Haikyuu Oikawa - Blog Posts

003-wattpad

ex!suna rintarou x singer!reader

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im not sure i like this chapter, also this is probs the only time theyll see each other for a while cause i love slow burns and i just dont want it to go too fast

so, kenma and kei def could go they just wanted y/n to go

suna isnt in denial anymore like y/n is, he knows shes the love of his life

i couldn’t not talk about matthew im so normal about him🩷

y/n used to get food for tooru or the whole team but she didn’t want to after suna joined the team

i love me a good slow burn enemies or exes to lovers with a lot of angst and then fluff at the end so get ready and i also love miscommunication LMAO

but also expect a lot of humor filler chapters bc i love crack smaus and bc i started this story impulsively and do not have it planned yet LMAO

im so normal about suna

also i got the idea of akaashi getting discounts from another au i just cant remember which one

taglist (OPEN)

@lvc-lv @renardiererin @3lectraheart @nyxlai @beckxisxinxlovexwithxjin @wooasecret

002-clinically insane

ex!suna rintarou x singer!reader

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more of this SMAU bc i have no social life WOO

so apparently according to my past self neither osamu nor atsumu have ever been in a relationship with a sane person

they just like their girls a little bit insane

y/n loves flirting with omi even if he never reciprocates, she does it to mess with his brother

atsumu is 100% against her dating his best friend after seeing how it turned out when she dated osamus best friend

y/n hasnt visited the twins apartment in a year because shes scared shell run into suna

im trying to make atsumu a lovable brother, because everyone always makes him annoying and i love atsumu :(

osamu changed the topic to his ex on purpose, he knew suna would get really sulky if they started talking about y/n in a serious way

y/n is a bit cray cray but its okay cause suna luvs it

taglist (OPEN):

@lvc-lv @renardiererin @3lectraheart @nyxlai

001-kiss on the lips

ex!suna rintarou x singer!reader

mt list

next

im so normal about suna and him being a simp

i love justin bieber reaction pics😭

suna has definitely had on repeat yns new song and probably it made him feel even worse cuz its talking abt how shes happy when shes away from him

everyone knows suna was like IN LOVE with yn except for yn

suna was planning on proposing after their college graduation like this man was ready to settle down

instead they had a huge messy break up and he hasn’t had any serious relationship even if the break up was a year ago

suna wasnt that sad anymore until she released a new song and he was reminded of everything again

idk what to say abt yn LMAO

btw if it wasnt clear last ss is suna messaging samu

taglist (OPEN):

@lvc-lv @renardiererin

hell habitants

ex!Suna Rintarou x Reader

mt list

ITS MSBY NOT MYSB SORRY WAS VERY SLEEP DEPRIVED!

also i didn’t say this before but y/n has suna blocked everywhere, including roblox and spotify and GMAIL LMAOO

sakusa, suna, atsumu and osamu are roomates

suna used to hate tsukishima because of how close he was to yn

like he would get really jealous and insecure

like suna was sure tsukishima and yn were in love with each other and it was only a matter of time for them to realize it and for yn to leave him

i do not blame him, remember they even call each other platonic soulmates? well he thought the platonic part was temporary

suna and tsukishima are chill now, hes even yns only friend to follow suna on his priv

this is because ever since the break up tsukishima was the only one willing to hear suna out and turns out hes not as bad when youre not competing against him

but that doesn’t mean suna’s heart doesn’t sting a bit every time he hears the names y/n and tsukishima together

yn hates suna and suna hates yn but she was the love of his life

suna follows y/ns main acc in his priv (secretly y/n follows rins main acc on her priv as well)

if yall didnt notice suna has yns merch site on his priv:(

Cell mates

ex!suna rintarou x singer!reader

mt list

hello, new AU WOO

y/n is Atsumu and Osamu’s triplet

shes also Suna’s ex

the dividers are by @cafekitsune

tsukishima not so secretly secretly loves y/n a lot, there was even a time where they romantically liked each other, but they just felt like they were more friends than anything else so they decided to just keep being friends, they love each other and believe they are platonic soulmates

they all are roomates even if none of them really needs one bc theyre all rich

im sorry that this is so cringe, im doing this for fun

Oikawa is part of the MYSB here bc i say so LMAO

HAPPY BDAY OIKAWA!!!!

