face with him.

Satoru Gojo.

Of course, it’s him. Because who else would nearly knock you over and then smile at you like you owe him an apology? His snowy white hair practically glows under the fluorescent lights, and his blue eyes—hidden behind those ridiculous round sunglasses—glint with amusement. He’s tall, too tall, and he carries himself with the kind of confidence that only someone who’s never been told “no” can manage.

You’ve seen him around. Everyone has. Satoru Gojo is one of those people you can’t ignore even if you try. He’s an engineering major with top grades, an influential family name, and a reputation that precedes him. Girls throw themselves at him. Guys want to be him. He’s the king of campus—loud, obnoxious, and completely full of himself.

And now, unfortunately, he’s staring right at you.

“I think you dropped something,” he says, gesturing to your bag on the floor.

“No, really? Thanks for pointing that out,” you deadpan, bending down to pick it up.

When you straighten, his grin is still plastered on his face. It’s infuriatingly smug, like he’s thoroughly enjoying this interaction.

“You’re new,” he states, as if it’s a fact.

You glance around the room, hoping the line will move faster. “Why does it matter?”

“Because I know everyone here, and I definitely don’t know you,” he says, leaning casually against the counter like this is the most fascinating conversation he’s had all day.

“Congratulations. You’ve solved the mystery. I’m new.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel his eyes studying you, probably trying to figure out why you’re not falling all over yourself like the others do. “You don’t seem very impressed by me,” he finally says, and there’s a mock pout in his tone.

You can’t help but snort. “Why would I be?”

His grin widens, and for a split second, you see something flash in his eyes. Amusement? Curiosity? You don’t care enough to figure it out.

You step forward as the line moves, eager to order and leave before he decides to keep talking. But, of course, he follows.

“New girl, huh? So, what’s your name?”

“None of your business,” you reply, still not looking at him.

“Ouch,” he says, clutching his chest dramatically. “Cold and mysterious. I like it.”

You roll your eyes and finally make it to the counter, ordering the cheapest coffee on the menu. As you fumble with your wallet, you hear him behind you, ordering something unnecessarily complicated and way too expensive.

When you turn to leave, you catch his gaze one last time. His grin hasn’t wavered. “See you around, mystery girl,” he calls after you.

You don’t bother responding, walking out the door as quickly as you can.

But as you step back into the crowd, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s right.

Because as much as you want to stay invisible, something tells you Satoru Gojo isn’t about to let that happen.

I don't know if I'm just a freak but frank and matt's confrontation in s1e4 of born again was very......charged

there’s nothing I love more then when people take creative liberties with the story and make it their own.

yuu’s that have conflicts with the characters? that just don’t get along with certain ones?

yuu’s that challenge the narrative?

yuu’s that stray from the OG stories format?

yuu’s that already have their own reasons for being in twst?

stunning. 10/10. love it.

Greg X Nick (CSI)

This is soo cute!!

If you guys have not watched/seen the original CSI (Crime Scene Investigation), I highly recommend it! Greg and Nick are my personal favorites because they get along with each other, and the way they act around each other just gives me this...vibe, you know? 😅

Exam Tensions

My exams are starting from 18th (this Friday!) and I am tensed. I mean who wouldn’t be? I like to call them pre-exam jitters. But the most frustrating part about these exams is that they are gonna last a month! A full month. Although there is like a six days gap before phase 2. 

Apart from the umcoming exams, I am really excited for the upcoming semester. I have big plans. First, to start the semester off really well. Staying focused and top of my to do list. Not depending on my professors ( a grave mistake) and also catching up on my reading. 

Wish me luck!

Rivalry: Atsumu Pt. 6 (NSFW)

The last thing you needed was to entertain whatever ridiculous emotions Hana had planted in your head. This was nothing—casual, meaningless, irrelevant. So what if Ayumi had her sights set on him? That wasn’t your problem. That wasn’t supposed to be your problem.

You tightened your grip on your bag as you pushed through the thick crowd flooding the hallways after the final bell. Students jostled past in waves, the air thick with chatter and the slamming of lockers, and you kept your head down, determined to get outside, to breathe fresh air, to put as much distance as possible between yourself and whatever stupid feelings were currently threatening your sanity.

You almost succeeded.

Until you caught sight of him.

There, just a few lockers down, leaning lazily against the wall like he didn’t have a care in the damn world—Miya Atsumu.

Your feet slowed before your brain could tell them not to. And when you lifted your gaze, your stomach dropped.

Of course she was there.

Ayumi Tanaka.

Standing far too close, laughing far too brightly, her hand reaching out to graze his forearm like she had every right to touch him.

You should have looked away. You wanted to look away. But your gaze locked onto the scene like a car crash—horrifying and impossible to tear your eyes from.

Atsumu, for his part, didn’t seem bothered. If anything, he looked downright amused, his trademark smirk tugging at his lips, golden eyes glinting with some private joke as he leaned in just slightly, replying with something you couldn’t hear but Ayumi clearly found hilarious.

Your jaw clenched.

It was nothing. You told yourself that firmly. You had no claim, no right, no reason to feel anything other than mild, passing irritation.

And yet—your fingers curled tighter around the strap of your bag, knuckles whitening.

Because he didn’t move away when she touched him. He didn’t look annoyed or uncomfortable. He looked entertained.

And that hot, bitter feeling you refused to name burned a little brighter.

You stood frozen for a moment longer than you should have—long enough that Ayumi’s laugh floated through the hallway and Atsumu’s eyes, lazy and unbothered, drifted up—

And met yours.

The second your gazes collided, it was like being struck.

His smirk faltered. Just slightly. But enough.

Your breath caught.

You whipped your head away, face burning, shoving your way through the crowd with sudden, frantic urgency.

God. What the hell was wrong with you?

You ducked your head and walked faster, heart pounding in your ears, as if you could outrun the flush creeping up your neck. As if you could outrun the way your chest was tight, painfully so, with something ugly and irrational you refused to name.

You weren’t jealous. That would be stupid. Ridiculous. Absolutely insane.

And yet, you could feel the slight prickle of irritation rising beneath your skin, your jaw tightening as you watched their all-too-pleasant exchange. It was short—nothing more than a few words, a soft laugh from her, an amused smirk from him—but it was enough.

Your feet carried you toward the gym building, the familiar path offering some sense of normalcy. Volleyball practice was soon, and you just needed to focus on that, not whatever unnecessary emotions had latched onto you.

But just as you stepped onto the school grounds, a voice cut through the air.

"Hey!"

You barely had a second to react before Atsumu jogged up to you, his usual smirk in place, golden eyes flickering with something far too amused for your liking. His easy stride barely looked like he had exerted any effort catching up to you, as if he knew you wouldn’t be able to outrun him even if you tried.

"Damn, ya bolted outta there fast," he said, tilting his head, watching you closely. "Didn’t even wait for me."

