Summary: In which professional volleyball player Ushijima met his neighbor and ultimately saved you from a zombie attack. With your keys dropped outside, eventually Ushijima offered for you to stay.
Tropes/Tags: Zombie AU/Apocalypse(?), Pro Athlete Ushijima, tendou mentioned, reader is slightly chaotic, fluff, Ushijima childhood mentioned.
Wordcount: 3.1k words (this was supposed to be a short drabble...)
Ushijima Wakatoshi was a world-class volleyball player, known for the absolute monster of a spike which had devastated far more defenders on the opposing teams. Not only that but the notorious and unique counter-clockwise rotation of his attack due to his left-handed disposition only enhanced the man’s prestige and value as a professional opposite-hitter. Some would argue that Wakatoshi was born to be a genius of an athlete — his genes, towering tall at 192.7cm, facilitated him with a huge headstart at the world of sports. Yet, Wakatoshi’s passion didn’t start out because he wanted to be the best. He came to love volleyball through stories from his father.
He faintly remembered his childhood — how his father had first brought a volleyball and leaned it against his left hand. How the ball had rolled around the traditional wooden tiles of their house. And how the younger him would chase after the ball, steps faltering and eventually stumbling over the dampness of the recently mopped floor. His grandmother would proceed to chide his father and Wakatoshi likewise for the improper behavior they both were exhibiting.
However, the two, three, if you counted the ever so present volley ball, would always find themselves continuing their little charade elsewhere. He came to love volleyball because it was the evidence, the proof, and the trails of the bond he had shared with his father. And it lived on. Even as the divorce had been formally recognized, even when his grandmother and mother had attempted to erase his left-handed habits. He loved volleyball because it was a channel that destroyed the prejudice of imperfection imposed upon him by his mother’s side of the family. He loved how volleyball gave new meanings to his unique predisposition, how the weakness viewed by everyone else had always been his distinctive strength. Therefore, he held eternal gratitude for how his father had practically handed him the sport since he was young.
Now and then, Wakatoshi was the same as always. The discipline his father had ingrained in him was now a subconscious process in Wakatoshi’s mind. Perhaps it had started out as a small lie due to how Wakatoshi had avoided paprika — in his childhood, he often singled out the vegetables to the corner of his plate. He recalled how his father mentioned that the ace players in volleyball teams would always eat their vegetables, and that was how they gained strength to grow tall and build stamina to last the entire game. He believed his father, and for the first time, he picked up the vegetables with his chopstick, his nose scrunched up from the stench, but a younger Wakatoshi ate all the paprika served that day.
As an adult, he understood that food was a form of fuel to optimize his performance. The understanding led Wakatoshi to built his entire life routine to foster a body that could handle the apex of his full strength, a body that could keep up with the sportsmanship he aimed to exceed.
Wakatoshi had some non-negotiables. In the early crack of dawn, regardless of the season or weather, he’d always be up and running, jogging for a minimum of 10km daily. A simple but heavily calculated breakfast would follow, Wakatoshi’s plates would consist of ample protein, dietary fibre, and just the right amount of carbohydrates. He’d never forget to hydrate himself with enough water throughout the day. Wakatoshi could be sweating his entire body out during his regular muscle exercises or volley training and his second thought would forever be that he need his water, the first thought being how his performance had fared.
The routine existed both on and off season to provide consistency to his career. Wakatoshi firmly believed that his everyday effort would bear fruits in terms of uniformity. As a consequence, he rarely strayed away from the schedules of his days. Tendou used to find it easy to pinpoint Wakatoshi’s whereabout due to his unwavering loyalty towards his set of routines. Of all things which could infringe chaos upon his peaceful pattern of living, Wakatoshi never thought a zombie outbreak would be it.
Here he was, the tautness of his calf muscle went on overtime. Wakatoshi was running from a pool of zombie which had suddenly decided that the 1.9m metre hulking man would be a feast to end their incessant hunger. His grip on the plastic bag from the supermarket he had just went to for grocery tightened, Wakatoshi fought against the resistance of wind itself while he sprinted to his apartment complex. Fortunately, the supermarket had been close to the new apartment he moved into last month. As Wakatoshi arrived, he bolted to the emergency stairs, running past a few security guards who had been zombified themselves.
Praise the lord for the fact that he was a professional athlete. Wakatoshi easily skipped over 3 staircases in a step due to his excessively long limbs. In no time at all, he had made himself onto the 16th floor of the apartment. Wakatoshi gently turned the knob of the emergency door sideways, the sight of the 16th floor unveiled itself with a click. Blood painted over the white corridor Wakatoshi had passed by everyday, he kept his eyes steady while deriving information from the surrounding — much like how he’d do on court. There were few bodies slumped on the ground, the trails of blood suggested that the bodies had been the source of it. Wakatoshi was careful, even as he went forward, he’d check for any twitch from the bodies. If the current situation was like those apocalypse movies he had binged with Tendou, at any moment now, the bodies could undergo the transformation to be a zombie.
A shrill shriek broke the laser focus he had maintained. Wakatoshi’s head snapped towards the direction of the sound and he broke into a sprint, running all the way down the hall before making a sharp turn to the right, it was where his apartment was located too. Wakatoshi ran pass the door to his apartment, he saw the unfamiliar key that had fallen few steps away from the entrance to his cozy home, and he heard the unmistaken growl of the zombie.
He saw you then, the neighbor he had seen in passing few times now, with a fire extinguisher on your hand, desperately waving it around to stop the sole zombie from getting any closer. Wakatoshi operated on instinct, he leaped himself into the momentum of a charging bull, “Step aside!” was his only warning, he had hoped you’d listen or at least caught sight of what he was attempting to do. With the sheer power of his strength, guided by the momentum of his run, Wakatoshi slammed his shoulder to the back of the zombie. The zombie was blasted away upon contact with the man who had weighted 90kg, it bought Wakatoshi enough time to yank your wrist and pull you away.
You on the other hand, hadn’t registered what just happened. All you had wanted after an exhausting day of work was a warm shower, eating chinese takeouts, and sleeping in your cozy bed. Who would have guessed you’d be chased by a zombie all the way to the 16th floor. You had fumbled upon your keys, the panic messed with your breathing, and your fingers trembled unconsciously. For some reason, you couldn’t insert the key well and as the zombie itched closer, the key fell from your hold. The rest of the event had gone by in a blur, you had looked for any sort of weapon but all that your eyes laid on was the fire extinguisher. And a man sound broke through the sweats of keeping the zombie away from yourself. Now, you were pulled away by this stranger, mind still dazed from whatever in the dystopian had happened to the world.
Wakatoshi punched in the passcode to his door, effectively unlocking it with ease and rushing inside the safety of his home with you in his hold. The door locked itself with a beep and Wakatoshi heard a soft exhale. He immediately released the hold he had on you, a sense of worry climbed at him when he saw the redness that had marred your wrist. “Are you alright?” Wakatoshi asked, the plastic he had held so tightly fell to the ground of his floor as he inspected you for any signs of hurt.
“The world truly has gone to shit.” You cursed, Wakatoshi flinched at the sudden profanity. You dropped the fire extinguisher you had clung into, your body effective gave up, melting to the ground alongside with the item. Your back leaned upon Wakatoshi’s shoe rack, noting an unhealthy amount of sports sneakers on display.
“Thanks for earlier, I would have died then if not for you.”
“No worries, are you sure you’re alright?” Wakatoshi slipped the sneakers of his feet, squating down to place them on an empty section of the rack. He met you on eye level, a surge of relief passed through him due to your pristine condition, no signs of injury in sight. Your cursing surely meant that you were still energetic enough, still brimming with life.
“Yeah, as good as one can be.” You mumbled, fingers now raking upon the scalp of your head. You were sure that you had met this man before, but when and where were the missing pieces of puzzles your brain couldn’t fill out. “Have I… met you before?”
“My name is Ushijima Wakatoshi, we live next to each other.” He extended his palm out, and you stared at it for a while before sighing and accepting the man’s help once more. As if you weighed like a feather, the man hoisted you and himself up.
“We always rode the same lift in the morning.” You weren’t the most perceptive person to ever live on earth but you had thought that you weren’t the most dense either. For all the years you had stayed in this apartment, you had never met anyone who looked as good as him. Scratch that, you would remember a face like his! So how come, you couldn’t even find a trace of him in your memory? Had work been burning you out too much that you would even miss the existence of such a handsome treat?
Mouth agape, Wakatoshi could see that whatever he said wasn’t ringing the bell in your little mind. You knitted your lips together, pursuing them as you tried to recall whether anyone was with you on the lift every morning. The morning rush was tedious, every working adult on the apartment would crowd the lift at the exact same hour, therefore you couldn’t exactly remember everyone’s faces. You do remembered a hulking presence looming behind your back but that was it.
You evaded your gaze from the man, his hands still lingered on yours momentarily before the warmth of the touch was all that remained. Wakatoshi bent to pick up the plastic of groceries he had dropped earlier before walking further into his home. His apartment smelled like it was freshly painted, the stench of the chemical that loitered would come in whiffs. He clicked the switch located on the wall, and lights flickered altogether, illuminating the fairly humble and traditional design of his apartment. He had let the designer do as they pleased, only leaving them with the prompt of a traditional japanese ryokan as reference.
The sections of his apartment like the kitchen and the living room were separated by shoji — a grid-like divider which consisted of white screen made of plant fibers and wooden frames in brown. It was a stark to your entirely chic modern house which hosted only either black or white color furnitures. Right, speaking about your apartment next door, you dug your hands into your pocket — searching for the piece of metal you held on your hand previously.
“Fuck, my keys are outside.” You grumbled, both palms now slapped onto your face in exasperation. With the amount of bodies outside, any of them could turn into another zombie and soon there’d be a horde outside.
“You can stay here for as long as you need.” You heard Wakatoshi said, his figure no longer visible from where you stood. Beyond the turmoil brewing inside yourself, Wakatoshi made his way into the kitchen. He swiftly counted his supplies and made an estimate of how long the two of you would last — fortunately for him, he had just received a delivery from his father yesterday. If he decided to lower his intake, the supplies he had now should last quite a while.
“Appreciate the offer but with how close our balcony are, do you think I could just jump over?” Your eyes zeroed in on the balcony across from the kitchen where Wakatoshi was, slowly making your way towards sliding door of his balcony, a stark difference towards your glass door.
Wakatoshi stopped doing all of the maths he had been doing on his head. His eyes flew to scan where you were, irises contracting at how close you were to the balcony. He was pretty sure that there was at least a 4 metre distance from his balcony to yours, no way were you making that jump. Not on his watch.
“It isn’t wise, are your balcony locked?” Wakatoshi questioned, bridging the distance between the two of you just as quickly as how the ridiculous idea had popped into your head.
“It might or might not be.”
“Stay.” The man said. Any normal person would have hated how you had increased their stress level in the midst of an ongoing apocalypse — pretty sure they’d regret ever saving you as well. Luckily, or in your unfortunate case, Wakatoshi always deterred from normalcy. He said it because staying guaranteed your safety. You were after all the neighbor who had endlessly fascinated him.
You soon realized that the man who was named Ushijima Wakatoshi was akin to an old tree, firmly rooted on its ground, roots protruding to the surface from its sheer maturity. He was firm, unshakeable, and undeniably a pillar of security. You had thrown a thousand reasons of why you had to make that jump over your own balcony. It ranged from logical reasonings like having surpluses food supplies to share with him to illogical reasonings like needing your skincare and shampoo. To that absolute nonsense, Wakatoshi had handed you a box full of skincare which he had gotten as PR from brands.
“What are you? An influencer of some sort?” You scoffed, hands scrambling around the gigantic box of luxurious skincare you which could amount to your quarterly salary.
“I’m a professional volleyball player.” Wakatoshi answered, all while stirring the leftover sauce of Hayashi rice he had sitting on his fridge. Wakatoshi stirred in a clockwise motion around the pot, the normal-sized spatula he used looked all too small in his hand.
You thought male athletes all had this terrible misconception of their own importance, an inflated self-esteem and ego, as one would say. However, Wakatoshi made you dinner and even drew you a warm tub of water for shower. The man might have a staggering build but his heart was undoubtedly soft and of the nicest intention. The kind of guy who wouldn’t leave a struggling person behind — and you had seen enough apocalypse movies to know that Wakatoshi was the exact kind of guy people would take advantage of and left to die.
Fresh out of shower, Wakatoshi guided you around his simple room which consisted of a built-in wardrobe, a king-sized bed, and desks by each side of the bed. He had given you one of his comfortable pajamas to wear. The shirt alone had almost reached your knees, the length was staggering and the pants were sliding off with every step you took. You had to manually anchor the pajamas together by hand to appear appropriate, not wanting to flash your savior.
“You can take the bed. I’ll be sleeping in the couch outside if you need me.”
Your protest went unheard as Wakatoshi walked away. His strides were wide and every steps of his were quick, you gripped onto the hem of his top before he would be out of reach. He had saved you from a zombie, had given you a place to stay, fed you with amazing food, and now offered his bed for your comfort. You knew he wouldn’t take no for an answer with how steadfastly stubborn he was, therefore although reluctant, you had decided to accept his graciousness. Still, you had to let him know the words that uncomfortably tingled your throat, itching to be materialized.
“You know, I’d actually like to get to know you better under normal circumstances.”
Wakatoshi’s lips curved slightly into a thin smile. Your grip on the man went slack the moment the words escaped your lips.
“Me too.”
You didn’t know whether he was being polite with his response however you’d take it, along with the little smile which had graced his features — he should smile more, you think it looked wonderful on him. Wakatoshi murmured a goodnight as he strided out of his bedroom, leaving the room that was his to your needs.
You wouldn’t have known it but Wakatoshi had noticed your presence for a while now. It started with small gestures of kindness, how you had intentionally pressed the lift button to wait for him, how you’d feed stray cats and dogs around the area, how you’d return a parcel of his you had accidentally taken with a long apology note. And then he caught glimpse of how candid you were, how you were quick to stand your own ground and defend others like that one time in which a security guard had been blamed for simply doing their duty by a resident.
You could go as far as say that he was haunted by your presence, thoughts of running into you, finally introducing himself to you — he had thought of it as a dream far too gone. You were interesting, every layers he had seen were somewhat different but it all explicably felt like you. Undeniably kind, undeniably fiery, undeniably irresistable. Wakatoshi found himself drawn to you. He’d keep you safe for as long as you allowed him to.
He wouldn't have known it either, but you had resolute to keeping Wakatoshi away from no-good individuals who would guilt trip him into being a self-sacrificing hero.
And that was the start of your many days with Ushijima Wakatoshi.
A/n: I only wrote this bcs I was distracted... and in under 2 hours too. It's a rushed work supposed to be a drabble but, enjoy! Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated ‹𝟹
𝒃lurb ﹕ a 'secret' relationship between a manager and an opposing team's captain doesn't exactly remain secret for long.. ╱ 𝒘𝒄 # 1.3k
— 𝒂uthor's 𝒏ote ﹕ the ushijima version of distraction is here!! oh i love toshi sm ;) this one is shorter than oikawa's hope you don't mind
requested ☆
"why is he looking at l/n-san like she's a particularly difficult math problem?" tanaka whispers, shielding his eyes with his hand as if ushijima's gaze is the sun (theyre indoors..). "it's unsettling. he's trying to psych us out by targeting our managers!"
"maybe he's trying to intimidate our support system," nishinoya hisses back, puffing out his chest and stepping slightly in front of you. "don't worry, l/n! we'll protect you! he might be a very strong, but he hasn't met the power protection of the guardian deity yet!"
you sigh heavily, clicking your pen repeatedly and focusing very hard on your clipboard.
you try to keep your expression neutral. "he's just.. looking, guys. he's a very observant player. focus, come on – we're down by five points and the set is almost over."
tsukishima, however, is even more observant than usual today – and trust me, that's saying something. he leans back against the bench, intelligent eyes darting between you and the giant across the court.
he'd noticed the way your hand trembled slightly when ushijima had stepped up to serve, and he'd definitely noticed the nearly identical sports watches on both your wrists – a brand that was notoriously hard to get in this prefecture.
he hasn't said anything yet, but the smirk playing on his lips suggests he's putting the pieces of a very scandalous puzzle together.
and that's not a good sign.
the whistle blows for a timeout, and the gym goes quiet. as you step forward to hand daichi a water bottle, a large, looming shadow falls over you.
everyone – karasuno and shiratorizawa included – freezes in place. a hush has fallen across the gym.
ushijima wakatoshi had walked across the court, which certainly wasn't allowed. he was so tall that you have to peer up just to see his face, which remained as expressionless as a stone wall.
"y/n," he says. his voice is deep, carrying across the entire gym like he's announcing a royal decree.
"ushijima-san," you reply, your voice cracking slightly as you try to maintain a professional, 'manager to opponent' distance. you widen your eyes suggestively at him, 'ushijima-wakatoshi-you-better-shut-the-fuck-up-right-now'-i-swear-to–
you and your boyfriend had been doing a pretty good job at keeping things on the down low. so why was he acting like this now? "you're, erm, on the wrong side of the net. your coach is staring daggers at you."
but he doesn't move. he doesn't even acknowledge the rest of your team, who are currently staring with a mix of fear and confusion, which isn't exactly surprising since ushijima wakatoshi just walked across the court like it's nothing.
including tanaka and nishinoya. especially tanaka and nishinoya.
instead, ushijima reaches out, and for a terrifying second, tanaka and nishinoya look ready to launch a physical assault to save you – but ushijima merely reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear ever so gently.