yes the song is happier than ever by billie eilish and yes it is about suna looool

also if no one noticed, everyone except for kenma who has his youtube link, have y/n’s merch website on their bio to support her and kenma would put her link if he could put more than one too <3

i put 5 followers on her priv acc forgetting abt atsumu and osamu omg im so sorry, ill change it

i get that i havent written in a lot but pls make requests😢😢

ToT Who voted for 'Who and who....??' Demm.. well I gotta inform them. Sugawara Koushi and Oikawa Tooru are 2 pookies from my favourite anime Haikyuu. Haikyuu is a sports anime bout volleyball. I rec it 100% It's genius and half of my soul.

Sugawara Koushi

Oikawa Tooru

Bros and Hoes~ Get ready for the riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide<3~

Hello Everyone!🏐💙

We're very pleased to inform you that we're considering bringing you IwaOi Week 2025!

The event will be held as two weeks:

1. SFW Week (June 7 - June 13)

2. NSFW Week (July 14 - July 20)

We're super excited to see your views regarding the event! Do fill the google form we've linked below if you're interested!

IwaOi Week 2025 Interest Check - Google Form

Thank you. Stay tuned!🏐💙

Inspos

Well just decided to share the inspos for the cats. Check em out!!

Oke time for the answers!!! The 1st pic is our dear IWA-CHAN<3~ (Someone might just kill me for using that name... scratch that 2 ppl might kill-)(* ￣︿￣) The 2nd pic is of everyone's fav girly Oinkawa- I meant OIKAWA ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆ The 3rd pic is of...... drumroll plz...... of MY DEAR SUGA-CHAN<3~~╰(*°▽°*)╯ If ya liked these, yall might just gimme character recommendations or prompts for other characters, not necessarily just from haikyuu!! ^3^ If yer interested in the inspos: It's here!!

Haikyuu But as Cats :3

Lo behold our dear Haikyuu babies as cats!! Yall Have to now guess which one is which character!! Put it down in the comments<3~ BTW I created these using this :>

Jealousy: Oikawa

Barcelona was always golden in the evening.

Sunlight spilled between buildings like warm syrup, painting the cobblestones in hazy orange light, alive with motion and music and voices raised in too many languages to count. The streets pulsed with energy, and Oikawa moved through it all like he belonged there—because he did.

You walked beside him, fingers laced loosely through his, sunglasses pushed up into your hair as you studied a nearby plaza, smiling at the crowd. You'd only stopped for a quick drink before heading home, but somehow a ten-minute rest turned into lingering.

Which was exactly how it happened.

He came out of nowhere—tall, handsome in that slightly too-smooth way, and a native speaker who clearly wasn’t shy about using his charm. He was friendly, casual, and you—being you—were nothing but warm in return. Oikawa was used to it. You made friends everywhere. Waiters, baristas, strangers on trains. He wasn't usually the jealous type.

Usually.

But today? You were laughing a little too softly. Tilting your head a little too far. And the guy? Oh, he was leaning in like he had a damn chance.

Oikawa didn't say anything right away. He just sipped his drink and watched, sunglasses shielding the slow burn building behind his eyes. Your fingers were still in his, but even that wasn’t grounding him tonight. Not when the guy started complimenting your accent. Not when he gestured toward the nearest bar with an easy smile and said,

"If you're looking for local recommendations, I could show you a few places."

That was when you felt it.

Oikawa's hand tightened slightly around yours, his thumb no longer stroking circles over your skin but now still, firm.

You turned toward him innocently, blinking up at his too-perfect face with a feigned sweetness that you knew drove him insane.

