Enemies To Lovers - Blog Posts

Rivalry: Tendou

You had mastered the art of keeping your cool.

In school, you were the picture of perfection—organized, ambitious, meticulous in everything you did. You had a system for everything: color-coded planners, perfectly curated study schedules, and a resume that outshined most adults in the workforce. When you took on the role of manager for the Shiratorizawa volleyball team, it wasn’t because you particularly cared about the sport—it was another challenge to conquer, another achievement to stack onto your spotless record.

But then there was Tendou Satori.

A gremlin in human form.

He was your one roadblock to peace, the singular entity determined to ruin your composed demeanor. From the first day, he had made it his mission to push your buttons. Whether it was teasing you during practice, dramatically announcing your arrival every time you walked into the gym, or deliberately causing mild chaos when you were trying to focus—he was always there, getting under your skin.

And today? He was worse than usual.

“Oi, Manager-chan, you look tense~” Tendou’s mocking voice rang through the gym as you diligently took notes on the team’s stats. “Is the weight of perfection getting to ya?”

You exhaled sharply, choosing to ignore him.

Big mistake.

Tendou, sensing weakness, immediately invaded your space, leaning over your shoulder to peer at your clipboard. “Ooooh, look at you, all serious and focused.” His smirk widened as he snatched the clipboard from your grasp before you could react. “Hey, Semi, you see how intense she gets? It’s almost scary.”

Semi barely glanced up from where he was stretching. “Tendou, give it back before she kills you.”

“Oh, but she’d never. She’s too put together for that.” He turned back to you, grinning. “Right, Manager-chan?”

Your eye twitched.

“You’re making her mad again,” Ohira noted from across the gym, shaking his head. “Not a great idea.”

“She’s always mad,” Goshiki mumbled, tying his shoes. “Maybe she should just—”

“Finish that sentence, Goshiki, and I’ll have you running laps,” you snapped, finally lunging for your clipboard.

Tendou yanked it just out of reach, stepping back with a playful glint in his eyes. “I swear to—Tendou, I am not in the mood for this!” you snapped, lunging for it again. He effortlessly dodged, making a show of flipping through your neatly written notes.

“Wow, you even color-code these?” he mused. “You are a perfectionist.”

Your patience snapped.

“Give it back, Tendou, or I swear—”

“Or what?” His smirk widened. “You gonna scold me? Ground me? Maybe write me up in one of your little reports?”

“Manager,” Shirabu called over, “just hit him.”

Your fists clenched, but before you could blow up completely, a voice cut through the tension.

“Tendou,” Ushijima’s calm yet authoritative voice silenced the entire exchange. “You are wasting time.”

Tendou sighed dramatically. “Awww, but Ushi, I’m just having a little fun—”

“Tendou.” Ushijima’s stare was unwavering.

With an exaggerated sigh, Tendou reluctantly handed the clipboard back. “Fine, fine. No need to get all intense about it.”

“You are intense,” Yamagata muttered under his breath, but it was enough to make Tendou chuckle. You snatched the clipboard from his hands, shooting him a murderous glare before stomping back to the bench. The rest of practice continued with you actively ignoring him, though you could feel his smug gaze on you the entire time.

After morning practice, you thought you had finally earned a few moments of peace, but of course, that was never the case with Tendou.

It started when he 'adjusted' the team’s training schedule—doubling the number of drills without any warning, replacing the usual post-practice cooldown with an endurance challenge that he personally designed, and worst of all, swapping your neatly organized equipment labels with absolute nonsense.

The first red flag was Ushijima approaching you, arms crossed. "Manager. Tendou says you approved these changes."

You blinked, gripping your clipboard. "I absolutely did not."

Ushijima simply nodded. "I thought so."

Tendou, leaning against the net with a smug grin, waved lazily at you. "Ohhh, Manager-chan, you wound me. I thought you’d appreciate my initiative."

Your blood boiled.

“Tendou," you said through gritted teeth. "What did you do?"

“Oh, nothing serious~ Just thought the team needed a little extra spice. Gotta keep 'em on their toes, y’know?"

The entire team was now staring.

"Fix it," you snapped, already pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Oh, but it’s too late! I’ve already made some executive decisions. Like renaming the storage bins! Now instead of boring labels like ‘knee pads’ and ‘water bottles,’ we’ve got ‘Mystery Box #1’ and ‘Cursed Liquids.’”

You stared at him, absolutely seething.

Ohira muttered, "...‘Cursed Liquids’?"

Tendou beamed. "Oh yeah! And the balls are labeled ‘Fragile: Handle With Extreme Caution.’ I’m really fostering an atmosphere of uncertainty and excitement."

Yamagata walked over to a cart and squinted. "Why does this one say ‘Definitely Not Volleyballs’—?"

He opened the cart and yelped as half the contents spilled onto the floor.

Tendou laughed. "Oops. Guess I should’ve labeled that one better."

You could actually feel your soul leaving your body.

"TENDOU, YOU ABSOLUTE MENACE!" The words ripped out of you like a volcano finally erupting, and the entire gym fell into silence. You marched up to him, fists clenched so tightly your nails dug into your palms. "You don't just get to—" you sucked in a breath, visibly shaking with rage. "Undo. Everything. Right. Now."

Tendou merely tilted his head, hands still stuffed in his pockets, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oooh, scary."

That was it.

With a frustrated noise, you threw down your clipboard and turned on your heel, storming out of the gym before you could do something truly regrettable—like chucking a volleyball at his smug face.

The doors slammed shut behind you, leaving behind a heavy silence.

Semi exhaled. "Okay, yeah, that was bad."

"Dude," Yamagata muttered, shaking his head. "That was the loudest she’s ever yelled."

Ushijima, ever direct, simply said, "You should apologize."

Tendou scoffed. "Apologize? For what? I'm fostering team morale!"

Semi arched a brow. "No, you’re fostering a migraine."

"And an aneurysm," Shirabu added dryly.

Ohira sighed. "Tendou, come on. We all know you do this because you like her."

Tendou exhaled through his nose, tilting his head. "Well, yeah. Obviously."

The gym fell into silence.

Goshiki blinked rapidly. "Wait, what?!"

Semi threw his hands up. "Oh, now you admit it?! After months of this? After making our manager nearly combust on a daily basis?"

Tendou shrugged. "What can I say? It’s fun. She’s cute when she’s pissed."

Ohira groaned. "This is so much worse."

"Yeah, no kidding," Yamagata muttered. "Dude, go fix it."

Ushijima nodded. "You should apologize."

Tendou let out a dramatic sigh, already making his way toward the exit. "Fine, fine. But if she throws something at me, just remember—I did this for you guys."

Shirabu scoffed. "No, you’re doing this for you."

"Same difference!" Tendou sang, pushing through the doors.

"Oh, this is gonna be a disaster," Semi muttered.

__

Outside, your footsteps pounded against the pavement as you stormed away from the gym, rage thrumming under your skin like an electrical current. The nerve of that man—! You were going to kill him. No jury would convict you.

Behind you, quick footsteps echoed. You didn’t have to look to know who it was.

"Of course," you seethed under your breath.

"Oi, Manager-chan!" Tendou’s voice rang out, obnoxiously cheerful despite the fact that he had just single-handedly ruined your entire day. "Wait up!"

You didn’t wait. Instead, you walked faster.

"Hey, hey, don’t ignore me! I came to apologize!"

His mock sincerity made something snap inside you.

"Go to hell, Tendou!" you barked over your shoulder, barely slowing down.

Tendou let out a dramatic sigh, then jogged ahead, stepping directly into your path before you could escape.

Your body nearly collided with his. He was too close, all lazy grins and infuriating confidence, like he hadn’t just been the source of your current blood pressure crisis.

"Move, Tendou," you snapped, your voice low and dangerous.

He put a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "Oof. I come all this way to make amends, and that’s how you treat me? Harsh."

"If this is another joke, I swear to god—"

"No jokes," he interrupted smoothly, his smirk still present but eyes sharp. "I’m serious—okay, mostly serious. I did kinda push you hard today, huh?"

You scoffed. "Oh, so you do have a functioning brain?"

"I do, in fact. And contrary to popular belief, I also have self-awareness." His smirk deepened, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "I just happen to enjoy making you... expressive."

Your teeth clenched so hard your jaw ached. "I am expressive. You’re just a walking migraine."

Tendou hummed, looking you up and down like you were an interesting puzzle to solve. "Mmm... no, I think you’re a little too put together, actually." His grin sharpened, a slow, deliberate smirk. "All wound up so tight, afraid to let loose."

Your rage flared hotter than ever.

"I AM NOT WOUND UP," you spat, fists curling at your sides.

"Oh, no?" His gaze flickered down—just for a split second—noticing the way your hands shook with restrained anger, the tension in your shoulders, the way your breath came out just a little too fast.

Then, his smirk turned dangerous.

"Prove it."

Your eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

Tendou tilted his head, mocking thoughtfulness, his voice casual yet edged with something wickedly taunting.

"Go out with me. Saturday."

Your entire brain short-circuited.

"WHAT?!"

His grin only widened. "C’mon, Manager-chan~ What’s one little date?" His tone was syrupy sweet, full of mocking amusement. "You said I was wrong—so show me."

You opened your mouth—ready to refuse, ready to tear him apart—but then you saw it.

Something hidden beneath the teasing.

There was a challenge in his expression, a dare, a glint of something genuine underneath all the bravado.

Your pulse spiked.

You were going to regret this.

You exhaled sharply, glaring daggers at him. "No pranks?"

Tendou raised three fingers, mock solemn. "Scouts honor."

You stared him down, searching his face for any sign of deception. His smirk remained, but there was a flicker of something undeniably serious in his gaze.