"you forgot your lunch on my kitchen counter this morning," he rumbles matter of factly. not a question. "i brought it. it's currently in my gym bag. you should eat it. nutrition is vital for a manager's best performance, and you mentioned you felt off yesterday."
now, we all hear about silence being described in stories all the time, but they can't compare to the one that follows this. you can hear the distant sound of a bird chirping outside because no one in the gym is even breathing.
"kitchen.. counter?" hinata squeaks, tilting his head in confusion. "this.. morning? like.. the morning that happened today?"
tsukishima tuts, rolling his eyes. "no. last year's."
kageyama frowns. "that lunch must be very mouldy then, if it was from last year. l/n-san shouldn't eat it."
"idiot, i was being sarcasti-"
"wait," sugawara says, his eyes intrigued as he looks between your beet red face and ushijima's non expressive one. "you two.. live together? is that what 'kitchen counter' implies? ohoh-"
"our families are neighbors!" you blurt out, trying to save whatever scrap is left. "we've known each other since we were kids!"
ushijima frowns slightly, looking at you with a hint of disapproval. "that is an incomplete and flawed explanation, y/n. we've been in a relationship for fourteen months now. why are you omitting the truth?"
why are you telling the truth? you think sourly, but you're not too mad. in fact..
"it is inefficient to lie when the evidence of our cohabitation – even if only for breakfast somedays – is so apparent." ushijima finishes.
yeah.
"FOURTEEN MONTHS?!" the karasuno bench explodes in a flurry of pure shock.
on the other side of the net, tendou is doubled over laughing, slapping his knee as if saying, 'oh, what a kneeslapper!' "oh, wakatoshi-kun! you're so blunt! look at them, they look like they've seen a ghost! you really know how to kill the vibe, you ju-"
"ushijima-san," daichi says, stepping forward with his left eye twitching uncontrollably. "you can't just.. cross the court and claim our manager during a match."
ushijima turns his gaze to daichi, looking at him with the same interest he might show a mere weed. "i'm not claiming her. she's a person with her own thoughts and has chosen to remain at an underperforming school despite my advice. she should have come to shiratorizawa – the volleyball program here is superior, and the commute would be shorter for us both. it'd allow for twenty more minutes of sleep per day."
he then looked back at you, ignoring the collective gasp (mainly from tanaka and nishinoya) from the karasuno team at the underperforming comment.
"i'll wait by the bus after the match. i have the salmon onigiri your mother made for me to give to you. i also have the sweater you left in my car."
"wakatoshi, go back to your team!" you hiss, pushing at his solid chest with your face red. no use, though. it's like trying to move a brick wall.
"very well," he says, nodding respectfully to kiyoko, who watches with an amused smile.
as he walks back to his side, tendou drapes an arm over his shoulders, whispering something about romantic dominance, while ushijima just looks confused.
the match resumed, but karasuno was a wreck. every time ushijima spiked the ball, tanaka would scream, "GET YOUR HANDS OFF OUR MANAGER, YOU MOUNTAIN!" which only resulted in ushijima looking bewildered because, technically, he wasn't touching you at the moment.
even hinata was distracted, whispering, "ushijima? boyfriend?" every time he rotated to the front.
when the game ends, with shiratorizawa unsurprisingly taking the win, the teams begin to pack up. you're just trying to avoid the interrogation glares from your teammates.
"so," tsukishima drawls, walking past you. "he.. is your boyfriend? i have to say, your taste is… interesting."
"he's very sweet once you get to know him!" you defend, narrowing your eyes at the blond.
just then, the gym doors open. ushijima's standing there, already changed out of his jersey. he's holding a small, insulated lunch bag with a little cat pattern on it – your lunch bag.
"y/n. the rice will get cold," he calls out across the gym.
you sigh, waving a hand to your 'are you guys seeing what i'm seeing' eyed team. "i'll see you guys on monday. don't.. don't make this a thing in the group chat, okay? please."
"it's already a thing!" nishinoya wails as you walk away. hinata nods in agreement. "he stole our manager! how are we supposed to win against a guy who gives our manager salmon onigiri?!"
as you reached ushijima, he takes your bag from you without a word, swinging it over his shoulder alongside his own.
"did you find the match satisfactory?" he asks, looking at you as you walk toward the gates. "your team has improved, though their defensive positioning is still quite erratic."
"it was fine, toshi. a bit dramatic, though, thanks to you."
"i don't understand," he says, looking perplexed as he blinks at you.
"yeah.. don't worry about it."
sooo hope that satisfied you and i'm so sorry you had to wait two whole months 😭🙏🙏 i didn't know what to do for the title so erm
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SYNOPSIS: They call you “The Maestro” for a reason. You make volleyball look effortless, leading Karasuno Girls with your best friends like it’s second nature. But not everything can be controlled, especially not the quiet, growing tension between you and Tobio Kageyama, the one person who refuses to fall into your rhythm.
WORD COUNT: 13.2K
The late April sun filtered through the high windows of Karasuno High School’s gym, casting long golden rectangles across the polished wooden floor. The air already smelled faintly of rubber soles, sweat, and that unmistakable sharp scent of volleyballs being smacked around. You stood just inside the double doors of the girls’ side of the gym, gym bag slung over one shoulder, heart thrumming with a mix of excitement and that familiar pre-practice adrenaline.
This was it. Middle school was over. No more being the undisputed queen of the court in a tiny uniform. High school volleyball was a different beast. Bigger. Faster. Filled with girls who had trained just as obsessively as you had. And here at Karasuno, the gym wasn’t just a practice space–it was shared. The girls’ team usually occupied one side, the boys’ team the other, the net between you acting as both boundary and bridge. The polished floor echoed every squeak, every stomp, every smack of ball and hand, making it feel like the entire space pulsed with volleyball energy.
Beside you, your two best friends bounced on their toes like over-caffeinated puppies.
“Oi, Maestro~” grinned Akari, elbowing you hard enough to make your bag slip. She was the libero of your legendary middle school trio. Short, lightning-fast, and with a mouth that never knew when to quit. Her dark hair was tied in a messy ponytail that somehow still looked cute. “You look like you’re about to set the entire gym on fire. Relax. We’re the Holy Trinity, remember? They’re gonna worship us.”
On your other side, Yuna adjusted her glasses with one finger, smirking. Tall and elegant, she was your middle blocker. The calm, analytical one who could read a block like it was written in braille. “Speak for yourself, Akari. I’m here for strategy, not worship. Though… if they do start bowing, I won’t complain.”
You laughed, the sound light and confident, the nickname “Maestro” still ringing warmly in your ears. In middle school, you’d earned it for a reason. Setter by trade, but terrifyingly versatile–you could spike with power, dig like a libero when needed, and block with surprising height for your build. Your sets weren’t just accurate; they were artistic. Precise. Almost musical. Teammates used to say the ball sang when you touched it.
“Alright, holy ones,” you said, voice teasing as you nudged them both forward. “Let’s go introduce ourselves before the coach thinks we’re here to audition for the cheer squad.”
The girls’ volleyball team was already warming up when you three walked in. Heads turned immediately. Whispers rippled across the court like a wave.
“Is that them?”
“From Kitagawa Daiichi, right?”
“The ones who swept the prefectural tournament last year…”
“The Maestro…”
Coach Nakamura, a kind-eyed and enthusiastic person, clapped her hands once, silencing the chatter.
“Everyone, gather up! We have three new first-years joining us today. They come highly recommended.”
You stepped forward with your friends, bowing politely.
“I’m Reader,” you said, voice clear and steady, a small playful smile tugging at your lips. “Setter, but I can fill in wherever needed. Nice to meet you all.”
“Akari Hayashi, libero” Akari added with a cheeky salute.
“Yuna Takahasi, middle blocker,” Yuna finished, pushing her glasses up again.
The team erupted into excited murmurs. A few second-years looked visibly relieved. Karasuno’s girls’ team had been solid but lacked that spark of genius coordination. Your trio had it in spades.
Practice began almost immediately. You three fell into rhythm like you’d never left middle school. During passing drills, your sets floated perfectly to Akari’s digs, who popped them up exactly where Yuna could slam down a sharp block simulation. The rest of the team watched with wide eyes as the three of you moved like a single organism while laughing, teasing, covering for each other instinctively. It was your own breath of fresh air.
“Damn,” one of the second-year wing spikers muttered. “They really are scary good.”
You caught the compliment and winked. "We try."
Halfway through warm-ups, the double doors on the far side of the gym creaked open. The boys’ team was starting their own practice on the adjacent court. You barely paid attention at first, accustomed to the overlapping practices. The shared gym meant occasional chaos, but it also made for a lively, energetic space.
Until a particular voice cut through the air like a whip.
“Oi! Hinata! Your approach is too slow again!”
You turned your head without thinking.
And there he was.
Tobio Kageyama.
Even from across the gym, he stood out. Tall for a first-year, with sharp, piercing blue eyes and messy black hair that somehow looked both chaotic and intentional. He was setting to a ridiculously energetic orange-haired boy who kept jumping like he had springs in his legs. Every toss Kageyama made was pinpoint–fast, high, powerful. The kind of set that screamed perfectionism.
You felt it immediately: that spark of recognition between two setters who lived and breathed the same obsession.
He must have felt your gaze, because mid-set, his eyes flicked toward the girls’ side. For half a second, your eyes locked.
His expression didn’t change much. Still holding that stoic, slightly frowning focus, but you swore you saw the tiniest shift in his posture. Like he was assessing you right back.
You smirked, unable to help yourself.
During a water break, while your team stretched, you wandered a little closer to the dividing line between the two practices, pretending to retie your shoelaces. Kageyama was correcting the orange-haired boy. Hinata, apparently. Again, demonstrating a set with perfect form.
“Like this,” he said curtly, tossing the ball up and snapping his wrists.
You couldn’t resist.
“Not bad,” you called out lightly, voice carrying just enough to reach him. “But your follow-through is a little stiff. You’re gonna tire your shoulders out before the third set if you don’t loosen up.”
The entire boys’ side went quiet for a beat.
Kageyama’s head snapped toward you. Those intense blue eyes narrowed, not in anger exactly, but in surprise and something that looked suspiciously like competitive fire.
He straightened slowly, staring you down across the court.
“And who are you to critique my form?” His voice was flat, but there was an edge of intrigue beneath it.
You stood up, brushing off your knees with a confident grin. “Reader. New setter for the girls’ team. Also known as the Maestro, if you’re into nicknames.” You tilted your head, playful challenge sparkling in your eyes. “Just thought I’d share some friendly advice. We setters gotta look out for each other, right?”
Akari and Yuna, who had crept up behind you like mischievous shadows, snickered.
Akari stage-whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oh no, she’s doing the thing again. Flirting through volleyball critique.”
“I am not–” you hissed back, elbowing her, but your cheeks warmed anyway.
Kageyama’s ears turned the faintest shade of pink. He looked away quickly, but not before muttering, “…Tch. As if I need advice from someone who’s still warming up.”
You laughed, bright and unbothered. “Then prove me wrong, King of the Court. I’ll be watching.”
You turned back to your side with a sway in your step, leaving Kageyama standing there, fingers twitching like he wanted to set another ball just to show you up.
Yuna adjusted her glasses, smirking. “He looked flustered. That’s new. Usually he just looks constipated when people talk to him.”
Akari cackled. “Maestro strikes again! One sassy comment and the great Kageyama is pink. I ship it already.”
“Shut up,” you groaned, but you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips. Your heart was beating faster than it should have been from a simple exchange.
Across the gym, Kageyama had gone back to setting, but his tosses were sharper now–almost aggressive. Every so often, his gaze drifted toward the girls’ side. Toward you.
He told himself it was just to analyze your technique. Nothing more.
But when you executed a perfect quick set to a spiker during the next drill, floating the ball exactly where she needed it with effortless grace, he couldn’t look away.
“The Maestro,” he muttered under his breath, so quietly only Hinata heard him.
“Huh? You know her?” the smaller boy asked, bouncing.
Kageyama didn’t answer. He just watched as you laughed with your friends, confident, teasing, alive with that same fire he felt on the court.
For the first time in a long while, someone had challenged him with nothing but a smirk and a few words.
And Tobio Kageyama wasn’t sure if he hated it… or if he wanted to see more.
The whistle from Coach Nakamura echoed sharply across the girls’ half of the Karasuno gym, cutting through the rhythmic thud of volleyballs and the chatter of your new teammates. “Alright, everyone! Transition to setting drills. Let’s see what our new first-years can really do!”
You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist, feeling the familiar thrill bubble up in your chest. The afternoon sun had climbed higher, warming the gym and making the wooden floor gleam under the lights. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood, rubber, and the faint metallic tang of determination. Your muscles were already pleasantly warm from the earlier drills, but you knew the real test was just beginning.
Akari bounced on the balls of her feet beside you, her messy ponytail swinging wildly. “Finally! Time to show these girls why we were called the Holy Trinity back in middle school. You ready to conduct your symphony, Maestro?”
Yuna stood tall and composed on your other side, adjusting her glasses with a precise finger. A small, knowing smile played on her lips. “Just don’t get too flashy too soon. We still have to integrate with the team. But… I wouldn’t mind seeing a few jaws drop.”
You grinned, confidence radiating from you like heat from the court. “Flashy is my middle name when it comes to sets. Let’s make them sing.”
Coach Nakamura, a no-nonsense woman in her late twenties with sharp eyes and a clipboard permanently attached to her hand, nodded approvingly as the team formed lines for the setting drill. She had heard the rumors about the three of you–the prodigy setter who could play any position, the lightning-quick libero, and the analytical middle blocker who read the game like a book. “Reader, you’re up first with the setters. Show us what you’ve got.”
You stepped forward without hesitation, the volleyball feeling like an old friend in your hands. The other girls watched with a mix of curiosity and quiet awe. As you tossed the ball lightly into the air, your wrists snapped with practiced precision. The ball soared in a perfect arc. High enough for power, yet controlled so the spiker could time her approach perfectly. Your teammate leapt, arm swinging in a powerful spike that slammed into the opposite court with a satisfying smack.
“Nice!” one of the second-years called out, eyes wide.
You didn’t stop there. During the next rotation, you switched positions effortlessly, digging a low ball that came screaming over the net from a practicing spiker on the other side. Your dive was clean, your platform steady, and you popped the ball up exactly where it needed to go. Akari was there in an instant, her libero instincts kicking in as she received it flawlessly and sent it back to you. Without missing a beat, you transitioned into a setter role again, delivering a quick set that Yuna blocked with surgical timing.
The synergy between the three of you was undeniable. It felt like middle school all over again–seamless, instinctive, almost magical. The rest of the girls’ team began murmuring excitedly.
“They move like they share one brain,” a wing spiker whispered.
Coach Nakamura blew her whistle again, a rare smile breaking through her usual stern expression. “Excellent coordination. Reader, your versatility is impressive. Keep that up and we’ll have a strong core this season.”
You bowed your head slightly in acknowledgment, but your attention was already drifting. Across the gym, in the boys’ half, practice was in full swing. The orange-haired boy, Hinata, was still bouncing around like an overexcited rubber ball, shouting something about “adding more height” to his jumps. And there, directing the chaos with that intense, laser-focused gaze, was Tobio Kageyama.
He moved with a precision that matched your own obsession. Every set he delivered was sharp, almost ruthless in its accuracy. Each of them was fast, high, and perfectly placed for his spikers to attack. You found yourself watching him more than you intended, noting the way his shoulders tensed with each toss, the subtle shift in his stance when he anticipated a bad receive. There was something captivating about his seriousness, the way volleyball seemed to consume him entirely.
Kageyama must have sensed your gaze again, because during a brief pause in his drills, his piercing blue eyes flicked toward the girls’ side. They landed on you. For a moment, the noisy gym seemed to fade into the background. You didn’t look away. Instead, you offered a small, playful smirk and deliberately executed your next set with a little extra flair. By adding a soft spin that made the ball hang in the air just a fraction longer, inviting a more dramatic spike.
The spiker on your team connected perfectly, and the girls cheered.
You caught Kageyama’s expression change. It was just the tiniest furrow of his brow, but his eyes lingered. He looked… impressed. Maybe even a little challenged. He quickly turned back to his own practice, but not before you noticed the way his fingers twitched, as if itching to respond.
Akari sidled up to you during the next water break, wiping her face with a towel. “Girl, you’re totally showing off for him. That last set had ‘notice me’ written all over it.”
You nearly choked on your water. “I am not! It’s just good practice to demonstrate proper form.”
Yuna leaned in from your other side, her voice low and teasing. “Sure. And the way you’re stealing glances every two minutes is also ‘just good practice.’ He keeps looking over here too, you know. The King of the Court is distracted.”
“He’s not distracted,” you protested, but your cheeks felt warmer than the exertion warranted. “He’s probably just analyzing technique. Setters do that.”
Across the court, Kageyama was trying, and failing, to focus solely on his team. Hinata had noticed the frequent glances. “Kageyama! Why do you keep looking at the girls’ side? Is there a pretty setter over there or something?”
“Shut up, idiot!” Kageyama snapped, his ears turning that faint pink again. He grabbed another ball and tossed it harder than necessary. But even as he corrected another spiker’s timing, his mind kept drifting back to you. The way you moved–confident, versatile, almost dancing across the court. Your sets weren’t just technically perfect; they had a certain joy to them, a playful confidence that contrasted sharply with his own intense, almost brooding style. It unsettled him. No one had ever made him feel… watched in quite that way.