"Tooru," you said, voice syrupy, "he says he can show us some local spots. Isn't that nice?"

Oikawa set his glass down with a clink, but instead of stepping in front of you—he stepped behind. His arms slid smoothly around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back as he dipped his head low, his lips brushing just below your ear when he spoke.

"You’re playing dangerous games," he whispered, voice like silk and warning all at once. The way his breath fanned across your skin made you shiver, your back unconsciously arching into him. He chuckled against your neck, low and warm, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

The guy took a half-step back, visibly caught off-guard now as his eyes darted between you and the very obviously possessive arms wrapped around your waist.

Oikawa turned his head, resting his chin on your head, and finally spoke aloud—his tone still pleasant, still polite, but tinged with something sharper.

"Oh, you didn’t know?" he said, gaze locking with the man’s. "She’s very much taken. Tragic, I know. Don't worry though, I've lived here for years."

The guy blinked, awkward laugh faltering. "Ah—right. My mistake. Sorry, man. Just being friendly."

"Of course," Oikawa said with a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Happens all the time." The guy took the hint and left, vanishing into the crowd, and you finally let the smile stretch fully across your face.

"You're so dramatic," you hummed, stepping closer, chest brushing his as you leaned into his space.

Oikawa narrowed his eyes, even as his arms slid around your waist.

"Do I really need to wear a sign?" he muttered.

You batted your lashes. "Maybe. Or just keep doing that thing where your voice gets all cold. It's kind of hot."

His brows lifted.

"You're doing it on purpose."

You grinned. "Maybe."

Oikawa sighed, burying his face in your neck, lips brushing the skin there.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"Mmm. But I’ll make it fun."

Confessions: Oikawa

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

--

The gym is quiet.

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

You spot him immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

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

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

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

Then he kisses you.

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

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

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

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

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

There’s just you.

And it’s enough.

Favourite Positions: Oikawa

Oikawa Tooru had always thought of himself as adaptable.

He prided himself on his precision, his control, his ability to read people. It was what made him an incredible setter, what gave him the edge both on and off the court. He could analyze, adjust, anticipate—always one step ahead.

And when it came to the bedroom, it was no different.

He had tried every angle, every pace, every way to make you fall apart beneath him. He loved variety, experimentation, keeping you on your toes, teasing you with the unexpected.

But tonight, when he had you on your back, your legs wrapped around his waist, his body flush against yours—

Everything clicked.

It started when he shifted just slightly, adjusting his hips, driving deeper into you.

You gasped—sharply, loudly—your entire body tightening around him, your fingers clawing at his back.

Oikawa’s rhythm faltered, his brows lifting in surprise. Then, his smirk curled, slow and knowing. "Oh?" His voice dripped with amusement. "That was cute."

You barely had the brainpower to glare at him, the pleasure crackling through your veins making it impossible to do anything but tremble beneath him.

Oikawa’s grip on your thighs tightened, his fingers pressing into your skin as he rolled his hips again, aiming for that exact spot.

Your reaction was immediate—a choked, broken moan spilling from your lips, your legs twitching around his waist.

"Bingo," he murmured, eyes darkening with something dangerous, something addictive.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Harder. Deeper. Hitting that perfect spot every single time.

Your breath hitched, turned into a gasp, then into something close to a sob, pleasure tightening inside you too fast, too strong, too much. Words spilled from your lips before you could stop them—nonsensical, desperate, completely unfiltered.

"Tooru, oh my god—fuck, fuck, please—don’t stop, don’t stop—right there, right there, please—"

His lips curled at your rambling, reveling in how unrestrained, how utterly gone you were.

"You really do like this, huh?" he teased, his voice honeyed, smug, but laced with something raw. "Didn't expect my pretty girl to get this desperate for me." His hips snapped forward, drawing another cry from your lips, your fingers tightening against his back. "Fuck, baby, you're shaking."

"T-Tooru—" your voice cracked, barely coherent.