You barely glanced at him, keeping your face carefully neutral. "Didn’t think you’d notice."

His smirk widened, a low chuckle escaping his lips. "I notice a lotta things about ya."

You rolled your eyes, fighting the sudden prickle of heat rising up your spine. "Don’t start."

Atsumu ignored you completely, falling into step beside you, rocking back slightly on his heels as if he were debating something in his head. Then, with an air of mock innocence, he said:

"So, I’m free tonight. If ya wanna hang out."

Your jaw clenched before you could stop it.

"Maybe not tonight, I'm a little busy," you bit out, the words tumbling from your lips before you could think them through. Then, before your brain could stop your mouth from making an absolutely catastrophic mistake, you added, "Why don't you ask if Ayumi Tanaka is free?"

Atsumu blinked, his smirk momentarily faltering. "Why on earth…?" His brows furrowed in genuine confusion—until something in his expression shifted.

And then, his smirk stretched into something completely insufferable.

"Are you jealous?"

Your spine stiffened. "What is there to be jealous of?" you scoffed, but you could already feel the warmth creeping up your neck.

Atsumu wasn’t buying it. "Oh, I dunno," he mused, tilting his head, watching you like a predator playing with its food. "Maybe ‘cause ya got a front-row seat to Ayumi flirtin’ with me and now ya can’t stand the thought of someone else takin’ your place?"

Your teeth ground together, a sharp flash of irritation lancing through your chest. "You're absolutely delusional if you think I’d ever feel threatened by some 2nd-year girl batting her eyelashes at you."

Atsumu let out a short laugh, full of nothing but mockery. "Right, ‘cause ya definitely didn’t look ready to rip her head off earlier."

You exhaled sharply through your nose, turning your gaze forward like you could force this conversation to be over. "Believe whatever lets you sleep at night, Miya. I don’t care."

"Oh yeah?" His voice was taunting, relentless, as he stepped in closer, his shoulder nearly brushing against yours. "Then why’re ya actin’ so weird? Feels like someone’s a little… bothered."

You whirled to face him, scowling. "The only thing that’s bothering me is you and your incessant need to make everything about yourself. Not everything is about you, Atsumu."

"Nah, see, that’s where yer wrong," he shot back, his smirk widening, his eyes flashing with something dangerous. "When it comes to you, sweetheart, I think everything’s about me."

Your hands curled into tight fists, your nails digging into your palms, irritation crawling beneath your skin. He was impossible.

Just as you opened your mouth to snap back, another voice interrupted the moment.

"Oi! What are you two doin’ over there?"

Aran’s voice cut through the air, sharp and expectant.

Your heart lurched as you immediately shoved Atsumu back, blurting, "Nothing!"

Atsumu barely stumbled, laughing as he shot you a look that screamed this isn’t over before turning toward Aran. You, on the other hand, were left standing there, pulse thrumming, trying desperately to ignore the heat still buzzing beneath your skin.

Aran’s eyes flicked between the two of you, his brows furrowing slightly before he shook his head. "Well, practice is startin’. Get a move on."

"Yeah, yeah," Atsumu muttered, still too damn smug as he turned back toward you, the teasing look in his eyes shining.

You glared at him, lips pressed into a thin line, before storming ahead, putting as much distance as possible between you and the walking migraine that was Miya Atsumu.

__

Practice went on as usual, the sound of sneakers squeaking against the polished gym floor, the rhythmic thuds of volleyballs being set and spiked filling the air. Yet, beneath it all, something felt off.

Atsumu, despite his best efforts, was being completely ignored.

And that was entirely intentional.

You were still fuming from earlier, his words grating against your skull like nails on a chalkboard. When it comes to you, sweetheart, I think everything’s about me.

Fine.

If he thought it was all about him, you’d make it impossible for him to think that.

You knew exactly how to get under Atsumu’s skin, how to piss him off in the most excruciating way possible. It wasn’t yelling, it wasn’t fighting—it was silence. He thrived on your reactions, fed off your irritation like it was oxygen. And you were going to starve him of it.

He tried everything. A few jabs at your form when you walked past, some pointed remarks meant to get a reaction, even purposefully setting the ball too high and glancing your way to see if you’d scowl at him.

Nothing.

You didn’t so much as spare him a glance.

The rest of the team noticed. It was impossible not to.

"Since when was she too high and mighty to bite back?" one of the first-years muttered, watching the scene unfold like it was some strange phenomenon.

"Are you honestly complaining?" Hitoshi responded flatly, shaking his head as he bent down to pick up a stray volleyball. "If anything, this is the quietest practice we’ve had in months."

Suna watched with mild amusement, his sharp eyes darting between the two of you. Atsumu, visibly simmering, and you, acting as if he didn’t exist. Fascinating.

By the time practice ended, Atsumu was pissed—more so than usual. The tension rolled off him in waves, his usual post-practice confidence completely overshadowed by the frustration bubbling beneath his skin.

Osamu, ever the observant twin, didn’t miss it.

As they left the gym, Osamu glanced over, catching the permanent scowl etched onto Atsumu. "What’s with your face?" he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice, expecting the usual smart-ass response.

But Atsumu wasn’t even looking at him.

His gaze was locked ahead, fixated on you, watching as you took the keys from Kita, nodding as you prepared to lock up the gym. His jaw tightened, fingers curling into his bag strap.

"Don’t wait for me," he muttered, voice clipped.

Osamu blinked, looking between him and you—you, walking away, completely unbothered. And Atsumu? Absolutely bothered.

Osamu exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something vaguely amused before he shrugged. "Alright…?" he said, but his voice held a knowing edge.

He didn’t need to say it out loud.

He had a pretty good idea of what was about to happen.

Atsumu stormed after you the moment Osamu walked away, his footsteps heavy, purposeful, his irritation practically radiating off him. You had just slipped into the supply closet, stacking away the last of the gear, when his gritted voice reached your ears from outside the gym.

"Are ya fuckin’ kidding me?!"

You couldn’t stop the smirk that pulled at your lips. Oh, he was livid.

Taking your time, you walked out of the closet, not bothering to acknowledge him right away. He stood at the entrance of the gym, chest rising and falling, his golden eyes sharp with anger, his fingers twitching at his sides like he was barely holding himself back.

"I’m talkin’ to you," he bit out as you stepped past him toward the doors.

Still, you said nothing.

You pulled the doors shut with a slow deliberation, the sound echoing through the empty gym, and locked them behind you. Then, finally, you turned, meeting his gaze.

Atsumu’s face was furious, his lips slightly parted as if he was trying to rein in everything he wanted to say. His hair was tousled from practice, damp at the edges, his skin flushed from exertion. The way his arms tensed, his stance rigid, the way his breathing came a little too sharp—all of it sent something thrumming hot in your stomach.

