Haikyuu Time Skip - Blog Posts

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.

Unrequited Love: Atsumu

Atsumu Miya has experienced a lot of victories in his life.

Winning nationals in high school, standing on a podium with a gold medal around his neck, putting on his MSBY Jackals uniform for the first time—all those moments were huge. Defining. Things he’d worked his whole life to achieve.

But none of them compare to this.

None of them feel like the world just tilted sideways, like something fundamental in his chest just snapped into place.

All because of you.

But before that happens, he’s just living his normal life—coming off a grueling practice, shoulders aching, hair still damp from the shower he took before leaving the stadium. It’s not unusual for him to swing by your place. He’s been doing it since you were kids, long before volleyball was more than a game he played with Osamu in the backyard.

Back when you were there to keep him and his twin from going at each other’s throats.

He still remembers it so clearly—one of their first real fights, barely more than kids, fighting over a volleyball like it belonged to one of them more than the other. He doesn’t even remember what was said, just that he and Osamu were practically nose to nose, hands gripping at the ball like it was life or death.

And then, you appeared. Huffing, exasperated, already tired of their nonsense even at that age. You didn’t yell at them, didn’t try to make them share.

No, you just showed up with a second ball and tossed it right between them.

“There,” you said, hands on your hips, watching them with that unimpressed look you still give him when he’s being stupid. “Now you both have one. Can we play now?”

It was such a simple thing, but from that moment on, Atsumu couldn’t imagine life without you in it.

Through middle school, high school, and even now, with Osamu off running his shop instead of playing, you’re still here.

So he doesn’t hesitate to knock on your door, doesn’t even think twice about it. He’s just tired—wants a break from the noise of his own place, maybe some food if you’ve got anything lying around. You always let him crash, let him just be without the weight of being a pro athlete pressing down on him.

But the second the door swings open, everything changes.

Because you’re standing there, looking at him like this is just any other visit, wearing his jersey.

His mind shuts down completely.

The MSBY Jackals jersey. His number printed on the back. His last name stitched across your shoulders.

And worse? You're a mess. Hair disheveled like you just rolled out of bed, mismatched socks pulled halfway to your shins with a pair of his old shorts—ones he barely remembers giving you, but you always claimed were comfier than your own clothes. The jersey is oversized on you, hanging loose around your frame, the sleeves slipping past your shoulders.

It shouldn’t make his stomach flip like this. Shouldn’t make his chest tighten, heat rushing up the back of his neck like he’s some dumb teenager who’s never talked to a girl before.

But it does.

He stares. Blinks. Forgets how to function.

"Is that—" His voice cracks like a loser, and he clears his throat, trying to play it cool. "Is that my jersey?"

You blink at him, then glance down, pulling at the fabric as if you just noticed what you’re wearing.

“Oh.” You inspect it briefly before shrugging. “Yeah, it is. I got it after your first game. I had to have your number.”

Atsumu feels like he just got hit with a full-speed serve to the chest. You had to have his number?

Like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t mean anything.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Atsumu short-circuits.

Because you mean it. And you don’t even realize what it’s doing to him.

His brain is stuck on a loop.

You didn’t even realize it was his. You put it on without thinking. You’ve been wearing his number all day, and it wasn’t a big deal to you. But it is to him.

His ears burn. His entire face burns. His heart is pounding in his chest, so loud he swears you can hear it.

You frown, tilting your head. "Tsumu? You okay?"

No. No, he is not.

Because suddenly, he gets it.

This feeling in his chest, this weird tightness, this warmth that’s always been there but never quite like this—it’s been building for years, hasn’t it? And he never noticed.

But now, staring at you in his jersey, standing in his doorway, looking at him like you always have, like you belong here—

It finally clicks.

And it wrecks him.

His mouth opens, then closes. He should say something. He should say anything. But what the hell is he supposed to say? That seeing you in his jersey makes his entire body feel like it’s overheating? That the thought of you buying it because you wanted his number is making his brain malfunction? That he suddenly doesn’t know how he’s supposed to just go back to normal after this?

He swallows thickly. His hands clench at his sides before he forces himself to shove them into his pockets. "Yeah. I—uh—guess it looks good on ya. Or whatever."

You give him a look like you don’t believe him. Like you know something’s off. And he knows you—knows you’re about to press, about to dig in and make him talk about this sudden identity crisis he’s having.

Which means he needs to stop you.

"Anyway," he blurts out, pushing past you and into the apartment like nothing just happened. "Ya got anything to eat? I’m starvin’."

You let it slide, just like you always do, shaking your head as you close the door behind him.

But Atsumu?

He knows he’s never letting this go.

Because this isn’t just some passing thought, not some weird, fleeting moment of confusion.

