Hq Sakusa - Blog Posts

This Sakusa took me sooooo long

I used that Kim Taehyung selfie for reference because I love him 😭

I saw someone on tw asking to draw Sakusa with a reference so I did it

You can see how much I struggle to draw eyes (and faces in general) 🫣

This Sakusa took me sooooo long

I used that Kim Taehyung selfie for reference because I love him 😭

Found it

I saw someone on tw asking to draw Sakusa with a reference so I did it

You can see how much I struggle to draw eyes (and faces and general) 🫣

I wanted to cry while drawing this so now he is too

This drawing explodes in my face. You can see I had no idea what I was doing

I saw someone on tw asking to draw Sakusa with a reference so I did it

You can see how much I struggle to draw eyes (and faces in general) 🫣

I love you Sakusa but you’re so hard to draw 🥲

kiyoomi and atsumu the type of couple to share their entire lives with each other then go “husband? ew no, we just live together” like yea u also have two kids and a dog and have been sleeping on the same bed for the last 12 years

Sunshine

small pregnancy mention. boyfriend!kiyoomi part III!!

There’s a feminine voice coming from the bathroom when Atsumu enters his hotel suite.

“Don’t you think you’re being just a little over dramatic?”

There’s a light sound of clanking when he sets his overnight bag to the side, water running and the sound of fizzling foam. Sakusa’s feet make shadows under the door as Atsumu creeps closer, and shallows his breathing to effectively eavesdrop.

“No.” He huffs like he’s pouting, and the voice giggles. “I’m gonna die here, you know. I hate sharing a room.”

“Mmh.” You hum. “Does that apply to me?”

“You’re different.”

Atsumu gapes a little.

There’s… no way Omi’s gone and found himself a girlfriend. No way. I mean, sure, his body’s a ten but-

“You’ll live, baby. I promise.” Your voice breaks a little from the wavering reception of the hotel suite. “Plus, Miya’s your friend. Better him than anyone else, huh?”

Sakusa huffs. “Yeah, but he’s a pig. At least Shoyo-kun knows not to leave his dirty socks laying around.”

Atsumu grins. He didn’t disagree! Before furrowing again. Wait, he calls him Shoyo-kun?

“Doesn’t that guy also stay up till like 3am? I remember you being really grumpy about that last time you shared a room.”

Wait, last season?

“Yeah.” Sakusa sighs, and there’s a rush of water that muffles him for a moment. Muted voices cottoned by white noise and Atsumu nearly starts to back away when the water finally stops.

“I miss you so much.” He hears clear as day, but even then Atsumu debates if he imagined it.

“I miss you too, Omi.” You sigh, a faint rustling hissing through his speaker. “It’s just three days. Then I’ll be all over you again.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Atsumu blows out a breath through his nose. This is definitely his girlfriend. He’s never heard Omi speak like this to anybody. - And he’s seen him with his mom before. Hearing Omi talk so sweetly almost makes him feel like his brain is making it up, and he’s all but pressing his head against the door just to be sure that this is a real thing.

“‘You eaten yet by the way? I can send you some money so you can-“

“I’ve eaten, baby, yes.” You chuckle. “What is your deal? Money’s not a love language, you know. - My friends think you’re my sugar daddy.”

“I’m a pro athlete.” He says frankly. “And I don’t like seeing you spend your hard earned cash when you could be spending mine.”

“What’ll be the point of me working then?”

“Exactly, quit your job.” And the way he says it has you full out laughing.

“You know, if you’re gonna turn me into a housewife, I’d like to see a ring first.”

Sakusa’s voice sounds muffled under a towel when he retorts. “That can be arranged.”

You guffaw this time, a little airy, a little ugly. “Yeah? Well the sooner you get home the sooner you can make an honest woman outta me. Hell, next thing I know you’ll have me barefoot and pregnant.”

“Don’t just say things like that, I can’t get off with Atsumu in the same room as me.”

“Goodbye, Kiyoomi.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” And the desperation in his friend's voice nearly inclines him to audibly scoff in disbelief. This guy’s really hooked, huh?

“Yeah, sunshine?”

“I love you.”

Atsumu starts to choke on his spit.

Laptop

Sakuatsu except it’s in a different artstyle

Live laugh love these unintentionally gay/homophobic looking characters

Sakusa reads regularly but what does he read?????

omi can’t apologize even if his life depended on it

in middle school and first year of high school omi would straighten his hair religiously. fortunately it was just a phase but to this day his haters still bring up pictures from his straight hair era and say he’s lying about having natural curly hair

“he isn’t straight and neither is his hair” -someone at some point probably

sakusa kiyoomi does an interview with a psychic where the psychic gets all their assumptions correct but omi denies it

psychic: you’re favorite color is yellow

omi: no it’s black

psychic: you’re planning on moving in with your partner

omi: i’ve been single for years

psychic: you’re favorite food is curry

omi: i despise curry

omi lied about his favorite color because he got a reputation uphold. he lied about moving in because his relationship is a secret and he doesn’t want fans in his business. he lied about curry because he could

Kiyoomi grunts, as you jump into his arms. After winning an important match for MSBY. Your arms hooking around his neck, your hands tangling with the back of his sweaty curls, as your legs wrap around his sweaty waist.