The heat only grew when you noticed the way his jaw ticked, his fingers flexing at his sides, like he didn’t know whether he wanted to shake you or pin you to the nearest wall.

You smiled. Sweet. Taunting. "Night. See you tomorrow."

You barely took two steps before his hand caught your wrist, yanking you back toward him. The movement sent you stumbling slightly, your body colliding with his, the force of it stealing the breath from your lungs.

His voice was low, rough, his breath hot against your cheek. "You think I don't know your game?"

You arched a brow, playing it off as coolly as possible, though instinctively, your spine straightened, your back arching slightly, pushing your chest forward. You hated how your body reacted to him, the heat swirling deep in your stomach, and for a split second, the thought flickered through your mind—why am I so turned on by this?

"What game?" you said, your voice smooth, controlled. "I told you I wasn’t free tonight."

Atsumu let out a sharp scoff, his grip on your wrist tightening just enough to make you hyperaware of how strong his hands were. "Bullshit. You’re pissed at me for flirtin’ with that girl."

Your jaw locked, your teeth clenching. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting, so instead, you blinked up at him, expression unreadable, and said, "Are you going to let me go?"

Atsumu didn’t flinch. If anything, his hold shifted, his other hand coming to rest against your waist, fingers digging in just enough to pull you flush against him.

"Do you want me to?" His voice dropped, dark and teasing, and before you could snap back, you felt it—the hard press of his arousal against your stomach.

You gasped, a sharp inhale betraying the last shred of control you had. Fuck.

Atsumu smirked, catching the way your lashes fluttered, the way your body momentarily tensed before you steadied yourself, fighting the reaction. But it was too late—he felt the shift.

Without another word, you glanced around, ensuring the coast was clear before grabbing his wrist and dragging him toward the back of the building.

"Take your pants off," you ordered, voice tight, breathless, already unraveling.

Atsumu didn’t need to be told twice. His fingers worked quickly at his belt, the sharp clink of metal and the rustle of fabric loud in the quiet night. You turned, pressing your palms flat against the rough brick wall, heart hammering against your ribs. Your breath came in uneven bursts, every inhale feeling too shallow, too hot. His body heat was suddenly right there, an overwhelming presence against your back, making your skin prickle with anticipation.

His hands found your hips, large and possessive, squeezing once before slipping beneath the hem of your skirt, his fingers grazing the soft skin of your thighs. With one swift motion, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and dragged them down, the night air rushing against your exposed skin, sending a sharp shiver up your spine. The contrast between the cold air and the heat pooling between your legs made you suck in a sharp breath, pressing your forehead against the brick, trying to steady yourself.

"You thought I was gonna fuck that other girl?" His voice was a low growl against your ear, hot, dangerous, all-consuming. "This pussy is mine. Mine alone. You're mine."

Your breath hitched. A spark of indignation flared in your chest, instinct demanding you push back, to scoff, to tell him to fuck off—

But then he was pushing inside.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body jolting forward, hands splaying against the wall as he filled you slowly, deeply, completely. Your nails scraped against the brick, legs trembling as you adjusted to the overwhelming stretch. The sensation was too much, his cock pulsing inside you, pushing against that perfect spot that sent white-hot pleasure sparking through your veins.

Fuck.

Atsumu let out a low, guttural groan, one hand wrapping tightly around your waist while the other braced against the wall beside your head. He was breathing hard, his forehead nearly pressing against your shoulder, like he was barely holding himself together. His fingers flexed against your waist before gripping tighter, his hips pulling back only to slam forward again, forcing another cry from your lips.

"You feel that?" he rasped, his voice rough, unsteady, his pace already picking up. "Ain't nobody gonna fuck you like this. Ain't nobody gonna make you feel this good."

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out except a strangled moan. His hands were everywhere—gripping, branding, making sure you felt him in every possible way. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed into the night, mingling with your breathless gasps and his sharp groans.

He set a brutal rhythm, pounding into you with a desperation that left no room for thought. Every thrust sent you higher, pleasure knotting too quickly, your body already struggling to hold itself together. His fingers dug into your hips, dragging you back against him, making you take all of him, forcing you to feel just how much he was losing himself in this.

"Shit—" he groaned, his voice nearly breaking. "You fuckin' love this, don’t ya?"

His hand slid down, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing tight, punishing circles that had you whimpering, your body jerking forward from the intensity. Your hands clawed at the brick wall, nails scraping against the rough surface as heat coiled in your core, winding impossibly tight.

"There—right there—fuck, don’t stop," you gasped, voice ragged and desperate, each word punctuated by his relentless pace. Your legs trembled beneath you, your entire body taut with anticipation, every nerve on fire.

Atsumu groaned, low and guttural, his hips snapping forward harder, sharper. "Yeah? That’s the spot?" His grip on your hip tightened, holding you in place, refusing to let you squirm away from the overwhelming pleasure. "Feels so fuckin’ good takin’ me like this."

Your head dropped forward, eyes squeezing shut as your body burned under his touch. Every thrust, every flick of his fingers, sent you spiraling closer to the edge. The pressure in your stomach coiled tighter, tighter, until you were gasping, eyes rolling back.

"Tsumu—I’m—" You barely got the words out before your body seized up, pleasure detonating inside you, shattering through every nerve. A sharp cry ripped from your throat, your walls clenching tight around him, milking every inch as your climax ripped through you.

Atsumu cursed sharply, his thrusts stuttering, becoming frantic and sloppy as he chased his own high. His grip on you tightened, his pace desperate, his breath coming in uneven groans until finally—

He buried himself to the hilt, his entire body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder, muffling the wrecked moan that ripped from his throat.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your bodies pressed together, trembling, still trying to come down from the high. Your own breathing was ragged, your forehead pressed to the wall, your legs barely holding you up. His grip on your hips slackened slightly, but he didn’t pull away—instead, he leaned into you, his breath hot and uneven against your skin, his lips brushing the back of your neck as if he was too lost in the aftershocks to fully regain himself.

And then—

Reality hit.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath still ragged, heart still hammering in your chest. But something was wrong.

A sudden wave of realization crashed over you as you felt the sticky warmth between your legs. Your stomach dropped.

"You came inside me, asshole!" you blurted, twisting your head to glare at him over your shoulder.

Atsumu was still holding onto you, his forehead resting lazily against your back, his grip loose but unwilling to let you go. His chest rose and fell in heavy, sated breaths, completely lost in his own bliss.

It took him a second to even register your words. When he finally did, all he managed was a dazed, "Huh?"

You groaned, your forehead knocking lightly against the brick. "I swear to god—" You sucked in a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. "You're buying me Plan B."

Atsumu, still catching his breath, let out a low, breathy chuckle, his lips curling into a lazy smirk. "Babe, I'll buy ya anything ya want if ya let me do that again."