This is real. This is big.

And for the first time in his life, Atsumu Miya is terrified.

Worse? He thinks he might like it.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

Favourite Positions: Matsukawa

Matsukawa’s fingers have always been dangerous—long, skilled, patient. The kind of touch that never rushes, never fumbles—always intentional, always knowing exactly how to pull you apart.

And right now, he’s enjoying himself.

“Fuck, babe,” he murmurs, his deep voice laced with amusement as his fingers curl inside you just right. His other hand rests lazily against your thigh, keeping it spread while his dark, hooded gaze drinks you in. “You’re really soaking my hand like this?”

You don’t even have the breath to answer—not when his pace is slow, teasing, deliberate. Each drag of his fingers sends pleasure curling up your spine, each flick against that sweet spot making your thighs twitch.

Matsukawa just smirks. He likes seeing you like this—messy, desperate, coming undone because of him.

He drags his fingers out almost completely before sinking them back in with an infuriatingly slow roll of his wrist, the slick sound of your arousal making his smirk widen. “Hear that?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “So fucking wet for me.”

His fingers work in deeper this time, curling just so, rubbing in slow, purposeful strokes against that sensitive spot that makes your breath stutter. He watches your face, reveling in the way your brows pinch, your lips parting in a desperate little gasp.

"You can take it," he coaxes, thumb circling your clit in lazy, wet strokes. "I know you can."

He starts a rhythm—his fingers thrusting deep, dragging back, his thumb applying just the right amount of pressure. The sensations build in slow waves, each motion pulling you higher, tightening the coil in your belly until it’s unbearable.

Your back arches, a choked moan slipping past your lips. He hums at the sound, clearly pleased, and then—he speeds up.

The shift is devastating—his fingers pumping harder, his thumb pressing just a little firmer, dragging you toward the edge so effortlessly it makes your head spin. He angles his wrist slightly, pressing his fingers deeper, rubbing in steady strokes that make your whole body tighten.

“Shit—Issei—”

“Yeah?” His grin is slow, teasing, as he leans in, lips grazing the inside of your knee. “You close, baby? Feels like you’re about to—”

He shifts again, pressing the heel of his palm against your clit, working you with practiced ease, and that’s all it takes. Your stomach tenses, pleasure snapping through you like a lightning strike.

You cry out as the pressure inside you snaps, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes over you—white-hot, overwhelming, electric.

Matsukawa groans as you clench around his fingers, but he doesn't stop.

"That's it," he praises, still working you through it, his voice dropping to a rasp. "Fuck, that's so hot."

Your body jerks as another wave builds too fast, too intense—your moan cuts off into a strangled whimper as the overstimulation crashes through you, and suddenly—

"Ohh, shit—look at that."

Heat floods your face as pleasure rips through you again, liquid gushing over his hand, dripping onto the sheets. Your thighs shake, muscles spasming, your breath coming in ragged gasps as your body writhes in the aftershocks. A strangled whimper escapes you, your legs instinctively trying to close, but Matsukawa's firm grip keeps them spread. Your fingers clutch desperately at the sheets, your body trembling, overwhelmed and spent.

Matsukawa just watches—his tongue flicking over his lips, his expression damn near predatory.

"Fuck," he breathes, finally slowing his movements, letting you collapse against the bed. His fingers slip out of you, glistening, and he hums, clearly impressed.

"Didn't know you could do that, babe," he muses, bringing his soaked fingers to his lips, licking them clean with a smirk. "But now that I do…"

He leans down, voice dropping to a wicked whisper.

"Bet I can make you do it again."

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.

Husbandry: Tsukishima

Tsukishima Kei had always been a man of quiet focus. He wasn’t one for unnecessary emotions on the court, and even in a high-stakes match, his expression rarely changed from that of mild indifference. It drove some of his teammates crazy, especially during moments like this—tied score, final set, the pressure mounting like a heavy storm cloud over the court.

The crowd roared around them, the energy in the gym palpable, but Kei remained as impassive as ever as he stepped up to serve. The ball rested in his hand, his fingers flexing over the synthetic leather, calculating the perfect trajectory. He took a breath, tuned out the noise—

And then he heard you.

“LET’S GO, KEI! YOU GOT THIS, BABY!”

Your voice cut through the chaos like a knife, loud and unwavering, filled with pure, unfiltered enthusiasm. It was the kind of cheer that had heads turning—not just in the stands, but on the court as well. The sideline players of the Sendai Frogs exchanged looks, one of them letting out an amused snort.

On the bench, the sideline players of the Sendai Frogs nudged each other, exchanging grins.

"Man, they're such opposites," one of them chuckled.

"Seriously," another added, shaking his head. "I bet he just tunes it out entirely."