"Im so proud of you Kiyoo!!" You squeal, nuzzling your face into his sweaty hot neck. Pecking it from time to time. Kiyoomis strong arms wrap around your back like muscle memory, making him laugh breathlessly as you cuddle into him.

"Alright, alright. I love you too!" he laughs breathlessly, setting you back down on the gym floor. Before leaning down placing this big strong hands on your cheeks as he connects his lips with yours making you giggle against them.

Kiyoomi leans back up with a small smile on his face as his strong hands are still on your cheeks squishing them together making you let out a small huff. Your brows furrowing upwards as your lips turn upwards into a small letting out a giggle. Making Kiyoomi sigh letting go of your cheeks his strong hands coming up caressing one side of your cheek with his knuckles smiling down at you.

Hello, i love your writing sm, u my fave writer atm! ❤️

With that said: car sex with Sakusa? 👀

Ahhh thank you so much!! You have immaculate taste because Sakusa + car sex? Yeah, you’re onto something 😩

Enjoy my lovely <333

--

Anon Ask: Sakusa (NSFW)

The silence in the car wasn’t how the night started.

In fact, the ride began with fire.

“You’re unbelievable,” you seethed, gripping the edge of the seat with white-knuckled hands. Your body was turned halfway toward him, even as you stared furiously at the dashboard, shoulders tight and chest rising with sharp, shallow breaths. “Dragging me to that stupid event just to pretend we’re some picture-perfect couple? You barely even looked at me!”

Sakusa’s hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles pale against the black leather. His jaw flexed, a slow grind beneath smooth skin, eyes locked on the road but burning with restraint. “You said you wanted to be part of things. That was me including you.”

You scoffed and whipped your head toward him, brows pinched in disbelief. “Don’t act like you were doing me a favor. You stood across the room for an hour and didn’t say a word to me. Not even one.”

“I didn’t think I had to babysit you,” he snapped, his voice cold, cutting through the tension like a scalpel. His hands didn’t leave the wheel, but his fingers drummed once—sharp and anxious—before stilling.

Your mouth dropped open. You turned your whole body toward him now, arms crossed so tightly over your chest it looked like you were holding yourself back. “That’s not what I wanted, Kiyoomi. I just wanted to feel like I was actually with you, not standing on the outside of your perfect little world.”

His nostrils flared. “Oh, right,” he bit out, eyes still locked forward. “Because you’re the victim here. Because I’m the one who constantly pushes people away, right?”

You opened your mouth, then stopped yourself, your expression twisted in a mix of anger and disbelief. Your knee bounced—restless, fidgety—as you turned to glare out the passenger side window.

“Say it,” he growled after a beat. His voice dropped low, quiet and seething. “Say what you’re thinking.”

“I’m fucking thinking I should’ve stayed home,” you spat, voice tight with unshed tears and heat.

The car swerved slightly as Sakusa’s grip on the wheel tightened. His breathing came faster, more shallow. Then, without a word, he flicked the turn signal with a decisive snap and veered off onto a side road. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as he pulled into an empty lot with the aggressive stillness of someone holding back a scream.

He slammed the gear into park, the jolt throwing your body forward slightly in your seat. Then the engine cut. Complete silence fell.

He turned to face you slowly. His posture was rigid, tie loosened just enough to reveal the strong line of his throat. His chest heaved beneath his dress shirt. When he met your eyes, they burned.

“Backseat. Now.”

You blinked, breath caught in your throat. “What?”

His voice was low and unshaking. “You want honesty? You want attention? Get in the backseat and I’ll show you exactly how much I’ve been holding back.”

You stared at him for a moment, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. And then, without another word, you unbuckled and climbed over the console, limbs shaky, breath quick and tight.

He was right behind you.

The doors clicked locked as he slid in after you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into him, lips crashing into yours with none of the finesse he usually carried. This wasn’t slow. This wasn’t soft. This was everything you’d been stewing in for the last hour coming to a boil.

You yanked at his suit jacket, fingers curling into the sleek fabric as he shrugged it off with a growl, leaving him in his dress shirt and loosened tie. Your nails dug into the starched cotton at his back as he pushed you down against the seat, slotting himself between your legs.

“You think I don’t want you there?” he growled, mouth hot against your neck. “You think I wasn’t losing my mind every time someone else looked at you tonight?”

You gasped, back arching. “You didn’t show it.”

“No,” he muttered, dragging his teeth along your jaw, “because if I did, I wouldn’t have made it through the damn dinner without taking you apart under the table.”

Clothes were shoved aside, breaths lost in the fogging windows. Your moans tangled with the storm still raging between you, every movement fueled by frustration and desire, until it was all the same heat.

His tie was the first thing he reached for after his shirt was undone, tugging it free from his collar with one hand while his other stayed braced beneath your thigh. He looped it behind your neck, tugging you forward by the silk until your lips collided again, the fabric tightening slightly as he pulled. The pressure was intoxicating.