"Mmm, that’s it," he murmured, watching you come undone beneath him, completely lost in the way your body trembled, the way your breath stuttered, the way you clung to him like you needed him to hold you together.

"Fuck," he continued, voice low, satisfied. "I can feel it. You’re squeezing me so tight, twitching every time I move—" he groaned, rolling his hips even deeper, grinding against you, drawing out another strangled moan. "I think…" He exhaled sharply, his cock twitching inside you at the way you fluttered around him, "I think this is my new favorite."

You barely had a moment to process that before he angled his hips just right, pressing deeper, harder—

And you shattered.

Your body arched beneath him, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, wracking through you in sharp, uncontrollable bursts.

Oikawa groaned at the feeling of you pulsing, tightening, coming undone around him. His head tilted slightly, breath catching at the sheer need in your voice, the way you were rambling, unraveling beneath him.

"God, you sound so fucking cute," he muttered, voice strained, watching your lips part, words tumbling out in gasping whimpers. "Didn’t know you’d lose it like this, baby."

And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he angled his hips just right, dragging out another broken moan from you. "Keep talking for me," he whispered, grinning as your words blurred into helpless sounds. "I wanna hear every little thing you feel."

His pace turned relentless, his hands gripping your thighs, his body pressing into yours so perfectly, so devastatingly right.

You couldn't think—your body a livewire of sensation, drowning in the heat of him, the way he filled you, the way he knew exactly how to break you.

"Tooru—" your own voice was a wrecked, incoherent mess as he drove you toward another peak.

"Hmm?" he hummed mockingly, watching your blissed-out expression, the way your nails raked down his back. "That close again? Fuck, you’re so easy like this, aren’t you? Falling apart every time I move."

You were trembling, every thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through your already-sensitive body. Your head tipped back, vision hazy, mouth open in silent cries as he pushed you over the edge again, even harder than before.

Oikawa groaned as you convulsed beneath him, your body milking him as he buried himself deep, a sharp groan breaking past his lips as he came with you, spilling inside, his grip tightening, holding you down, grounding you as your bodies unraveled together.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Just the sound of ragged breaths, the faint trembles of your body still reeling in the aftermath.

Oikawa was the first to break the silence, his lips pressing lazily against your jaw, grinning against your damp skin.

"Looks like I just found my sweet spot."

Managerial Duties: Aoba Johsai

Aoba Johsai’s volleyball team was many things—talented, competitive, and, above all, nosy. But when it came to you, their manager, they had collectively accepted one simple fact: you lived in oversized, comfortable clothing.

Baggy sweatpants, hoodies, loose athletic shirts—if it wasn’t designed for maximum comfort, you didn’t wear it. Even during official team meetings outside of school, you opted for relaxed attire: a sweatshirt over leggings, sneakers, and maybe a jacket if it was cold. It wasn’t that you disliked fashion, exactly. You just didn’t see the need to dress up for them.

So when you casually mentioned you had to leave practice early for a family event, no one thought much of it.

"Skipping out on us?" Oikawa teased, tossing a volleyball in the air as you packed up your clipboard. "And here I thought we were your favorite people in the world."

"You’re absolutely not," you deadpanned, adjusting the strap on your bag.

"What’s the occasion?" Iwaizumi asked, more genuinely curious.

"Wedding," you muttered. "Family thing. My parents are making me go."

Matsukawa, stretching lazily, smirked. "That why you’re sneaking off?"

"Something like that," you grumbled, crossing your arms. "They’re making me wear this stupid dress. It’s all tight and uncomfortable, and the shoes are even worse. Who the hell decided that formalwear should be painful?"

Hanamaki raised an eyebrow. "What’s it look like?"

You groaned, already dreading the memory of trying it on. "It’s one of those straight-jacket ones that make you feel like you can’t breathe. Apparently, looking ‘put together’ is more important than basic human comfort. I swear, my mom picked this just to torture me."

"Sounds fancy," Watari mused.

"Sounds awful," you corrected. "I’m gonna suffer through this thing and then burn it the second I get home."

