Confessions: Osamu

Husbandry: Daichi

The rain comes down in steady sheets, tapping against the windows in a soothing rhythm. The streets outside glisten under the glow of streetlights, the occasional car passing by leaving behind a faint hum of noise. It’s the perfect kind of evening—the kind meant for staying in, wrapped up in warmth, with nowhere to be and nothing urgent pressing on your mind.

Daichi is already settled on the couch, a soft throw blanket draped over his legs, the remote lazily balanced on his stomach. The TV is on, playing some crime drama, but his attention isn’t fully on it. Instead, he glances over at you, a slow, easy smile tugging at his lips as you walk into the living room carrying two mugs of tea.

“You’re the best,” he says as you hand him one, fingers brushing against yours in the exchange. His hands are warm, even against the ceramic.

“I know,” you reply, sinking onto the couch beside him. The heat from the tea seeps into your fingers as you take a slow sip, savoring the way the warmth spreads down your throat.

Daichi shifts, draping an arm over your shoulders and pulling you close, his body solid and reassuring against yours. You relax into him easily, letting your head rest against his shoulder. His thumb moves absentmindedly over your arm, slow and steady, and you exhale, feeling the tension of the day melt away.

On the screen, the detective is interrogating a suspect, voice low and serious. Daichi lets out a quiet scoff. “That’s not how real interrogations work.”

You smile against his shoulder. “Oh? Care to enlighten me, Officer Sawamura?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “It’s just unrealistic. No one confesses that easily. And look at how he’s holding that report—like he’s never actually read one in his life.”

You chuckle, shifting so you can look up at him. “You say this every time we watch crime shows.”

“Because it’s true every time,” he argues, but his voice is light, teasing. “It’s a shame, really. They should just hire me as a consultant.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure the Tokyo police force would love for you to moonlight as a TV consultant.”

He grins, taking a sip of his tea. “I’d be good at it.”

“You’d be insufferable.”

“And yet, you’d still watch with me.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” you say, laughing softly.

Daichi shakes his head, eyes narrowing at the screen as the detective makes a sweeping accusation that somehow miraculously leads to a confession. He scoffs, growing more animated now. “That’s not even how questioning works. There’s a whole process! There’s procedure, and paperwork, and—why does this guy always get away with breaking protocol?”

You watch him, amused, as he continues to rant, his brows furrowed, hands gesturing as he lists every inaccuracy he can spot. His passion is endearing—adorable, even. And before he can go on any further, you reach up, cupping his jaw and pressing your lips to his mid-sentence.

Daichi stills for a moment, surprised, before he leans into the kiss, his earlier frustration forgotten. When you pull back, his brown eyes flicker with something softer, more intrigued, but you don’t stop there. You press another kiss to the sharp line of his jaw, then lower, trailing down the side of his neck.

His breath hitches slightly, but he doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, waiting.

You smile against his skin before slowly pulling away. Rising from the couch, you peel off your shirt, letting it drop to the floor as you make your way toward the bedroom. Just before disappearing through the doorway, you glance back at him.

“Still pissed at the show?” you ask, voice teasing.

Daichi exhales sharply, setting his mug down without even looking. “You’re good.”

You giggle, knowing full well he’s already getting up to follow you.

Unrequited Love: Atsumu

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

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

But none of them compare to this.

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

All because of you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the second the door swings open, everything changes.

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

His mind shuts down completely.

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

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

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

But it does.

He stares. Blinks. Forgets how to function.

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

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

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

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

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

And that somehow makes it worse.

Atsumu short-circuits.

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

His brain is stuck on a loop.

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

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

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

No. No, he is not.

Because suddenly, he gets it.

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

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

It finally clicks.

And it wrecks him.

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

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

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

Which means he needs to stop you.

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

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

But Atsumu?

He knows he’s never letting this go.

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

This is real. This is big.

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

Worse? He thinks he might like it.

And that might just be the scariest part of all.

Jealousy: Iwaizumi

Iwaizumi was good at controlling himself.