“You want my attention?” he rasped, panting against your lips, “You have all of it now. Every last fucking bit.”

You whimpered as his hands pushed your underwear to the side, fingers brushing over your soaked heat with maddening slowness. His eyes flicked up to meet yours as he slid two fingers inside, curling just enough to make your spine arch.

“I should’ve done this the second you started running your mouth in the car,” he muttered, voice low and ragged. “Should’ve bent you over the hood and fucked that attitude right out of you.”

Your hips rocked down against his hand, breath hitching with every motion. “Then stop talking,” you whispered, “and do it.”

Something cracked.

He pulled his fingers out, slick and slow, only to unbuckle his belt with one hand and tug you forward by the tie with the other. He kissed you like he was trying to erase the fight from your memory—teeth and tongue, bruising and desperate.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he lined up and pushed in with one slow, devastating thrust. Your back arched off the seat, a moan torn from your throat as he filled you completely.

His forehead dropped to yours.

“Keep looking at me,” he ordered. “You wanted to feel it? Feel this.”

He started to move, hard and deep, each thrust grinding your hips against the cushion, the car rocking gently with each snap of his body into yours. The windows fogged, your moans echoing off the leather and glass, drowned out only by the rain hammering the roof above you.

Sakusa’s hand slid up your stomach, under your shirt, pushing the fabric up until your bra was bunched against your ribs. His mouth found your chest, biting, licking, marking with open-mouth kisses that burned.

Every snap of his hips was frustration, every groan was something he hadn’t said earlier, and every time he gripped your thighs tighter was a reminder: you belonged to him.

Your orgasm hit fast—unforgiving, white-hot. Your vision blurred as your body tightened, clutching at him with everything you had.

He didn’t stop.

He kept moving through it, chasing his own release, one hand holding your hip, the other still gripping that tie like a leash.

When he came, it was with a low, wrecked groan into the crook of your neck, his body pressed so tightly against yours you could barely breathe.

Later, when you lay tangled together in the backseat, breathless and wrecked, Sakusa pulled you against his chest, still panting.

“Next time,” he murmured into your hair, “you stay by my side.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Only if you actually look at me.”

He kissed your temple, lips finally soft. “Deal.”

Favourite Positions: Sakusa

Sakusa Kiyoomi had never liked mess.

He wasn’t fond of anything sticky, anything uncontrolled, anything that demanded he surrender to chaos.

And sex, by nature, was a little chaotic.

But with you—it wasn’t. With you, it was something else. Something he could control, savor, memorize.

And when you sat on his face?

It became his favorite thing in the world.

You’d asked him, once—quietly, maybe even shyly—if he wanted to try it. You’d been hesitant, even as you knelt over him on the bed, thighs trembling with anticipation. But Sakusa hadn’t hesitated.

He had only looked up at you with those dark, focused eyes and said, “Sit.”

And now?

Now, your thighs were trembling around his head.

His hands were firm around them, fingers digging into your skin, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth. His curls were damp with sweat and slick. His jaw worked with slow, punishing precision.

Every time his tongue dragged up between your folds, he flattened it against your clit and flicked—just once, just enough to make your body twitch—and then he did it again.

And again.

And again.

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Your hands were buried in the sheets behind you, hips tilted forward as he held you steady, held you still, held you open.

"Kiyoomi—" you gasped, but it was barely a whisper.

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His mouth was too busy—working you apart, slow and relentless, tongue curling, lips sealing around you with devastating pressure. He sucked you down, drew another sharp moan from your throat, and when you twitched above him, tried to lift off just a little—

His grip tightened.

“Don’t move,” he rasped against you, voice low, strained, and muffled by the heat of your cunt. "I’m not done yet."

Your breath caught.

You could barely hold yourself up. Your legs were shaking violently, muscles screaming, your entire body flushed with heat. You were soaked. You could feel it dripping down your thighs, clinging to his cheeks, smearing against his lips.

And he was loving it.

He groaned into you, hands pulling you down harder, deeper, locking you into place as his tongue fucked into you—slow, deep, precise. He was savoring you.

You sobbed. Loud, wrecked, desperate.

“I—I can’t—Kiyoomi—”

His only response was a low moan, like he was addicted to the taste of you, to the way you sounded. His nose was pressed against your clit, tongue working deeper, messier now, grinding slow and firm until your thighs were twitching with every stroke.

Your vision blurred. The knot in your stomach pulled tighter, tighter, too tight.

And then—

You broke.

You came with a scream, hips jerking, grinding into his face as your orgasm crashed through you in one white-hot wave. Your whole body locked up, the pleasure too intense, too much, almost unbearable.

But Sakusa didn’t stop.

Not even when your thighs started to shake uncontrollably.

Not even when you whimpered, “Please,” so softly it was barely sound.

He shifted the angle of his mouth, focused entirely on your clit now, his tongue flicking rapidly, pressure sharp and steady. His hands held you down as your entire body jolted with overstimulation.

You cried out again, voice cracking, hands flying forward to claw at his hair, at the headboard, anything you could reach.

He was going to make you come again.

And he did.