"Bet you’ll look nice, though," Kindaichi added hesitantly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You gave him a deadpan look. "If you call suffering looking nice, sure. Anyway, I’ll see you guys at the next practice. Don’t destroy the gym while I’m gone."

"No promises!" Hanamaki called as you walked off.

That was the end of it.

Practice was still in full swing when you stepped back into the gym, freshly changed and already regretting every single life choice that had led you to this moment. You had only come back because you’d stupidly left your phone on the bench, a mistake that now seemed far worse than just being phoneless for a few hours. The team was scattered across the court, finishing up drills and cooldowns, their chatter filling the space as they moved around. You had hoped—prayed, even—that you could slip in, grab your phone, and leave unnoticed. But fate, as always, was cruel.

Then you stepped forward.

And the entire gym stopped dead in its tracks.

Oikawa, who had been mid-sentence, visibly choked. His water bottle slipped from his hand, clattering to the floor.

"Holy shit," Matsukawa whispered, not even trying to be subtle.

Iwaizumi, caught off guard, blinked hard, as if his brain needed an extra second to process what was happening. Yahaba, who had been chatting with Kunimi, turned so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, mouth opening but no words coming out. Kunimi, usually too lazy to react to anything, actually paused, his usual indifferent stare slightly wider than normal.

Even Kyotani, who rarely paid attention to anything that wasn’t volleyball or fighting, furrowed his brows, looking between you and the rest of the team like he had just walked into some elaborate prank. After a long pause, he finally muttered, "Why do you look like that?"

You shifted uncomfortably, hating every second of this. "My God. Can you guys stop staring?"

"We can’t," Watari blurted, sounding just as shocked as the rest.

Because, for the first time since they had met you, you weren’t wearing your usual baggy, oversized clothing. You weren’t hidden under loose layers of fabric that swallowed your frame. No, today, you had been dressed by your mother, which meant you were in something far more… put together.

The dress was sleek and form-fitting, something you never would have picked for yourself. The fabric hugged your silhouette in a way that felt unfamiliar, and you had spent the entire night feeling like you were playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes. To make matters worse, your mother had insisted on makeup—subtle, but noticeable enough to make you feel even less like yourself. The heels were even worse—unsteady, impractical, and making you curse whoever thought fancy shoes should hurt.

"Why—how—what?!" Kindaichi, who had been stretching, nearly tipped over from shock.

"Is that you?" Hanamaki added, pointing unnecessarily.

"No," you deadpanned. "I’m an imposter. The real me is at the wedding, plotting my escape."

"Hah—seriously, though! You clean up nice," Matsukawa mused, looking you up and down with a smirk. "Didn’t know you had it in you."

"No one did," Yahaba muttered, still looking at you like you had just shapeshifted before his eyes. "What the hell."

"I don’t," you grumbled, adjusting the hem of the dress uncomfortably. "My parents picked this out. Not my choice."

"Your parents should pick your outfits more often," Oikawa said before immediately ducking as Iwaizumi chucked a towel at his head.

Kunimi let out a short exhale. "So that’s what was under all those sweatpants. Huh."

Kyotani just grunted, arms crossed. "Tch. Whatever. Doesn’t change anything." But the way he kept glancing at you said otherwise.

"And that’s why I dress the way I do," you huffed.

Sensing your growing discomfort, Iwaizumi sighed, running a hand down his face. "Alright, that’s enough. Stop freaking out."

"I am freaking out," Oikawa retorted. "This is earth-shattering news."

"You’re an idiot," Iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You love me," Oikawa shot back, undeterred.

"I don’t," Iwaizumi deadpanned.

You exhaled, already exhausted. "Okay, I’m leaving now. If anyone makes another comment, I swear I’m quitting this team."

"No, wait!" Oikawa called. "Just one picture—"

You shot him a withering glare that promised pain if he continued that sentence. He wisely shut up.