During a joint stretching period when both teams took a short break near the shared equipment area, the proximity became impossible to ignore. You were stretching your arms overhead when you felt that intense gaze again. Turning slightly, you saw Kageyama a few meters away, drinking from his water bottle but clearly observing your form.
You couldn’t resist the opportunity.
“Still analyzing, King?” you called out lightly, lowering your arms and tilting your head with a teasing smile. “If you’re going to stare, at least give me some feedback. Earlier you seemed to think my advice was unnecessary.”
Kageyama lowered his bottle slowly, his expression guarded but his eyes betraying a spark of competitive interest. “Your sets are… passable,” he said flatly, though the slight hesitation told you he meant more. “But your release point is a little high on quick attacks. It gives blockers more time to react.”
You laughed, the sound bright and unbothered, stepping a little closer without invading his space. “Passable? High praise coming from you. I’ll take it. But maybe you should try loosening up your shoulders more. You look like you’re about to set the ball into orbit with all that tension.”
His jaw tightened, but there was no real anger in it. Only that flustered edge. He opened his mouth to retort, but Hinata bounded over before he could speak.
“Wow, you’re the new setter everyone’s talking about! Your sets look so cool! Can you teach me how to–”
“Not now, Hinata!” Kageyama growled, pushing the smaller boy back lightly.
You smiled wider, enjoying the chaos. “Anytime, Hinata-kun. Us setters have to stick together against perfectionists like him.”
Kageyama’s eyes narrowed at you, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Just the barest hint of a reaction. He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “annoying,” but he didn’t walk away. Instead, he lingered a moment longer, watching as you turned back to your friends.
Akari was barely containing her laughter. “He totally wanted to argue with you more. Did you see his face? Pink ears again!”
Yuna nodded sagely, pushing her glasses up. “The tension is palpable. Next thing you know, you two will be debating set trajectories at midnight.”
“Both of you, hush,” you said, but you couldn’t hide the small, giddy flutter in your stomach. There was something about Kageyama’s intense stare that made the court feel electric. You had flustered the stoic setter without even trying, and the way he kept glancing over–even while pretending not to–made your own heart skip in a way that had nothing to do with volleyball drills.
As practice resumed, you threw yourself back into the work with renewed energy. Every perfect set, every instinctive dig, every time you switched positions seamlessly, you felt his eyes on you. And every so often, when you allowed yourself a quick look, you caught him watching. Even chatting a glimpse of him trying to hide it behind his usual scowl, but failing just enough for you to notice.
Coach Nakamura called for more advanced combination plays, and you led the charge, your “holy trinity” synergy lighting up the court. Akari’s lightning digs fed perfectly into your sets, and Yuna’s blocks created openings that left the other girls cheering. The team was already starting to gel around your leadership and playful encouragement.
But in the back of your mind, the image of those piercing blue eyes lingered. Tobio Kageyama wasn’t just another player on the other side of the gym.
He was a challenge.
And you had a feeling this was only the beginning of a very long, very interesting rivalry… and perhaps something more.
Later that evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the gym in warmer, softer hues, both teams began wrapping up. You were packing your bag when you felt it again–that quiet observation. Glancing up, you saw Kageyama near the boys’ exit, pausing for just a second longer than necessary. Your eyes met across the emptying gym. You offered a small wave and a cheeky grin.
He didn’t wave back, but he didn’t look away immediately either. Instead, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before turning and disappearing through the doors with his team.
Akari slung an arm around your shoulders as the three of you headed out. “Admit it. You’re already looking forward to tomorrow’s practice just because of him.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face gave you away. “Maybe a little.”
Yuna chuckled. “A little? The Maestro has met her match.”
The walk home was filled with your friends’ relentless teasing, but you didn’t mind. Because somewhere across town, in a quiet room, you suspected Tobio Kageyama was replaying the day’s sets in his head–yours and his–and wondering why the new girls’ setter refused to leave his thoughts.
The gym buzzed with electric anticipation on Saturday morning. It wasn’t a full inter-high qualifier yet, but today’s practice match against a strong neighboring girls’ team from Date Tech’s sister school felt like one. Banners hung loosely from the rafters, the scent of fresh floor wax mixed with the sharp smell of nervous sweat and rubber. Coach Nakamura paced the sidelines with her clipboard, barking orders while the girls stretched and reviewed strategy.
You bounced lightly on your toes, heart pounding in that delicious pre-match rhythm. Akari was shadow-digging beside you, muttering trash talk to an imaginary opponent. Yuna stood calm as ever, reviewing notes on her phone about Date Tech’s blockers who were all tall, wall-like, and aggressive.
“Remember,” Coach Nakamura called, gathering the team in a huddle, “they rely on brute force and height. Reader, your sets need to be quick and deceptive. Akari, stay low and anticipate those heavy spikes. Yuna, read their timing. We break their wall today!”
From the bleachers on the far side, the boys’ team had slowly trickled in. Word had spread fast that the new girls’ setter was worth watching. Daichi Sawamura, the reliable captain, sat with arms crossed, observing quietly. Sugawara Koushi leaned forward with a gentle smile, while Tanaka Ryunosuke pumped his fists dramatically. Nishinoya Yuu was practically vibrating with energy beside him.
“Alright! Girls’ match time! Let’s see some killer receives!” Nishinoya shouted, earning a smack from Tanaka.
“Shut it, Noya! This is serious!” Tanaka yelled back, though he was grinning ear to ear.
Kiyoko Shimizu, the beautiful and composed manager, stood a little apart, her long dark hair catching the light. She offered a small, encouraging nod toward the girls’ side when your eyes met hers. You returned it with a grateful smile. Shimizu-senpai had already helped with equipment setup earlier, her quiet support making the new team feel less intimidating.
Then there was Kageyama.
He sat near the front, posture rigid, blue eyes locked on the court with that signature intensity. Hinata bounced in the seat beside him like a hyperactive puppy. “Kageyama! Which side are we cheering for? The girls have that cool setter you keep staring at!”
“Idiot! We’re not cheering for anyone specifically,” Kageyama snapped, ears already tinting pink. “I’m here to analyze technique. That’s all.”
Tsukishima Kei pushed his glasses up with a lazy smirk from the row behind. “Sure. And the way you nearly dropped your water bottle when she walked in was pure ‘technique analysis.’”
Yamaguchi chuckled nervously, a hand rubbing the back of neck when he spotted the growing veins on Kageyama’s neck. “Tsukki, don’t tease him too much…”
Sugawara leaned over to Daichi with a knowing grin. “Our king looks a little distracted today. Think the new Maestro is getting under his skin already?”
Daichi sighed, but there was amusement in his voice. “Focus on the match, guys. But… yeah, she’s impressive.”
The whistle blew. The match began.
Date Tech’s girls came out swinging, literally. Their blockers were monsters, towering and aggressive, shutting down early attacks with heavy hands. Your team fought back hard. In the first set, you found your rhythm quickly. When a powerful serve came screaming toward Akari, she dove low, her body skidding across the floor in a perfect receive. The ball popped up, and you were there in an instant.
Your wrists snapped with laser precision. The set was quick, deceptive. A sharp tempo that Yuna exploited with a perfectly timed approach. She soared, arm whipping down in a spike that grazed the blockers’ fingertips and slammed into the corner.
Point!
The Karasuno girls erupted. Akari whooped and high-fived you mid-court. “That’s my Maestro!”
From the bleachers, Nishinoya lost his mind. “Did you see that dig?! And that set?! She’s a monster!”
Tanaka stood up, roaring, “Go Karasuno girls! Show ‘em the power of our new blood!”
Hinata was jumping in his seat. “Whoa! Her sets are so fast! Kageyama, did you see how she changed the tempo? It was like your quicks but… prettier!”
Kageyama didn’t respond immediately. His eyes were glued to you. Every move you made was intense. Your footwork sharp, your reads instinctive. When the opponents tried a heavy block, you switched positions on the fly, digging a ball that looked impossible and transitioning seamlessly into another perfect set. Sweat glistened on your skin under the bright lights. Your expression was focused yet playful, a small smirk appearing whenever you pulled off something clever.
He felt it. That competitive spark mixed with something warmer, more unsettling. You weren’t just good. You challenged the way he thought about the game.
The first set ended with Karasuno winning 25-22, thanks to a brilliant combination play you orchestrated with Akari and Yuna. The Holy Trinity’s synergy was on full display, leaving the Date Tech girls frustrated and the crowd buzzing.
During the short break, you grabbed your water bottle, breathing hard. Akari slung an arm around your shoulders, panting. “We’re killing it! But those blockers are no joke for the second set.”
Yuna nodded, wiping her glasses. “They’ll adjust. We need more deception.”
From the sidelines, Shimizu approached quietly, handing you a fresh towel. “You’re doing well. The team is responding to your leadership.” Her voice was soft but sincere. Your cheeks burned hotter at her words knowing the respect and training you had to endure in order to gain the team’s respect to follow your leadership whenever you stepped on court. It was a greater honor to have them recognize you as a leader instead of a first-year who possibly stole the spot from them.
“Thanks, Shimizu-senpai,” you replied with a bright smile, dabbing your face. “Means a lot.”
Across the way, the boys were loud. Tanaka was dramatically reenacting your last spike. Nishinoya was shadow-receiving imaginary balls. Sugawara chuckled, “She’s got that same fire as our setter. Interesting, right, Kageyama?”
“Decent?” Hinata yelped. “It was awesome! You should go talk to her after!”
“Absolutely not,” Kageyama muttered, but his gaze kept drifting back to you.
The second set was fiercer. Date Tech came back stronger, their spikes heavier, their blocks tighter. The score tied multiple times. You felt the pressure mount. Your muscles burning, lungs screaming, but the intensity only fueled you. When a crucial rally stretched long, you dove for a save, scraping your knee but popping the ball up perfectly. Akari received it, and you delivered a breathtaking set that seemed to hang in the air forever before Yuna crushed it down the line.
The gym exploded.
“YES!” Akari screamed, tackling you in a sweaty hug.
From the bleachers:
Nishinoya: “THAT WAS INCREDIBLE! ROLLING THUNDER STYLE!”
Tanaka: “Our girls are on fire!”
Tsukishima (dryly): “She’s almost as annoying as Hinata with the energy.”
Sugawara laughed. “But way cuter when she smiles after a point.”
Kageyama’s heart was pounding harder than during his own practices. He watched the way you encouraged your teammates, the playful high-fives mixed with serious strategy talk. Your confidence was magnetic. When you glanced toward the bleachers during a timeout. Your eyes briefly meeting his, you flashed a quick, teasing smirk and mouthed “Watch this” before the next play.
He felt heat creep up his neck. That smirk… it was aimed straight at him.
The second set ended 26-24 in your favor after an intense deuce. The match was yours.
The Karasuno girls’ team celebrated wildly on court with hugs and cheers. Coach Nakamura looking proud for once. You were breathing heavily, knee stinging a little from the dive, but grinning ear to ear.
As the teams lined up for bows and handshakes, the boys descended from the bleachers. Hinata bounded over first. “That was so cool! Your sets are amazing! Teach me!”
You laughed, ruffling his orange hair lightly. “Anytime, Hinata-kun. Just bring that jump energy.”
Tanaka struck a pose. “You guys crushed it! Welcome to Karasuno properly!”
Nishinoya gave you and Akari enthusiastic thumbs-ups. “Libero solidarity! Your digs were killer!”
Shimizu smiled softly from the side, offering quiet congratulations.
Then Kageyama approached, slower, more guarded. The rest of the boys watched with barely concealed amusement.
He stopped a respectful distance away, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to look nonchalant. His blue eyes met yours, intense as ever. “Your sets… were precise,” he said, voice low but carrying that competitive edge. “As precise as I feared. You changed tempos well. Made their blockers hesitate.”
You felt a flutter in your chest at the rare compliment, but you couldn’t resist teasing. Sweat still dotted your skin, your ponytail slightly messy from the match, yet you stood tall with that signature playful confidence. “High praise from the King himself. Does that mean you’ll finally admit my shoulder advice was right?”
Kageyama’s ears flushed pink again. He looked away for a second, jaw tight. “Tch. Don’t get cocky. Your release point on those quicks still needs work.”
You stepped a little closer, grinning. “Then maybe you can show me your version sometime. Setter to setter.”
Before he could respond and turn even redder, Akari and Yuna appeared like mischievous shadows.
Akari cackled. “Ooooh, look at him blushing! Maestro, you broke the King!”
Yuna adjusted her glasses with a smirk. “He’s trying so hard to sound cool. It’s adorable.”
Hinata pointed dramatically. “Kageyama’s face is all red! Like a tomato!”
Tsukishima snorted. “Pathetic.”
Sugawara covered his mouth to hide his laughter, while Daichi shook his head, muttering, “You kids…”
Kageyama shot a death glare at his teammates. “All of you, shut up!”
You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bright and genuine. Your own cheeks felt warm, but the giddy rush was worth it. Seeing the usually stoic Kageyama flustered because of you sent a thrill through your veins stronger than any winning point.
As the gym began to clear, Shimizu gently herded the boys away. “Let them cool down. Good match, everyone.”
But as you grabbed your bag, you caught Kageyama glancing back one last time. Your eyes met again across the emptying court. He didn’t smile exactly, but the intensity in his gaze softened just a fraction. Admiration mixed with that growing, unspoken spark.
You winked playfully.
He turned away quickly, but not before you saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Akari slung her arm around you as the three of you headed toward the exit, still buzzing from victory. “He’s totally into you. That ‘precise as I feared’ line? That’s Kageyama-speak for ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’”
Yuna nodded. “And the way he stared during the match… intense. You two are going to be unbearable soon.”
You groaned, but the smile wouldn’t leave your face. Your knee stung, your muscles ached, but the day felt electric. The Holy Trinity had won their first real test at Karasuno.
And somewhere behind you, Tobio Kageyama was replaying every one of your sets in his head, not just for technique.
For you.
The slow burn had officially caught its first real flame.
Monday afternoon brought a new kind of energy to the Karasuno gym. Coach Nakamura had announced a special joint shadowing session with the boys’ team. A part strategy exchange, part endurance training. The idea was simple: players from both teams would pair up or rotate through drills to observe and learn different styles. But as soon as the words left her mouth, you knew it would be anything but simple.
The gym was alive with noise. Volleyballs thumped rhythmically against the floor, shoes squeaked, and voices overlapped in a chaotic symphony. The combined scent of two teams’ worth of sweat, rubber, and fresh tape hung thick in the air. Bright overhead lights cast sharp shadows as both squads stretched and warmed up together.
Akari was already hyped, shadow-digging aggressively near the net. “This is gonna be gold. I get to watch the boys’ libero up close. And maybe steal some of Noya-senpai’s rolling thunder secrets!”
Yuna adjusted her glasses, a sly smile playing on her lips. “And I get to study their blockers. But mostly… I’m here for the entertainment. You and Kageyama in the same drill space? Priceless.”
You rolled your eyes, but your pulse quickened at the mention of his name. “It’s just training. Setter stuff. Nothing more.”
“Sure,” Akari drawled, elbowing you. “And pigs fly. We saw how he looked at you after the match. Like you personally invented the perfect set.”
Before you could retort, Coach Nakamura clapped her hands sharply. “Listen up! We’ll rotate through stations. Setting accuracy, blocking timing, receive drills, and quick attack coordination. Boys and girls mixed where it makes sense. Learn from each other. No slacking!”
On the boys’ side, Daichi was giving a similar pep talk, his steady voice cutting through the chatter. Sugawara stood beside him, smiling gently. Tanaka and Nishinoya were already pumping each other up with loud declarations of “manly spirit.” Hinata bounced around like a pinball. Tsukishima looked bored but attentive, while Yamaguchi hovered supportively. Kiyoko Shimizu moved quietly between both teams, handing out water bottles and extra towels with her usual graceful efficiency.
Kageyama stood a little apart, arms crossed, that intense blue gaze scanning the court. When it landed on you, he didn’t look away immediately. Instead, his jaw tightened, just a fraction, as if steeling himself.
The first station was setting drills. You found yourself paired with Kageyama almost immediately, thanks to a “random” draw that you strongly suspected Akari and Hinata had rigged when no one was looking. The two of you stood facing each other across a small net setup, a basket of balls between you.
“Start with basic tosses and sets,” Coach Nakamura instructed. “Focus on release point and accuracy. Then we’ll add movement.”
You picked up a ball, tossing it lightly to yourself before snapping a perfect set toward an imaginary spiker. Your form was fluid, wrists flexible, the ball arcing beautifully.
Kageyama watched, then mirrored it with his own set. Though it was still sharp, powerful, almost aggressive in its precision. The ball flew true.
“Not bad,” you said, unable to keep the teasing tone out of your voice. You stepped closer, demonstrating a slight adjustment in wrist angle. “But see here? If you ease up just a little on the snap, you get more control on those quicks without losing power.”
He narrowed his eyes, but took the ball you offered. Your fingers brushed lightly as he took it. Warm, calloused skin against yours for the briefest second. The contact sent a small spark up your arm, unexpected and electric.
Kageyama froze for half a second, then set the ball with your suggested adjustment. It was smoother, more controlled. He grunted in reluctant approval. “... Acceptable.”
You grinned, triumphant. “See? Told you. Now try mine with your power behind it.”