Before you could think better of it, before your rationality could kick in, the words slipped past your lips.

"Fine."

Tendou’s grin split into something truly devious.

"That’s my girl."

Your entire body jerked with fury. "Don’t. Say. It like that."

But he was already walking away, laughing as he turned his back on you, hands tucked behind his head like this was just another game he’d won.

"See you Saturday, Manager-chan~"

You stood there, rooted to the ground, your mind replaying everything that had just happened.

And then reality hit you like a truck.

Oh. Oh no.

WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?

Rivalry: Kyotani/Mad Dog (NSFW)

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

Until Kyōtani arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words sliced through the gym, sharp and unapologetic.

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

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

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

Neither of you budged.

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

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

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

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

For now.

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

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

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

You were already looking forward to the next round.

And you could tell—so was he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your head snapped up. "Absolutely not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thud. Thud. Thud.

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

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

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

Kyōtani didn’t even look up. "What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

That was it.

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

Kyōtani froze mid-motion, shoulders locking up.

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

He lunged.

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

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

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

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

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

And, of course, you pushed back.

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

Something in him snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His fingers tightened on your hips.

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

You didn’t.

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fuck, I—"

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

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

That was all it took.

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

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

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

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

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

"Still got something smart to say?"

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

Rivalry: Oikawa

Oikawa Tooru was used to attention.

From the moment he stepped onto the court, eyes followed. Girls sighed when he passed by in the hallways, classmates lit up when he so much as looked in their direction. He had charm, he had skill, and he had a smile that could make anyone—anyone—melt.

Except for the manager.

And it drove him insane.

When she became Seijoh’s team manager, Oikawa expected the usual routine. A few flustered glances, maybe a nervous stammer or two when he spoke to her. Instead? She barely gave him the time of day. Her eyes never lingered, her voice stayed firm, and when he flashed one of his award-winning smiles, she only responded with a flat, unimpressed stare.

At first, it was amusing. A fun little challenge. But as weeks passed, that amusement turned to frustration. Why wasn’t she falling for him like everyone else? Why did it feel like the harder he tried, the more indifferent she became? It was unnatural—Oikawa had spent years perfecting the art of attention, the delicate balance of charm and arrogance that made people gravitate toward him. And yet, she stood there, unmoved, like he was just another player on the team.

It gnawed at him. It wasn’t just that she ignored his flirtation—it was that she treated him exactly the same as she treated everyone else. It made him feel… ordinary.

Oikawa made it a point to test her patience.

“Manager-chan, be honest,” Oikawa mused lazily, twirling a volleyball between his fingers, his tone laced with smug amusement. "Do you ever get tired of pretending you’re immune to my charm?"

She didn’t even look up from her clipboard, her fingers flying across the page as she made notes. "Do you ever get tired of being a desperate attention-seeker?"

Iwaizumi choked on his water, while Hanamaki and Matsukawa outright cackled, exchanging wide-eyed looks of glee. Even Kyōtani, who usually ignored their antics, raised an eyebrow, glancing up from his shoe-lacing. Oikawa, however, was left standing there, momentarily stunned by the sheer disrespect.

“That was uncalled for,” he gasped, clutching his chest as if mortally wounded.

She finally spared him a glance, her gaze flat and unimpressed. "So is your existence, and yet, here we are."

The team erupted. Hanamaki practically slid to the floor from laughing too hard, Matsukawa was bent over the bench wheezing, and even Iwaizumi wiped a hand over his face, shaking his head. "She’s got a point, though."

Oikawa scowled, gripping the volleyball just a little too tight. "Unbelievable. I slave away on the court, leading this team, and this is the gratitude I get? A cruel, heartless manager who refuses to appreciate my many, many talents."

"Oh, I appreciate your talents," she responded coolly, flipping to another page in her notebook. "Just not the ones you want me to."

His mouth opened, then closed, irritation flickering behind his eyes. She had played him—so effortlessly, so ruthlessly, and in front of the whole team, no less. He hated how easily she dismissed him, like he was some annoying background noise. It wasn’t just about her brushing off his flirting anymore—he wanted to rattle her, to break through that ridiculous indifference she seemed to have toward him.

And for the first time in a long while, Oikawa didn’t know how to win.

And that was how it started.

Oikawa made it his personal mission to get a reaction out of her. He turned up the charm, exaggerating his requests, leaving his jersey in the most inconvenient places just to force her to interact with him. And through it all, she remained perfectly unbothered.

Which only made things worse.

During practice, Oikawa's patience had started to fray. What once had been playful teasing was now laced with something sharper, something almost mean. He leaned in too close, his voice lower, more clipped. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get exhausting pretending I don’t bother you?"

She barely spared him a glance. "Not nearly as exhausting as listening to you grasp at straws for my attention."

His fingers twitched at his sides, irritation flaring. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be the one getting under her skin—not the other way around.. Whenever she’d pass by with the clipboard, he’d throw an arm over her shoulder, lean in just a little too close, and sigh dramatically. "You work so hard, manager-chan. Doesn’t it ever get tiring, pretending you don’t like me?"

"Not as tiring as listening to you talk," she quipped back, shaking him off effortlessly.

That made the rest of the team howl with laughter, much to Oikawa’s dismay.

But the more she dismissed him, the more he found himself noticing her.

How she always had a spare towel ready for anyone who needed it, how her lips twitched when she held back a smile, how she somehow always knew exactly where to be, exactly what needed to be done. The way she’d mutter under her breath when the gym got too chaotic, how she pushed her sleeves up to her elbows when she was in full focus mode.

Even worse, he noticed that she laughed at other people’s jokes. Not his.

It was infuriating.

The way she treated him—like he was just another player, no more important than anyone else—made something coil tight in his chest. It was wrong. He should matter.

As the season went on, their dynamic became something of a spectacle. Matsukawa and Hanamaki kept a running tally on how many times Oikawa failed to get a reaction from her. Even Kyōtani, normally disinterested in team antics, had muttered once, "Why does he even care?"

Practice was no different.

One day, he strolled in late, expecting to slide by unnoticed. Instead, the manager barely glanced up from her clipboard before sighing dramatically.

"And the king has graced us with his presence," she drawled, flipping a page without looking up. "Should we all kneel? Maybe throw some rose petals while we're at it?"

Oikawa's expression twitched. His fingers flexed around the strap of his bag before he forced a scoff. "You wound me, manager-chan. I’d expect at least a little appreciation for my presence."

She finally looked at him, unimpressed. "I’d appreciate it more if you actually showed up on time."

The snickers from the team were immediate. Matsukawa nudged Hanamaki, both grinning like they had front-row seats to the best show in town. Iwaizumi just shook his head, barely hiding his smirk.

Oikawa exhaled through his nose, jaw clenching slightly before he tilted his head, voice dropping just a fraction. "Careful, manager-chan. One of these days, someone’s going to mistake that attitude of yours for something else."

She arched a brow. "Oh? And what’s that?"

"Repressed admiration." His smirk was sharp, eyes locked on hers like he was waiting—daring her to react.

She let a slow smirk creep onto her face. "That’s funny. I was thinking the same thing about you."

Oikawa stiffened for a half-second. It was barely noticeable, but she caught it. And it infuriated him.

Hanamaki snorted. Matsukawa muttered a quiet "brutal" under his breath, and Iwaizumi, ever the opportunist, smirked as he crossed his arms. "Yeah, Oikawa. You expecting a parade or something?"

Oikawa rolled his eyes, adjusting the strap of his bag. "I was—"

"Stretching starts now," she cut him off smoothly, pointing at the mats without even sparing him a second look. "If Iwaizumi yells at you for skipping, I’m certainly not covering for you."

Iwaizumi clapped a hand on Oikawa’s back, grinning. "Yeah, Shittykawa, stretching starts now."

Oikawa groaned, tossing his head back dramatically. "You just like bossing me around."

"Someone has to." She finally looked at him, gaze neutral, unimpressed. Then, before he could respond, she turned and walked off, already shifting her attention to something else, like he wasn’t even worth her time.

He scowled. Why did it feel like he lost that exchange?

The next few weeks were much of the same. The team noticed, amused by the ongoing battle. They weren’t even subtle about it anymore.

"Oikawa, just accept defeat," Matsukawa teased one afternoon, leaning against the gym wall as he watched her deep in conversation with Iwaizumi, clipboard in hand, discussing strategy. She was nodding at something Iwaizumi said, her brow furrowed in concentration, flipping a page in her notes. Oikawa barely heard the words being exchanged, too focused on the way she looked—completely absorbed in the discussion, giving Iwaizumi the full weight of her attention. It was so effortless for her, this back-and-forth, the way she actually cared about his vice-captain’s input, about the game.

His grip on the volleyball tightened. Why did it feel like she never talked to him like that? "She’s immune. It’s kind of inspiring."

Oikawa scoffed, crossing his arms. "I will win. Just wait."

But the truth was, it wasn’t about winning anymore. It wasn’t about charming her or getting a reaction—Oikawa realized, somewhere between watching her scribble notes on the clipboard and catching glimpses of her tying her hair back, that he wanted her attention. He wanted her to look at him the way she looked at the others, wanted to hear her laugh because of him.

And that was unacceptable.

The breaking point finally came after a game.

The team had secured another victory, but the entire time, Oikawa’s mind wasn’t on the match. It wasn’t on his perfectly placed serves, on the points he racked up, or even on the cheers from the crowd.

It was on her.

She had celebrated, high-fiving Kyōtani, clapping Iwaizumi on the back, beaming as she praised the team for their effort. The smile she wore was bright, uninhibited, the kind of happiness he had never seen from her before. She was laughing—actually laughing—carefree and glowing as if this win meant the world to her.