Kei, however, did not react. Not outwardly, at least. He merely exhaled, tossing the ball into the air, bringing his arm back, and striking it with precision. The ball sailed over the net, untouched, an ace. A perfect point.

You erupted from your seat. “WOOHOO! THAT’S MY HUSBAND!”

Your cheers drowned out the announcer’s call, your hands clapping wildly as you beamed at the court. The energy was infectious, even drawing a smirk from one of Kei’s teammates.

“He really doesn’t deserve someone as fun as her,” a player on the bench teased.

Kei, who hadn't actually heard the comment, still felt like he was being talked about. His gaze shifted toward the teammate in question, sharp and unreadable. The player stiffened slightly under the weight of the look, laughing nervously. "Uh—never mind."

Though his expression remained neutral as they reset for the next point, you didn’t miss the slight twitch at the corner of his lips—a flicker of something, almost imperceptible, but you knew better. You knew he heard you. And you knew, despite his attitude, he didn’t mind.

The match pressed on, the tension thick in the air. Every point was fought for, the score inching closer and closer to victory. You kept cheering, never once faltering, your voice the constant, unwavering backdrop to Kei’s unshakable calm. Each time he stepped up to block or assist, you felt your heart race, willing him to succeed. Even when he wasn’t actively playing, your eyes remained glued to him, catching the subtle movements—his sharp gaze, the way his fingers curled into his palms, the way he subtly adjusted his position to anticipate the next play.

One of the opposing players served a near-perfect ball, fast and aggressive, but Kei anticipated it. His block was perfectly timed, and the ball slammed to the floor on the other side of the net. The referee signaled the point, and the crowd went wild.

“YES! THAT’S MY MAN!” you shrieked, standing up so fast that the people next to you startled.

“Hey, sit down, you’re blocking the view!” someone called playfully, but you barely heard them. Your entire world was on the court, watching Kei as he straightened, not even celebrating the way his teammates were.

And then, the final point.

A perfectly executed play sealed the win, and before you could process it, the Sendai Frogs were celebrating. The crowd erupted in cheers, but none were as loud as yours.

“YES! WOOOO!”

The players exchanged congratulations, the team huddling together in exhausted relief. Kei, as always, stayed a step behind the others, rolling his shoulders as he walked toward the sidelines. But his eyes flickered to the stands, just once, just enough for you to catch it before he looked away.

Your grin stretched even wider. He didn’t need to say it. That glance alone told you everything.

Tsukishima Kei was not a man of grand gestures or loud emotions. But you were, and that was okay.

Because when the dust settled, when the match was won, and the crowd began to disperse, Kei walked straight toward you. And in that split second before he passed by, his fingers brushed against yours—a silent acknowledgment, a fleeting moment of appreciation just for you.

You didn’t need anything more than that.

But you still made sure to yell one last time as he walked past, just to see his ears go a little red.

“I LOVE YOU, KEI!”

His teammates howled with laughter as he groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

“…I regret everything.”

And yet, as he walked toward the locker rooms, his fingers lingered just slightly against the edge of yours, as if to say he didn't regret it at all.

Favourite Positions: Tendou

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

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

But the best part? The sounds you made.

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

“Satori—”

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

“Satori—oh my God—”

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

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

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

Tendou loved it.

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

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

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

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

“Then—shut up and fuck me, Satori.”

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

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

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

Then, he wrecked you.

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

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

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

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

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

And you shattered.

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

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

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

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

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

“… Satori…”

Tendou laughed.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Rivalry: 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.