The second orgasm was worse. Sharper. It tore through you like lightning, and you couldn’t even scream this time—you just gasped, mouth open, eyes wide, legs clamping tight around his head as you sobbed through it.

And still—he didn’t stop.

Your body shook. Collapsed. Melted into his mouth.

Only when your hips bucked too hard—when your voice gave out entirely, when your whole body spasmed in his hold—did he finally relent.

He kissed your inner thigh once, slow and deliberate, then another kiss to your slick, swollen folds, almost reverent. You slumped forward, collapsing onto the bed, shaking.

Sakusa pushed himself up slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, curls stuck to his forehead. His face was soaked. His lips were flushed, chin wet with you, and he looked completely ruined.

And satisfied.

He crawled up beside you, his hand gentle on your hip.

“Still breathing?” he murmured, voice hoarse.

You could only nod, barely.

He leaned down and kissed your shoulder, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your spine.

“You’re going to do that again,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a question.

And in that moment, you knew he’d found his favorite position.

Pregnancy: Iwaizumi

The second the double doors of the weight room open, it’s like you’ve stepped into a different universe—a world of metal clanks, low grunts, chalk-dusted air, and the constant thud of iron plates hitting the floor. And now, slicing clean through that rhythmic storm of testosterone and hyper-focus, is you: very pregnant, slightly annoyed, and holding the wallet your husband managed to leave behind on the kitchen counter this morning. You didn’t think twice about walking the ten minutes over from your place. It’s not like you hiked a mountain—you waddled across pavement in sneakers. But by the way the entire Olympic volleyball team turns toward you in unison, you might as well be carrying a live grenade instead of a baby.

“WOAHHH—LOOK OUT! Civilian on the floor!” Bokuto’s voice booms across the room, sweaty hair sticking up, arms mid-air like you’d broken the rules of gravity just by showing up.

Atsumu, flat on a bench press with Kageyama spotting him, twists his head far too dramatically toward you and lets out a long, low whistle. “Ain’t no civilian, Bo. That’s Iwaizumi’s wife. And she’s lookin’ like she’s about to drop that baby right here in front of the dumbbells.”

You don’t even get the chance to sigh before you spot him—Hajime, towel around his neck, clipboard tucked under one arm, halfway through barking cues at someone doing squats. His head snaps toward you the second he hears Bokuto’s yell, and his entire body goes rigid. The clipboard hits the bench with a clatter. The towel is forgotten. His mouth moves, but there’s no time for words—he’s already weaving through machines and teammates, practically charging toward you like the floor itself might crumble under your feet.

“You walked here? Alone?” he demands as soon as he’s within a few feet, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s checking for bruises.

“I’m not made of paper, Hajime. I walked from the apartment. Not across a battlefield.” You hold the wallet up between two fingers, giving him a pointed look. “You left this on the counter, by the way.”

He takes it, but barely spares it a glance. His attention is completely on you—his wife, his very-pregnant-wife, standing in the middle of the Olympic team’s weight room surrounded by free weights, kettlebells, unstable mats, and volleyball players who think balance training on BOSU balls is a personality trait.

“This place isn’t safe for you,” he mutters under his breath, eyes narrowing at a barbell someone just let crash onto the floor nearby. “You shouldn’t be around this equipment. There’s too many ways you could trip, or get knocked, or—hell—slip on a chalk patch.”

You raise your eyebrows and gesture around you. “I am standing still, Hajime. On flat ground. Wearing shoes. Holding a wallet. This is not a life-threatening activity.”

His lips flatten into a tight line. “You’re thirty-eight weeks. You should be sitting, preferably somewhere padded, with a bottle of water and a snack within reach.”

You blink. “Are you reading off a checklist right now?”

He doesn’t answer.

At that moment, Komori jogs up with his usual bounce, sweat still gleaming on his forehead and a towel slung haphazardly over his shoulder. “Wait—this is your wife? The one we keep hearing about?”

“He doesn’t talk about her,” Kiryu calls from the dumbbell rack, not even bothering to look up. “He says stuff like ‘my wife made soup’ and ‘my wife needs pickles.’ That’s it. That’s all we get.”

You offer a small, amused smile and rest both hands on your stomach. “Hi. Yes. I’m Soup-and-Pickles. Thirty-eight weeks along. Full of baby. And apparently one bad step away from being put in a medically induced nap.”

There’s a chorus of laughter, though it’s mixed with soft whistles of awe as more of the team gravitates toward you. Aran strolls over with a light smile, while Hinata’s practically vibrating behind him.

“You really came all the way here?” Aran asks.

“It’s ten minutes from home,” you reply, shooting a glance up at your husband who still looks like he’s trying to map the safest escape route out of the gym for you. “I’m pregnant, not cursed.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Iwaizumi mutters. “You’re standing next to iron weights in Converse. That’s a hostile environment.”

You roll your eyes, adjusting the strap on your bag. “They’re high-tops. Extra support.”

Before he can scold you further, Hinata suddenly leans forward with stars in his eyes. “Is the baby kicking?”

“Oh yeah,” you nod, hand moving instinctively to the right side of your belly. “She’s training for nationals, I think. My ribs are her new personal practice net.”