The drill continued, banter flowing as naturally as the sets. Every time you corrected him, he’d counter with his own critique by pointing out a minor footwork issue in your approach or suggesting a faster tempo. The air between you crackled with competitive energy, but underneath it was something softer. When you reached for the same ball at the same time, your shoulders bumped. You laughed it off, but Kageyama’s ears turned that familiar faint pink.
From across the gym, the peanut gallery was in full force.
Hinata was watching with wide eyes, practically vibrating. “They’re like setter twins! But one’s all smiley and the other’s all scowly!”
Nishinoya cackled from the receive station. “Kageyama’s totally flustered! Look at those pink ears! Rolling thunder embarrassment!”
Tanaka struck a dramatic pose. “Our king is being tamed by the Maestro! This is beautiful, bro!”
Sugawara chuckled softly, nudging Daichi. “He’s actually listening to her. That’s rare. Usually he just yells at everyone.”
Daichi sighed, but there was a small smile on his face. “As long as they’re learning…”
Shimizu passed by quietly, offering you a fresh towel during a quick break. Her eyes held a knowing glint. “You two work well together,” she said softly, voice barely above the gym noise.
You felt your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Shimizu-senpai. It’s… interesting.”
Akari appeared like a ninja, slinging an arm around your shoulders and dragging Yuna with her. “Interesting? Girl, the tension is so thick I could spike through it! Every time your hands touch, he looks like he’s about to set the ball into the ceiling.”
Yuna pushed her glasses up, smirking. “And you keep leaning in closer during demonstrations. Subtle.”
“I do not!” you hissed, but you were laughing. The three of you dissolved into giggles, drawing more curious glances from the boys.
Later, the station switched to quick attack coordination. You and Kageyama were again thrown together, this time with Hinata eagerly volunteering as the spiker. The smaller boy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “Teach me your quicks! Both of you!”
Kageyama set first. His signature fast, high toss that Hinata attacked with explosive power. You watched closely, then took your turn. Your set was slightly different: a touch softer, with more arc, allowing for a more deceptive approach. Hinata still crushed it, but he yelped in delight. “Whoa! That felt different but awesome!”
Kageyama studied your form intently. “Your tempo is slower on the release,” he observed, stepping closer to demonstrate. He gently adjusted your wrist position with his fingers–light, professional, but the touch lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary. His voice dropped lower, meant only for you. “Like this. It gives the spiker more options.”
Your breath caught. He was so close you could smell the faint scent of his shampoo mixed with sweat. Those piercing eyes were focused entirely on you, intense and unblinking. For a moment, the noisy gym faded.
“Thanks,” you murmured, voice softer than intended. You tried to play it cool by adding a teasing smile. “Careful, King. People might think you’re being nice.”
He straightened quickly, clearing his throat. “It’s just efficient training.” But his cheeks had the faintest flush, and he avoided your gaze as he grabbed another ball.
The teasing only escalated during the water break. The three of you sat on the bleachers with some of the boys nearby. Akari, ever the chaos agent, leaned over dramatically. “So, Kageyama-kun, be honest. Is our Maestro the first person who’s ever made you actually listen during practice?”
Kageyama nearly choked on his water. “She’s… not bad for a girls’ setter.”
“Not bad?” Tanaka roared with laughter. “That’s basically a love confession from you!”
Nishinoya slapped Kageyama on the back. “Admit it! You like her sets!”
“Shut up!” Kageyama growled, but his eyes flicked toward you anyway.
You met his gaze with a playful wink. “If you want more tips, you know where to find me. Maybe after practice… just the two of us?”
The words slipped out teasingly, but the second they left your mouth, you felt the heat rise in your face. Akari and Yuna exploded into laughter. Hinata pointed excitedly. “She said just the two of you!”
Tsukishima smirked from the side. “How scandalous.”
Kageyama stood up abruptly, muttering something about “idiots” and “unnecessary chatter,” but as he walked back to the court, he paused beside you for a split second. His voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “...Maybe. For training purposes.”
Your heart skipped. You watched him go, that tall, stoic figure with the faintest tension in his shoulders. The small, accidental touches, the intense eye contact, the way his critiques felt more like shared secrets now. It was all building into something warmer, more dangerous than simple rivalry.
As the session wound down, both teams cooled down with light stretching. You found yourself near Kageyama again, stretching your arms overhead. He was doing the same, and for a moment your hands nearly brushed once more.
Shimizu noticed everything, of course. She smiled quietly to herself while organizing equipment, the subtle matchmaker energy unmistakable.
Coach Nakamura called time, praising the productive session. As everyone packed up, Akari and Yuna flanked you like bodyguards of chaos.
Yuna nodded. “And the way he said ‘maybe’… he’s opening up. Slowly, but definitely.”
You groaned, slinging your bag over your shoulder, but the smile on your face was undeniable. The gym lights were dimming as the afternoon faded, casting a softer glow over the court where so much unspoken tension had simmered.
Across the floor, Kageyama glanced back one last time. Your eyes met. No words this time. It was just a long, charged look filled with challenge, admiration, and the tiniest spark of something deeper.
He looked away first, but not before you caught the small, reluctant curve at the corner of his mouth.
The flirtation was growing.
And neither of you seemed able–or willing–to stop it.
The days after the joint training session settled into a new, strangely comfortable rhythm at Karasuno. Practices were intense as ever, but the real shifts happened in the quieter spaces between. After school, during lunch breaks, or in those stolen pockets of time when the gym lights dimmed and the court felt less like a battlefield and more like shared territory.
One Thursday afternoon, the sky outside was overcast, threatening rain that never quite arrived. You, Akari, and Yuna had claimed a corner of the empty classroom for what was supposed to be a “serious strategy session.” Notebooks were open, volleyball diagrams scribbled across pages, but the conversation had quickly derailed into chaos.
Akari was sprawled across two desks, waving a pen like a conductor’s baton. “Okay, but hear me out. If we fake a quick set and then dump it behind the blockers, it’s genius. Unstoppable. We call it the Holy Trinity Special.”
Yuna pushed her glasses up, deadpan. “We already have three ‘Holy Trinity Specials.’ At this rate, the opponents will just memorize our naming system and counter everything.”
You laughed, leaning back in your chair with your feet propped on the desk edge. Your ponytail was slightly messy from the day’s earlier practice, and a faint bruise from a diving receive still lingered on your forearm. “We need better code names. Something that sounds intimidating but cute. Like… ‘Maestro’s Melody of Doom.’”
Before Akari could launch into another wild idea, the classroom door slid open with a loud rattle. Hinata burst in first, orange hair wild as always, followed by a reluctant-looking Kageyama, Tsukishima, Yamaguchi, and surprisingly, Sugawara and Shimizu trailing behind with a few extra notebooks.
“Found them!” Hinata announced triumphantly, pointing at your trio like he’d discovered buried treasure. “Kageyama said we should study together because exams are coming and we can’t afford supplementary classes again!”
Kageyama’s ears were already tinged pink. He avoided your eyes at first, clutching his bag strap tightly. “I didn’t say that exactly. Hinata just dragged everyone here.”
Sugawara smiled gently, ever the peacemaker. “Actually, it was a good idea. Group study helps everyone. And Shimizu-san brought extra reference books.”
Shimizu nodded quietly, placing a neat stack of materials on a desk. Her presence was calming, as always. She had a way of making even chaotic gatherings feel grounded.
Akari’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “Yes! Perfect timing. We were just planning world domination via volleyball anyway.”
Yuna smirked. “Pull up chairs. But fair warning: our study sessions tend to involve more teasing than actual equations.”
You caught Kageyama’s gaze then, offering him a playful smile. “Scared of a little academic rivalry, King? Or are you here to analyze my note-taking form too?”
He sat down across from you, grumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “annoying,” but he opened his math notebook anyway. The group spread out, desks pushed together into a messy cluster. Hinata immediately started complaining about how numbers “moved around” on the page when he stared too long. Tsukishima made dry, cutting remarks about everyone’s study habits. Yamaguchi tried to mediate with nervous laughter. Sugawara offered patient explanations, while Shimizu silently distributed highlighters and snacks.
The session started productively enough. You were surprisingly good at explaining concepts. Your setter brain translating strategy into clear steps. When Hinata struggled with a problem, you leaned over and sketched a quick diagram, comparing it to a volleyball rotation. “See? It’s like reading the court. The variables are your opponents’ positions.”
Hinata’s eyes sparkled. “Whoa! That makes sense! You’re amazing!”
Kageyama watched the exchange quietly, his usual scowl softening just a fraction. He was better at the technical subjects, solving problems with sharp efficiency, but when it came to literature or anything requiring “interpretation,” he faltered. You noticed him staring at a passage, brows furrowed in concentration.
You couldn’t resist sliding your chair a little closer during a break in the chaos. “Stuck?” you asked softly, voice lower so the others wouldn’t immediately pounce.
He glanced up, those piercing blue eyes meeting yours. Up close, you could see the faint tiredness from early morning practice. “It’s… vague. The author doesn’t say what they mean.”
You smiled, genuine and warm, and pointed to a line. “Sometimes it’s not about what they say directly. It’s the feeling behind it. Like a set that looks simple but carries intention.” Your shoulder brushed his lightly as you leaned in to underline a phrase. The contact was accidental, but neither of you pulled away immediately. His arm felt warm through his uniform sleeve.
Kageyama’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly. “... Like your sets,” he muttered, so quietly you almost missed it.
Your heart did a small flip. You teased gently, “Was that a compliment? Careful, people might think the great Kageyama is going soft.”
He looked away quickly, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “It’s just an observation.”
Across the table, Akari was failing spectacularly at being subtle. She stage-whispered to Yuna, “Did you see that? Shoulder touch! They’re basically holding hands in spirit.”
Yuna adjusted her glasses with a smirk. “Next they’ll be sharing one pencil and calling it romantic.”
Hinata, oblivious but enthusiastic, chimed in loudly. “Kageyama, you should ask her for more help! She explains better than you do!”
“Shut up, dumbass!” Kageyama snapped, but there was less bite than usual.
Tsukishima snorted from his corner, flipping a page lazily. “This is painful to watch. Just confess already so we can study in peace.”
Sugawara laughed softly, covering his mouth. “Tsukishima, be nice. They’re cute.”
Shimizu said nothing, but when she passed you a fresh notebook, her eyes held that quiet, knowing warmth again.
As the afternoon wore on and the group study devolved into more laughter than work, the rain finally started outside. It was soft at first, until it became a steady patter against the windows. Someone suggested moving to the gym for light practice once the rain eased, but for now, the classroom felt cozy and isolated from the world.
You and Kageyama ended up paired again for a mock quiz on history dates. He was surprisingly competitive even here, racing to answer first. When you got one right that stumped him, you leaned back with a triumphant grin. “See? Not everything is about power and speed. Sometimes it’s about patience and reading between the lines.”
He stared at you for a long moment, the usual intensity in his eyes shifting into something quieter, more vulnerable. “You’re… different,” he said finally, voice low enough that only you heard amid the group noise. “On the court and off it. You make things feel less… heavy.”
The admission hung between you, simple but loaded. Your teasing softened into something warmer. “Maybe because I like challenging you. And maybe because you’re not as scary as everyone thinks when you’re not yelling at Hinata.”
He huffed, but his shoulders relaxed. A tiny, reluctant smile ghosted across his face. Gone so fast you wondered if you imagined it. “Don’t get used to it.”
The rain continued outside, creating a gentle white noise that made the classroom feel smaller, more intimate. When the group finally packed up, Hinata and Akari were already planning the next “study + volleyball” hybrid session. Tsukishima complained the whole time, but he helped carry books anyway. Sugawara gave everyone an encouraging pat on the back. Shimizu lingered to make sure no one left anything behind.
As you all stepped into the hallway, the rain had lightened to a drizzle. You walked beside Kageyama toward the shoe lockers, the others a noisy buffer ahead and behind.
“Thanks for today,” you said casually, bumping his arm lightly with yours. “Even if you did glare at the textbook like it personally offended you.”
He didn’t pull away from the contact. “You explain things… clearly. It helps.” After a pause, he added, almost grudgingly, “We should do this again. For… training purposes.”
Your smile widened, playful but sincere. “I’d like that. Setter bonding session number two.”
Akari, overhearing as always, whooped from up ahead. “Setter bonding! That’s what we’re calling it now?”
Yuna laughed. “The Maestro strikes again. Next thing you know, they’ll be sharing water bottles on the bench.” You sighed, shoulders slouching at how nothing goes unnoticed between the three of you.
Kageyama’s ears burned red, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, as the group split up at the school gates, he lingered for a second longer, watching you with that intense, unspoken admiration.
The drizzle kissed your skin as you waved goodbye. Your heart felt lighter, fuller. These moments outside the court. These moments that’s filled with laughter, teasing, accidental brushes, and quiet admissions were weaving something deeper into the rivalry that had started on the gym floor.
Tobio Kageyama was opening up, bit by bit.
And you were falling for every guarded, flustered, volleyball-obsessed inch of it.
The inter-high school scrimmage tournament arrived like a storm. The day came fast, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore. It was a one-day event held at a large neutral gym complex a short train ride from Karasuno, pitting several local high school teams against each other in a series of mixed scrimmages. Both the girls’ and boys’ teams from Karasuno were participating, though not against each other. The air outside buzzed with early summer humidity, and inside the massive venue, the echo of volleyballs, whistles, and excited shouts created an electric atmosphere thick enough to taste.
You stood near the warm-up area with your team, heart hammering in that familiar, exhilarating way. Your Karasuno girls’ uniform felt crisp against your skin, the black and orange colors sharp under the bright overhead lights. Akari was bouncing on her toes beside you, shadow-digging imaginary balls with fierce determination. Yuna stood tall and composed, reviewing last-minute notes on her phone about the opposing teams’ tendencies. Coach Nakamura paced nearby, clipboard in hand, issuing final instructions with her usual sharp precision.
“Remember,” she said, voice cutting through the noise, “stay disciplined but flexible. Reader, use your versatility to disrupt their rhythm. We’re not just here to compete. We’re here to show what this team can become.”
You nodded, adrenaline surging through your veins like fire. “We’ve got this. Holy Trinity on full power today.”
From the other side of the venue, the boys’ team was warming up as well. Daichi’s steady voice carried over the chaos as he motivated his players. Sugawara offered calm encouragement, while Tanaka and Nishinoya hyped each other up with loud, dramatic declarations. Hinata was practically vibrating with energy, spiking practice balls with explosive jumps. Tsukishima looked mildly annoyed but focused, and Yamaguchi offered supportive comments. Kiyoko Shimizu moved gracefully between both teams, ensuring water bottles and towels were stocked, her quiet presence a steady anchor.
Kageyama stood a little apart, setting balls to Hinata with that signature ruthless precision. Every toss was sharp, calculated, almost aggressive in its perfectionism. But his eyes kept drifting subtly, almost unwillingly toward the girls’ warm-up area. Toward you.
The day unfolded in a blur of intense matches. Your girls’ team faced strong competition in the first round. The opponents were aggressive, their blockers tall and coordinated. In the opening set, the score stayed neck-and-neck until a long, grueling rally tested everyone’s limits. A powerful spike came screaming toward your side. Akari dove low, her body skidding across the floor in a desperate receive that sent the ball spinning wildly. You were there instantly–transitioning from setter to emergency digger–popping the ball up with perfect control. Without hesitation, you switched back into setter mode and delivered a breathtaking, deceptive quick set that Yuna attacked with surgical timing, scoring the point and shifting the momentum.
The crowd (a mix of players from other teams and a few parents) erupted. Akari tackled you in a sweaty hug mid-court. “That’s the Maestro! Never fails!”
Yuna allowed herself a rare, satisfied smile. “Perfect read.”
From the spectators’ area, Nishinoya was losing his mind. “Did you see that dig and transition?! She’s a libero, setter, and spiker all in one!”
Tanaka roared, pumping his fists. “Our girls are unstoppable! Go Karasuno!”
Hinata bounced beside Kageyama. “Her sets are so cool today! Even better than yesterday’s study session!”
Kageyama didn’t respond at first. He watched you with burning intensity. Your sweat-glistened skin, the focused yet playful expression on your face as you encouraged your teammates, the effortless way you adapted to every situation. Every brilliant play you made sent a jolt through him. Not just admiration for your skill, but something deeper: a quiet awe at how you made volleyball look joyful even under pressure. It challenged his own heavy, perfectionist approach in ways he wasn’t ready to voice.
Your team pushed through to win the first match 2-1 after three hard-fought sets. By the end, your muscles burned, your knee throbbed from an earlier dive, but the thrill of victory made everything feel alive.
The boys’ side fared equally intense. Kageyama dominated as setter, his sets fast and unforgiving, fueling Hinata’s explosive spikes and Tanaka’s powerful attacks. They won their pool with convincing scores, though one match went to deuce in the third set where Kageyama’s leadership shone through. By shouting corrections, motivating with raw intensity, and delivering perfect tosses under pressure.
During the lunch break between rounds, the two teams mingled in the shared rest area. The air smelled of bentos, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of the gym. You were sitting with Akari and Yuna on a bench, sharing water and laughing about a particularly chaotic rally when Hinata appeared, dragging a reluctant Kageyama behind him.
“Great job earlier!” Hinata chirped, eyes sparkling. “Your transition plays were insane!”