And she hadn’t looked at him once.

He hated it.

Hated how effortless it was for her to shower attention on everyone else, how easily she smiled at them, joked with them, treated them as if they were worth her time. But him? She barely acknowledged his existence, acting as if he was nothing more than a passing nuisance.

His grip on his jersey tightened. Something inside him burned, sharp and unsettled, curling hot in his chest like an ember waiting to catch fire. It wasn’t fair. He had worked harder than anyone for this win, pushed himself beyond exhaustion to make sure they came out on top. And yet, when she smiled, when she laughed—it wasn’t because of him.

And that was the moment Oikawa snapped.

So when he saw her alone in the hallway after the match, clipboard in hand, he didn’t think.

"Why do you act like that?" His voice was tight, laced with frustration that he couldn't contain anymore.

She glanced up, brow raised. "Act like what?"

Oikawa stepped closer, his jaw clenching, heat simmering beneath his skin. "Like I’m nothing. Like I don’t exist. You joke with them, you celebrate with them, but with me? It’s like I could disappear and you wouldn’t even notice."

Her smirk was slow, taunting. "Oh, is that what this is about? You need me to fawn over you like everyone else? Poor Oikawa. Is it finally sinking in that I don’t care about stroking your over-inflated ego?"

His eyes darkened. "That’s not—"

She cut him off, stepping forward so the space between them all but disappeared. "You think I didn't know about you before I joined the team? You think I didn't know you'd try with me? I will not swoon and kiss your feet, Tooru."

Oikawa opened his mouth, but the words tangled. He wanted to refute it, to tell her it wasn’t about that, but the way she was looking at him—bold, unshaken, challenging—knocked the thoughts from his head.

He groaned in frustration, fingers twitching at his sides before he finally gave up fighting it. Before she could say another word, his hands shot up, gripping her waist as he yanked her toward him, lips crashing into hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was messy, desperate, filled with months—years—of unresolved tension. His fingers curled against her hips, pulling her closer, his kiss carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say. It was a demand, a declaration, a fight in its own right.

And the worst part? She kissed him back.

Her fingers curled into his jersey, yanking him closer as if daring him to take it further. He could feel her heartbeat, hammering against his own, and suddenly, nothing else mattered—not the game, not the team, not the rivalry that had defined them for so long.

Just him.

Just her.

When he finally pulled away, both of them breathless, Oikawa rested his forehead against hers, his hands still gripping her waist. He exhaled sharply, lips curving into something between a smirk and disbelief.

"You looked at me just now," he murmured, voice rough.

She huffed a laugh, fingers still tangled in his jersey. "Shut up," she whispered, then pulled him down and kissed him again.

It was just as desperate as before, just as fevered, but this time, there was something else—acceptance. She wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t stopping to argue. She was right there with him, matching his intensity, giving as much as she took. It was infuriating. It was exhilarating. It was everything.

And then—

Footsteps.

A sharp intake of breath.

Both of them froze just as Iwaizumi and Matsukawa turned the corner.

Iwaizumi stopped mid-step. Matsukawa, wide-eyed, blinked once, then twice. The hallway fell into a suffocating silence.

Then, slowly, in perfect synchronization, both of them took a single step backward.

Another.

Without a word, they turned around and walked the other way, as if they had just stumbled into something forbidden.

Matsukawa exhaled as they rounded the corner. "Damn. He really did get her."

Iwaizumi nodded. "Yeah."

A beat of silence.

"I hate him," Iwaizumi muttered.

Matsukawa sighed. "Me too."

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 Pt. 2

The office buzzed with the sounds of people wrapping up their day—chairs rolling back, papers shuffling, conversations turning light and easy as employees grabbed their things and made for the exit. The hum of voices filled the space as groups gathered near the doors, excitedly chatting about after-work drinks, dinner plans, or simply the bliss of heading home.

You forced a tight smile as you exchanged goodbyes, nodding along as a coworker clapped you on the shoulder, laughing about how you were always working too hard. If only they knew. If only they realized that, while they were off unwinding at some izakaya, you were about to be trapped in a nightmare.

The moment the last of them walked out, the heavy glass doors swinging shut behind them, your smile dropped. You exhaled sharply, shutting your office door with more force than necessary before leaning against it, letting your frustration take full hold. The walls muffled the distant chatter of people heading to the elevators, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own irritation.

This is ridiculous.

This is so, so ridiculous.

You should have been out there with them. Should have been free from all this nonsense. But no—because of him, you were stuck here, hunched over a campaign that never should have made it past a brainstorming session.

There was no way in hell you were about to march down to Kuroo’s office and work beside him like some cooperative pair. If you had to see his face right now, you might actually punch him, and that would be hard to explain to HR.

So, you settled for the only tolerable option: virtual communication.

You pulled up the campaign document and began typing out edits, slashing through the legal landmines Kuroo had casually placed like a menace. Your comments were pointed, efficient, and—fine—maybe a little passive-aggressive.

“You can’t claim this product ‘enhances’ anything without direct, proven research. I assume you don’t have a scientific study hidden somewhere? No? Then take it out.”

“This violates four separate consumer protection laws. FOUR, Kuroo. Are you collecting them like trophies?”

“You know full well we can’t guarantee these results. Unless you have psychic abilities, this has to go.”

It didn’t take long before Kuroo’s own comments started popping up.

“Trophies? I was thinking of making a bingo card.”

“No psychic abilities, but I do predict you’re going to keep glaring at your screen like that for another ten minutes before you take a break.”

You clenched your jaw, fingers hovering over the keyboard as his infuriatingly smug tone bled through even in text form.

But at least this way, you didn’t have to hear his voice. Didn’t have to see that lazy grin or the way he leaned against desks like he was permanently comfortable in any given space.

The two of you went back and forth like that for a while—your frustrations fueling your edits, his infuriating commentary punctuating them like some editorial nightmare.

Then, suddenly—

He stopped responding.

You frowned, staring at the document, watching the cursor blink mockingly. Five minutes passed. Then ten.

Was he ignoring you? Giving up?

You tapped your pen against your desk, debating whether you cared enough to message him first, when—

A knock sounded at your door.

Before you could even react, it swung open, and there he was—Kuroo Tetsurou, in the flesh.

His lean frame filled the doorway, one hand resting against the frame like he owned the place. He had his signature smirk in place, but there was something else in his expression too—something entertained, something knowing.

"Miss me?" he drawled, eyes flickering over your stiff posture, your clenched jaw. "You looked like you were having so much fun talking to me virtually, I figured you’d want the full experience."

You inhaled through your nose, already feeling the blood pressure spike.

You exhaled sharply, leveling him with a flat stare. "I figured there’d be less opportunity for violence."

And honestly, that wasn’t even a joke. The amount of restraint it had taken not to march down to his office and rip that smirk off his face with sheer force was immeasurable. You had chosen the safer option—the one where you didn’t have to look at him, hear him, or risk throwing a stapler at his head. And yet, here he was, standing in your doorway like he had been summoned from hell itself to personally test your patience.

He was insufferable. Smug, self-assured, a walking headache in human form. And if there was one thing you knew about Kuroo Tetsurou, it was that he never did anything without a reason. If he was here, standing in your office when you had both agreed to keep this virtual, then that meant—

Oh god. He had something planned.

Your fingers twitched, already anticipating whatever bullshit he was about to pull.

Kuroo chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. "I come in peace. And—" he paused, reaching into his bag, and before you could stop yourself, your eyes followed the movement.

Your breath caught when he pulled out an expensive-looking bottle of liquor. Not the cheap stuff you’d grab from a convenience store, but something premium, something that had been picked out with actual effort.

"—with a peace offering," he finished, his smirk tilting just enough to make your stomach twist.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion lacing your thoughts as you stared at the bottle.

Was this a trick? Some underhanded play? He was good, you had to admit that—good at worming his way under your skin, good at making you react, good at playing you like a game he had already won.

Your pride warred with your exhaustion. The righteous fury you had been carrying all day was begging you to tell him to take his bottle and shove it where the sun didn’t shine. But then reality settled in.

You were going to be here for hours.

With him.

Your head throbbed at the thought, and suddenly, the idea of a drink didn’t seem so bad.

You sighed, rubbing your temple before muttering, "Let me get glasses."

As you turned toward the office cabinet where you kept miscellaneous supplies, including the occasional emergency stash of glassware, you heard the unmistakable sound of Kuroo grinning. Smug. Bastard.

"Well, that was easy," he mused, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Didn’t think you indulged while working."

You shot him a sharp glare as you pulled out two glasses. "Well, I would've been at the bar by now, so consider yourself lucky."

Kuroo snorted, shaking his head. "Hey, blame the boss, not me."

You narrowed your eyes. "If you hadn’t pissed him off with that ridiculous campaign, he wouldn’t have cracked down on us."

Kuroo just grinned, pouring the drinks. "Technicalities, technicalities."

You huffed, shaking your head as you took a sip, feeling the warmth of the alcohol seep into your system. "Focus, Kuroo. We actually need to get this done."

"I am focused," he said, swirling his glass with lazy amusement. "Multitasking. Drinking and working—very efficient."

Rolling your eyes, you dragged your laptop closer, forcing the conversation back on track. Despite his insufferable presence, the two of you made progress, fine-tuning the proposal, fixing the compliance issues, and actually making something presentable.

And, unfortunately, the drinks didn’t stop at just one.

At first, it was just a sip to take the edge off. Then another when Kuroo cracked a joke so unexpectedly funny that even you couldn't suppress a snort. Then another after you argued over phrasing in a particularly stubborn section of the document, only to realize you were both right in different ways. Somewhere along the way, the line between tolerating Kuroo and actually enjoying the banter blurred.