“Can I feel?” Komori blurts out, his expression open and hopeful.

You’re about to say yes, but Hajime moves before you can answer, shifting his stance ever so slightly to put his body between you and Komori with the quiet intensity of a dad who’s already protective before the baby’s even born.

“She’s not a mascot,” he says flatly.

You place your palm on his chest. “Hajime. It’s fine.”

His eyes flicker to yours. He relents with a small sigh, stepping aside like it physically pains him to do so.

Komori gently places his hand on your stomach, and when the baby kicks, his face lights up like someone handed him a puppy. “Oh my god. That’s incredible.”

Kageyama peers over curiously. “Does it feel weird?”

“Like an alien living under your skin,” you say cheerfully. “And sometimes the alien cries when you don’t feed it grilled cheese at exactly 3 a.m.”

“Sounds terrifying,” Sakusa mumbles nearby, adjusting a band on his wrist.

“Iwaizumi,” Yaku calls from where he’s doing banded lunges, “you better give that kid rock-solid calves. I don’t care how. It’s your duty.”

“Oh, we’re starting this already?” you laugh. “Pressure before she’s even out of the womb?”

“Oh, we’ve been taking bets,” Suna says, finally looking up from his phone with the laziest smile. “Due date, hair color, position they’ll play.”

“Definitely not libero,” Bokuto adds, puffing his chest. “That baby’s got outside hitter energy.”

“I swear to god,” Iwaizumi mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

You press a soft kiss to his jaw and whisper just loud enough for him to hear, “You love it.”

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps one arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently into his side, hand resting low and protective on the curve of your stomach. He kisses the top of your head. Quiet. Steady.

You nudge him lightly and lift a brow. “Still mad I walked into the weight room?”

He looks down at you, expression flat. “I am always mad when you walk into a room with flying metal plates and men with the coordination of blindfolded rhinos.”

“I brought you your wallet.”

“And almost gave me a stroke in the process.”

You grin, dig into his pocket, and pull out one of his protein bars. “And I’m stealing your snack.”

“…Unbelievable.”

Haii this is the first time I ever make a request but I really liked your content <3 can you make like sex w Kiyoomi after his gf (afab) opened up about being insecure about her flat chest? Please 🙏 I don't know how specific I should be, but I imagine him like touching and kissing more in that area after that, or just worshipping her body in general. I hope I'm not too greedy if I also ask for raw lol 😭. Also, I'm taking the opportunity to ask you: do you prefer people to be more specific with their prompts or just leave it up to you to decide? Okay that's all. I hope you're having a great day! :] and sorry if I made a mistake in my writing 🙏 (english isn't my first language). Take care, muah <33

Hiii!! 🥺💕

First of all—thank you so much for sending in your first request, that means so much to me!! And your English is absolutely perfect, don’t worry at all 💗 I totally understood everything you meant!

Also?? Your idea??? So beautiful and gentle and emotional—yes. I adore how you imagined him paying extra attention and offering that soft, grounding kind of reassurance. It fits him so well.

You’re not being greedy at all!! It’s all ready for you lolol 🫶 I hope it makes you feel warm and loved. And to answer your question: I love when people share specific ideas like this!! But I’m also totally happy to run wild with a vague prompt too—whatever’s most comfortable for you!

Thank you again for trusting me with such a tender piece, muah 💋💞 --

There’s a tremble in your voice when you say it, quiet and shy beneath the warmth of his sheets. You’re curled against his side, wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts, sleeves too big, hem hanging just past your thighs. The room is quiet. Gentle. Dimly lit.

“I know it’s stupid, but... sometimes I wish I had more. There.”

Your fingers hover near your chest like they don’t belong to you, like you’re embarrassed for even bringing it up. You don’t look at him when you say it.

But Sakusa looks at you.

More than that—he sees you.

He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t dismiss it with a compliment or try to fix what isn’t broken. He waits. Lets you say it all. And then, after a beat of silence, he shifts.

“Can I show you something?” he asks, voice low, tender. When you nod, he leans in—soft, reverent—and kisses your collarbone first. Then just above your heart. Then lower.

His hands find the hem of his shirt you’re wearing, and when you give him permission, he pulls it off slowly, like unwrapping something fragile.

He kisses the top of your chest, then the dip between, then lower still, mouth brushing over skin with careful intention.

“I like this part of you,” he murmurs. “I always have.”

You shiver. He’s not in any rush. His lips explore everything slowly, reverently, thumbs smoothing over your ribs, fingertips grazing soft skin like he wants to memorize you.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, not like a compliment, but a truth he’s always known.

When he finally presses himself to you, everything is slow. Heated, but gentle. He’s raw tonight, in the most intimate way. There’s nothing rushed or rough about it. Just skin, warmth, the low rasp of your name in his mouth.

And when he looks down at you, eyes half-lidded, breath shaking, he says it again.

“You’re more than enough.”

Over and over again, with every kiss. Every touch. Every slow, deep thrust of his hips. Until the only thing you can feel is the weight of his love and the heat building between you, quiet and unrelenting.