“Thanks, Hinata-kun,” you replied with a bright smile, dabbing sweat from your brow. “You and Kageyama were on fire too. Those quick attacks were truly king-level.”
Kageyama stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, trying to appear nonchalant. His uniform was slightly rumpled from play, a few strands of black hair sticking to his forehead. Those piercing blue eyes met yours, carrying a storm of unspoken thoughts. “Your adaptability was… impressive,” he said, voice low and gruff, but sincere. “Switching positions mid-rally like that. Most setters would panic.”
You felt a warm flutter in your chest at the compliment. Standing up, you stepped a little closer, the noise of the venue fading into the background. “Coming from you, that means a lot. Your sets today were ruthless. Exactly what I expect from the King. But…” You tilted your head, voice turning playful yet gentle. “You looked a little tense in that last deuce. Everything okay?”
He hesitated, jaw tightening. The vulnerability flickered briefly in his eyes. “It’s nothing. Just… wanting to be perfect.”
Akari, never one to miss an opportunity, grinned mischievously from the bench. “Ooooh, deep talk already? Should we leave you two alone?”
Yuna smirked, pushing her glasses up. “The emotional spark is strong today. Careful, or we’ll need a fire extinguisher.”
Hinata laughed loudly. “Kageyama never talks about feelings! This is rare!”
From nearby, Tanaka shouted over, “Go for it, Kageyama! Don’t be a coward!”
Nishinoya joined in with a whoop. “Confess with a perfect set!”
Sugawara chuckled, trying to calm the chaos. “You kids are too loud. Let them breathe.”
Shimizu smiled softly, handing both of you fresh towels without a word. Her quiet support felt like a gentle nudge.
Kageyama shot a death glare at his teammates, ears burning red. “All of you, shut up!”
But when the group dispersed a bit for more water and rest, he lingered. The two of you ended up walking slowly toward a quieter corner of the rest area, away from the loudest cheers. The distant thuds of volleyballs and whistles provided a constant backdrop.
You leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely. “Seriously though… you were amazing out there. I was watching whenever I could. Your focus is incredible, but sometimes I worry you put too much pressure on yourself.”
Kageyama looked at the floor for a moment, then back at you. His voice dropped, more open than you’d ever heard. “I didn’t think anyone could challenge me this much… except you.” He paused, the words heavy with meaning. “On the court, your plays make me want to be better. Off it… you make everything feel less like a battle. Your teasing, your confidence, the way you laugh during practice. It’s distracting. But in a good way.”
Your breath caught. The air between you felt charged, thick with years of unspoken tension compressed into this single tournament day. Your heart raced faster than during any rally. You searched his intense eyes, seeing the conflict there. Professional focus warring with growing romantic feelings. The stoic setter who rarely showed weakness was laying a piece of himself bare.
“I feel the same,” you admitted softly, a small, genuine smile breaking through. “You push me to elevate my game. And honestly… I like seeing the softer side when you let it show. Even if you hide it behind all that scowling.”
A long, quiet moment stretched between you. No teasing now, it was just raw, building emotion. He didn’t smile exactly, but the tension in his shoulders eased, and his gaze softened with quiet admiration and something warmer, deeper.
Before either of you could say more, the announcement for the next round blared over the speakers. The moment shattered, but the spark remained, lingering like an afterimage.
The afternoon matches were fiercer. Your team pushed through another tough opponent, winning thanks to a brilliant tactical adjustment you suggested mid-set. An unexpected position switch that caught the rivals off guard. Kageyama’s boys’ team battled to a hard-fought victory as well, his leadership shining when the pressure mounted.
By the end of the day, both Karasuno teams were exhausted but triumphant, placing strongly in their respective pools. As everyone gathered for final bows and goodbyes in the emptying gym, the atmosphere was buzzing with post-tournament high.
You stood with Akari and Yuna near the exit when Kageyama approached, slower this time, more deliberate. The others watched from a distance with Hinata grinning, Akari and Yuna exchanging knowing looks, Shimizu offering a subtle thumbs-up, Sugawara and Daichi pretending not to notice too obviously.
“Today was… good,” Kageyama said, stopping close enough that you could see the faint exhaustion in his eyes alongside the lingering intensity. “Your performance challenged me. Made me think differently.” He rubbed the back of his neck, flustered but pushing through. “I didn’t think anyone could challenge me this much… except you.”
The half-serious admission from earlier echoed again, heavier now in the quieter aftermath. Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled, playful spark returning alongside the deeper emotion. “Then let’s keep challenging each other. On and off the court.”
He nodded, eyes locked on yours in a long, charged gaze. No words needed. The slow-burn tension had ignited into something undeniable. Mutual admiration blooming into romantic possibility.
From afar, Akari whispered loudly to Yuna, “They’re totally having a moment. I’m shipping this so hard.”
Yuna chuckled. “About time. The King and the Maestro, perfect match.”
As the group headed toward the train station together, walking under the fading afternoon light, you and Kageyama fell into step beside each other. The conversation stayed light–recapping plays, teasing small mistakes–but every glance, every accidental brush of shoulders carried new weight.
The emotional spark had been lit.
And neither of you wanted to put it out
The weekend after the inter-high scrimmage brought a rare, relaxed atmosphere to Karasuno High. With no official matches scheduled and midterms still a couple of weeks away, Coach Nakamura and Coach Ukai had agreed on something special: an informal mixed scrimmage between the girls’ and boys’ teams. It was meant to be light-hearted–fun, cross-team bonding, and a chance to experiment with mixed lineups–but everyone knew it would still carry that signature Karasuno intensity.
The gym felt different that Saturday morning. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting warm golden patches across the polished wooden floor. The usual sharp scent of rubber and sweat was softened by the lighter mood; laughter already echoed off the walls before practice even officially started. Both teams mingled freely near the benches. Akari was dramatically challenging Nishinoya to a “libero duel” with exaggerated poses. Yuna stood calmly beside Shimizu, discussing blocking strategies while the manager listened with her signature quiet smile. Hinata zoomed around like a hyperactive orange blur, dragging Tsukishima into unwanted warm-up stretches. Tanaka struck poses for anyone who would watch, while Sugawara and Daichi supervised with amused patience.
You stood near the net, stretching your arms overhead, feeling the pleasant pull in your shoulders after a full week of hard training. Your ponytail swayed gently with each movement, and a small, excited smile played on your lips. The Holy Trinity had been buzzing all morning. Akari kept whispering conspiracy theories about how this scrimmage was “fate’s way of forcing you and Kageyama into the same court,” while Yuna simply adjusted her glasses and predicted “maximum flustered King energy.”
Kageyama was on the opposite side of the gym, setting balls to Hinata with mechanical precision, but his focus kept fracturing. Every few tosses, his piercing blue eyes would drift toward you. The memory of your quiet conversation at the tournament still lingered in his chest like a warm, unresolved set. Something he couldn’t quite spike away.
Coach Nakamura blew her whistle, gathering everyone. “Alright! Mixed teams today. We’ll rotate players so everyone gets experience with different styles. No full contact seriousness, this is for fun and learning. But that doesn’t mean I want sloppy plays!”
Ukai nodded from the boys’ side. “You heard her. Play hard, but don’t break anything.”
The teams were divided into mixed groups. Luck, or perhaps subtle meddling from Akari and Hinata, placed you and Kageyama on the same team for the first few games. The moment the lineup was announced, Akari let out a loud whoop from the opposing side. “Yes! Setter duo incoming! This is gonna be legendary!”
Yuna smirked. “Try not to stare at each other the whole time.”
The scrimmage began with high energy. The mixed court was chaotic and joyful. Hinata and Akari formed an unexpectedly terrifying receive-spike duo on the other team, while you and Kageyama synced up almost instinctively on yours. Your first set to Tanaka was quick and deceptive; Kageyama followed with a powerful, high toss that allowed a second-year girl spiker to attack with confidence. Every successful play earned loud cheers and teasing commentary from the sidelines.
During one long rally, you dove for a low ball, scraping your elbow slightly but popping it up perfectly. Kageyama was right there to receive your pass, setting it with flawless timing. As the point ended, he turned to you, breathing hard, sweat glistening on his forehead. For once, his usual scowl was replaced by something lighter.
“That was… good,” he said, voice gruff but warm. “Your receive saved the rally.”
You grinned up at him, wiping sweat from your brow with the back of your hand. “High praise again? Careful, King. I might start thinking you actually like playing with me.”
His ears flushed that familiar pink, but he didn’t look away. “Maybe I do.”
The simple admission hit you harder than any spike. The gym noise seemed to fade for a second as your eyes locked, playful challenge mixing with genuine affection.
The scrimmage continued for over an hour, full of laughter, near-misses, and brilliant moments. At one point, you and Kageyama executed a surprise quick attack together that left the opposing team stunned. Akari dramatically fell to her knees on the other side. “Betrayed by my own best friend! The Maestro has defected to the dark side!”
Nishinoya roared with laughter. “That combo was insane! You two are scary together!”
Tanaka pumped his fists. “Setter power couple!”
Sugawara chuckled, nudging Daichi. “They really do complement each other.”
Shimizu watched everything with a soft, approving smile, occasionally handing out water bottles at just the right moments.
As the games wound down and everyone moved into cool-down stretches, the atmosphere shifted into something softer. The golden sunlight had deepened into warmer afternoon hues. Players sat in small groups on the floor or benches, chatting and laughing. You found yourself sitting against the wall near the equipment area, nursing a water bottle. Your muscles ached pleasantly, a small scrape on your elbow stinging faintly, but the joy of the day made everything feel light.
Kageyama approached quietly, hesitating for only a second before sitting beside you closer than necessary, his shoulder brushing yours. The contact sent a gentle warmth through you.
“You played well today,” he said after a moment, voice low and sincere. “Not just the sets… everything. The way you encourage everyone, even when you’re tired. It’s… admirable.”
You turned to look at him, heart swelling at the vulnerability in his tone. The usually stoic setter looked softer in the warm light. Messy black hair slightly damp with sweat, blue eyes no longer guarded but open and intense in a new way.
“Thanks,” you replied gently, nudging his arm with yours. “You were incredible too. And… I liked seeing you smile a little during that last point. You should do it more often.”
He huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward in that rare, tiny smile you were growing addicted to. “Only when you’re around, apparently.”
The moment stretched, intimate despite the distant laughter of your friends. Akari and Yuna were watching from across the gym like proud chaotic aunts, whispering and giggling. Hinata pointed excitedly until Tsukishima smacked his head lightly. Shimizu simply organized towels with a knowing glance.
After a while, Kageyama stood and offered you his hand to help you up. You took it without hesitation. His grip was firm and warm, calloused from endless practice, and he didn’t let go immediately once you were standing. For a few heartbeats, you stayed like that. Hands linked, eyes meeting in the quiet corner of the gym.
“Come on,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, a faint blush creeping up his neck. “There’s still time before everyone leaves. Let’s… practice a few sets. Just us.”
You smiled, squeezing his hand once before reluctantly letting go. “I’d like that.”
The two of you moved to a quieter side court. The rest of the teams gave you space. Whether out of respect or sheer amusement, you weren’t sure. Kageyama tossed you a ball, and the familiar rhythm began. Your sets flowed effortlessly between you, each one carrying a little more care, a little more intention. Between tosses, conversation turned personal.
“I used to think volleyball was everything,” Kageyama admitted during a pause, watching the ball spin in his hands. “Winning. Being the best. But watching you… playing with you… it’s more fun now. Lighter.”
You stepped closer, adjusting his wrist position with gentle fingers the way he had once done for you. “You make me want to be better too. Not just on the court. You’re intense and serious and kind of adorable when you get flustered.”
He looked down at you, eyes soft yet burning with that same competitive fire now laced with affection. “You’re annoying,” he said, but there was no bite, only fondness. “Always teasing. Always smiling. Making me lose focus.”
You laughed softly, the sound bright in the quiet space. “Then I guess we’re even.”
Without thinking, he reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering near your cheek. The touch was tentative but warm, sending butterflies racing through your stomach. You leaned into it slightly, heart pounding.
From the far side of the gym, Akari couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Look at them! Hand-holding! Hair touching! I’m dying!”
Yuna shushed her, but she was smiling. “Let them have their moment.”
Hinata whispered loudly, “Is this the confession part?”
Sugawara laughed quietly while Daichi sighed in fond exasperation. Shimizu simply watched with a gentle, happy expression.
Kageyama ignored them all, focusing only on you. “I… like this,” he said quietly, almost shyly. “Being around you. Even when you’re sassing me. Especially then.”
Your cheeks warmed, but you met his gaze steadily, playful confidence mixing with genuine emotion. “I like this too. A lot.”
He didn’t say more with words. Instead, after the last set, he offered you his water bottle–still cold from the fridge. You took a sip, then handed it back. The simple shared gesture felt impossibly intimate. As you both sat on the floor again, shoulders touching, his hand found yours once more. This time, fingers intertwined slowly, deliberately. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, sending pleasant shivers up your arm.
The gym lights began to dim as afternoon turned to early evening. The rest of the team gradually packed up, shouting goodbyes and teasing comments as they left. Akari and Yuna lingered longest, waving dramatically. “Don’t stay too late, lovebirds!” Akari called. “We expect full details on Monday!”
When the doors finally closed and the gym grew quieter, you and Kageyama stayed a little longer. Sitting side by side against the wall, hands still linked, the conversation drifted between volleyball dreams, funny middle school stories, and quiet hopes for the future.
In that soft, golden-lit space, the slow-burn that had started with a sassy critique across the court had fully bloomed into something beautiful–mutual admiration, playful rivalry, and the tender beginnings of romance.
Kageyama turned to you, his usual intensity softened by a rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. “Thank you… for challenging me.”
You squeezed his hand, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder. “Thank you for letting me.”
The two of you sat there as the sun dipped lower, hearts beating in quiet sync, the court around you witness to the gentle, fluffy start of something that felt destined to keep setting hearts in motion for a long time to come.
Two months had passed since the informal mixed scrimmage, and Karasuno High felt different in the gentlest way.
Summer had fully settled in, bringing longer days, warmer evenings, and the sweet scent of cut grass drifting through the open gym doors. The girls’ and boys’ volleyball teams had both grown stronger. The practices were sharper, teamwork tighter, and the friendly rivalry between sides had evolved into something warmer, more supportive. But the biggest change was impossible to miss.
You and Tobio Kageyama were officially together.
It had happened quietly one evening after practice, under the soft glow of the setting sun outside the gym. Kageyama had walked you to the school gates, hands shoved deep in his pockets, ears pink as he muttered, “I don’t want to just… practice sets with you anymore. I want to be with you. Properly.” You had smiled, taken his hand, and answered with a simple “I’d like that too.” Since then, the entire school seemed to treat your relationship like the best-kept open secret in Karasuno history.
Today was no exception.
The afternoon practice had just ended. Golden sunlight poured through the high windows, painting the court in warm hues. Most players were packing up, but a small group still lingered–laughing, teasing, and refusing to let the day end quietly.
You were sitting on the bench near the girls’ side, re-tying your shoelaces, when familiar footsteps approached. Kageyama stopped in front of you, holding two cold water bottles. One was already opened and slightly condensation-damp.
“Here,” he said gruffly, offering you the open one. His cheeks had that faint, permanent flush he got whenever he did something even slightly couple-like in public. “You drank all yours during the last drill. Don’t get dehydrated.”
You looked up at him with a bright, teasing smile, taking the bottle. Your fingers brushed deliberately against his as you accepted it. “My personal water boy now? How romantic, King.”
He clicked his tongue, looking away, but he didn’t step back. “Shut up. It’s just common sense.”
From across the court, Akari’s voice rang out like a siren. “Awww! Water bottle sharing! That’s officially couple behavior! Yuna, take a picture!”
Yuna adjusted her glasses, smirking as she pretended to snap a photo with her phone. “Already catalogued for the ‘Maestro x King’ scrapbook I’m making.”
You laughed, taking a long sip before handing the bottle back to Kageyama. He accepted it without hesitation and took a drink from the same spot your lips had touched. The casual intimacy made your stomach flutter even after two months.
Hinata bounded over, orange hair bouncing wildly. “Kageyama! Are you walking Reader home again today? Can I come? I want to hear more setter tips!”
“Absolutely not,” Kageyama snapped, though there was no real heat in it. “Go bug someone else, idiot.”
Tanaka strolled by, slinging an arm around Nishinoya’s shoulders. “Look at our king being all domestic! Sharing water, walking home together… next thing you know he’ll be holding hands in the hallway!”
Nishinoya grinned wickedly. “Such thunderous couple power! You two are goals!”
Sugawara chuckled from the side, helping Shimizu organize the equipment cart. “Leave them alone, guys. They’re cute.”
Daichi simply shook his head with a fond smile. “As long as it doesn’t affect practice.”
Shimizu offered you both a soft, approving look as she passed, her long hair swaying gently. She had become something of a quiet supporter–always making sure there were extra towels or snacks “accidentally” left near you two during joint sessions.
Kageyama waited patiently while you finished packing your bag. When you stood, he reached out and gently took it from your shoulder, slinging it over his own without a word. The simple gesture made Akari and Yuna coo dramatically again.
“Chivalry isn’t dead!” Akari declared, clutching her heart. “The Maestro has tamed the King!”
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. “You two are never going to let this go, are you?”
“Never,” Yuna confirmed cheerfully. “We were there for the first sassy critique. We deserve front-row seats to the romance.”