You sighed, exasperated, exhausted, and somehow still too weak in the knees to shove him off you properly. His hands lingered on your hips for a moment longer before finally releasing you, but even as you adjusted your skirt and tried to gather yourself, you could feel his gaze burning into your back.

You refused to acknowledge the way your body still thrummed with heat, the way your legs still trembled, the way your pulse still jumped every time he spoke. Instead, you turned, fixing him with a glare.

"You’re taking me to the pharmacy.”

Atsumu grinned, looking way too pleased with himself. "Yeah, yeah. Whatever ya say, sweetheart."

Rivals: (Haikyuu! x Reader)

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

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

Back to Masterlist

Rivalry: Suna

This was supposed to be a career-maker.

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

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

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

The only real problem?

Rintarō Suna.

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

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

12:17. Seventeen minutes late.

You didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

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

“Traffic.”

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

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

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

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

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

“No. You’re aggressive to my time.”

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

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

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

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

He gave a soft whistle. “Cold.”

“And still warmer than your sense of professionalism.”

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

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

You lifted your camera. “Hardly.”

Flash.

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

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

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

“You wouldn’t survive the fallout.”

“I’d go down smiling.”

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

“I get that a lot.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Suna."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were on your hands.

Lingering.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t want this heat.

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

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

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

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

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

And then he smiled.

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

Click.

The flash snapped.

You dropped the camera from your face, brow furrowed.

"You smiled."

"You looked like you needed the win."

You wanted to scream.

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

Damn him.

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

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

"You’re not that charming."

"But I am photogenic."

Your teeth ground together so hard your jaw ached.

You hated that he was right.

And you hated even more that he knew it.

Rivalry: Iwaizumi Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell that to Sakusa’s ACL.”

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

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

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

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

The words hung in the air, heavy and begrudging.

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

There was a long pause.

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

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

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

His grunt of irritation followed you out the door.

--

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

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

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

He was still pissed.

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

Heads turned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shut them up.

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

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

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

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

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

Iwaizumi said nothing.

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

The door shut with more force than necessary.

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

And all he could see was your face.

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

But it burned anyway.

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

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

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

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

So he typed. Adjusted. Modified.

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

The phone lit up before he even closed the tab.

You.

Of course.

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

Twice it rang. He let it.

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

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

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

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

“I factored in what matters.”

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

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

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

He froze for half a beat.

Your words landed hard, scraping under his skin.

And god, you weren’t done.

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

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

“Fine,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes.”

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

The line went dead.

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

The silence afterward rang louder than your voice.

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

Like something ready to burn.

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I adjusted for mass and range—”

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, he stood.

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

“To the gym?” you asked.

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

“Pause,” you ordered.

He straightened slowly, setting the weights down.

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

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

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

His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.

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

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

You circled him once, sharp eyes on every joint.

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

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

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

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

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

You looked at him through the mirror.

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

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

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

His fingers twitched where they rested against your leg.

You didn’t look up. Neither did he.

But the silence was loud.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good... Now hold.”

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

You swallowed hard, refocusing.

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

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

He froze.

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

Your brow rose. “Focus, Iwaizumi.”

He gritted his teeth. “I am focused.”

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

His breath came a little heavier now.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t have to.

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

Then—

“Ah—sorry!”

The door creaked open.

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

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

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

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

The janitor nodded and disappeared.

Silence returned.

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

Iwaizumi didn’t answer.

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

omgggg you're the sweetest (T_T)♡

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

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

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

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

Thank you for reading lovely 🥰

--

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

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

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

Kita’s eyes narrowed.

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

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

Kita hummed in agreement. “Too chatty.”

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

It got under his skin.

And you knew it.

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

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

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

Unfortunately, you were on his side of the court.

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

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

“Always do,” you chirped.

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

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

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

You blinked. “Was not.”

He turned away. “Yes, you were.”

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

He didn’t reply.

You, of course, took that as a challenge.

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

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

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

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

“Yup. I like the view.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

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

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

You hadn’t expected that.

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

“I’m focused.”

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

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

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

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

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

Kita didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

Because you were right. And he hated that.

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

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

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

You sucked in a breath.

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

And that was the moment.

The shift.

The crack in the dam.

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

Then—

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

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

No words passed between you.

The look he gave you said everything.

He was absolutely going to snap.

And you were absolutely going to be the reason why.

Rivalry: Shirabu

"You’re insufferable."

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

"Both of you—out. Now."

But that wasn’t how the day started.

It started with an argument.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The patient’s monitor screamed.

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

“Shit!” you both snapped in unison.

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

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

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

__

Now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When was the last time I had sex?

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

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

Fuck it.

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

You shoved him inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then stop giving me reasons to use it.”

You dragged him down again.

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

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

And you let him.

Because you’d been burning for too long.

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

Confessions: Atsumu

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

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

But he never did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It all came to a head during the next game.

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

It burned.

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

The ball sailed too far.

Out of bounds.

By a mile.

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

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

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

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

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

And you? You noticed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

But you had no intention of going home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t move.

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

“Atsumu, stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Because I love you!”

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

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

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

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

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

And then you kissed him.

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

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

Rivals: Kuroo Pt. 3

The crisp morning air hit you the moment you stepped outside, your cheeks still flushed with residual heat from the sheer embarrassment of what had just transpired. You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder, tugged your coat tighter around your body, and walked. Faster than necessary, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the unmistakable ache in your legs that served as an unrelenting reminder of last night.

What the hell did I do?

The question looped in your mind as you trudged down the sidewalk, each step bringing another humiliating flashback. The way his lips had trailed down your throat, the rasp of his voice murmuring your name like a prayer, the heat of his breath against your ear.

The way you begged for him.

You groaned out loud and shook your head violently as if you could physically shake the memories loose. This was bad. This was so bad.

By the time you reached your apartment, your heart was still hammering in your chest, the adrenaline of your walk of shame still rushing through your veins. The second your key turned in the lock and you pushed the door open, a familiar weight landed against your legs.

“Hey, buddy,” you murmured, bending down to scoop up your cat, pressing your face into his fur for a moment of comfort. He meowed in response, blinking up at you with wide eyes before batting at the collar of your coat.

At least he wasn’t judging you.

You set him down and made a beeline for the shower, peeling off your clothes as fast as you could. You needed to wash off Kuroo Tetsurou, scrub away any remnants of his touch, his scent, his presence.

But no matter how hot the water was, no matter how much you lathered soap against your skin, it didn’t leave you. The heat of his hands, the press of his body—it was all still there, lingering like an impossible-to-ignore memory.

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the shower tiles, letting the water cascade down your back. Why him? Of all people, why Kuroo?

The man drove you insane. Always teasing, always pushing, always so damn smug. You’d spent years butting heads with him, rolling your eyes at his antics, gritting your teeth at his unrelenting wit.

And yet…

The minute he touched you, something inside you had snapped. You’d met his fire with fire, let yourself get lost in the burn of it.

And worst of all?