He holds your hands. Nuzzles into your neck. Cradles you like you’re everything.

And you are.

To him, you always have been.

Rivalry: Sakusa

The camera clicks, the flash reflecting off the sheen of sweat on Sakusa Kiyoomi’s face as he stares down at you from behind his mask. Even in victory, there’s a sharpness to him, a quiet tension crackling beneath his cool exterior, and it’s aimed directly at you.

“Your defense wasn’t as sharp as usual tonight. Were you struggling to keep up, or was there another reason for the misreads?” you begin, voice steady as your pen glides across your notepad.

The press conference room is thick with anticipation, the air charged with a static-like tension. Reporters lean forward in their seats, pens poised, some shifting uncomfortably while others exchange intrigued glances. The bright overhead lights cast stark shadows on the players, emphasizing the sharpness of Sakusa’s features as he stares you down. They know what you’re doing. More importantly, he knows what you’re doing.

Sakusa’s gaze narrows slightly. Sakusa’s gaze doesn’t waver. "I adjusted to their offense. If that looked like struggling to you, maybe you should take another look at the final score."

You don’t relent. “I'm aware of your team's victory, Sakusa-san. Are you relying too much on your teammates?”

The silence stretches longer this time. You know you’re poking the bear. Sakusa is known for his perfectionism, for his unshakable self-discipline, and you’re prodding at the cracks just to see if they’re there.

A muscle in his jaw ticks, but his voice stays even. "If trusting my teammates to do their jobs is a problem, then maybe you don’t understand how a team sport works."

The room seemed to inhale at once, a murmur rippling through the crowd. Some reporters exchanged knowing glances, while others scribbled frantically in their notebooks, sensing that this was the kind of soundbite that would be making headlines by morning. Cameras clicked in rapid succession, the bright flashes punctuating the thick tension in the air. A few journalists whispered to each other, gauging the reaction of the MSBY players, but none of them spoke up to break the moment.

Atsumu let out a low whistle, leaning back in his chair. Bokuto, who had been grinning just moments before, straightened slightly, his golden eyes flicking between you and Sakusa like he had just caught wind of something interesting. Even Meian, typically unfazed by media antics, raised an eyebrow at the way Sakusa’s fingers curled slightly against the table, his entire frame wound tight as if forcing himself to stay still.

You? You simply smirked, tapping your pen against your notebook before lifting your chin slightly. "No further questions."

That pisses him off more than anything. Because he knows—he knows—you got exactly what you wanted.

Sakusa clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring just slightly beneath his mask. It wasn’t just the question that irritated him—it was the way you delivered it, the way you smirked, the way you dismissed him like you had already gotten what you needed and he was no longer worth your time. The fact that you didn’t even look at him again as other reporters jumped in with their far more standard, predictable questions made something coil tight in his chest.

Sakusa forced himself to focus on the next question, but his grip on the microphone was just a little too firm, and the only thing he could hear was the sound of your pen scratching against paper as you took notes from the other players, like he wasn’t even worth your time anymore.

From then he knew who you were.

Knows your name, your face, the way your voice always cuts straight through to him no matter how many journalists crowd these post-match briefings. You’re a nuisance, an irritant, and yet—he never ignores your questions. Never brushes them off with the indifference he grants others.

You challenge him. And deep down, you both know he likes it.

~~

The first time you wrote about Sakusa Kiyoomi, your article had been direct and biting, dissecting his play with ruthless precision. Where others hailed his natural talent, you highlighted the flaws—the inconsistency in his service pressure, the occasional lapse in his blocking reads. Not to degrade him, but because you saw the potential for more. And apparently, so did he.

Since then, every time you covered an MSBY match, there was an unspoken expectation—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. But it wasn’t just that.

Sakusa remembers the very first time he noticed you. The first time you called him out in a press conference, your voice cutting through the noise like a blade, sharp and deliberate. He remembers how his fingers clenched under the table, how the irritation simmered low in his chest—not because of what you said, but because it made him feel something. It should’ve been just another question, just another reporter, but it wasn’t.

And it never has been since.—he knew you'd be watching, and you knew he'd be playing to prove you wrong. Over time, the rivalry evolved into something else, lingering in the way his gaze would flicker toward you during games or how his answers in press conferences were always a little sharper when you were the one asking the questions. Something neither of you had acknowledged.

The away game had been intense, but MSBY had emerged victorious. The final set had been a test of endurance, forcing the team to dig deep against an opponent determined to push them to their limits. The last point had come from a perfectly executed block—Sakusa reading the setter and shutting down the cross-court spike with a decisive palm. The crowd erupted, the whistle blew, and the scoreboard solidified their win.

Post-game adrenaline still ran through Sakusa’s veins as he walked into the media room alongside his teammates, their jerseys still damp with sweat. The moment they sat down at the press table, cameras flashed, and the room filled with a cacophony of voices as reporters fired off questions left and right.

“Your blocks were key in the third set! How did you adjust so quickly?”

“What do you think made the biggest difference against the opposing team’s hitters?”

“Your receives looked more inconsistent compared to last game. Do you think fatigue played a factor?”