He had to be—he worked in a gym, surrounded by athletes, lifters, and fitness junkies who all looked like they were carved from stone. He’d seen enough shirtless guys flexing in mirrors to be immune to it.

Or at least, he thought he was immune.

Until today. Until this guy.

Some shredded gym bro with veins popping, abs tight, sweat glistening just right under the gym lights, standing at the bench press and calling for you.

Not him. Not any of the other trainers. You.

“Hey,” the guy said, voice smooth, cocky. “Think you can check my form?”

You—being the professional, non-suspecting menace that you are—nodded immediately. “Sure thing.”

Iwaizumi didn’t react at first. Just kept his eyes on you from across the room, his towel draped over his shoulder, fingers twitching slightly against the water bottle in his hand.

Because he already knew what was coming.

He knew what this guy wanted.

And so did you.

But that didn’t stop you from walking over, from crouching beside the guy, adjusting his grip, your fingers brushing against his forearm, his bicep, your voice sweet and focused.

Iwaizumi exhaled sharply through his nose.

You weren’t even flirting. You were genuinely coaching him. Adjusting his wrist placement, explaining the mechanics of the movement, giving clear, professional advice.

But the guy? He was milking it.

“Oh, like this?” he asked, purposefully getting it wrong again.

You frowned slightly, stepping closer, placing your hands lightly on his arms to guide him. “Not quite. Here, you should feel tension through your chest, not just your shoulders.”

You gave him a quick tap on his tricep, then his pec. “Feel that?”

The guy grinned. “Not really. Maybe I just need a better pump.”

Iwaizumi rolled his neck, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

You, ever the dedicated trainer, didn’t immediately clock the bullshit. Instead, you pressed lightly against his bicep, checking the engagement. “It should activate here—”

The guy flexed slightly, purely for show.

And that’s when Iwaizumi had enough.

He made his way over, casual but not really, and stopped beside you, tilting his head slightly.

“Boss is looking for you,” he said, voice low and impossible to argue with. “I’ll take over.”

You blinked, raising an eyebrow. “Wait, what—”

But he was already guiding you away, firm but careful, not giving you a chance to protest before turning back to the guy.

“Alright, man.” Iwaizumi cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders. “Let’s see that form.”

The guy nodded, picked up the bar—

And immediately, his form was perfect.

Not a single issue.

Iwaizumi just stared. “Huh.”

The guy hesitated, shifting awkwardly. "Uh… well, I just need a spot."

Iwaizumi nodded slowly, expression unreadable. "Oh. Yeah? No problem."

As he stepped into position behind the bench, you decided to check if your boss had actually needed you. You made your way toward the reception desk, leaning over slightly. "Hey, did the boss ask for me?"

The receptionist frowned, shaking their head. "Nope. Haven't seen them call for anyone."

You paused, then huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head to yourself. "It’s alright."

Turning around, you smiled knowingly.

By the time you returned, Iwaizumi was finishing up with the guy. "Yeah, your form is practically perfect now. Looks like that advice really helped."

The dude muttered a quick "Thanks" before grabbing his towel and heading toward the lockers, a little too quickly.

You raised a brow at Iwaizumi. "Boss didn't need me for anything."

He didn’t even flinch. "Huh. Weird."

You stared at him, lips twitching. "Super weird."

His smirk was casual, smug. "Well, he really did improve, didn’t he?"

You hummed, stretching your arms overhead before tilting your head at him, eyes playful. "If only I had someone to improve my form..."

Before you could take another step, his hand was on your waist, firm, warm, pulling you back against him. His other hand slid down, palming your ass with a slow squeeze that made your breath hitch.

He leaned in, voice low and rough. "Just wait until we get home."

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.

Favourite Positions: Kita

Kita Shinsuke was a man of routine.

He liked quiet mornings. Crisp sheets. Things folded neatly, put away properly. He didn’t yell. He didn’t lose his temper. Everything he did was thoughtful, measured, deliberate.

And that translated in the bedroom, too.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t fumble. And he wasn’t the type to lose control.

Which is why his favorite position was one that allowed him to stay in control, to keep you close, to feel every single way your body responded to his.