With that, you turned on your heel and left, still muttering under your breath about hating dresses, hating heels, and how you were never letting your mother pick your outfits again. Behind you, the team was still buzzing, voices overlapping as they tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Matsukawa let out a low whistle. "Damn. We’re never gonna see that again, are we?"

"Nope," Hanamaki sighed. "Should’ve taken that picture."

"So we had a hot manager this whole time?" Yahaba muttered, still looking at where you stood like he was processing a cosmic revelation.

Oikawa, arms crossed, hummed thoughtfully. "Iwa-chan, do you think we could convince her to dress up again?"

Iwaizumi didn’t even hesitate. "No."

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."

Husbandry: Oikawa

The first thing you register upon waking up is warmth. A steady, lingering heat against your back, an arm draped lazily over your waist, the rhythmic rise and fall of a chest pressed flush against you. The scent of something familiar—clean linen, faded cologne, a hint of salt from the sea breeze slipping through the open window—fills your senses. Oikawa’s grip tightens instinctively as you shift, pulling you impossibly closer, his face buried against the curve of your shoulder.

“Tooru,” you murmur, voice still thick with sleep.

A muffled groan is his only response. His body is heavy against yours, limbs tangled in a way that makes movement difficult. You try once more to shift, but his arms only tighten around your waist.

“Nope,” he grumbles, his voice rough from sleep. “No getting up yet. It’s illegal.”

You huff, already knowing how this is going to go. Sunlight spills in through the sheer curtains, painting the walls of your shared apartment in soft golden hues. The distant sound of life beyond the bedroom—muffled chatter from the streets below, the occasional car passing by, the faint melody of a street performer’s guitar—reminds you that the world is awake, moving. And yet, Oikawa remains completely unfazed, as if time doesn’t exist beyond the warmth of your shared bed.

“I have things to do,” you say, though your voice lacks conviction.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Lies,” he mutters against your skin. “You have exactly one obligation today, and that’s to stay right here in bed with your incredibly handsome husband.”

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Is that so?”

“Mhm,” he hums, pressing a lazy kiss to your shoulder. “It’s scientifically proven that getting up too early makes you ten times more cranky.”

“More cranky?” you repeat, raising a brow. “Are you saying I’m cranky now?”

He hesitates.

“…No?”

You elbow him lightly, and he lets out a dramatic wheeze, flopping onto his back as if you’ve mortally wounded him. “Oh my god, the betrayal,” he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “I let you into my home, my heart, my bed—and you stab me in the stomach.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re already smiling.

“I’m wounded.”

“You’re fine.”

He peeks at you from under his arm, brown eyes still hazy with sleep but glinting with amusement. “You’re not even going to check?”

“I know you’re fine.”

He lets out another exaggerated groan before reaching for you again, pulling you back into his embrace. This time, you let yourself sink into his warmth, the sound of the city fading into the background. His fingers trace lazy patterns against your arm, absentminded, soothing. The morning breeze flutters through the curtains, carrying with it the scent of freshly baked bread from the bakery down the street, mingling with the salt-tinged air of Barcelona’s coastline.

“You really don’t wanna stay in bed with me?” he asks after a while, voice softer now, more genuine.

You sigh, pressing your cheek against his. “I do, but I also don’t want to waste the whole day.”

Oikawa scoffs, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “It’s not wasting if we’re spending it together.”

“You always say that when you want me to be lazy with you.”

“Because it’s true,” he argues. “C’mon, just a little longer? Please?” He tilts his head, lips brushing against your jaw as he whispers, “For me?”

You groan, knowing you’re done for. Oikawa is many things—dramatic, annoying, way too smug for his own good—but he’s also incredibly hard to say no to, especially when he’s warm and sleepy and clinging to you like this.

“Fine,” you mumble. “But only for a little longer.”

A victorious grin spreads across his face as he pulls you flush against him, tangling your legs together under the sheets. “See? I always win.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you love me.”

You roll your eyes but don’t bother denying it. Instead, you let yourself relax into his arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the hum of the city outside, the quiet comfort of being wrapped up in him. The world can wait a little longer.