You wanted to do it again.

You sucked in a sharp breath and shut the water off, gripping the edge of the shower door for stability. No. No, no, no. This was a mistake. A one-time lapse in judgment.

You would not let yourself fall into this trap.

By the time you were dressed, your cat had curled up on the couch, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you ran a towel through your damp hair. “Don’t look at me like that,” you muttered. “I know I made a bad decision.”

He flicked his tail, unimpressed.

You threw the towel into the laundry hamper and collapsed onto your bed, staring at the ceiling, mind still racing. You had to go back to work on Monday and pretend nothing happened. You had to look Kuroo in the eye and act like you hadn’t had his name spilling from your lips over and over again.

You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply.

This was going to be hell.

__

The weekend blurred by in a haze of distractions. You tried everything—burying yourself in errands, binge-watching dramas, even deep-cleaning your apartment twice—but nothing worked. The memory of Kuroo was burned into your brain, lingering at the edges of your mind no matter how hard you tried to shove it away.

You could still feel his fingers digging into your hips. The sharp scrape of his teeth against your neck. The husky, teasing laughter in your ear as he dragged you down with him into the mess of tangled sheets and breathless whispers.

You growled at yourself, shaking off the heat pooling in your stomach.

Before you knew it, Monday morning arrived, and the reality of facing him hit you like a freight train.

You stepped into the office, coffee in one hand, your other gripping the strap of your bag tightly, as if that alone would keep you grounded. You could do this.

Thankfully, Kuroo was nowhere in sight. A quiet sigh of relief slipped past your lips as you made your way to your office, eager to lose yourself in work and push all thoughts of him aside.

Settling into your chair, you opened your laptop, sipping your coffee as you began typing out emails, reviewing contracts, and approving documents. The mundane rhythm of work was a welcome distraction, something solid and predictable to keep you from spiraling back into the humiliating thoughts of the weekend.

That relief, however, was short-lived.

Just as you started drafting a compliance report, your office door swung open without a knock. You glanced up, already annoyed, only to find your boss standing there, arms crossed, an expectant expression on his face.

"Good job getting that campaign finalized," he said, nodding as if you had done something worthy of recognition. "There's a shareholder meeting this week to discuss it. You need to be there."

Your stomach dropped.

Shareholder meetings were always a pain, but that wasn’t the real issue. No, the real issue was that Kuroo would be there. You’d have to see him sooner than you thought.

You quickly straightened in your chair, trying to compose yourself. “Sir, I have a full schedule today, a backlog of approvals, and several reports to review—surely someone else from legal can attend?”

Your boss gave you a flat look, clearly unimpressed. “Oh, don’t even start. You’re the one who finalized this campaign, so you’re the one explaining it. Be in the meeting room in half an hour.”

You barely had time to protest before he turned on his heel and left, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, mouth slightly open in disbelief. Half an hour.

Your pulse quickened as you slumped back in your chair, rubbing your temples. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You had been hoping—no, praying—for more time before you had to see him again. But now, in thirty short minutes, you’d have to sit across from him in a professional setting, pretend nothing happened, and endure whatever smug, knowing looks he threw your way.

You inhaled deeply, rolling your shoulders back as you forced yourself to think rationally. Kuroo might have the upper hand in teasing, but that didn’t mean he had the power here. You were damn good at your job, and if he thought he could waltz in and fluster you with a few smirks and carefully placed jabs, he had another thing coming.

Straightening in your chair, you pulled up the campaign documents, reviewing them with meticulous attention. You weren’t just going to walk into that meeting unprepared. No, you were going to walk in with confidence, fully armed with every technicality, every regulation, every damn reason why you knew what you were doing.

You checked the clock. Fifteen minutes left.

With one last steadying breath, you closed your laptop, grabbed your notes, and stood, smoothing out your outfit. He’s just another coworker. Nothing more. If Kuroo wanted to play games, fine. But you weren’t going to lose. Not this time.

Squaring your shoulders, you stood, grabbed your notes, and marched toward the meeting room, determination outweighing the lingering heat in your face. You weren’t going to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you flustered.

Fuck him. I have nothing to be ashamed of.

Yet, the moment you stepped inside, you instantly regretted everything.

Kuroo was standing near the far side of the room, engaged in conversation with a few of the shareholders, his usual easygoing charm on full display. His sharp suit was tailored perfectly, the slight smirk on his lips too damn self-assured. And then, as if he could sense you, his golden eyes flicked toward the door, locking onto you instantly.

His knowing smile deepened, and you had to physically fight the urge to turn around and leave.

“Ah, there she is,” Kuroo announced, casually gesturing toward you. “My partner on this campaign.”

Your stomach clenched at the word. Partner?

The older gentleman Kuroo had been speaking to turned, his expression brightening. “Oh, so you’re the legal mind behind all of this! I’ve heard good things. Very impressive work.”

You forced a polite smile, waving a hand dismissively. “It was a team effort.”

But Kuroo, of course, wasn’t about to let you downplay your role.

“Don’t be modest. She kept me in check the whole time,” he added, his tone dripping with amusement.

You clenched your jaw, swallowing down the urge to shove him into the nearest chair. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Before you could formulate a response, he gestured to the seat beside him. “Come on, have a seat.”

You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here. That wasn’t even enough time to mentally prepare yourself for the inevitable disaster that was seeing Kuroo again.

You hesitated for the briefest second—just long enough to see the glint of mischief in his gaze—before forcing yourself to step forward and sit down, mentally cursing every decision that led you here.

More people trickled in, the sound of chatter filling the room as the shareholders settled into their seats. Small conversations broke out, professionals exchanging pleasantries while waiting for the meeting to begin. The air in the room was light, easy, full of smooth laughter and the clinking of pens against notepads.

For everyone except you.

You turned to Kuroo, lowering your voice in a hiss. “Partner?”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair, voice full of teasing amusement. “Would you have preferred I introduce you as my handler?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your skirt beneath the table, nails pressing hard enough to leave marks. You were already regretting every single interaction you had with him. Smug bastard.

You narrowed your eyes, about to snap back, but before you could, the meeting was called to order.

Kuroo led the discussion with practiced ease, his voice smooth and effortlessly engaging. He was sharp, confident, weaving through each point with that natural charm of his, drawing in the room like he belonged there. And the worst part? The shareholders loved him.

You mostly kept quiet, answering questions when necessary, keeping your responses measured and precise. You weren’t about to let him run circles around you. Still, you had to admit—grudgingly—that he was good at this. Too good. His ability to present information with just the right balance of authority and ease was frustratingly effective. It made you irrationally angry, watching the way he commanded the room with nothing but a few smirks and a well-placed joke.

And he knew it. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he could feel your irritation thrumming beneath the surface.

Bastard.

Just as you thought you were in the clear, your boss spoke up. “We were actually discussing another campaign that needs some serious revisions. Given how well this one turned out, we’d like the two of you to work on it—on short notice.”