As the three of you headed toward the gym doors, Kageyama fell into step beside you. His free hand brushed against yours once, twice, before he finally linked your fingers together. His grip was warm and steady, thumb tracing small, absent circles on the back of your hand. The casual public affection still made his ears turn pink, but he no longer pulled away.
The walk home was filled with the usual comfortable rhythm. The summer breeze carried the distant sound of cicadas and the faint smell of blooming flowers from neighborhood gardens. Hinata had somehow tagged along anyway, chattering about new quick attack ideas, while Akari and Yuna flanked the two of you like mischievous bodyguards.
At one point, you stopped at a small convenience store near the school gates. Kageyama bought you your favorite sports drink without being asked, then accepted the strawberry milk you handed him in return. You both sat on the low wall outside, legs swinging lightly while the others raided the snack aisle.
“You know,” you said softly, leaning your shoulder against his, “I never thought the scary, intense setter from the first day would end up sharing strawberry milk with me after practice.”
Kageyama took a sip, then glanced at you sideways. His expression was soft in the golden evening light. “I never thought the annoying girl who critiqued my form would be the one I… want to be with every day.”
The honest words made your heart squeeze. You bumped your knee against his playfully. “Still annoying?”
“Extremely,” he deadpanned, but the tiny smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “But I like it.”
You laughed and rested your head on his shoulder for a moment. He stiffened slightly at the public display, but then relaxed, his free arm coming up to wrap loosely around your waist.
From inside the store, Akari’s voice carried out dramatically. “They’re cuddling! Yuna, I’m crying real tears!”
Yuna’s calm reply followed. “Document it. This is historical.”
Hinata emerged with a mouthful of bread. “You two are so gross! In a good way!”
Kageyama groaned. “All of you, go home.”
But he didn’t move. Instead, he tightened his hold around you just a little, pressing a quick, shy kiss to the top of your head when he thought no one was looking. The gesture was so unexpectedly sweet that your cheeks warmed.
Later, as the group finally split up at the usual crossroads, Akari and Yuna hugged you tightly before heading off.
“Text us when you get home, Maestro!” Akari called. “And don’t stay up too late ‘practicing sets’ with your boyfriend!”
Yuna winked. “We expect progress reports on the romance.”
Once they were gone and Hinata had finally bounced away, the walk became quieter–just the two of you under the soft orange sky.
Kageyama still carried your bag, your hands swinging gently between you. Every so often he would glance down at your intertwined fingers, as if still surprised he was allowed to do this.
At your front gate, he stopped and turned to face you fully. The streetlights had just flickered on, casting a gentle glow over both of you.
“Thanks for today,” he said quietly. “And… every day.”
You stepped closer, reaching up to fix a stray lock of his messy black hair. “Thank you for being mine, Tobio.”
His eyes softened at the use of his given name. He leaned down slowly, hesitating just a breath away, before pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your forehead, then–after a shy glance around to make sure the street was empty–one soft kiss to your lips.
It was sweet and warm, tasting faintly of strawberry milk and summer air. When he pulled back, his face was flushed, but he didn’t look away.
“See you tomorrow,” he murmured. “Early practice. Don’t be late.”
You grinned, still holding his hand. “Wouldn’t miss it. Try not to scold Hinata too much before I get there.”
He huffed a small laugh–the rare, genuine one that only you seemed to draw out easily. “No promises.”
With one last squeeze of your hand, he turned and started walking home, glancing back twice before disappearing around the corner.
You stood at the gate for a moment longer, heart full and light, the summer breeze playing with your hair.
Being with Tobio Kageyama wasn’t always loud or dramatic. It was water bottles shared after practice, quiet walks home, shy kisses under streetlights, and the steady rhythm of two setters who had found their perfect match–not just on the court, but in each other.
The Holy Trinity still ruled the girls’ team with chaotic energy. The boys’ team still trained with fierce determination. And somewhere in the middle of it all, two hearts that had once only challenged each other from across the gym now moved in perfect, steady sync.
Setting hearts in motion… and keeping them beating together.
MXTX Interview with Risa Wataya for Subaru Magazine P.7
Which creative works influence you:
Risa: Please tell us which creative works influence you.
Moxiang: Professor Jin Yong’s wuxia novels (*)! Professor Jin Yong is my number one teacher in the craft of writing. His skill in crafting wuxia stories, his artistic palate, the sheer intellectual depth and philosophical complexity of his stories and characters. Professor Jin Yong’s wuxia novels have a profound and immeasurable influence on all modern Asian creative professionals.
(*: the legendary late professor Jin Yong. He’s not as well-known in English-speaking spheres due to the complexity of his works being very difficult to translate to languages outside of the Sino-Tibetan language family. But in Asia, he’s a literature titan. He’s comparable to Tolkien in that he laid the foundation and codified the tropes of wuxia as a modern genre (alongside Gu Long and Liang Yusheng) and brought about the first and subsequent wuxia waves, and that there’s also university courses and entire research field on Jin-Yong-ology. However, he’s a much more prolific writer, having produced 15 wuxia series, among which 14 are of comparable length or longer than the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit combined.
It would be no lie to say there’s not a single creative professional in Asia that is not influenced by Jin Yong in some way, shape, or form.
One of Jin Yong’s trademarks is the overwhelming, often obsessive, sometimes destructive love that his characters exhibit. There’s not one work of his that is not threaded through with larger-than-life romance, not just among the protagonists, but also among the villain characters. The trend of modern Chinese literature, especially wuxia and xianxia, to portray larger-than-life romance can be traced directly to Jin Yong’s influence.
Interestingly, he’s also credited as having accidentally created the proto icon of danmei as a genre.
I’m sorry. I’m so excited I want to cry. Professor Jin Yong is also my first teacher in the craft of writing. It turns out we all step in the footsteps of the giant, huh, Moxiang?)
I also watch a lot of 90s Hongkong movies. Do you know “Shaolin Soccer’?
Risa: I do know!
Moxiang: Stephen Chow’s comedy movies, Tsui Hark’s wuxia, and fantasy horror movies. Lam Ching-ying’s walking corpse movies. I love all of these.
Risa: That’s closer to jiangshi (*) than modern zombies.
(*: a type of Chinese walking corpse. The name literally translates to stiff corpse. Jiangshi is typically translated into Chinese hopping vampire in English due to their similarity to Western vampires. They are the dead that comes back to life. They suck yang energy from living people. They fear the smell of garlic. Etc… Jiangshi has real-life basis in an extinct profession in China: the corpse walker, i.e., people who made a living out of ‘walking’ corpses back to their home provinces in times of war and chaos. Corpse walkers are mentioned in Liao Yiwu’s historical book 'The Corpse Walker’)
Moxiang: That’s right. That’s right. A hopping jiangshi. I watch a lot of such movies. Some movies are from before I was born, such as 'A Chinese Ghost Story’ and 'Sword Man’ (*). I have watched them more than ten times! If I meet someone who has never watched those movies before, I will enthusiastically drag them along while saying, "Let’s watch them together!” My novel bears obvious and immense influence from these movies… For example, the funny scenes in my story are very close to the atmosphere of comedy scenes from Hongkong cinema. Or the walking corpses in my story. My inspiration came from these undead corpses. In the novel, I mentioned using glutinous rice as a cure for corpse powder. This knowledge came from the movie “Professor Jiangshi” (named 'Mr. Vampire’ in English in the Wikipedia).
(*: Both of these movies are Tsui Hark’s movies and are counted among the top 100 best movies of Asian cinema. They are known for their fantasy elements, eroticism, and homoeroticism. These movies came from a time where Asian cinema was pushing boundaries left, right, and center. Swordsman and its spin-off were adapted from Professor Jin Yong’s The Smiling Proud Wander. The very same work in which he accidentally created the proto-icon of danmei. I wrote an essay about this as part of danmei history last year. I will make a separate post after this.)
Risa: To be honest, when I reached the part where glutinous rice was used to cure corpse powder in 'Mo Dao Zu Shi,’ I was moved.
Moxiang: Ah? A Japanese author saw the glutinous rice scene in my novel and linked it to jiangshi movies… That is so surprising!
Risa: When I was young, I watched a lot of jiangshi movies. I love them!
Moxiang: I feel increasingly close to Ms. Risa now. As for other foreign literature, Emily Bronte’s 'Wuthering Heights’ greatly influences me. When I read it during elementary school, I was shaking from excitement. Perhaps because of the influence of Wuthering Heights, that whenever I see complex, intertwining love-hate situations, I feel such joy and nostalgia in my heart.
There’s also my favorite childhood mangaka Rumiko Takahashi! This kind of light-hearted, rowdy atmosphere where characters argue and rib each other is so cute! I especially like 'Ranma ½’. I think it’s the best comedy manga. Other than that, 'Inuyasha’ can only be described by the word romantic. Romantic! To this day, Kikyo is still a goddess in my heart.
Risa: Although 'Ranma ½’ is a work that features China in it, what do Chinese people think about it?
Moxiang: The first thought that comes to my head is 'charming!’ After that is probably fond familiarity. This work (Ranma ½) features many Chinese elements. I feel that the distance between our hearts is lessened.
This moment is so dear to me I want to cry. First of, Grace is so gentle with him? Something something kindness literally saves the world (two worlds, in this case). Also, you just KNOW that Grace is that teacher in whose classroom the kids go to cry when they feel like the whole world has turned against them.
But secondly, "I'm a science human"! Because yeah. None of them is the other's weird alien dog. None of them is the "smart one" (or rather, they both are). They can't do this without each other. They complement each other. They need each other to succeed, there's no other way. That's the whole point! Cooperation! Connection! Working together!
Welcoming Tomura back after his quirk surgery thing…
Like, assuming this is an alternate reality where the heroes didn’t break him out early, and he went back to PLF headquarters for a night to see you.
I am a lover-boy-tomura truther y’all, this man is a YEARNER.
Also, this is like an actual fic, not the little headcanon things or whatever I usually post, so it’s kinda long…and not proofread
Tags: fem!reader, maybe kinda ooc, tomura is sooo soft for reader (he’s trying his best), smut, sub!reader, dom/softdom!tomura, established relationship, yearning, dry humping, oral (f receiving), PRAISE, light degradation, lots of affection (in tomura’s special way, y’know?), just a little bit of rough sex, kinda skips to more soft and intimate sex, implied breeding in like one line, a little aftercare
—
Tomura would be a sight to behold as soon as he walked in, dressed in that damn compression shirt, practically exuding power, his eyes dark as they focus directly on you.
There’s no words, no real greeting besides a gruff “hey” as he’s already dragging you up the stairs to the big master bedroom you’ve been keeping warm in his absence. People practically leap put of his way as he walks, no one daring to meet his eye now that he’s back, not that he cares. He’s focused solely on you- on getting you in that damn bed and in his arms before he has to wait a second longer. He’s been gone for four months after all, and he…missed you…even though he was unconscious for most of it. And you missed him too, right?
—
“Tomura, seriously-.” You start, as he tugs you into the bedroom and closes the door firmly.
“Quiet. Get on the bed.” Tomura interrupts, already kicking off his shoes.
You blush but huff in irritation. Yeah, he’s been gone for four months. You missed him more than you can say, but you also know that this isn’t the most important thing right now.
“Tomura.” You demand, standing your ground and crossing your arms. “We need to talk first. You need to be up to date-.”
He cuts you off with just a look this time, his red eyes cutting straight to yours. Your breath catches softly, a little shiver running down your spine. He’s different now, you can tell. More than just physically, there’s a different sort of aura around him now.
But he’s still just Tomura. Your Tomura. And the fact you aren’t scared of him is what makes him crave you so much in the first place.
“Don’t give me that look.” You demand again, a bit softer this time. “There are things we need to go over.”
You turn away, leaving your shoes on the other side of the doorway. There are so many things to tell him, things to update him on. Who’s left the PLF, who’s joined it, what the heroes have been up to, smaller missions within the PLF, how the original League are doing in their new posts, and most importantly you need to figure out how he is doing after his procedure—.
This time your thoughts are cut off, not by a word or a look, but by a touch. Tomura’s touch is so careful and gentle with you, yet heavy in its intensity as his fingerips brush down your upper arm.
You can feel him standing behind you. That new aura is almost a physical weight, pressing down on you as he steps right up behind you. His other hand comes up, missing a couple fingers but still strong as he holds your waist.
“I don’t want to talk.” He starts, low but softer now. “I don’t wanna think.”
You let out a little breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your shoulders lose the tension they’d gathered. Tomura notices, of course, the exact second you begin relaxing into his presence just like you used to. He leans in closer, his chest brushing against your back as he invades your space. His hand not on your waist trails back up to brush the hair off your neck and shoulder, his breath shaking just subtly as he leans in closer.
Rough lips meet the skin of the crook of your neck, his arms slipping around your waist and tugging you flush against his chest now. He doesn’t kiss, necessarily, just nuzzles in closer and breathes you in like you’re the oxygen he’d been deprived of during the treatment. His hands sink into your skin, careful but firm, clinging to you but so painfully aware of how fragile you are compared to him.
“Tomura…” You mumble, so soft now it’s hardly even reluctant anymore.
He hums lightly in response, but his voice is so low it’s almost a purr. He knows you want to talk, but you know your mind is quickly losing grasp of the laundry list of topics you need to discuss with him. Your hands move to his, gentle at first before caressing the rough back of his palms, your fingers trailing over the bumps and dips his knuckles.
“Tell me you really don’t want this…Tell me to stop.” Tomura murmurs, dragging his lips up your neck until they’re right next to your ear, and you know he means it. He’ll stop if you tell him to. “But if you do want me…I need you to get on the bed. Now.”
Well, that’s what kills you, really. His touch, his words, his presence. But it’s his voice, soft with a vulnerability he never shows but low with a hunger that’s been building for months, somehow begging and commanding at the same time while simultaneously giving you an honest out. How could you not give in?
—
Things progressed quickly after that.
You grabbed his hand as you finally obeyed his plea to get on the bed, pulling him with you as you scoot up towards the pillows. He kissed you on the way down, rough lips moving with desperation as he pressed you down onto your back beneath him. Little pants and whimpers were already spilling from the both of you, the weight of your separation hitting like a ton of bricks once that connection was finally reignited.
Tomura’s hands were everywhere. Your face, your neck, sliding down your shoulders and arms to hold your hands, grabbing your hips before pushing back up over your tummy an your chest, then sliding all the way back down to your thighs as he settled his hips between them.
He pulled away from the kiss as he pressed his covered bulge right into the warmth between your thighs, his hips cradled snugly in yours. “Touch me,” Tomura murmured, rough against the side of your neck. “Everywhere. Touch me…”
You obliged immediately, gentle hands skating up his sculpted arms and shoulders before sliding down his front slowly. He arched into the touch, a needy gasp escaping his lips. You traced every line of his body, re-familiarizing yourself with the edges and curves and rough skin and soft gives of his body, every single inch that you’ve been dreaming of since he left you. He throbbed in his pants as you delicately traced your fingertips down his v-line, so hard you felt it through your pants and send a wave of heat straight to your center.
His hands fully grab your hips then, holding them firm and steady as he rolls his own into them. A ragged groan leaves Tomura’s lips, vibrating the skin of your neck where his teeth graze the softness of it. A gasp leaves your own lips, your thighs pushing further apart as if your entire being is aching for him…and it is.
Soft fingertips find their way under his shirt, trailing up over his flexed back and tugging him down closer. You want him- need him- close, need the pressure of him, the weight of him on you. He obliges, of course, pressing down against you harder as his hips roll heavily onto yours.
“Tell me…” Tomura gasps suddenly, his lips and teeth now trailing up your neck to your jaw. “Tell me you missed me…You did, didn’t you?”
God, the plea in his voice nearly breaks your heart as much as it makes your pussy throb.
“I missed you- fuck, of course I missed you, Tomura.” You respond almost immediately, only a second late because he nipped at your skin and drew a small whine from your lips.
Something between a groan and a gasp leaves him as you say it, and you can feel the way his heart thudded against his chest. A strong hand slides down from your hip to your thigh, tugging it up and hooking your leg around waist. His hips roll harder now, a slow but heavy draaaag of his arousal against yours, over and over again.
He pulls back then, and for the first time since you got on the bed, you can see Tomura’s face clearly. He’s flushed now, cheeks pink and lips glossy from kisses. But it’s his eyes that get you, wide with hunger but dilated with affection. He’s looking at you like that, like you’re the only thing in the whole world, like you’re the only thought in his head.
You stare back at him, even as your lips part on soft gasps and whimpers when the large bulge in his pants scrapes over your clothed clit. Your eyes are just as dilated, just as enraptured by him as he is by you. Your hands travel down to his waist, urging him even closer.
This time, Tomura just about loses his mind. His head drops, forehead resting on yours as he closes his eyes. He’s gone still now, aside from the way his chest heaves with pants. “You’re gonna kill me…before I even get inside you.” He rasps, and you have to hold back a little laugh.
“What’d I do?” You ask, tone deceivingly innocent. But really, you wanna know exactly what’s going through his head right now.
A grin spreads on his face, not dark like it usually is but genuinely amused. He opens his eyes to look down at you, a hand coming up to cup your cheek.
“Lookin’ at me with your pretty eyes…Pretty-ass face…” Tomura squishes your cheeks a little between his thumb and forefinger as he speaks, forcing you into a slight pout, a subtle growl in his voice like he’s holding back from attacking you. “…Just like that…my pretty girl…”
Your cheeks heat up instantly against his fingers, eyes widening a little. Compliments like that always catch you a bit off guard, but you’re even more susceptible to them now that he’s been gone for so long. Tomura notices, of course, and he squeezes your cheeks a little harder for a second before letting go.