Maybe, just maybe, staying in bed with him isn’t the worst way to spend the day.

Unrequited Love: Oikawa (Bonus)

The team was loud, as always.

Oikawa, now freshly showered and looking somewhat like himself again, was in the middle of being teased by Hanamaki and Matsukawa.

“So, Captain, let’s talk about your tragic love life,” Matsukawa said, slinging an arm around Oikawa’s shoulders.

Hanamaki took a dramatic sip of his drink. “Yeah, we all knew she was gonna break up with you before you did. What does that say about you, huh?”

“Shut up,” Oikawa groaned, smacking Matsukawa’s arm off him, though there was no real heat behind it. You could see his mood rising with every passing moment.

“Hey, at least you still have volleyball,” Matsukawa said, raising his glass like he was making a toast.

“Right, the one true love of your life,” Hanamaki added with a smirk.

Oikawa sighed dramatically. “You guys are the worst.”

You watched from the side, letting their banter wash over you. The ache from earlier was still there, a dull weight in your chest, but at least Oikawa wasn’t sulking anymore. That was the important thing.

A presence appeared beside you, and you didn’t even have to look to know it was Hajime.

“I’m impressed,” he admitted, crossing his arms as he watched Oikawa shove Hanamaki. “I tried to get him out of bed earlier, but he wouldn’t budge.”

You smirked, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “That’s because you don’t know how to sweet-talk him, Hajime.”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. If I tried sweet-talking Oikawa, I’d never hear the end of it.”

You snickered. “Yeah, he’d probably take that as an invitation to propose.”

Hajime shook his head, amused, before glancing at you, his expression shifting into something more knowing. “So,” he said casually, “are you going to make a move, or are we just going to keep going in circles?”

You exhaled sharply, running a hand through your hair. “Please, you should’ve seen what he told me earlier.”

Hajime raised an eyebrow.

You turned to him, pressing a hand to your chest mockingly, and sighed dramatically. “He looked me in the eye, Hajime. And do you know what he said?”

Hajime waited.

“You’re a good friend,” you deadpanned, voice dripping with bitterness.

Hajime winced. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.” You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “So, no, I’m not making a move. Not when he clearly doesn’t see me that way.”

Hajime was quiet for a moment before shrugging. “You never know. He’s an idiot. You might have to spell it out for him.”

You huffed, watching as Oikawa dramatically whined about something to the others. “Yeah, well… I think I’ve done enough for one night.” Then you hear a whine of your name. You look over to Oikawa's pleading face along with Matsun's and Makki's devious ones.

“You promised me they would give me a break!” Oikawa suddenly called out, his voice carrying over the chatter of the team. His eyes locked onto yours, pleading dramatically, though the glint of betrayal was exaggerated.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “C’mon, guys, give him some slack,” you called, raising your hands in surrender.

Hanamaki gasped in mock offense. “Oh, so now you’re defending him?”

“She’s going soft,” Matsukawa said, shaking his head.

“I am not going soft,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes.

Hajime, beside you, smirked before stepping forward. “Actually, now that I think about it… didn’t Oikawa almost cry in first-year when he lost his favorite knee pads?”

Oikawa whipped around. “Iwa-chan.”

“Oh, right!” Hanamaki’s eyes lit up. “The ones with the little stars on them?”

“You guys swore to take that to the grave!” Oikawa cried, scandalized.

“I don’t know, man,” Matsukawa said, leaning back with a grin. “Kind of sounds like a moment that deserves to be remembered.”

As the teasing escalated, Oikawa slumped in his seat, arms crossed, pouting like a child. “I hate all of you.”

You laughed at the whole exchange, and when you glanced back at Oikawa, expecting him to still be sulking, you caught something different—something small, almost imperceptible.

He was smiling.

It was barely there, just a slight tug at the corners of his lips, but it was real. And for a brief moment, as his gaze lifted, he met your eyes.