Meian, as captain, answered first, offering the usual post-match reflections on team effort and strategy. Bokuto, beaming from ear to ear, leaned into the microphone and laughed about how ‘every game should be that intense!’ Hinata, still buzzing, nodded along, interjecting whenever he got the chance.

Sakusa answered each question he was asked with measured precision, keeping his responses brief but informative. He had done enough press to know how to maneuver through them without revealing much.

Then, a voice cut through the chaos.

“Shinohara was dominating the net in the second set, and you looked like you were scrambling to keep up. Would you say he got the better of you?”

Sakusa’s eyes snapped to the crowd of reporters, and there you were—standing among them, notebook in hand, your expression composed but sharp. The same way it had been earlier, when you had watched him from the sidelines and smirked before scribbling something down.

“Or was it frustration? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were second-guessing your reads more than usual. Did he force you to change your approach?”

The room held its breath, the shift in atmosphere nearly tangible. A few reporters traded quick looks, some leaning forward slightly, eager to see how Sakusa would respond. The usual rustling of notepads and scribbling of pens slowed, all eyes trained on the exchange.

His jaw tightened, fingers pressing into the table with restrained force. "Is that what you saw?" His voice was cool, but there was something simmering beneath it, like a rope pulled too tight. The question wasn’t dismissive—it was a challenge. He adjusted his mask, fingers pressing into the fabric before exhaling slowly. “I was focused. Not frustrated.”

You smiled, slow and deliberate, the kind that said you knew exactly what you were doing. That you had dragged him into this, and he had walked right into it. Without another word, you lowered your pen and let the other reporters take over, shifting their questions toward Meian and Bokuto instead.

At the table, Atsumu and Bokuto shared a look.

“Didja see that?” Atsumu muttered under his breath.

Bokuto grinned. “Oh yeah.”

Sakusa ignored them, but he could feel their eyes on him, burning with interest.

The banquet hall is grand, an opulent display of polished marble floors and cascading chandeliers that bathe the room in warm, golden light. The scent of decadent dishes—slow-roasted meats, rich pastas, fresh seafood—intertwines with the subtle notes of fine wine and aged whiskey. Servers weave gracefully through the throngs of athletes, journalists, and executives, their trays balancing crystal goblets and plates laden with gourmet delicacies. The atmosphere is both relaxed and electric, the hum of voices, bursts of laughter, and the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain blending into an effortless symphony of post-match revelry. It was a post-match tradition for away games—a chance for players, staff, and members of the media to unwind.

At the MSBY table, Sakusa swirled his drink lazily in his glass, only half-listening to the conversation between his teammates.

“You got grilled again,” Bokuto laughed, nudging him. “Man, she’s relentless.”

“Pretty sure she enjoys making your life difficult,” Meian added, smirking over the rim of his beer.

Hinata grins. “She really goes for you in those press conferences. Think she’s got a thing for you?”

Sakusa scoffs, setting his drink down. “Doubtful.”

Atsumu, who has been watching the exchange with growing amusement, leans in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Nah, I think you got a thing for her.”

Sakusa tenses, shooting him a glare. “Shut up.”

“Oooh, he didn’t deny it,” Bokuto teases, laughing as he throws an arm around Hinata’s shoulders. “Kiyo, you like the attention, don’t you?”

Meian shakes his head. “I’d believe that if he wasn’t always so pissy after talking to her.”

Sakusa exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s just doing her job.”

Atsumu grins. “So are you, but ya sure get all riled up when she’s around.”

He doesn’t have a response to that. Not one he wants to say out loud, anyway.

His teammates exchange looks, sensing that the teasing has gotten under his skin more than usual. But before any of them can make another comment, Sakusa stands abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Hinata asks, blinking up at him.

Sakusa doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze flickers across the room—to the bar, where you’re seated, nursing a drink while scrolling through your phone. His fingers tighten around his glass.

Atsumu follows his line of sight and grins. “Ah. Interesting.”

Sakusa ignores him and walks off.

You notice him before he even reaches the bar, that unmistakable presence making your pulse pick up just slightly.

He slides onto the stool beside you, his mask now tucked under his chin. You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "You’re hovering."

He mirrors your words from earlier, tone dry. "I haven’t said anything yet."

"You’re about to."

Sakusa exhales through his nose, gaze flickering briefly toward the drink in your hand before settling back on you. The air between you is thick, the usual sharpness in his stare now laced with something else—something unreadable.

You tilt your head slightly, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before speaking again. "You seemed irritated earlier."

"I wonder why."

You smirk. "I’d say it’s part of my job, but you already know that."

Sakusa doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans back against the bar, fingers tapping idly against his glass. "You enjoy it, don’t you? Getting under my skin."

"If it gets me the truth, then yeah."

His jaw tightens slightly at that, and for a second, you think he might say something else. But instead, he just watches you, eyes dark, expression unreadable.

You swirl the last of your drink in your glass, tilting your head as you watch him. Then, with a half-smirk, you say it—mostly as a joke. "You know, if you’re that desperate to defend yourself, I could offer you a private interview."