Your body felt warm, pleasantly buzzed as the stress of the day melted away. You stopped feeling the sharp edge of frustration every time he spoke, and—maybe it was the alcohol—but the way he leaned back in his chair, shirt sleeves rolled up, smirk easy and lazy, didn’t seem quite as aggravating as before.

Another drink. Another laugh. Another sidetracked conversation.

Until—

Darkness.

When you blinked your eyes open, you weren’t in your office.

You weren’t even in your apartment.

A sharp, groggy awareness hit you all at once as you registered the unfamiliar ceiling above you, the soft sheets against your skin, the distinct lack of a work desk or legal documents anywhere in sight. And then—

The realization slammed into you like a freight train.

You were naked.

Your body stiffened, the cool air against your bare skin making it impossible to ignore the fact that you had absolutely nothing on beneath the sheets. Panic surged through you in waves, your mind scrambling to piece together what the hell had happened last night.

Then came the real kicker—the slow, steady sound of breathing beside you.

Heart hammering, you turned your head—and there, lying next to you, Kuroo Tetsurou.

Still asleep. Still shirtless. Still in his bed.

Oh, hell no.

Your breath caught in your throat as fragmented flashes of the night before flickered through your mind—hazy, disjointed, but unmistakable.

Your hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer as your lips crashed against his. The low groan in his throat as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your waist, his touch feverish, desperate. The feeling of his fingers dragging down your spine, his mouth trailing along your neck, leaving marks you probably still had.

Your voice—breathless, needy—whispering his first name like a secret. "Tetsurou..."

The way he murmured your name against your skin, his breath hot and ragged. His body pressing against yours, strong, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you. The undeniable fire between you, building, burning, until there was nothing left but the desperate need to consume each other.

Another flash—

Your head tilting back, a gasp leaving your lips as his mouth devoured the sensitive skin of your throat. The way his voice turned hoarse, possessive, when he whispered in your ear, "You drive me insane."

Your body arching into him, nails raking down his back, every touch sending electric heat through your veins. The sound of the sheets rustling, the deep gravel of his moan, the feeling of being completely, utterly unraveled beneath him.

And then—

Your legs wrapped around his waist, his gritted teeth against your shoulder, his grip bruising as he held you still, his body pressing into yours with a hunger that felt like it would break you apart. The way he cursed under his breath, muttering something too low to fully remember, but you knew it was about you—about how good you felt, how much he wanted you.

Your own voice, breaking on a whimper, a moan, pleading—

"Tetsurou—"

You sucked in a sharp breath, your eyes wide as your pulse pounded violently in your ears. No. No, no, no.

Your entire body tensed, your fingers gripping the sheets as if that alone could ground you. You felt too warm, too aware, heat crawling up your spine as your skin tingled with the ghosts of his touch.

What the hell had you done?

A fresh wave of panic surged through you as you peeked beneath the sheets, confirming what you already knew. Your clothes were nowhere in sight.

You squeezed your eyes shut for half a second, willing yourself to wake up from whatever twisted fever dream this was—but when you reopened them, Kuroo was still there, breathing evenly, looking far too comfortable in his sleep.

Your stomach twisted as your brain scrambled for something—anything—that could explain how this had happened. You had been working. You had been arguing. And then there had been drinks, and—

Your fingers pressed against your temples.

You weren’t an idiot. You knew exactly how this had happened.

You had slept with Kuroo Tetsurou.

And the worst part? The way your body still thrummed with the memory of it.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

This wasn’t just some nightmare. This was real.

And you were absolutely screwed.

Heart pounding, you slowly—carefully—peeled the sheets away, trying to move as silently as possible. You needed to find your clothes. Now. Every fiber of your being screamed at you to get out before Kuroo woke up and made this entire situation even more unbearable.

Your eyes darted around the room, scanning for any sign of your belongings. You spotted your shirt draped over the back of a chair, your underwear crumpled on the floor near the bed. No sign of your pants.

Biting your lip, you held your breath and gingerly slid out of the bed, wincing as the mattress shifted beneath you. You crept forward, grabbing your shirt first, hurriedly clutching it to your chest as you crouched down to retrieve your underwear.

Just as you were about to reach for them—

"Mornin', sunshine."

You yelped, stumbling back against the nightstand, your grip tightening around your shirt as you clutched it against your bare chest. Your wide, panicked eyes shot toward the bed where Kuroo was now very much awake, watching you with groggy amusement. His voice was still thick with sleep, deep and gravelly in a way that sent an unwanted shiver down your spine.

"God, you scared the shit out of me!" you snapped, still holding your shirt up like a makeshift shield.

Kuroo’s lips twitched, clearly enjoying this far too much. He stretched, arms reaching over his head, the sheets slipping just enough to reveal more bare skin than you needed to see this early in the morning. His messy hair somehow looked even worse than usual, and yet—

You shook your head violently, banishing whatever treacherous thought had just formed.

"Trying to sneak out?" he mused, his golden eyes glinting with amusement as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Rude."

You opened your mouth, then shut it, feeling heat creep up your neck. "I don't—I mean—did we—?"

Kuroo chuckled, the sound deep and lazy, sending a fresh wave of mortification through you. "Oh yeah. Several times." He tilted his head slightly, watching as your grip on your shirt tightened. "You were quite eager."

Your face burned, the words hitting you like a wrecking ball to the soul. "Oh my god," you muttered, squeezing your eyes shut for a second, as if that would make the entire situation disappear.

Kuroo smirked wider, clearly relishing your reaction. "I gotta say, I didn’t know you had it in you."

You snapped your eyes open, glaring daggers at him, your heart still pounding a million miles an hour. "Shut up, Kuroo. Just—shut up."

"Oh, but you weren’t saying that last night," he teased, stretching lazily, the motion making his muscles flex in an unfairly distracting way. "In fact, if I recall correctly, you were saying—"

"Don’t. You. Dare."

His grin widened. "Tetsurou—please—" he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, clearly enjoying this too much.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at his face. "I hate you."

He caught it with ease, laughing. "Hate me? That's funny, 'cause last night, you were—"

You groaned, pressing your palm against your face, praying for the ground to swallow you whole.

"I'm leaving." You turned sharply, spotting your pants halfway across the damn room, and cursed under your breath.

Kuroo only hummed, watching you scramble with amusement. "Sure you don’t wanna stay for round…what was it? Five?"

You threw another pillow at him. "I swear to god, Kuroo—"

His laughter followed you as you yanked your pants on, still red-faced, still mortified beyond belief.

You snatched up the rest of your belongings—your shoes, your bag, even the stray hair tie that had somehow ended up on his nightstand—moving so quickly you nearly tripped in your haste. Every second in this room was a second too long, every moment spent within Kuroo’s amused, knowing gaze only fueling the burning humiliation in your chest.

As you shoved your arms through your sleeves, pulling your shirt over your head, Kuroo propped himself up on one elbow, watching you with the kind of infuriating satisfaction that made you want to launch something heavier than a pillow at him.

"See you Monday," he drawled, voice thick with teasing amusement.

You shot him a withering glare, but it only made his smirk widen. Without another word, you turned on your heel and stormed out, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

You could still hear his low chuckle as you slammed the door behind you.

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: Atsumu (Pt.2) NSFW

You barely remembered the trip home. Your body moved on autopilot, the mortification from earlier fogging your brain to the point that you couldn't focus on anything else. The second you made it through your bedroom door, you slammed it shut behind you and slid down against it, your legs giving out as you collapsed onto the floor.

"What the fuck did I just do?"

The words came out in a strangled whisper, as if saying them too loudly would make the situation even more real. You pressed your hands to your face, groaning into your palms as every moment replayed itself in your head like a sick joke. The shouting, the insults, the way he kissed you like he was trying to win—as if any of this was a game.

And worse? The way you kissed him back.

You wanted to blame the heat of the moment, the sheer exhaustion that had worn you thin, the suffocating tension that had been building up for years. But that didn’t excuse the fact that you had wrapped your legs around him, pulled him in, let yourself get so lost in him that you had completely forgotten where you were.

You smacked your forehead against your knees. "I am such an idiot."

The embarrassment made your skin crawl. You had let Atsumu Miya kiss you. And not just kiss you—practically devour you in a damn supply closet. You had been seconds away from—

No. No, you weren’t even going to think about that.

You forced yourself to stand, limbs still shaky as you shuffled toward your dresser, pulling out your sleepwear. Maybe if you went to bed and didn’t think about it, this entire thing would disappear from your memory by morning.

Right. Because that’s how trauma worked.

You peeled off your shirt, letting out a sigh as you tossed it into the laundry pile. Your fingers ran absentmindedly through your hair, eyes barely focusing on your reflection in the vanity mirror—

And then you saw it.

Your entire body went rigid.

There, on the side of your neck, just below your jawline, was a hickey.

Not just any hickey—a big, obnoxiously dark mark staining your skin, bold as fucking day. The kind that wasn’t going away anytime soon. The kind that was going to be impossible to cover up without half the school noticing.

Your eye twitched. Your pulse spiked.

That bastard.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, a fresh wave of fury searing through your veins.

"I’m gonna kill him."

___

The moment you stepped into the school building, your body was on edge.

You had taken extra time getting ready, draping a scarf around your neck despite the warm weather, just in case. The last thing you needed was for anyone to see the evidence of last night’s catastrophe.

But the second you stepped through the gym doors, you could feel him watching you.

Atsumu was already there, leaning lazily against the lockers, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk already in place.

“Yer all bundled up today,” he drawled, golden eyes flickering to the scarf wrapped snugly around your neck. “Ain’t it a little warm for that?”