“Fuckin’ adorable.” He mutters roughly just before pressing his lips to yours again.
This time, he gets right to it.
His tongue is plundering your mouth before you can really comprehend it, his hands tugging so hard at your clothes they start ripping (not that you care). You’re the same way, in fact, tugging and nearly tearing at his clothes because you’d rather ruin his shirt than have to pull away from the kiss for even a second.
Rough fingers find the clasp of your bra and undo it without hesitation, practically ripping the piece down your arms and tossing it away. Tomura pulls back with a reluctant little groan, but his eyes lock onto your tits immediately. He dives down like a man starved, licking and sucking and biting at your nipples while his hands meanly grope the rest of the soft skin.
You whine and whimper, hands tangling in his hair and back arching up into him. He groans around your nipple while his tongue rolls over the little bud over and over again. Your eyes flutter closed, hands tugging at his hair as your thighs snap shut around his hips, your gasps getting needier and needier as you melt under him.
“T-Tomura,” You gasp, breathless and desperate. “Please, more- please?”
He pulls away from your tits then, and he’s not even trying to hide how much he wants to absolutely destroy you.
“More, huh?” He growls, crawling back up as he sinks his teeth into your collarbones and up your neck. “Need me enough to beg without me having to ask?”
You nod, unashamed, only tugging him closer as he bites a harsh mark into the side of your neck. It’s been far too long since he marked you, your skin as pristine as before you were his…and he has every intention on changing that tonight.
Tomura’s hand slides down your front, over your chest and tummy before he rests his fingertips on the hem of your pants. Your hips buck up a little, needy even though he’s barely close to where you need him. He chuckles softly, but it’s more of a growl as his cock throbs harshly in his pants.
“How wet are you gonna be when I touch you? Already soaked through your panties?” He asks lowly, trailing kisses along your jaw to get to the other side of your neck. “Or were you touching yourself while I was gone? Keeping yourself satisfied for me?”
You whimper sharply as he sinks his teeth into the other side of your neck, just barely not enough to draw blood. Your hands grab at his hair and his broad shoulders, hips instinctively rolling up in seek of his touch. Cheeks burning at his questions, you nod in confirmation that you’d been ‘keeping yourself satisfied’.
“Yeah?” He sounds like he’s on the verge of going insane, his thumb just barely grazing the skin under your waistband. “Tell me what you thought about.”
“You.” It comes out immediately, breathless like it’s obvious. And it is. Of course you’d only think about him while he was gone.
You can practically feel the grin growing on his face before you see it, smug but subtly affectionate. Both of Tomura’s hands are on your pants now, taking his damn time unbuttoning them as he demands again. “Yeah…but what about me? What do you want me to do?”
You feel your face flush now, staring up at him with wide eyes while your nails dig lightly into his shoulders. The hesitation only lasts a second before Tomura cocks his head a little and starts pulling his hands away. The words tumble from your mouth then, desperate for him to keep going, “I-I thought about you touching me…”
He puts his hands back on you and slowly undoes the button and zipper of your pants.
“…thought about your fingers inside me…”
He continues rewarding you by tugging your pants and panties down past your hips.
“…and y-your tongue…”
Your pants and panties are pulled all the way off, leaving you completely bare under him.
“…and your-…c-cock-…”
You stutter a little, gasping softly as he parts your thighs and groans softly at the wetness he finds.
“…and you…c-cumming inside- ngh-…”
This time, he finally gives you what you need. Your words are stuttered by gasps as he runs a rough finger up through the wetness of your slit, catching on your clit. Tomura pants lightly, immediately starting to rub at your clit with the pad of his finger at a moderate pace, his eyes dark as they flick between your own and his fingers.
“That’s what you were thinking about?” He rasps, his other hand holding your hips down as he rubs you. “Me filling you up? You’re feeling empty after all this time, aren’t you?”
You nod immediately again, moaning softly for him as your hips try to roll up into his touch. He holds you steady, fingers rolling over your clit just enough to have your eyes fluttering. The squelching coming from between your thighs makes your cheeks burn, but it makes his cock throb.
God knows how much Tomura’s been thinking about this- about you- about getting his hands on you and his dick as deep as possible. He’s never needed much sex, never needed much of anything, really. But you…you changed everything when you came into his life. When you let him close, let him hover, let him touch, let him inside…it flipped a switch in his brain. Suddenly everything was about you. He wants to destroy society and rebuild it…with you. He wants to kill everyone who’s ever wronged him…with you. He wants to gain all the power he possibly can, wants to expand his reach until everywhere and everything hangs in the precipice under his fingertips…with you.
So, yeah, Tomura’s been thinking about this since he went away. He leans down again, pressing a kiss to your cheek before working his way down past your neck, all the way down your sternum, and a peck to each hip before he’s face to face with the dripping folds of your pussy. It’s a mouthwatering sight, almost as good as the way you smile at him.
You look down at him, biting your lip in anticipation as a hand tangles in the hair at the top of his head. Your breath catches as he gropes your inner thighs, his thumbs spreading your lips wide as baring your most intimate place to his hungry eyes. His pupils dilate at the sight, widening like a wolf seeing fresh meat. And he eats you like it too.
Tomura dives in without preamble, lips and teeth and tongue absolutely making out with your pussy. A drawn out whine leaves your lips, hips jerking up into his face as your head falls back against the pillows. Rough hands hold your thighs open and your hips down while softer hands yank at his hair, both of you manipulating the other exactly how you want.
Your eyes roll back under Tomura’s ministrations. Even after all this time, he still remembers exactly how you like to be pleasured. A skilled tongue laps and flicks at your clit a few times before moving down to prod at your hole, lips suctioning hard enough on your clit to make your toes curl, and teeth just barely grazing over your sensitive flesh. God, he’s so fucking good…and it’s not surprising. You taught him everything he knows, after all.
He gulps down your juices like water, groaning and moaning like it feels better for him than you. And it might, considering the way he’s humping the mattress under him. He hooks his arms under and around your thighs, tugging you down sharply and eating you out even deeper.
“Tomura- ah-!” You whimper out, unable to even get the words out properly. “T-tomu’-.”
You cut yourself off when you look down at him, seeing him staring back up at you. But it’s different this time, his tongue slowing down significantly on your clit and his brows pitching up just a little. Then, all too soon, he’s pulling away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand before they’re pressed against yours- hard.
“Fuck-.” He grits out, deep voice vibrating against your lips as he plunders them with his own again. “Fuckin’ love when you call me that.” His hands aren’t on you anymore, instead tugging desperately at his pants to get them off and free his straining cock. The kiss is a clash of lips and teeth, dragging gasps from the two of you with every nip and lick.
You tug his hair to pull him closer before grabbing at his shoulders again, then shooting right down his front to help undo his pants. Once they’re finally down, your hand wraps around the base of his cock. Tomura pulls away from the kiss with a hiss, chest heaving as he kicks his pants away. He’s hard as a steel rod and hot as an iron brand in your hand, bright red and leaking like it’s been years since he’s had you.
He’s able to handle one pump from your hand before he has to pull you away, both of your wrists getting pinned beneath one of his rough palms above your head. He’s heaving now, trembling and pressing closer like he’ll die without you. You both gasp as his tip pokes at your entrance.
“I can’t-…I need you-.” Tomura gasps out, eyes looking straight into yours. His free arm loops under your waist to hold you close, four fingers digging into your side. He’s so hungry, so desperate, nearly begging for it…but he hesitates. He looks at you, yearning and wanting but completely serious, keeping his starvation for you on a leash. “Are you ready?”
You know what he means. He barely did any real foreplay, and he doesn’t wanna hurt you by rushing in- especially after so long without taking him. But damn if you care about any of that right now. You’re so wet the sheets under your hips are soaked, so turned on your body feels like it’s on fire, so needy for him it hurts, and so fucking in love that he could kill you right now and you’d forgive him.
“I’m- yeah- just- please, Tomura-.” You stammer out, hands straining under his tight grip in a vain attempt to pull him in closer. He holds you down effortlessly, hand carefully tightening around your wrists while your words send a shiver down his spine. You’ve given him permission, and, well…it’s your fault if it hurts now.
Tomura surges forward a second later, shoving aaaaall the way in with one hard thrust. You both moan, his more of a groan while yours pitched up into a cry. You’re so full now, feeling him everywhere. Every centimeter of his thick cock, every vein throbbing with hot blood, every little twitch, his tip kissing your cervix but feeling like it’s in your stomach. And you feel him spill fucking buckets of cum into you the second after he bottoms out.
The sounds coming out of Tomura’s mouth right now are nothing short of pornographic. His hand left your wrists to grab your hip, sinking into your skin hard enough to leave bruises as he holds you still. You feel every bit of his cum flood into you, warm and thick and completely unexpected by either of you. A broken whimper leaves his lips as he drops his forehead to your shoulder, hips jerking against yours as he rides out his abrupt orgasm.
“Sh-shit- ‘m sor-…ngh…” He mutters to you, cutting off the apology before he gets even more embarrassed.
You can feel his cheeks burning against your skin as he nuzzles into your neck, his breathing labored now as if he just ran a marathon. But he’s still impossibly, deliciously, hard inside you.
“Hey…it’s a-alright.” You murmur softly, petting his hair as smoothly as you can while he still throbs inside you. “Missed me too, hm?”
He groans at your question, but you both know it’s true. The evidence is inside you right now, settling deep in your womb.
Tomura pulls back a little, looking down at you with hazy eyes and a subtle annoyed pout. “It’s not my fault you feel so good.” He grumbles, hands softening on yours hips a bit.
You grin a little now, and it makes his heart thud. “Really? That’s the only thing you missed? The sex?” You’re challenging him, obviously, provoking him not only into admitting his true feelings, but also into fucking you through the mattress (which you’d get anyways).
Scoffing, Tomura rolls his eyes and sits up. “‘Course not, idiot.” He grabs your thighs and throws your legs over his shoulders, keeping you nice and pinned under him. “Missed lots of things about you.”
You blink in surprise at the lack of effort you had to put in just to pull that much from him. But really, by now you should know better.
“Missed the way you look at me…”
He gives you a thrust, just one, but hard.
“Missed the way you say my name…”
He gives you another, leaning down closer so your knees nearly touch your shoulders.
“Missed the way you hold onto me…”
And you are now, because he’s pushing even deeper as he delivers yet another hard thrust.
“Missed the way you let me do whatever I want…”
Your knees are brushing your shoulders now, your nails digging into his biceps as your eyes roll back a little.
“…And I missed the way you look when you go stupid on my cock.”
He pauses then, just for a second, and you use the opportunity to look up at him through the haze of bliss settling over you. A shaky but smug little grin spreads on your lips, voice breathless and entirely too cocky as you tease him, “Mm-…missed me sooo much, right?”
Tomura huffs a little laugh, fond but dangerous, as he gazes down at you. A beat passes before he nods, eyes dark as they watch your own widen a little. But then he speaks, and you know you’re really fucked tonight. “Mhm…I did just miss you too…And I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget I just said that.”
—
It’s been hours by now.
Hours, and he’s still fucking hard, still ramming into you. Y’know when people say they’re ‘trying to make up for lost time’? Tomura is genuinely doing it.
You can barely breathe under him, your face shoved into the pillow as you heave and gasp and cry. One strong hand holds your hair, keeping you pinned down, while the other holds your hips up so you can’t collapse under him. Red eyes rove over your body, your hole clutching at him, your thighs shaking, his own bite marks and hickeys littering the soft skin from your jaw all the way down to your thighs.
“Ngh- fuuuuck…” Tomura groans roughly as he presses in and spills yet another load inside you, hips pumping slowly to push it in deeper and deeper.
It’s so much now that it distends your tummy just a little before pushing back and spilling out around his cock. The sight is so erotic, so fucking mouthwatering, that Tomura just stares at it while he hardens inside you again.
You feel it, of course, and a strangled little whine leaves your lips. One hand lets go of the death-grip you had on the sheets, reaching back to push lightly on his hip. “Wait…waitwaitwait-.” It comes out trembling and rushed, and you bury your face in the pillow as he stops.
You can feel him staring at you, his eyes boring into your back. Patient. Looming. Hungry. He’s waiting for you to tell him why he should wait, head cocking to the side as he listens to your ragged pants and weak whimpers. You squeeze your eyes shut, able to feel his composure compared to your utter disarray, the way he’s barely broken a sweat or lost his breath because that damn procedure boosted him so much.
“Just…gimme a second.” You plead softly, hand caressing his hip with shaky fingers.
Tomura lets out a sigh, but obeys your little plea. He slowly pulls out, a whine leaving both of you. As soon as he’s out, his eyes are once again fixed between your thighs, right where his cum is leaking out of your pussy like a slow leaking sink. But it’s the sound of your little whimper that draws his eyes back up to your face. His eyes soften just subtly, seeing the way you’re all red and panting and blinking back tears.
So, instead of pushing back in like he desperately wants to, Tomura wraps his arms around your waist and tugs you upright, your back against his chest. You gasp at the sudden reposition before melting back against him, chest heaving as you take in the fresh air. He nuzzles into your shoulder, fingers skimming up and down your sides as he holds you close.
“…You’re doing good.” He rasps against your skin, lips pressing into your neck in a subtle kiss.
Immediately, your cheeks flush at the praise. You know he means it, of course, and you know he appreciates it. You are doing good for him, letting him push you like this. But you both also know that you’re not doing it for him. You’re doing it because you want him just as much as he wants you.
Tomura holds you steady as you turn your upper body to the side to look at him instead. He holds your gaze with rare soft eyes, flickering over the tear tracks on your cheeks and the redness of your skin with a sort of analytical fondness he only holds for you. You reach up with a trembling hand, cupping his cheek and kissing his other one gently, watching as he closes his eyes and leans into both.
It’s an oddly soft scene compared to the obscenity of what was just happening, and compared to the puddle of his cum oozing out under you…and compared to the way he’s still hard and poking against your back. But neither of you care.
Tomura reaches up with one hand to grab your chin with a gentleness reserved solely for you, guiding you into a soft but intensely intimate kiss. Your lips move slowly together, much like the way he slowly turns you around in his hold to face him, keeping you steady with careful hands. Once you’re facing him fully, he pulls you in flush against his chest, his tongue snaking into your mouth to deepen the kiss.
Your hands tangle gently in his hair as he guides you to lay down beneath him again, settling between your thighs but not pushing for anything more. Instead, you bask in the simple enjoyment and intimacy of the kiss, the press of skin on skin, the truly innocent appreciation of a closeness that was missing for far too long.
Rough hands glide gently down your sides to your hips, massaging the sore joints with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. He pulls away from the kiss just as your grip on his hair tightens, his nose still brushing against yours as he looks down into your eyes with an almost heartbreaking affection.
“…You okay?” Tomura asks softly, hands now gliding down to rub at your trembling thighs.
You nod, eyes and cheeks dry now…albeit a bit red. He looks so damn beautiful like this- soft, vulnerable, hungry, intimate…and all for you. It’s addictive, really, the way he almost becomes a different person when he’s alone with you. Tomura presses an achingly sweet kiss to your forehead, one of his hands sliding up to caress your lower tummy.
“…Got no idea what I wanna do to you…” He mutters, almost to himself, his thumb brushing right over where his cum is still settled deep inside you.
You feel something inside you tighten, your entire torso heating up as your heart and your core clench at the same time. Gazing up into his eyes with an unguarded adoration, you slide your hands down to cup his face. Tomura leans heavily into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut as you brush your own thumbs over his cheeks.
“I love you.” You murmur, so softly and so tenderly it makes Tomura’s heart ache…which doesn’t happen very often.
He opens his eyes then, so soft with affection he almost looks like a different person, like who he would’ve been if he didn’t end up like this. Tomura takes his hand off your tummy to grab one of yours instead, carefully interlocking your fingers. He doesn’t say he loves you verbally very often, maybe two or three times in all the time you’ve been together, but he shows it in the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing in this whole world that makes sense.
“Are you ready for more?” He asks lowly, voice soft with affection even as he inches his hips towards yours once more. “Wanna show you…how much I…”
Tomura trails off then, red eyes darting down to where his tip brushes against yours thigh. His ears are red beneath his hair, the words lodged in his throat even though he’s doing his best to show you. You squeeze his hand and nod a little, understanding completely exactly what’s going through his head. You just know him that well.
“Show me, then.” You murmur back, reaching up with your free hand to brush some hair out of his eyes. “But just one more…then I’m tapping out.”
Leaning into your touch, Tomura snickers affectionately at your response, nodding I agreement with just ‘one more’ round. Keeping one hand laced with yours, he reaches down to hook one of your legs over his elbow, spreading you out but keeping it more comfortable this time.
His eyes lock with yours again as his tip nudges at your entrance, pushing so slowly until the head slides inside with a wet squelch that makes your cheeks burn. You both gasp, little pants leaving both you as he pushes in at a devastatingly slow pace. You can feel every single centimeter pushing in this time, counting down the inches until he’s fully seated inside you, heavy and hot and throbbing.
“S-say it again.” Tomura gasps as he stays still, forehead pressing against yours while his hand squeezes yours with a careful tightness. “Tell me you-.”