You don’t expect anything to come of it. In fact, you’re already preparing for him to scoff and dismiss the idea entirely.

But instead, Sakusa blinks, his fingers pausing on his glass. "When?"

That one word nearly makes you choke on your own drink. You open your mouth, close it, then recover with a casual shrug. "My recorder’s upstairs."

His gaze sharpens. "You’re still looking for an angle."

You shrug. "I’m looking for an answer."

Sakusa exhales, slow and measured, before finally nodding. "Fine. Let’s go." Neither of you move for a second. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, you both stand at the same time. The air between you tightens with something unspoken, something neither of you are willing to name yet.

Across the room, Meian lets out a low whistle. "Well, would you look at that."

Atsumu elbows Bokuto, barely able to contain his excitement. "Oh my god, Kiyoomi is getting some."

You weren’t expecting him to agree so easily, but you mask your surprise, finishing your drink before sliding off the stool. The walk out of the banquet hall is silent, the tension between you threading tighter with every step. You don’t look at him as you press the elevator button, and he doesn’t look at you when the doors slide open.

But the weight of his presence lingers, undeniable and electric.

The two of you walk toward the elevators in silence, but it isn’t awkward. It’s charged, simmering beneath the surface. Neither of you say a word, but every step forward feels deliberate, like a move in a game neither of you are willing to lose. The walk is silent, tension threading between you, thick with something unspoken.

The moment the door to your hotel room clicks shut behind you, the atmosphere shifts—becomes something heavier, charged. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts elongated shadows along the sleek, modern furnishings, bathing the space in an intimate warmth. The distant murmur of the city beyond the window seems inconsequential compared to the weight of the silence stretching taut between you and Sakusa. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately. He lingers near the entrance, his hand still resting lightly on the door handle, as if debating whether he should turn around and walk away. A flicker of hesitation ghosts across his face—so brief that most wouldn’t catch it, but you do.

Why is he here?

The easy answer is the interview. But deep down, he knows that’s not the truth. It hasn’t been for a while. You get under his skin in ways no one else does, and despite how much it infuriates him, he’s still here, standing in your hotel room, waiting for a reason not to be.

But you don’t give him one. Sakusa doesn’t move immediately, just lingers near the entrance, as if deciding whether he regrets agreeing to this. You, on the other hand, are already setting your recorder on the desk, flipping open your notebook with practiced ease. There’s no hesitation in your movements, no indication that you’d been thinking about the way he reacted back in the press conference.

But he knows you have.

He watches as you click your pen once, twice, before finally meeting his gaze. "Take a seat, Sakusa-san."

His jaw flexes, but he steps further into the room, pulling out the chair across from you with just a little more force than necessary. The scrape of the wood against the floor is sharp, punctuating the air between you. He doesn’t slouch, doesn’t let himself sink into the seat—no, he sits with his back straight, arms crossed, like he’s bracing for impact.

You hit record.

"So, let’s start with the game," you begin, voice even, measured. "Despite your win, Shinohara’s attack percentage was noticeably higher than yours. Do you think his presence on the court pushed you to your limits?"

Sakusa exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tensing. "He’s a strong player, but I wouldn’t say he ‘pushed me to my limits.’ I adjusted accordingly."

"You adjusted, but his success rate didn’t drop. So was the issue with your defense, or was he just the better player tonight?"

A pause. A sharp inhale from Sakusa. The muscle in his jaw twitches again.

"I don’t recall losing."

You tilt your head slightly. "That doesn’t answer my question."

Sakusa’s fingers curl against his arms, his nails pressing into the fabric of his sleeves. His eyes narrow, but there’s something else there too—something almost like intrigue beneath the irritation.

"If you’re looking for a soundbite, you’re not getting one."

You smirk, tapping your pen against your notebook. "Oh, I already got one."

His eyes flicker over your face, scanning, analyzing, before his irritation shifts into something else. Something darker. More intent.

The recorder sits between you, capturing every word, but neither of you are really thinking about the interview anymore. The weight of the tension settles thick in the air, lingering in the space between your crossed arms and his unwavering stare.

Sakusa exhales through his nose. "Next question."

You hesitate.

It’s barely a second—just long enough for your fingers to falter on your notepad, for your breath to catch as you take in the weight of his stare. And he sees it.

That single moment of doubt.

It fuels him more than anything else.

But you both know—this interview isn’t ending the way it was supposed to. He leans against the edge of the bed, arms crossed, watching you like he’s waiting for you to make the first move.

“So,” you start, keeping your voice even. “How do you think the game went?”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “You saw it.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

Sakusa leans forward slightly. “You always want to hear it from me.”

You smile. The room feels smaller now, the air heavier. “That’s my job.”

“Is it?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening slightly around your notepad. There’s something in his tone that makes your pulse jump. “You tell me.”

For the first time, his mask is completely gone—not just the physical one, but the carefully measured distance he keeps between himself and the world. His gaze dips to your lips for half a second before snapping back up, something sharp and intent in his expression.

And then, he’s moving.

That night, nothing else matters. Not the rivalry, not the press, not the game. Just Sakusa Kiyoomi and the way he finally lets go—just for you.