Prone bone.

Your body beneath his. Face turned to the side, cheek pressed into the pillow, your back arching automatically as his hips rutted into you slowly, deeply, at a rhythm that felt maddening. The cotton of the sheets felt cool against your flushed skin, the quiet rustle of the fabric beneath you the only sound aside from your shallow breaths and the soft slap of skin meeting skin.

He didn’t let you move. Didn’t let you squirm or shift or hide your face.

He held you there.

One arm caged around your waist, the other braced at the mattress near your head, his palm anchoring your shoulder blade as he rolled his hips with the kind of practiced precision that only came from a man who paid attention to detail. Every shift of his body was intentional, every breath exhaled against your neck deliberate.

And you never realized how overwhelming that kind of stillness could be until he made you stay in it.

“Shinsuke—” your voice broke, trembling with effort. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, trying to ground yourself as your thighs twitched, as the pressure in your belly coiled tighter and tighter.

His hand was firm between your shoulder blades, his chest flush to your back, the heat of his skin blanketing you, his lips brushing your ear.

“Stay still,” he murmured, voice low, calm, but final.

You gasped as he pressed deeper, the drag of his cock against your walls drawing a cry from your throat. The stretch felt unbearable and addictive all at once. He was slow, precise. Like he was memorizing you. Like your body was a prayer and he intended to recite every line by heart.

“Feel it,” he whispered. "Don’t run from it."

Your breath hitched. Your eyes fluttered shut. You tried to hold still. You really did. But the pleasure built too fast, too hot, and your hips jerked again before you could stop yourself.

His hand moved instantly, gripping your hip, holding you in place. Not hard enough to hurt—just enough to remind you who was in control.

His body pressed more firmly into yours. You felt every inch of him, every beat of his heart in the center of your back, every deep thrust echoing inside your ribs.

You whined into the pillow, your body shaking. “I can’t—”

“You can.”

His voice was soft, but unrelenting. “You want to come?”

You nodded, barely able to form words.

“Then be good. Take what I give you.”

And you tried. You let him take over. Let him keep the pace, keep the rhythm, keep you pressed down while he fucked you slow, deep, steady. The sound of your breathing filled the room—wet, broken gasps punctuated by the muted creak of the bed and the soft drag of his hips grinding into yours.

Your toes curled. Your hands twisted in the sheets. Every thrust pressed you deeper into the mattress, made your body shudder under him, made your moans fall apart into messy, breathless cries.

You were a mess by the time he let you fall apart. Crying out into the sheets, your fingers curling, your body seizing around him as your orgasm crashed through you hard. Your thighs trembled violently. You felt your body clamp down on him, spasming in wave after wave of white-hot release.

He didn’t stop.

Not until your body gave out entirely beneath him, trembling and slack and soaked with sweat. Your mind was blank, every nerve in your body thrumming. Your face pressed into the pillow, mouth parted, completely undone.

Only then did he ease out, brushing his hand along your spine, lips pressing softly to your shoulder. His hand lingered there, fingertips trailing in slow, soothing patterns that made your breath even out bit by bit.

“You did so well,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around you from behind, pulling your boneless body into his chest. “Just like I knew you would.”

You hummed weakly, too wrung out to reply, eyes slipping closed as you melted into the heat of him.

Stillness. Not because he demanded it—

But because after him, you couldn't move even if you wanted to.

the thing that many writers, including myself, forget about first drafts is that they're the author's draft. every other draft can be for the readers, but the first is for you and your eyes only.

and use that advantage. don't know what to write? just leave a note and skip it. getting bored? write the scene sarcastically. want to try an idea but know it will cause plot holes? write it anyway! you can do anything. let your first draft be the most self-indulgent thing you have ever created. just let it exist.

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.

Letterman Jacket 🏐

waiting for megumi's class to end so they can play ૮⍝• ᴥ •⍝ა

You must have a lot of notepads in your place

A fair assumption but I'm just a freak who just uses one single word doc to write all my stories. sorry to disappoint lolol But as always thank you for the send!! <33