You didn’t respond. You marched straight toward him, grabbing him by the arm before he could react and dragging him toward the back of the building, away from prying eyes.

“Oi—what the hell?” he complained, but he didn’t resist, letting you pull him along with a smug chuckle.

The second you were alone, you spun around, fire in your eyes. “You have a lot of goddamn nerve.”

Atsumu raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Me? What’d I do?”

You ripped off the scarf and pointed at your neck. “Care to explain this?”

His gaze flickered downward, and when he saw the mark, his smirk grew into something far too pleased for your liking. “Huh.”

“Huh?! That’s all you have to say?!”

He shrugged, completely unbothered. “What? Looks good on ya.”

Your blood boiled.

“Where did you find the gall and the nerve to mark me like some sort of animal?!” you seethed. “Do you even care?!”

Atsumu sighed dramatically, rubbing the back of his head. “Aww, sweetheart, didn’t know ya were that ashamed of me.”

Your eye twitched.

“Ashamed?! Oh, please—”

“Oh, so ya liked it?”

Your breath caught, your brain short-circuiting just long enough for him to chuckle. “I knew ya weren’t as immune to me as ya act.”

Your fists clenched, the fury behind your eyes nearly burning holes through him. “I swear to god, Miya, if you don’t wipe that smug look off your face, I’ll—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice low and taunting. He took a step closer, invading your space. “Ya gonna hit me? Scream at me? Oh, wait—ya already did plenty of screamin’ last night.”

Your stomach twisted into a violent knot. “Go to hell.”

Atsumu smirked, tilting his head. “Only if you join me, sweetheart.”

Red. All you saw was red.

Your hand shot out, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely stumbled, his smirk widening as if he’d expected it—wanted it. His eyes burned, dark and taunting, daring you to push him further.

“I fucking hate you,” you spat, voice shaking with rage. “Stay the hell away from me.”

Atsumu let the silence hang, watching you, unreadable—until his lips curled, voice dropping to something dangerous, something hungry.

“That’s not what I was gettin’ last night.”

Your breath hitched, your entire body locking up.

He leaned in just a fraction, enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off of him. His voice was nothing but a rough murmur. “In fact, from where I was sittin’… ya couldn’t get enough of me.”

You snapped. Without thinking, your hand whipped out, aiming to smack that cocky look off his face—but he caught your wrist before it could land. His grip was firm, tight, and the moment your skin met his, something flared in the space between you. A live wire, electric and burning.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your chest heaved, his fingers tightening around your wrist, his golden eyes locked onto yours, daring, challenging, waiting for your next move.

And then, just as quickly, he released you, stepping back with that damn smirk still in place. “See ya at practice, sweetheart.”

He turned and walked off, leaving you standing there, heart pounding, fists clenched so hard your nails bit into your palms.

You hated him. Hated him.

And you hated the fact that your skin still burned where he touched you.

__

The moment you stepped onto the court, the entire atmosphere had shifted. The usual lightheartedness was replaced by something else—something charged, something that even the others could feel. The tension between you and Atsumu was palpable, filling every space between you like static before a storm.

You did everything you could to ignore him, keeping your focus locked on the drills, on making sure everything ran smoothly as usual. But even as you busied yourself with tasks, taking inventory, filling water bottles, making sure the practice schedule was followed, you felt him. His presence, his gaze. And every single time you so much as glanced his way, you caught it—that smug, infuriating smirk, the one that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

Osamu was the first to crack. “She's even more pissed off than usual. What’d ya do to her?”

Atsumu’s head snapped toward his brother, jaw tightening. “Why do ya always assume I’m in the wrong?”

Osamu raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Dunno, maybe ‘cause ya usually are?”

Atsumu scoffed, gripping the volleyball tighter in his hands before tossing it up and setting it with too much force. “Fuck off, ‘Samu.”

Suna, from across the court, watched the exchange with mild interest, his usual lazy expression barely concealing the amusement behind his eyes. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. The shared glance between him and Osamu said enough.

Even Kita had noticed. “Focus,” he called out flatly, directing the attention of the team back to practice. “Don’t need anyone actin’ stupid today.”

Your jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the clipboard in your hand. The fact that it was so obvious was frustrating enough. You’d hoped that whatever happened between you and Atsumu could be contained, that it wouldn’t seep into practice, but it was everywhere—in the way his passes came off just a little harder, in the way your own movements felt stiff and mechanical. In the way your stomach twisted whenever you so much as thought about the night before.

The second the whistle blew, signaling the end of practice, you didn’t hesitate. You were gone, out the door before anyone could stop you, barely pausing to acknowledge the rest of the team as they wrapped up.

You didn’t care. You just needed to get away.

You tried to go about your day. You really did. You sat through your classes, eyes locked on the board, scribbling down notes that you knew wouldn’t make any sense later. You went through the motions, completing assignments, answering when spoken to, doing everything you were supposed to do.

And yet, despite all of it, your mind refused to let you be.

It kept circling back to him.

The way he looked at you. The way his hands had felt gripping your waist. The heat of his breath against your skin. The smugness in his voice when he threw your own reactions back in your face, like he knew he was getting under your skin. Like he thrived on it.

You shook your head, frustrated, dragging a hand down your face as you sat in the back of the library, books open in front of you but nothing sinking in. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. And the worst part? He knew it.

Because Atsumu Miya was the absolute worst.

And you hated that, deep down, he knew it too.

It was like an itch under your skin, a pressure in your chest that refused to ease. No matter how much you told yourself you could push it away, forget it, move on—it lingered. Every time you blinked, you could still feel the way his hands had gripped you, how his breath had ghosted over your skin, how he had smirked like he had won.

You weren’t going to let him take up another second of your time.

Fuck this. And fuck him.

Jaw tight, you yanked your phone out of your pocket, fingers moving faster than your thoughts as you typed out a message to Kita.

Not feeling well. Can’t make it to afternoon practice.

Your thumb hovered over the send button for a split second before pressing down. As soon as the message was out, a weight lifted from your chest. There was no way in hell you were going to spend another hour in that gym, breathing the same air as him, pretending like everything was normal when it wasn’t.

You tossed your phone onto the table, running both hands down your face, exhaling slowly. You needed to clear your head. You needed space. One day—just one day—where Atsumu Miya wasn’t in your fucking mind.

A small vibration broke the silence, and you glanced at your phone again.

Kita: Okay. Feel better.

You stared at the message for a second before locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket.

You weren’t sick. But he sure as hell was making you feel like you were.

__

After spending the rest of the day trying to distract yourself—hanging out with friends, grabbing food, doing anything to keep your thoughts away from him—you finally made it home. The moment you stepped inside, the silence was welcoming, wrapping around you like a warm blanket.

Your parents were gone for the weekend. No one was home. Just you, an empty house, and, finally, some peace.

You exhaled slowly, rolling your shoulders as you set your bag down by the door. The tension in your chest had begun to fade, little by little, replaced by the relief of knowing you didn’t have to see him, didn’t have to deal with his bullshit. You could relax, unwind, maybe even—

A knock at the door shattered the peace into a million fucking pieces.

Your head snapped toward the door, heart lurching into your throat. No way. It couldn’t be—

A second knock.

You stood frozen for half a second before irritation overtook any disbelief. Of course, it was him. Of course.

You stomped forward, already feeling the irritation claw its way back up your spine. The second you yanked open the door, your glare could’ve burned holes through his head.

Atsumu Miya, standing on your doorstep, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

Your instincts kicked in immediately. Without thinking, without hesitating, you moved to slam the door shut.

But his foot jammed in before the door could close, wedging itself into the gap, keeping it wide open. He stepped forward, forcing his way into your space with that same smug arrogance he always carried. You glared at him, voice low, venomous.

“I didn’t invite you in.”

Atsumu turned, stuffing his hands into his pockets, completely unfazed by your hostility. “We need to talk.”

“No, we really don’t.” You crossed your arms tightly, shifting your weight as if physically bracing yourself for whatever ridiculous excuse he was about to pull from his ass.

He leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing in determination. “I think we do. This whole thing between us? It’s screwin’ with the team.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “And whose fault is that?”

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Doesn’t matter. What matters is fixin’ it. And I got a solution.”

You narrowed your eyes, already regretting even entertaining this conversation. “I swear to god, if this is some dumbass idea—”

“Let’s just fuck and get it outta our systems.”

Silence. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

Your brain stalled for a moment, your mouth parting as if waiting for an explanation that would somehow make his words less ridiculous.

“…Excuse me?”

Atsumu leaned against the doorframe, completely relaxed, completely serious. “You heard me.”

You blinked. Then a sharp, disbelieving laugh tore from your throat. “You are actually out of your goddamn mind.”

“Think about it,” he continued, as if he were suggesting something completely logical, completely normal. “All this pent-up tension? It ain’t gonna go away on its own. We fight like hell every time we’re near each other, and it’s makin’ shit hard for the team.”

You scoffed, arms crossing even tighter. “Yeah, and whose fault is that?”

His smirk sharpened. “You sure it’s just mine?”

Your fingers twitched, itching to strangle him. “Yes, Miya. It is. And I don’t know what kind of delusional fantasy you’ve been living in, but I wouldn’t touch you if my life depended on it.”

Atsumu’s grin widened. “Oh yeah? That’s not what it felt like the other night.”

Your blood boiled instantly. “I hate you.”

“Good,” he said, voice dropping slightly, gaze darkening. “Makes it easier.”