Meian and jealousy‼️‼️‼️ I just love this man so much

oooh good pick hehe... Your wish is my command :p

~~~

Meian walked through the door, casually tossing his bag onto the couch before holding up a glossy calendar with an amused smirk.

“Guess what I brought home?”

You barely looked up from your spot on the couch, lounging in one of his oversized hoodies. “Groceries?”

He huffed a laugh. “Try again.”

When you finally glanced over, your eyes landed on the calendar in his hands—MSBY Jackals 12-Month Exclusive Athlete Calendar. The cover alone was pure chaos: Bokuto flexing dramatically, Hinata grinning mid-spike, Sakusa looking entirely unamused while still managing to look good, and Meian himself, standing dead center with his usual captain’s stance—shirtless.

Your brows shot up.

“Oh, this is amazing.”

Meian chuckled, flipping it open. “Didn’t even know they were makin’ this until they asked me to pose for it.” He turned the pages, showing you a year’s worth of ridiculously chiseled volleyball players. “Thought you might get a kick out of it.”

You grabbed the calendar, flipping through the months with increasing delight.

“Oh my god, look at Bokuto’s arms—wait, they oiled him up for this.” You laughed, tapping the glossy image. “I mean, I get it. If I had muscles like that, I’d want them to shine, too.”

Meian hummed, crossing his arms. “Uh-huh.”

You kept going, completely unaware of the way his jaw was starting to tense.

“Sakusa actually looks incredible here, wow—he must have hated this photoshoot.” You turned another page, eyes widening. “Damn, even Hinata’s looking ripped.”

Meian arched a brow. “...That right?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you grinned. “Seriously, whoever planned this deserves a raise. They captured perfection.”

Meian let out a slow, deliberate exhale through his nose.

“...Captured perfection, huh?”

You nodded, still obliviously flipping pages. “I mean, look at these guys, Shugo. They’re built like—”

You yelped as suddenly, the entire world flipped.

Before you could even react, Meian had hauled you up over his shoulder, calendar completely forgotten as he marched toward the bedroom with zero warning.

“Shugo—what the—PUT ME DOWN.”

“Nope.”

“You are not seriously—”

“Oh, I am.”

His grip was firm, his tone too smug, and you finally realized.

“…You’re jealous.”

He snorted. “Not jealous. Just provin’ a point.”

“A point about what?!”

Meian kicked the bedroom door shut behind him, tossing you onto the mattress effortlessly before climbing over you, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“Since ya like praisin’ the team so much,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, rougher, “I figured I’d remind ya which one of us ya like the most.”

Your breath caught.

For someone who claimed not to be jealous, the heat in his gaze said otherwise.

“Still think they captured perfection?” he asked, his smirk dangerous.

You swallowed, the calendar long forgotten on the floor.

“…I might need a closer look to compare.”

His chuckle was low, pleased.

“Good answer.”

Jealously: Tsukishima

Tsukishima had never been the jealous type.

Or so he liked to believe.

But as he stood a few feet away from you at the museum’s fundraising gala, swirling the last bit of whiskey in his glass, he couldn’t help the slow simmer of irritation building in his chest.

Some guy—some obnoxiously confident guy—was standing way too close to you.

Tsukishima watched as the man leaned in just slightly, flashing a charming grin, his hand gesturing a little too animatedly for whatever mindless conversation he was trying to impress you with. You were polite, nodding at whatever he was saying, but Tsukishima caught the way your fingers curled slightly against the fabric of your dress—the telltale sign that you were uncomfortable.

His jaw clenched.

Tsukishima was a logical man. He knew you weren’t interested, knew you were his in every way that mattered—but that didn’t stop the irrational flicker of annoyance coursing through him.

So he drained the rest of his drink, set the glass down on the nearest table, and made his way over.

“Excuse me,” his voice came out smooth, a fraction lower than usual as he slid an arm around your waist, pulling you firmly against his side. His hand rested just above your hip, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress in a silent claim. Mine.

You blinked up at him, momentarily surprised, before a small smile tugged at your lips.

The man, however, didn’t seem to take the hint. “Oh, I was just having a great conversation with—”

“She’s not interested.”

There was no venom in Tsukishima’s tone—just a matter-of-fact finality that left no room for argument.

The man blinked, looking between the two of you before finally stepping back with a sheepish laugh. “Ah… right. My mistake.”

He made some excuse to leave, and as soon as he was out of earshot, you turned to Tsukishima with an amused look. “Jealous, Kei?”

He scoffed, adjusting his glasses. “You’re delusional.”

“Oh, sure,” you teased, poking at his chest. “That wasn’t possessiveness at all.”

Tsukishima exhaled sharply, but his arm around your waist didn’t loosen. If anything, his grip on you tightened.

“…I just didn’t like how he was looking at you,” he muttered.

Your teasing softened. Tilting your head, you leaned up, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I only look at you, you know.”

Tsukishima’s eyes flickered to yours, something unreadable behind his gaze. Then, as if satisfied with your answer, he let out a small “Tch,” and pulled you even closer.

“…Good.”

🇯🇵 Iwaizumi Hajime (27), Athletic Trainer (✒︎ on Ao3)

2021 Olympic Team | Haikyu!! | Timeskip | Rating: T | 2.5k words

“You see, Trainer-san,” Yaku clears his throat. “You’re a meme.” “What?” Hajime blinks at him. “A meme… a contextual internet phenomenon amusing the masses,” Ushijima explains. “I know what a meme is, why am I one?” Yaku opens the laptop, finally releasing Atsumu’s fingers and shows him the Twitter page. Iwaizumi Hajime (27), athletic trainer. Yep, Hajime is a meme now.

Or: Everyone has a crush on Trainer-san! Don't really remember how or why this idea came to me, but I hope you enjoy this small story — Big thanks go to @matsinko for helping me with beta reading 💕