Your breath caught. No. No, no, no.

Panic shot through you like a live wire, your heartbeat hammering against your ribs. You had barely survived the last time you worked with him—mentally, emotionally, professionally. And now they wanted you to do it again?

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. You had told yourself the project was a one-time thing, an unfortunate alignment of responsibilities that you had somehow, miraculously, endured. You had barely made it out of the last collaboration with your sanity intact, and after what happened between you two, the very thought of working with him again made your stomach churn.

It wasn’t just about the way Kuroo existed to push your buttons. No, it was the fact that you had let him get under your skin—too far under, past the point of irritation and into something more reckless, more dangerous.

And now, you were supposed to do it all over again?

Your fingers clenched under the table, nails pressing hard into your palm to stop yourself from blurting out something unprofessional. This isn’t fair. This isn’t my fault. You had done your job perfectly. If Kuroo hadn’t gone out of his way to be Kuroo, none of this would even be an issue. Now, because of his antics, because he couldn’t help himself, you were getting roped into another late-night headache with him.

Your pulse thudded in your ears, drowning out the rest of the boardroom as your mind scrambled for a way out. Any excuse. Any way to get literally anyone else assigned to this instead.

But you knew your boss. He didn’t care. He had made up his mind. And Kuroo—that smug bastard—had probably already figured that out too.

You straightened in your seat, carefully choosing your words. “Of course, but we’d need extended work hours to meet such a tight deadline—”

Kuroo, the bastard, cut you off effortlessly. “No need. We’ll just work on it after hours, like last time.”

The room barely reacted, but you felt the shift like a blade pressed against your skin. The way he said it—so casually, so naturally—it was almost as if the two of you had some kind of established dynamic. Like you were some seamless, perfectly functioning duo.

Which, you absolutely were not.

Your jaw clenched, hands curling into fists beneath the table. And then, just to drive the knife deeper, he added, “In fact, let’s get started tonight. Over dinner.”

Your head snapped toward him, but he didn’t even have the decency to look at you. He was still facing forward, still completely composed, as if he hadn’t just publicly tricked you into agreeing to spend more time with him.

Your teeth ground together as your boss nodded approvingly. You had no choice but to nod along, forcing a tight-lipped smile. “Sounds great.”

You could feel Kuroo’s eyes on you, the weight of his amusement pressing into your skin like an irritating heat you couldn’t shake. Your fingers curled around your notes, grip tightening as you fought the very real urge to smack that insufferable smirk right off his face. This bastard.

The shareholders murmured their satisfaction, the meeting officially winding down as the final notes were made. The conversation naturally shifted to small talk as people began gathering their things, but you were barely listening. Your mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the past minute over and over.

Another project. On short notice. With him.

And worse—

Over dinner.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, schooling your features into something neutral, something capable, because the last thing you needed was for Kuroo to see the way your pulse had spiked at the mere thought of spending another evening alone with him. You could already hear the smugness that would drip from his voice. The lazy, self-satisfied amusement. The way he’d push your buttons just enough to make you snap—because that’s what he did.

You should have argued more. Should have demanded proper work hours. Should have reminded your boss that he had hired you for legal work, not to babysit the marketing team. But instead, you sat there, forcing a strained smile while Kuroo all but preened beside you like a cat that had just caught a canary.

A chair scraped back beside you. He was standing. Stretching. As if he hadn’t just successfully trapped you into another night of torture disguised as collaboration.

“Looking forward to it, partner.”

The way he said partner made you want to throw something. Preferably his overpriced watch right out the nearest window.

He strolled past you, his confidence almost offensive, and you knew—you knew—that he was expecting a reaction. A flustered glare, a sharp retort, anything to fuel his amusement. But you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

You took a slow, calming breath and gathered your papers, pressing them together with deliberate patience. Kuroo was still lingering, just at the edge of your vision, but you refused to acknowledge him. If he thought you were going to give him what he wanted, he had another thing coming.

You stood, keeping your expression perfectly schooled, smoothing out your skirt like this was just any other normal meeting, like he hadn’t just completely thrown you off balance. Then, just as you turned to leave, you made the mistake of glancing up.

And there he was. Watching you.

Golden eyes, sharp and waiting. The barest trace of a smirk still pulling at his lips.

Something inside your stomach twisted—not in anger, not in frustration, but something dangerous. Something reckless.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the traitorous warmth creeping up your spine, and turned sharply on your heel, storming toward the exit without a word.

Kuroo chuckled under his breath behind you, the sound deep and far too amused.

You were never going to survive this.

Rivals: Kuroo

Tension crackled in the air like a live wire as you strode through the halls of the Japan Volleyball Association, your heels clicking against the polished floors with sharp precision. Every step carried purpose, controlled and deliberate, but anyone who knew you well enough would recognize the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Clutching the latest stack of paperwork in one hand, you pushed open the glass door to Kuroo Tetsurou’s office with a level of force that was just shy of inappropriate. You were a professional, after all. Barging in wouldn’t do—but making a statement? That was entirely different.

Kuroo was at his desk, leaning back in his chair with an almost bored amusement, as if he had been expecting you. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing the defined lines of his forearms, and his tie was slightly loosened, the very picture of a man who thrived in controlled chaos. He barely even blinked when you entered.

“Ah, Legal finally graces me with their presence,” he mused, setting his pen down atop an open document. “Didn’t expect you so soon. Usually, you let the frustration simmer a little longer before storming in.”

You inhaled sharply through your nose, pressing the papers down onto his desk with more force than necessary. “I am not signing off on this.”

Kuroo barely glanced at the document before flicking his gaze back up to you, an infuriatingly lazy smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Which part?”

You crossed your arms. “The part where you once again try to push through a sponsorship campaign that violates endorsement regulations, misleads consumers, and—oh—could land the association in serious legal trouble.”

He exhaled dramatically, tapping his fingers against the desk as if deeply inconvenienced. “That’s a lot of negativity, don’t you think? Maybe try looking at the bigger picture.”

You scoffed. “The bigger picture? Kuroo, the bigger picture is that I keep having to drag you back from launching ideas that would get us fined, sued, or—if we’re lucky—just scolded by compliance.”

Kuroo chuckled, stretching his arms above his head before fixing you with a look that bordered on scandalous. “You just love dragging me, don’t you?”

Your jaw clenched. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said smoothly, pushing himself up from his chair. The sudden shift in proximity sent a subtle prickle down your spine, but you didn’t move. He reached for the document you’d slammed down, flipping through it leisurely, clearly unbothered. “So what you’re saying is, if I tweak the wording…”

You narrowed your eyes. “If you tweak the wording, I’ll still reject it. It’s not just semantics, Kuroo. It’s about following the rules.”

His lips curled at the edges, sharp and teasing. “I think we both know I prefer to toe the line.”