You hated that your breath caught. Hated that there was something dangerous in the way he looked at you, something that sent a sharp, electric pulse straight through your stomach, tightening like a vice, making your breath come just a little too short. He was standing too close, the heat radiating from him brushing against your skin, tangible, suffocating. It was infuriating—how he took up space, how he filled every damn inch of it like he belonged there, like this moment was inevitable.

Your mind screamed at you to slam the door in his face, to push him away, to tell him to go straight to hell where he belonged. But you knew, deep in the marrow of your bones, that it wouldn’t make a difference. He’d still be there, in your head, smirking, taunting, winning.

Because he was right about one thing.

The tension? The energy? The pull between you? It wasn’t going away. It had been festering, simmering beneath every argument, every pointed glare, every sharp-edged word exchanged over the years. It had always been there, a wildfire waiting for a spark.

You sucked in a sharp breath, trying—desperately—to rein in the rage, the irritation, the heat that was threatening to consume you whole. Every logical part of you screamed to shove him out, to not give in, to refuse him like you always had. But the rest of you? The part that was tired of the fight, of the push and pull, of resisting something that never truly went away? That part just wanted relief. “You’re serious about this?”

His smirk faded slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remained. “Dead serious.”

A battle waged inside you, every single nerve in your body screaming for you to shove him out, to tell him to rot in hell.

And yet, somehow, the words never left your lips.

Instead, you held his gaze for a long moment before exhaling sharply, tilting your chin up in defiance. "Leave your shoes near the door," you said, voice firm, unwavering. Then, without another glance, you turned on your heel and walked toward your bedroom, every step deliberate, controlled—as if daring him to follow.

Behind you, Atsumu's smirk widened. He toed off his shoes without hesitation, stepping inside with the confidence of someone who had already won.

Every rational part of you screamed that this was a terrible idea, that giving him even this was playing into exactly what he wanted. But another part of you—the part that had felt the full force of his mouth on yours, the part that still burned from the way he had grabbed you,—told you this was inevitable.

The moment the bedroom door shut, the air thickened, charged with something electric, something volatile. Hands clashed in a war of dominance, tearing at clothing like this was less about passion and more about proving a point. Fabric hit the floor in a frenzied, heated mess, discarded in a battle neither of you planned to lose. His grip was rough, fingers curling into the hem of your shirt before yanking it up and over your head with no patience, no hesitation.

You weren’t any gentler. Your hands fisted his hoodie, dragging it up his torso with force, exposing tanned skin and hard muscle, your nails scratching over his ribs just to hear the sharp breath he sucked through his teeth. It was satisfying, watching his composure waver, watching him react to you instead of the other way around. But his eyes burned when they met yours, something dark and dangerous flashing through them as he let the hoodie drop to the floor and stepped closer, pressing you backward, swallowing any satisfaction you might have felt.

His lips found the base of your throat, hot, biting, a stark contrast to the cool air against your flushed skin. He kissed like he fought—ruthless, demanding, relentless. His teeth scraped over your pulse point, lips dragging along the sensitive skin before sinking in just enough to make your breath hitch.

“When are your folks gonna be home?” he muttered against your throat, voice rough, half-amused, half-starved.

The question barely registered, your mind already dizzy from the way his hands slid down your sides, gripping at your waist like he was staking a claim. “Monday,” you managed to breathe out, your voice embarrassingly unsteady.

Atsumu grinned against your skin, that cocky smirk pressing into your flesh, making you want to shove him away just as much as you wanted to pull him closer. “Good.” His breath was hot against your ear as he dragged his lips to your jaw, his voice dropping lower. “Means you can be loud.”

His hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, pressing against your throat just enough to make you dizzy, gripping your waist hard enough that you were sure you'd feel it tomorrow. His smirk never faltered, even as his rhythm stuttered when you clenched around him, even as you matched his energy, dragging your nails down his back, leaving marks that would remind him exactly who he was dealing with.

Before you could register it, he pushed you back, guiding you toward the bed with a roughness that sent a pulse of heat down your spine. Your knees hit the mattress, and as you fell back, you reached behind you, flicking open the clasp of your bra and letting it slide off your shoulders. Atsumu's gaze darkened, his hands immediately finding your bare skin, his thumbs swiping over your nipples in a slow, testing motion.

A sharp breath escaped you, and before you could bite it back, he grinned. "Sensitive, huh?" His voice was low, teasing, full of wicked amusement as he leaned in, dragging his tongue over the already aching bud before his teeth grazed it—just enough pressure to make you arch slightly.

The sting made you hiss, your hand shooting up to tangle in his hair, yanking hard. He groaned, the sound reverberating against your skin, but instead of annoyance, his smirk only widened. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, his lips curving against your breast as he let out a breathy chuckle. "That all ya got?"

Heat crept up your neck, a flash of irritation mixing with something else—something dangerous. You could feel the smirk against your skin, smug and insufferable, and without thinking, you decided to wipe it off his face.

Your hand shot down between you, fingers deftly working at his belt, yanking it open with a confidence that made his breath hitch. The sound was satisfying, nearly as much as the way his smirk flickered for half a second when you popped the button on his jeans and dragged the zipper down in one smooth motion.

His cock was hot and heavy in your palm, and the second you wrapped your fingers around him, Atsumu let out a ragged groan, his forehead briefly pressing into your collarbone.

You shouldn’t have looked. You should not have looked. But curiosity got the better of you, and the moment your eyes flickered down, something inside you stuttered.

Fuck. He was bigger than you thought.

Atsumu felt you hesitate. You knew he did because when he looked up, there was something knowing in his gaze, something amused and all too smug.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he drawled, voice thick, teasing. "Bit off more than ya can chew?"

Your grip tightened instinctively around him, wiping the smirk off his face just as quickly as it had returned. But inside, your thoughts were spiraling.

Then, without missing a beat, you scoffed, tilting your head as your fingers gave an almost lazy stroke along his length. "Please," you murmured, voice dripping with defiance, "don’t flatter yourself."

Atsumu’s jaw ticked, the teasing glint in his eyes sharpening into something darker, something more challenging. But before he could throw back one of his usual cocky retorts, you surged forward, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was all teeth, all aggression, all sheer willpower to stay in control. Your hand still worked him over, slow but deliberate, and you could feel the way his breath hitched, the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

For once, he wasn’t smirking.

And that was exactly what you wanted.

His breath came heavier now, his body betraying him even as he tried to maintain his usual smug composure. You didn’t give him time to recover. Your hand kept working over him, stroking slow and firm, and you could feel the way his cock twitched against your palm, how his muscles tensed beneath your touch. He let out a low groan into your mouth, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise, like he was trying to steady himself.

But you weren’t done proving a point.

Atsumu’s grip tightened, and in one swift movement, he pushed you back onto the bed, his weight pressing you into the mattress. The sudden shift sent a shiver through you, but you refused to let him see it. Instead, you propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through hooded eyes as he reached for the waistband of your pants, fingers toying with the fabric.

He paused, gaze flicking up to meet yours, almost as if he was waiting for you to protest.

You didn’t.

His smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "Knew ya wanted this," he muttered, more to himself than you, and then he hooked his fingers into your pants, dragging them down along with your panties in one slow, torturous motion.

The cool air hit your skin, and that was when it fully sank in—how wet you were, how badly you had needed this despite every ounce of denial you had fed yourself. Atsumu’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, that self-satisfied smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth again.

“Well, well,” he murmured, voice thick with amusement as his fingers trailed along the inside of your thigh, not touching where you needed him most, just teasing. “Guess I’m not the only one enjoyin’ this.”

Heat flared in your cheeks, an involuntary reaction you hated, and Atsumu caught it instantly, his smirk deepening with the kind of satisfaction that made your blood boil. Your breath came out sharper than you intended, but you refused to let him get the upper hand.

Grinding your teeth, you quickly recovered, tilting your head with a defiant glare. "Just shut up and fuck me."

Atsumu’s smirk faltered for a split second, and you caught it—the flicker in his eyes, the sharp inhale, the way his grip on your thigh tightened ever so slightly. He tried—tried—to act unfazed, but the way his cock twitched against your leg told you everything you needed to know.

You only smirked, fingers reaching up to drag through his hair, tugging him down until his mouth crashed against yours. If he wanted to act like you weren’t affecting him, you’d just have to prove otherwise.

But then he pulled back, breath ragged, eyes dark with something unreadable. Without a word, he reached for his discarded pants, fishing in the pocket before pulling out a condom. He tore it open with his teeth, rolling it on with a practiced ease that had your stomach flipping.

Atsumu’s gaze flicked to yours as he crawled back over you, spreading your legs apart with both hands, his touch firm, demanding. The tension crackled between you, heavy and intoxicating, his gaze drinking you in like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

And then, finally, finally, he pressed into you—slow, deliberate, stretching you inch by inch until you could feel every bit of him. The sensation was overwhelming, a deep, aching stretch that made your breath falter, your fingers tightening around your sheets as your body adjusted. It felt impossibly slow, like time had deliberately decided to crawl just to make you feel every single inch of him sinking into you, filling you more than you had anticipated, more than you had prepared for.

Your walls clenched involuntarily, the pressure making your body thrum with a mix of pleasure and tension. A choked sound escaped you, something between a gasp and a whimper, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck, pooling behind your eyes as the sheer fullness of it sent a shiver down your spine. Tears pricked at the corners of your vision, unbidden, unexpected, as if your body was trying to process how completely he had taken over your senses.

You almost didn’t dare to look at him. You expected his usual cocky smirk, a teasing remark, some smug comment about how he knew you’d struggle to take him. But when you forced yourself to peek up at him, what you saw made your breath hitch for an entirely different reason.

Atsumu was wrecked.