The world around you blurred, and warmth spread through your chest. You swore you felt your heart stutter, just for a second.

And then, as quickly as the moment had happened, you cursed yourself for it.

Get a grip, you scolded yourself, tearing your gaze away.

Oikawa was still laughing with the others, completely unaware of the effect he had on you.

You exhaled, shaking your head, willing the butterflies away.

Hajime, still standing beside you, didn’t say anything, but when you glanced at him, he was looking at you with a knowing expression.

“Not a word,” you muttered.

He smirked. “Didn’t say anything.”

You groaned, shoving his shoulder, but he only chuckled in response.

Unrequited Love: Oikawa

You’d known Oikawa for as long as you could remember. From messy sandbox battles to after-school practices that went late into the evening, he’d always been there—your first friend, your longest friend. The three of you—Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and you—had always been a unit, bound by years of shared childhood, inside jokes, and more than a few arguments.

But right now? Right now, Oikawa was testing every ounce of your patience.

“Hajime said you’ve been holed up in here for hours,” you said as you shoved open his bedroom door without knocking. “What’s your excuse this time?”

Oikawa groaned from the depths of his bed, a mess of blankets and pillows hiding all but the top of his ruffled hair. His room was a disaster zone: clothes scattered everywhere, an abandoned volleyball rolling lazily near the desk, and the faint smell of coffee from the cup Hajime must’ve left here earlier.

“Go away,” Oikawa muttered, voice muffled by his pillow.

“No,” you said firmly, kicking the door shut behind you. “I’m not letting you sulk forever. What happened?”

He rolled onto his back, his face pale and his eyes a little red. “She broke up with me,” he muttered, his voice cracking just enough to make you wince. “She said I was too focused on volleyball. That I didn’t care enough about her.”

Your heart squeezed. You’d seen the writing on the wall. Oikawa was intense about volleyball—obsessed, really. It was one of the things you admired about him, even when it frustrated you. But it was hard to hear him like this, even harder to know that he’d never think about you the way he thought about her.

You crossed your arms, steeling yourself. “Well, she’s not wrong,” you said, your tone blunt. “You’ve got a one-track mind, Tooru. Volleyball this, volleyball that. What did you think would happen?”

His face scrunched up in annoyance, and he reached out to grab a pillow, lobbing it weakly in your direction. “Gee, thanks for the support.”

You dodged it easily, smiling despite yourself. “I’m serious, Tooru. You’ve got to figure this out, or you’re going to keep pushing people away.”

He groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. “You sound like Iwa-chan.”

“Maybe that’s because Hajime and I are the only ones stubborn enough to stick around while you throw yourself headfirst into everything,” you shot back, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Do you even realize how much we’ve put up with over the years?”

He peeked at you from under his arm, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You guys are too stubborn to leave me.”

“Damn right we are,” you said, reaching out to flick his forehead. “But don’t push your luck.”

Silence fell between you, the tension lifting slightly. You leaned back, resting on your hands as you studied him. His hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled, and he looked younger somehow, like the kid you used to climb trees with instead of the volleyball star he was now.

“Come on,” you said eventually, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off your pants. “The team’s going out. You can’t stay in here forever.”

“I don’t feel like it,” he muttered, sitting up slowly.

“Tough.” You grabbed his wrist and tugged, ignoring his protests. “Go shower, change, and join us. I’ll wait in the living room to make sure you don’t crawl back into bed.”

He sighed, dragging his feet as he shuffled toward his dresser. “You’re so bossy.”

“And you’re so whiny,” you shot back, grinning. “Go!”

Just as you turned to leave, his voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

You glanced back, raising an eyebrow. He stood there, clothes in hand, his expression softer than usual.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You’re a good friend.”

The words hit harder than they should have, settling like a stone in your chest. But you forced a smile, pushing the ache down where it belonged.

“Of course,” you replied, your voice steady.

You closed the door behind you, leaning against it for just a moment.

Being his friend was enough, you told yourself.

It had to be.