You let out a sharp exhale, trying to ignore the way your heart beat just a little faster. This was the problem with him. He made everything a game, a cat-and-mouse dance where he got off on pushing boundaries just to see you react.

“I’ll tell you what,” he continued, placing the proposal down and leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll revise the proposal—to your unbearably strict standards—”

“How generous.”

“—if you grab drinks with me after work.”

Your grip tightened around your arms, heat creeping up your neck. “I’d rather spend my evening rewriting Japan’s entire corporate compliance manual.”

Kuroo let out a low chuckle, his eyes flickering with uncontained amusement, but there was something else there too—something deliberately slow, measured, almost sultry. He tilted his head slightly, letting his voice drop just a fraction as he said, "That’s a shame. I think you’d find our conversations much more stimulating outside the office."

The deliberate weight behind his words sent a traitorous warmth crawling up your neck, but you forced yourself to keep your expression cool, even as your fingers curled against your arms.

You met his gaze head-on, refusing to let him see even a flicker of hesitation. “I think you’d find your ideas much more successful if they didn’t regularly violate corporate policy.”

Kuroo grinned, pushing back from the desk, his gaze never leaving yours. “Ah, but where’s the fun in that?”

Before you could fire back, the intercom crackled to life, and Kuroo’s secretary’s voice came through, smooth and professional. "Kuroo-san, your next meeting is waiting."

You shot him a sharp glare, your frustration still simmering just beneath the surface. "Fix it," you said, voice clipped, before turning on your heel and making your way toward the door.

Kuroo, however, didn’t move. Instead, he leaned back slightly, watching you leave with a slow, unapologetically amused expression. His gaze lingered—maybe a little too long—lowering slightly as you walked away, the sway of your hips pulling his attention before you disappeared into the hallway.

He exhaled through his nose, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, I’m definitely fixing something."

You straightend your posture, pushing away the lingering heat of irritation (and something else) that settled over you. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t surprising. This was just Kuroo being Kuroo.

And yet, damn him. Damn that insufferable, arrogant smirk and the way your pulse skipped just a little too fast every time he directed that sharp, knowing gaze at you.

This was a game neither of you were willing to lose.

And unfortunately for you, Kuroo Tetsurou played to win. __

You stormed—as professionally as possible—back into your office, dropping the file onto your desk with a little too much force. The sharp slap of paper against wood echoed in the otherwise quiet space, but it wasn’t nearly enough to drown out the infuriating replay of your conversation with Kuroo looping in your head.

Your fingers hovered over your keyboard, but the words on your screen blurred together. Instead of drafting reports or reviewing contracts, your mind was stuck on the smugness in his voice, the arrogance in his smirk, the way he looked at you like he was perpetually three steps ahead. Every damn interaction with him was exhausting—a battle of wills where he seemed to enjoy watching you get riled up a little too much.

God, he was insufferable.

You inhaled sharply through your nose, willing the irritation out of your body as you sat back in your chair. Focus. You had other things to worry about. Work that didn’t involve him.

You had barely started scrolling through your inbox when the door to your office slammed open.

"What’s this I hear about you rejecting the campaign?"

Your boss’s voice boomed across the room before you even had a chance to react. You immediately straightened, hands folding neatly in front of you, as you turned to meet his hard gaze.

"Kuroo-san’s proposal does not pass policy guidelines, sir," you said smoothly, keeping your tone measured and professional.

Your boss scowled, pacing in front of your desk like you had just personally cost the company millions. His tie was slightly loosened, and his sleeves were rolled up—a sign that he had been fielding other problems all day, and now, you were one of them.

"So make it pass!" he snapped. "What did we hire you for?"

You barely resisted the urge to grit your teeth. "Sir, with all due respect, the proposal in its current state violates multiple advertisement clauses. If we move forward with it as is, we risk legal repercussions."

He waved a dismissive hand, clearly uninterested in the specifics. "That’s your job to fix. I want it approved by the end of the day."

"You can't possibly be asking me to rewrite the campaign?" you asked, your voice carefully controlled despite the frustration simmering beneath the surface.

Your boss scoffed, rubbing his temples as if this conversation was an unnecessary burden. "Don't even get me started on that bastard," he muttered, clearly referring to Kuroo. "I'm going to yell at him too. You both will be staying as long as it takes to finish this. No excuses."

Before you could argue, he leaned forward, bracing his hands on your desk. "And I don’t care if you two can’t stand each other. If this campaign doesn’t get approved, it’s both your heads on the line. Figure it out." He straightened, smoothing his tie as he exhaled sharply. "I expect progress by the next meeting. No more of this back and forth." Then, without waiting for your response, he turned on his heel and strode out, leaving the door wide open behind him.

You sat there for a moment, fingers clenched around the edge of your desk, trying to process the sheer absurdity of what had just happened.

This wasn't even remotely close to being your fault. If anything, you had been doing your job correctly, stopping Kuroo from pushing through yet another one of his reckless, barely compliant proposals. And now, somehow, you were being punished for it. You had been following protocol, making sure the company didn’t find itself in a legal nightmare, and yet—you were the one getting scolded? Forced to stay late?

Because of him?

Your jaw tightened. Of course, he wouldn’t face the consequences alone. No, you had to be dragged into this mess alongside him, forced to sit in a room with that smirking, insufferable bastard and work together until this campaign was approved.

The mere thought made your blood pressure spike.

You could already picture the look on Kuroo’s face when he found out. That lazy, knowing grin. The cocky tilt of his head. The way he’d draw out every syllable of your name just to see you twitch. He would probably love this—getting to push your buttons for hours, knowing you had no choice but to endure it.

And the worst part? You knew exactly how he’d spin it.

“Oh? Stuck working overtime with me? You really just can’t get enough, huh?”

You let out a long exhale, trying to push away the irritation clawing at your nerves. The last thing you needed was to let Kuroo live rent-free in your mind. But the thought of having to sit across from him, in a room, alone, for hours, was already grating on you.

This night was going to be hell.

Your nails tapped impatiently against the desk as your mind raced. There was no way you were going to let Kuroo think he’d won just because you were forced into this situation. You would get this campaign approved, on your terms, and you would do it without giving him the satisfaction of seeing you crack.

Because if this ended with him smugly leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, with that knowing smirk on his lips while he said, “Told ya we make a great team,” you were going to commit a corporate crime.

You straightened, rolling up your sleeves, your determination settling like steel in your spine.

If you had to suffer through this, so did he.

And if Kuroo wanted a fight, he was about to get one.

Rivalry: Terushima

The club room door slammed open, rattling on its hinges.

“WHERE IS HE?!”

The team froze.

A half-eaten rice ball hit the floor. Water was choked on. Someone knocked over a sports bag in their rush to get out of the way.

Higashiyama whispered, “Oh, shit.”

Futamata grabbed Bobata’s arm. “Is it too late to run?”