At first, you thought he was in pain. His whole body was trembling, jaw locked so tight you could see the tension ripple through him. You blinked, suddenly unsure, shifting slightly beneath him, instinctively moving to push at his chest, to tell him to stop if it was too much—

But the second you moved, Atsumu let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a groan and a curse, his hands clamping down hard on your thighs as he all but growled, "Don’t move."

You froze, lips parting in confusion. "Why—"

Then, you saw it.

The way his forehead dropped against yours, the way his entire frame shook with the effort of keeping himself together. His breath was ragged, his nails digging into your skin, his control hanging by a thread so thin you could almost see it snapping.

He wasn’t in pain.

He was holding back.

Holding back from cumming.

The realization sent another wave of heat through you, something dark and wicked unfurling in your chest. He was barely holding on.

And something about that made the heat in your stomach coil tighter, deeper. Seeing him like this—wrecked, struggling, trying so damn hard to hold himself together—was intoxicating. You had spent so long thinking of him as smug, as unshakable, as someone who never let anything get to him. But now? Now he was unraveling above you, and it was because of you.

Your breath caught, and you swallowed hard, trying to shove the thought down as far as it would go. That’s so ridiculously hot.

No. No, you couldn’t let yourself think that, couldn’t let yourself dwell on it, couldn’t let yourself enjoy it. Not with him. Not like this.

You forced yourself to focus, to ease the tension in your body, to relax just enough so it wasn’t as tight, wasn’t as overwhelming for either of you. You exhaled slowly, steadying yourself, feeling the way his grip tightened just slightly, like he was waiting, like he was barely managing to hold himself back.

And then, without warning, he thrust into you.

A sharp, unrestrained scream tore from your lips, your entire body jolting at the sudden movement. The sensation of being stretched even further sent a shockwave through your system, a mix of pleasure and sheer overwhelming fullness that made your breath stutter. Your back arched instinctively, hands flying up to cover your mouth, eyes blown wide in disbelief at the abruptness of it.

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs, your pulse roaring in your ears. The shock took precedence over everything else, and before you could think better of it, you swung your hand out and smacked his shoulder—hard.

“Maybe let me know when you start?!” you half-yelled, voice sharp, breath tumbling out in a shaky exhale as you tried to regain some semblance of composure. Your body was still reeling, trying to adjust to him, and the last thing you needed was to be caught off guard like that.

Atsumu only grinned, completely unbothered by the slap, looking down at you with that insufferable, golden-eyed amusement. His breath was uneven, his jaw tight, but that cocky smirk still curled at his lips like he had all the control in the world.

“What? Thought ya liked surprises, sweetheart,” he teased, voice thick, a little wrecked despite his best efforts to hide it.

As he spoke, he started moving—slow at first, but deep, each thrust deliberate and unrelenting. Whatever sharp remark you had locked and loaded in your brain was lost instantly, the words dying in your throat as a broken moan escaped instead. Your fingers dug into his arms, gripping hard enough to leave marks, your body already responding despite every stubborn effort to resist.

His smirk widened, golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "What was that?" he taunted, his pace steady, unhurried, like he was enjoying watching you struggle to hold yourself together.

You tried—tried—to find your voice, to glare at him, to force something cutting past your lips, but all that came was another breathy moan, your head tilting back against the pillow as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach.

Atsumu chuckled, leaning down until his lips brushed against your ear. "Guess ya don’t got much to say now, huh?"

You narrowed your eyes at him, fingers twitching, half a second away from smacking him again. Smug bastard.

But if he thought you were just going to lie there and take it, he had another thing coming.

Your walls clenched deliberately around him in retaliation, squeezing tight just to throw him off his rhythm. The reaction was instant—his breath hitched, his smirk faltering as his jaw clenched hard enough to make his muscles twitch. You felt the tremor that ran through him, the way his fingers dug just a little deeper into your hips, his control barely holding on by a thread.

A satisfied smirk flickered across your lips as you rolled your hips up to meet his thrusts, matching him, challenging him. If he wanted to play smug, you could play harder.

"Fuckin’ hell," Atsumu groaned, voice strained, his movements stuttering before he caught himself. His golden eyes, usually filled with amusement and arrogance, were darker now, hazed over with something dangerously close to desperation.

He exhaled sharply, trying to recover, trying to push past the way you were throwing him off, but you knew. You could see the effort it was taking him to keep control, to not let it slip, and that only made you push more.

His thrusts picked up in response, deeper, more desperate, like he was trying to wrestle back the upper hand. But even he was struggling now, and when he tried to open his mouth for some cocky remark, all that came out was a low, broken moan.

The tension snapped like a live wire between you, the push and pull combusting into something raw, something reckless. His movements grew sharper, more relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as if trying to ground himself, as if trying to drag both of you under with him. The heat pooling in your stomach grew unbearable, white-hot pleasure licking up your spine, making every nerve in your body hum.

Your head tilted back, lips parting as the sensation overwhelmed you. And then, without thinking, without hesitation, the words tumbled from your lips, breathless and pleading.

"Tsumu... harder."

Something inside him snapped.

A sharp curse tore from his throat, his control completely disintegrating as he buried himself deeper, his rhythm shifting from teasing to ruinous. His pace turned brutal, driving into you with a force that sent you arching into the sheets, your fingers clawing at his back, nails dragging down his skin as you lost yourself to the sheer intensity of it.

Every thrust sent you spiraling higher, the coil in your stomach twisting impossibly tight, your entire body trembling from the mounting pleasure. It was too much, too good, each snap of his hips pushing you closer to the edge until—

You shattered.

A choked cry ripped from your throat, pleasure slamming through you in waves, body tensing, back arching, your walls clamping down around him like a vice. The sensation ripped a strangled groan from Atsumu, his movements growing erratic as he chased his own release, barely holding himself together before he followed, spilling into the condom with a deep, shuddering moan.

For a long moment, there was nothing but ragged breathing, heavy silence, the lingering heat of everything that had just happened wrapping around you both like a smothering fog. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his chest heaving against yours, the weight of him grounding you in the aftermath of the storm.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you exhaled shakily and muttered, "Well... what now?"

Rivalry: Akaashi

You had worked your ass off for this promotion.

Late nights, impossible deadlines, last-minute rewrites—you’d done it all. You had sacrificed weekends, spent too many nights hunched over your desk, and powered through mind-numbing meetings, all in the hopes that your work would finally be recognized. And now, with the senior editor position finally up for grabs, it was down to you and Akaashi Keiji.

Akaashi—the picture-perfect editor. Calm, meticulous, frustratingly good at everything. The kind of guy who never looked frazzled, never rushed, never flinched under pressure. It was like stress simply did not affect him.

And somehow, despite working just as hard as you, he always seemed one step ahead.

You wanted to win this. Not just for the raise or the title, but to finally beat him at something. To prove that you were just as good—better, even.

So when your boss called you both into the office, hands folded with a pleased smirk, you thought, Maybe, just maybe, I’ve got this.

Then the words left their mouth.

“Akaashi landed an exclusive with the MSBY Jackals.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

Your boss nodded. “Full-length feature. First-hand accounts. Exclusive team coverage. Bokuto introduced him to the players himself—an incredible opportunity. The kind of coverage that puts our magazine on the map.”

You snapped your head toward Akaashi, who sat calmly beside you, hands folded neatly, expression unreadable.

That smug bastard.

This was his play? Getting his old volleyball captain to pull strings for him?

Your blood boiled.

“Oh, come on,” you said, barely keeping the irritation out of your voice. “That’s not exactly fair.”

Akaashi finally turned to you, blinking in that cool, composed way that made you want to shake him. “How so?”

You scoffed. “You used connections to land the interview. It wasn’t based on merit.”

Akaashi tilted his head, looking entirely unbothered. “I leveraged resources available to me. That’s part of the job, isn’t it?”

Your jaw clenched.

The worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

Your boss leaned back in their chair, watching the exchange with thinly veiled amusement before raising a hand to cut off the argument. “Enough. If you both want this promotion, you’re both going to prove you deserve it.”

You blinked. “What?”

Akaashi didn’t react, but you saw the faintest flicker of curiosity in his sharp blue eyes.

“You’re both going to work on the feature together,” the boss continued, tapping a finger against their desk. “I want the best piece possible. If you can’t put aside your rivalry long enough to get this done, neither of you will get the promotion. Understood?”

Your fingers tightened around your notepad. This was not what you wanted. The whole point was to beat him, not work with him.

But you couldn’t back down now. Not when the stakes were this high.

“…Understood,” you muttered through gritted teeth.

Akaashi nodded smoothly. “Understood.”

“Good.” Your boss glanced at the clock. “Get started. I expect a solid first draft by the end of the week. And with the deadline, I imagine you’ll be staying late to work on it together.”

You bit back a sigh, already feeling the impending headache.

The moment the meeting ended, you stormed past Akaashi, but before you could make it out the door, his voice followed, low and amused.

“Try not to let your frustration get in the way of our work,” he said smoothly, adjusting his glasses. “It’d be a shame if I had to carry you through this project.”

You turned on your heel, eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t worry, Akaashi. If anyone’s carrying this project, it’ll be me.”

His lips twitched, just slightly. “I look forward to seeing that.”

You hated how much fun he was having.

But most of all?

You hated that he always found a way to stay one step ahead.

~~~~

The office was silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of keyboards and the occasional irritated sigh escaping your lips.

You had been here for hours, stuck in the same damn room with Akaashi, going back and forth on revisions, disagreeing on everything.

“That transition is too abrupt,” Akaashi said, his tone calm as he skimmed over your section. “It needs more context.”

“It’s concise,” you shot back, stretching in your chair. “We don’t need extra fluff.”

He exhaled softly, as if reigning in patience. “It’s not fluff. It’s clarity.”

You groaned, leaning back. “You’re impossible.”

Akaashi didn’t look up from his screen. “And yet, you’re still here.”

You wanted to throw something at him.

After another hour of back-and-forth edits, your eyes started to sting from staring at the screen for too long. You rubbed at them, sighing deeply as you slumped in your chair.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered. “We’re never going to finish at this rate.”

Akaashi glanced at the clock. “Then we should stop arguing and be efficient.”

You shot him a glare. “Oh, so now you’re suddenly a team player?”

His lips quirked. “I always was. You just refuse to acknowledge it.”

You groaned again, running a hand through your hair. This was going to be a long night.

Akaashi sighed, leaning back in his chair as well, adjusting his glasses. “We’re making progress. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

You didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. The article was shaping up, the writing crisp, the interviews well-structured. And despite your deep frustration, working with Akaashi wasn’t as horrible as you wanted it to be.

Still, you weren’t going to let him think he had the upper hand.

“We’ll see,” you muttered, turning back to your screen.

Akaashi hummed, watching you for a moment before returning to his own work.

The night stretched on, both of you determined to outdo the other, neither of you willing to be the first to give in.

And just like that, the rivalry continued.

Until Akaashi broke the silence.

"I have extra tickets to the MSBY game this weekend. You should come."

Your fingers froze over your keyboard. Slowly, you turned your head to look at him, brows furrowed in confusion. "What?"

Akaashi didn’t even glance up, still focused on his screen as if he hadn’t just said something completely out of character. "The game. It would be beneficial to see the team in action if we’re writing about them."

You narrowed your eyes. "You could just send me the game footage."

His fingers tapped lightly against his desk before he finally looked at you, gaze unreadable. "That’s not the same."

You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed. "Why are you being nice to me?"

"I’m not. I’m being practical."

You scoffed. "Uh-huh. Sure."

Akaashi tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "You don’t have to come. I just thought you’d appreciate an exclusive firsthand look. But if you’d rather rely on secondhand reports, be my guest."

Your jaw tightened. You hated how effortlessly he manipulated situations in his favor.

"Fine. I’ll go."

Akaashi nodded, returning to his work as if nothing had happened. "Good. I’ll send you the details."

You stared at him for a second longer before shaking your head, muttering under your breath.

This was getting too weird.

Rivalry: Atsumu

It had been years of this.

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

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

The worst part? You never backed down.

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

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

Until tonight.

Tonight, he’d finally gone too far.

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

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

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

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

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

And the worst part? The others loved it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you didn’t care about that right now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh? And what's yours?”

He shrugged. “I score points.”

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

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

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

And god, did it work.

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

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

"I'd rather set myself on fire."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And you're full of yourself."

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

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

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

Then your stomach dropped.

The knob refused to turn.

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

You twisted the knob again, harder. Still nothing.

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

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

Nothing.

Atsumu frowned, twisting harder. Still nothing.

Silence.

Then, without missing a beat—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The worst part?

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

Shut up, Miya." You bit back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then the door burst open.

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

“What the hell?!”

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

“The fuck are you two doin’ in here?”

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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.

“Me and the bad bitch i pulled” meets “I fell for the assassin you sent after me”

Nadienne

Nadia and Etienne having a enemies to lovers moment

Y'all talk a big game about writing enemies to lovers but just know you'll never recreate what they had

I just might hate you, too, he thought. I just thought they are in love and had to draw them. Again.

the holy grail types of fanfic

Cigarette and Beer

Francis y zak un dibujo viejo que tenía en la galería

Francis and Zak an old drawing that he had in the gallery

Zak when he saw France without his glasses and was also surprised why he was happy to see him

Francis for the first time happy to see Zak normal

well I bought a graphics tablet and this was my 2nd drawing

it looks horrible 😔

The boy who is bothering Francisco is Frank, a clone made from the new cloning machine that the old Epsilon created so as not to have to raise the clones, they are not complete, they already make them when they are teenagers or children with already abilities.

Zak's Kur powers returned because it was not permanent for Kur to leave Zak's body since he united his soul with the child as he was his reincarnation.

It is a small drawing of what I am drawing first is THE RETURN OF KUR and the 2nd is THE ORIGINS OF THE CLONES

I don't know whether to make it a comic or write a story, I'll see.

Zak is undergoing a metamorphosis because Kur is gaining his abilities but does not control them

Zak ran away from home after a small accident, his parents were desperately looking for him. Francis joined Zak, why did Zak go to look for Francis and ended up going against Epsilon after some fights, without knowing that later GRANDPA the old Epsilon who is alive would come and when he did not see the presence of Francis and saw what happened he decided to create a new clone Frank who would be more perfect than Francisco

Now Francis is between a rock and a hard place since Frank was sent to capture Kur and kill Francis Epsilon does not say anything he simply has no authority before his creator

a whole mess,😅

I apologize if it is not understood, I do not use English well.

In inglés

Zak and Francis getting along in the first image Francis went to stay at Zak's house by order of his father, they fought all day and in the end they ended up talking about a game that wasn't coming out yet but Francisco already had it and lent it to him. Zak Francis ended up acting like a happy child.

In the second image it was Francisco's birthday none of Francisco's classmates came or the children who invited none came except Zak who Epsilon invited because he was Kur Francis hugged him for a happy hour and then he returned to normal

They are old drawings that I forgot to publish

En español

zak y Francis llevandose bien en la primera imagen francis fue a quedarse en la casa de zak por orden de su padre se pelearon todo el dia y al final terminaron hablando de un juego que todavía no salia pero Francisco ya lo tenia y se lo presto a zak Francis termino actuando como un niño feliz

en la segunda imagen era el cumpleaños de Francisco ninguno de los compañeros de francisco vino o los niños que invitaron ninguno vino exepto zak quien epsilon invito por ser kur Francis lo abrazo por una hora feliz u después volvio a la normalidad

son dibujos viejos que me olvidé de publicar

a small spoiler for the secret saturdays comic that I'm doing, this was the first design of the first drawing

En español

un pequeño spoiler del comic de los sábados secretos que estoy haciendo este fue el primer diseño del primer dibujo

a small argument over a chocolate bread zak thought Francis ate it but it was (komodo)

Baby Franklin

Zackxfrancis

in English

from my Au from secret Saturdays in the owl house a little comic I would say

en español

de mi Au de los sábados secretos en the owl house un pequeño comic diria

https://www.tumblr.com/hyakilove129/730679310318452736/in-english-i-was-watching-secret-saturdays-right

in English

Zak and Francis being parents of little Franklin

en inglés

zak y Francis siendo padres del pequeño Franklin

in English

a drawing of a frustrated ship even so I love them both six x Holiday and white knight x six

a little kiss after a mission I drew white without his armor to make him look better

It's not my best drawing of these two, I drew it in a hurry

en español

un dibujo de ship frustrado aun asi los amo a los tanto seis x Holiday y caballero blanco x seis

un pequeño beso despues de una mision dibuje a blanco sin su armadura haci se ve mejor

no es mi mejor dibujo de estos dos lo dibuje apurada

TikTok

hyakilove129 en TikTok

u bueno hice dos Au uno de the owl house y otro the Secret saturdays espero le guste #tiktok #theowlhouse #amityblight #luznoceda #cartoonne

in English

Well, here I had published my drawings of the Secret saturdaysxtheowlhouse

well now I published them on tik tok pir if anyone wants to see they are also zak and Francis

That is if I publish in Spanish since I am more comfortable with the language.

Zak being on top of Francis

Francis picks him up while Zak watches the shower of shooting stars.

Francis watches in silence

Zak: I'm on top of the world.

Francis: you're not on top of me

Zak: Yes Francis because you are my world

Francis smiles discreetly.

Zak: Francis, you're okay, your face is red.

Francis: if it's just the cold

Zak: Do you want to go inside?

Francis: I'm not well.

Zak: Okay.

Zak continued looking at the shower of shooting stars that little by little began to disappear

Francis looked at Zak smiling happily without him realizing it.

Francis liked spending that night with Zak, it's a shame he'll never tell him.

bonus a drawing done in a hurry

in English

Well, a mini spoiler comic of what I plan to draw. Well, sorry if it's written badly, English is not my strong point.

bonus at the end of everything Francis was honest with Zak and all his feelings trapped for years

Now who knows, maybe feelings of affection or something else are born, after all, Zak was also sincere with Francis and no longer sees him with hatred, but rather as a person who can be trusted too much, although sometimes it is not the best.

en español

bueno un mini comic de spoiler de lo que pienso dibujar bueno disculpen si esta mal escrito el inglés no es mi fuerte

bonus al final de todo Francis fue sincero con zak y todo sus sentimientos atrapados durante años

ahora quien sabe talvez sentimientos de cariño o algo mas nascan despues de todo zak también fue sincero con Francis y ya no lo ve con odio si no como una persona que piede confiar de mas aunque aveces no es lo mejor

Francis: Hey Zak.

Zak turns to look at Francis.

Zak: What do you want this time Francis?

Francis: you know I have a question

Zak sighs.

Zak: What question?

Francis approaches Zak slowly until he corners him on the wall.

Zak: Well, what is your strange question for you to approach like this?

Francis: are you an environmentalist Saturday?

Zak: No, why?

Francis crouches down to Zak's height and leans close to his ear.

Zak: Hey Francis, what are you doing?

Francis: If you are an environmentalist, why not goods and plant a kiss on my mouth?

Zak: For God's sake, Francisco, you are deaf, I am not an environmentalist.

Francis separates from Zak

Francis: it was worth trying but you are distracted

zak: wait to try that

Francis: you are a genius Saturday

zak: Francis try that