Bobata just stared, resigned. “We’re already in the splash zone.”

But the one person who should have been afraid? He wasn’t.

Terushima barely had time to lift his head before you snatched him by the collar and slammed him against the wall, forearm pressing hard against his chest, pinning him in place.

A sharp oof left his lips, but even as you glared daggers at him, even as your breath came in sharp, furious exhales—

He grinned.

“Oh, wow,” he murmured, eyes flickering with something dangerous—something excited. “Didn’t realize you liked it rough.”

Your grip tightened. “Would you care to explain to me why I was just called into the principal’s office to be chastised for my so-called proposal for the volleyball team to offer shirtless pictures as a way to increase funding?”

The entire team collectively inhaled.

Futamata wheezed. “Oh my god.”

Higashiyama muttered, “That’s gotta be a new record for dumbassery.”

Bobata just covered his face with his hands.

Meanwhile, Terushima blinked at you, head tilting back against the wall as he let out a slow, amused exhale. “Damn. They really thought you—?” He laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually incredible.”

“You absolute menace,” you snapped, shoving against his chest slightly before pressing him back down again. “You submitted that under my name.”

Terushima’s hands lifted lazily, like he was some innocent bystander in all this. “Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions—”

“Jump to conclusions?” Your voice rose, incredulous. “You’re really about to stand here, pinned to a wall, and try to tell me I did this to myself?”

“Well—”

Futamata cut in, laughing in disbelief. “He’s gonna try it. He’s really gonna try it.”

And then, the real nail in the coffin—

Bobata scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s just trying to get Yoko Nakamura to date him.”

Silence.

Terushima’s expression dropped. “EXCUSE ME?”

Higashiyama immediately nodded. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t Yoko say she liked guys who were ‘confident but not too cocky’?”

Futamata grinned. “And someone said, ‘Hey, I know a way to prove I’m the perfect mix of both.’”

Your jaw dropped. “So you mean to tell me—” You exhaled sharply, shoving against Terushima’s chest one last time. “You pulled me into this mess because of a crush?!”

“Okay, first of all, I wouldn’t call it a crush—”

You leaned in, voice low and sharp as a knife. “Listen to me, very carefully, Terushima.”

For the first time, his smirk faltered.

“If you ever pull something like this again—if you ever use my name for one of your dumbass ideas, if you ever make me sit through another awkward meeting where the principal is looking at me like I’m about to pull out a portfolio of thirst traps—”

Futamata audibly snorted, but you didn’t even acknowledge it. Your glare burned into Terushima.

“I will make your life a living nightmare.”

The air in the room shifted.

You saw it—that flicker in his eyes.

Not fear. No, that wasn’t what you were going for.

It was something else.

A slow, sharp, assessing look. The slight way his jaw tightened, the way his smirk wasn’t quite as smug as before.

It was the realization that you were dead serious.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then, finally, finally, you let him go.

The second you stepped back, Terushima rolled his shoulders, exhaling deeply like he had to shake off whatever had just happened.

You, on the other hand, turned on your heel with a huff and stormed out, calling over your shoulder, “Get your act together, Terushima. Or don’t—I don’t care. Just stay the hell out of my way.”

The door slammed shut behind you.

Silence.

All eyes turned to Terushima.

He glared back. “What?”

Bobata shook his head, exasperated. “Honestly? Pulling her pigtails in the schoolyard would be more subtle than this.”

Terushima scowled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re all full of shit.”

Higashiyama shrugged. “Dude. She literally had you pinned.”

Futamata snickered. “I dunno, man. She got the last word and left you looking stupid. You sure you’re not into that?”

Terushima threw his head back with an exaggerated groan. “I hate all of you.”

But even as he muttered under his breath, even as he grumbled about his entire team being traitors, his eyes flickered toward the door.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t entirely sure who had won that exchange.

Rivals: Tsukishima

Tsukishima adjusted his glasses, that infuriating smirk curling on his lips as he glanced your way. “You know, for someone who talks so much, you don’t actually do much worth noticing.”

You let out a sharp snort, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a real reaction. “Says the guy whose biggest skill is standing there and pretending he’s better than everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly, the smirk deepening like he was enjoying every second of this. “Pretending? That’s cute. I didn’t realize you thought I had to try.”

You crossed your arms and stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Wow, you're exhausting to be around. Is it lonely being this much of an asshole?”

His chuckle was dry, almost condescending, as he leaned in just enough to make your breath hitch. “Oh, don’t worry about me. It’s nice having peace and quiet—something you clearly wouldn’t understand.”

Your glare sharpened, but you refused to back down. “Yeah, because your personality screams ‘quiet and peaceful.’ You’re just bitter because I don’t let you get away with your holier-than-thou act.”

Tsukishima’s lips twitched, his amusement barely contained. “Bitter? Please. If I cared what you thought, I’d have to actually take you seriously first.”

You met his gaze, your smirk finally matching his. “Sure, keep telling yourself that. We both know I live rent-free in that big head of yours.”

His eyes narrowed, and for a moment, his smirk faltered before coming back sharper than ever. He leaned down slightly, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “Living there? Don’t flatter yourself. You’re more like an annoying commercial I can’t skip.”

You stepped even closer, now toe-to-toe with him, your voice just as low and taunting. “Funny, because for someone who doesn’t care, you sure love watching.”

For a moment, neither of you moved, the air between you practically crackling with tension. His gaze flickered down to your lips, then back up to your eyes, his smirk wavering in a way that almost looked—what, unsure? No way. This was Tsukishima, the king of snark. But the silence was heavy, loaded with something neither of you seemed willing to name.

“Uh… Am I interrupting something?”

Both of you jumped, heads snapping to the side where Yamaguchi stood awkwardly in the doorway, clutching a volleyball and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. His wide eyes darted between the two of you, a light pink dusting his cheeks.

“What are you—” Tsukishima started, his usual dry tone already creeping in, but Yamaguchi cut him off, holding up a hand like he was afraid to hear more.

“Don’t even explain. I’m good. I just… Daichi’s looking for you two, so, uh… maybe deal with that? Whenever you’re done… whatever this is.” He disappeared around the corner so fast it was like he was never there.

You blinked, heat creeping up your neck as you realized just how close you and Tsukishima were standing. He stepped back first, casually adjusting his glasses like the moment had never happened. You, on the other hand, couldn’t resist.

“Guess that’s your cue to stop glaring at me like I ruined your life, Tsukishima,” you quipped, raising a brow as you crossed your arms.

Tsukishima shot you a sidelong glance, his usual smirk and condescension firmly in place. “I only look like that when someone’s wasting my time.”

You scoffed, turning on your heel with a grin. “Yeah, sure. Keep telling yourself that.” You headed down the hall, leaving him to follow, still glaring at your back.

MMMM IronStrange...

I LOVED!!!!