“I-I love you.” You answer before he can even finish it, and it’s so earnest and true that it makes Tomura throb inside you. You continue breathlessly, murmuring so close he can feel your breath on his lips. “I love you so m-much, Tomura…”
Your words dissolve into a little moan as he moves, pulling back before rolling back in smoothly, slowly. Tomura’s heart is aching right now, swelling and bleeding with the amount that he feels for you. He’s thinking it, he feels it in his bones, he knows it…but his throat tightens every time he tries to say it.
He doesn’t even need to say it, though. Because you can feel it too. You feel it in the way he presses into you over and over, slow and deep and intimate. You feel it in the way his breathing stutters against your neck where he’s nuzzles his face. You feel it in the way he holds your hand and hugs around your waist. Most of all, you feel it in the way his heart is pounding through his chest against yours, and in the way your own heart responds.
Soft moans leave your lips as you hold onto him, grasping at his hand with one and scratching lightly at his back with the other. Even though he’s not being rough, he’s still so fucking deep, pushing at your cervix with every slow thrust. It’s enough to make your back arch, your pelvis lifting into his to beckon him even deeper. Tomura responds in kind, a low whimper leaving his lips as he grinds deeply into you.
“I d-do…really- ngh-.” Tomura whispers, uncharacteristically stuttering as he buries his face deeper in your neck, grasping at you even tighter. “Y-you know, right?”
You whimper as he presses in hard, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every slow roll and grind. You nod, pulling him even closer as your nails dig into his skin. “Mm! I-I know- I know-.”
Groaning, Tomura hauls you up flush against him as his hips speed up just a bit. It’s more of a smooth rhythm now, gliding in and out and in and out, feeling so perfect you both having to moan. He pulls back to look at you, his eyes glazed over with overflowing reverence for the absolute beauty under him. You look right back up at him, lips parting on moans and eyes shining with that blissful love he pulls out of you every time.
“Hah-…You’re beautiful.” Tomura murmurs, so quiet and so gentle it’s like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
And he really didn’t mean to say it out loud, but you’re squeezing him so tight and you’re moaning so sweet and you really are just so damn beautiful right now. Tomura watches your eyes go wide with shock before darting away, and his heart surges with affection.
Hips now making a gentle ‘plap’ noise with every thrust, Tomura lets go of your waist and grabs your jaw instead, making you look at him. “Ah- Don’t look away from me.”
It’s a command as much as it’s a plea, and you have no choice but to give in. You meet his gaze again, watery now from just how good you feel right now. His touch, his voice, his praise, it’s all just so good.
Tomura huffs a soft laugh when he sees the tears balancing on your lower lashes, moving his hand up to cup your cheek. His thumb brushes under your eye, swiping away a stray tear before it can fall. “Don’t cry- Mm-…Want you t-to be happy.”
You blink in surprise, leaning into his touch, knowing that usually he encourages you to cry for him. But no, this time, Tomura wants you all soft and sweet, not crying and writhing under him (although he does love when you do that).
“I-I- ngh!” You get cut off as he grinds slowly into you again, bumping your cervix and your clit at the same time, making that coil in your lower tummy start tightening slowly. “I am h-happy- ah!”
He notices, of course, the way you start tightening around him. Tomura’s cock twitches and pulses inside you in response, his own end drawing near. But your words make his heart thud again, practically soaring at the fact that he makes you happy. He lets go of your cheek, sliding his hand down between your bodies to thumb at your clit instead, reveling in the way your back arches immediately and a high moan leaves your lips.
“Yeah?- hah- You like this?” He waits for you to nod before continuing, his hips moving with a bit more momentum now that he’s getting closer. “Tell me- Ngh- H-how much.”
Your hand clutches at his even tighter now as you get closer, your eyes fluttering shut momentarily before opening again just to watch him. You obey his demand immediately, brain turning to much again as he pumps into you with a new vigor, still much gentler than usual but now with a desperation that speaks of his own mounting pleasure.
“I l-love it- Ngh!- I love it- I love it, Tomura!” You babble, clenching and tensing tighter and tighter as he gets you closer and closer. “Feels so good- you m-make me feel so-!”
His thumb is rubbing almost roughly at your clit now despite his more moderate pace, but somehow it works just as well as usual. Your eyes are slowly rolling back, your whimpers pitching higher, your hips starting to buck up while your thighs tense. Tomura grunts at your increasing tightness, his pace picking up at your words of praise.
“You love it, huh-? Ngh-.” He asks, voice nearing a growl again as he gets closer to spilling inside you again. “Love this c-cock? Love me?”
Nodding without having to think about it, you yank him closer until he’s flush against your skin. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, scratching at his back with one hand and damn near breaking his fingers with the other. “Yes-! yesyesyes-! Love you- love you so m-much- NGH!”
You cum with a drawn out whine, clenching around him hard and raking your nails down his back. Tomura holds you close as he fucks you through it, his thumb continuing to rub at your clit until you’re whimpering and shaking under him. He pulls his hand away reluctantly only to cup the back of your head, tucking your face closer as he works to get himself off now.
“Fuck yes- Mm!- Yes y-you do- Love it- L-love-.” He cuts himself off with a needy groan, his hips slapping into yours uncontrollably now. “Love you- fuck!”
His jaw drops in bliss, hand fisting carefully in your hair while the other squeezes your hand hard enough to make the bones creak. You whine and moan against his skin, clinging to him tightly as he slams into your sensitive pussy. His words almost blow right over you, but he repeats it on a broken whimper as he rams in one last time to fill you up.
“AH-! L-love you- love you- MM-!” Tomura can barely control it as the words spill from his mouth, his body shuddering and jolting with the force of his final orgasm of the night.
He fills you up so deep every time, but this one feels somehow…special. His cum is so warm inside you, thick and heavy as it settles deep with his past releases. You shudder and mewl at the feeling, hips canting up to take it deeper while his own jerk and roll to push it in as much as possible. Tomura whines softly as you clench and ripple around him, coaxing more and more out of him until he’s finally, blessedly, run dry.
You’re both panting in the aftermath, sweaty and red and absolutely glowing with satisfaction. Tomura pulls away first after a few moments, looking down at you for a long pause before he’s pressing his lips to yours.
It’s painfully sweet, breathless from exertion and needy in a way that has nothing to do with lust. He lets go of your hand only to pull you impossibly closer, allowing you to cup his face with both hands. You both groan lightly against each other’s lips as he slowly pulls out, his release spilling out after him.
But Tomura doesn’t pull away from the kiss. He kisses you and kisses you and kisses you like he’s making up for future absences before they happen. You don’t complain though, only pulling him closer and helping each other come down through the sweet slide of his lips against yours.
He only pulls away when he absolutely has to breathe…and because he’s slowly losing the strength to hold himself up anymore. You watch as Tomura flops down on his side next to you, suddenly looking like the exhaustion hit him like a bus. You understand even if you’re also exhausted, and even if you’re more worried than before. The procedure was obviously hard on him, mentally and physically, and having marathon sex with you isn’t the rest he needs (not that he regrets it even a little bit).
Eyes heavily lidded now, Tomura slings a heavy arm around your waist and tugs you lazily into his chest. He’s not often one for much cuddling, but tonight is a…special case.
You go happily, pressing into his chest as the waves of sleep already start pulling you deeper and deeper into the darkness. Tomura relaxes fully against you as he feels you go slack, eyes fixed on the sheets even if his hand strokes your back lightly.
“…I take back what I said.” He mutters gruffly, just barely registering in your mind as you teeter on the edge of consciousness. “I want you to remember exactly what just happened.”
He doesn’t tell you what the procedure actually did. He doesn’t tell you about the ringing in his ears or the voice in his head. He doesn’t tell you about his Master’s plans. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Tomorrow will be back to normal- meetings, plotting, planning a full scale takeover of the country- the world. Tomorrow might be a fight. Tomorrow could be the end of it all.
But tonight…you’re his. And he’s yours. And Tomura is almost convinced that it’s everything he’s ever really wanted.
〃contains: kageyama tobio x reader, kageyama falls first, you're being sneaky where u think no one will see, kiyoko is your bestfriend
you don’t actually remember the exact moment kageyama started liking you.
because you didn’t start going near the gym because of kageyama.
if anything, he’s just an accidental side effect.
it starts because of kiyoko.
she’s been your best friend long before volleyball ever claimed her time— long before her afternoons were swallowed up by practice schedules, equipment lists, and managing a team full of loud, exhausting boys who somehow required constant supervision. you've been friends since middle school although she was 2 grades above you.
at first you’d wait for her after school like usual, leaning against lockers or sitting on the courtyard benches while she finished up.
but managing the volleyball club turns out to be a lot more time-consuming than either of you expected.
practice runs late. meetings run later.
some days she barely has time to text you updates between tasks.
so you adjust.
instead of waiting after practice, you start dropping by before it.
the gym is quiet then, almost peaceful in a way it never is once the team arrives. the doors are usually unlocked, lights half on, the echo of your footsteps bouncing softly across the polished floor as you step inside.
usually kiyoko is already there, organizing equipment or checking inventory lists.
she always looks relieved to see you, her expression softening in that subtle way that only you notice.
you talk while she works, leaning against the bleachers, scrolling your phone, handing her things when she asks. the conversations are easy, domestic, built on years of familiarity.
it becomes routine.
you stop by, keep her company.
leave before practice starts so you’re not in the way.
you’ve never had much interest in volleyball itself— but you like being part of her world in small ways.
it makes the distance her responsibilities created feel smaller.
one afternoon, though, she’s not there yet.
you arrive earlier than usual, the gym lights still off, doors closed.
you text her.
You:
here. wya?
she replies a minute later.
Kiyoko:
running late. meeting w teacher.
10 mins.
you could wait.
but the walkway outside the gym is quiet, and you’re thirsty, so you wander down to the vending machines instead— the ones tucked against the wall near the entrance, humming softly under fluorescent lights.
standing in front of the vending machines outside the gym, still half asleep, scrolling through your phone while you waited for your drink to drop; you were so focused on your screen you didn’t notice him walk up beside you.
kageyama had only come for one thing.
milk.
he always bought milk after before and after practice. same brand. same machine. same time.
his routine was safe. predictable. volleyball-adjacent.
then, you pressed the button for the exact same drink he was about to buy.
he froze.
you didn’t notice— not until both cartons dropped at the same time and you both bent down to grab them, knocking your hands together.
you looked up first—
he forgot how to breathe.
because yeah, he’d seen you around school — everyone had — but this was the first time you were this close, this real, looking directly at him.
and he might’ve had the smallest, slightest, tiniest crush on you.
not that he’d ever admit that out loud.
it had started way before this moment, actually— built out of secondhand awareness rather than interaction.
he’d heard your name long before he ever spoke to you.
usually from tanaka and nishinoya, who spoke about you with the same reverence they used for kiyoko— which, to them, was the highest honor possible.
they’d mention you in passing during practice breaks, voices loud enough that everyone could hear.
“KIYOKO-SAN'S BESTFRIEND CAME BY EARLIER. I CAN SMELL HER PERFUME IN THE AIR.”
“WHY DOES SHE HAVE TO LEAVE BEFORE WE ARRIVE.”
“she brought us drinks once, remember? my angel.”
“it's already hot enough when kiyoko ignores us but (y/n) ignoring us too?? i might pee myself..”
half the team had absorbed your existence through those conversations alone.
kageyama had listened to those conversations silently, never joining in but filing the information away.
kiyoko’s best friend.
comes by the gym sometimes.
nice to the team.
pretty.
cool.
untouchable, in the way girls like you always seemed to be from his perspective— existing just slightly outside his reach.
so he’d only ever observed you from a distance before this.
passing glimpses in hallways.
your voice drifting faintly through the gym when you visited kiyoko before practice.
never close enough to interact.
never close enough to matter.
until now.
“oh,” you said, blinking. “good taste.”
he stared at you like you’d just spoken fluent ancient greek.
“…yeah.”
that was it.
that was the entire conversation.
you walked away sipping your milk like nothing life-altering had happened. on the other hand, kageyama stood there holding his carton like it contained his future.
after that, the coincidences started. or… they felt like coincidences to you.
to him, they felt like divine intervention.
every few days you’d run into each other at the vending machines again. same drink. same time.
sometimes you’d talk— casual, easy, like it was normal to chat with him.
you never treated him like he was intense or intimidating.
you just treated him like a guy.
and for kageyama, who’d spent most of middle school being avoided like a thunderstorm, that alone was enough to fry his brain.
and he started looking forward to those five-minute conversations more than practice cooldowns.
which was saying something.
and getting close to him doesn’t happen all at once.
it isn’t dramatic or obvious or anything you could point to and say that’s when it changed. it’s quieter than that, built out of repetition and familiarity, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.
you start lingering in the gym after school under the excuse of 'waiting for kiyoko'. you sit on the highest seats of the bleachers, back against the cool wall, notebook open in your lap even when you’re really just on your phone. the sounds of practice echoes throughout the gym— sneakers squeaking, volleyballs smacking against hands, voices echoing sharp and loud.
you watch without making it obvious.
kageyama doesn’t notice at first.
he’s too focused, too locked in, but eventually he starts noticing patterns the way he always does— not consciously, just instinctively. when practice ends and he’s toweling off sweat, his eyes flick toward the benches without him meaning to.
sometimes you glance up and meet his gaze. sometimes you don’t, other times, you're not there. either way, the sight of you settles something in his chest, like a routine he didn’t know he needed.
when everyone finally packs up, he finds himself slowing down without realizing it. waiting. hovering. pretending he forgot something in the gym so he can exit at the same time as you.
it becomes subconscious.
he doesn’t question it— just knows that the walk out of the building feels strangely incomplete if you’re not there beside the doors, slinging your bag over your shoulder while you scroll through your phone.
so the first time he steps outside and realizes you’re already gone, it throws him off more than it should.
he notices it again the next day.
and the day after that.
you still come by before practice sometimes— he sees you near the gym doors talking to kiyoko, leaning casually against the bleachers— but you’re not waiting afterward anymore.
at first he assumes you're just leaving early.
but one evening, when coach ukai gave them a little break between their practice, and he spots you near the entrance instead of the benches, already adjusting your bag like you’re about to head out, he pauses. (fortunately the other boys were distracted with some new cool technique noya has to notice kageyama slipping away to talk to you.)
“…you’re leaving already?”
you glance back at him, unsurprised.
“yeah. kiyoko’s busy tonight. and my house is the opposite direction anyway, so waiting doesn’t really make sense.”
he nods slowly, but something about the answer doesn’t fully explain it. because he remembers how often you used to wait. how late you’d stay.
so he asks before he can stop himself.
“…then why did you wait before?”
you shift your bag higher on your shoulder, thinking for a second before answering— not guarded, just casual, like it’s normal. “when i walk with kiyoko, i don’t actually go home right away.”
he blinks, listening.
“i usually just go to her house. have dinner there.” you shrug lightly. “it’s kinda like my second house at this point. she always makes extra food anyway, and i hate cooking for myself.”
there’s a pause before you add, quieter but still matter-of-fact—
“i live alone, so… it’s nicer eating with people.”
“…your parents?” he asks.
“abroad,” you answer. “i’m finishing high school here.”
you say it easily, like it’s just another fact about you— not lonely, not dramatic, just practical.
but he files it away carefully, the way he does with everything important.
suddenly, all those evenings you waited make sense in a different way.
you walk a few steps ahead before turning back slightly, breaking the quiet.
“but yeah. since kiyoko’s been busy with school stuff, and you guys, i stopped waiting every day. walking the wrong way just to eat dinner isn’t super efficient.”
you gesture with your hands, drawing an imaginary road in the air.
“my house is past the convenience store. then the long hill.”
he looks up.
because that’s his route too.
the realization clicks into place— all the near run-ins, the vending machine meetings, the familiar street corners.
“…i go that way,” he says.
you tilt your head, surprised for half a second before smiling faintly.
“oh. guess we can walk together next time then.”
it’s said so casually.
like it doesn’t mean anything.
but when next time comes, and you fall into step beside each other, the quiet that settles between you isn’t awkward— it’s warm, familiar, like it’s been building toward this without either of you realizing.
and from that day on, the routine shifts again.
you don’t go to kiyoko's house often anymore. (yes, she knows about whatever situation going on between you and kageyama.)
instead, you walk home with him— past the convenience store lights, up the long hill, through the soft evening quiet.
your conversations drift from school complaints to random observations to comfortable silence. he listens more than he talks, but when he does speak, it’s earnest and unfiltered, like he’s not capable of pretending to be cooler than he is.
you like that.
you like how he doesn’t try to impress you. except he lowkey does, but he's so bad at it that you don't even notice.
how he doesn’t posture or exaggerate or perform the way some boys do when they talk to you.
with kageyama, everything is straightforward— sometimes blunt to the point of accidental rudeness, but never fake.
it makes being around him feel easy. predictable in the best way.
and somewhere along those walks, the vending machine stops becoming just a hallway stop and turns into something closer to ritual.
you don’t plan it.
the day it happens doesn’t feel different at first.
practice ends. you meet him outside the gym like usual, after everyone's packed up and left.
your conversations drift the way they always do— school complaints, hinata being a dummy, the usual.
nothing dramatic, until you reach the vending machines.
you stop automatically, already digging coins out of your bag.
he does the same.
the machines hum softly, fluorescent lights reflecting faintly off the polished floor tiles and you press your usual button.
he presses his.
both cartons drop at the same time with a dull mechanical thud.
you both bend down to grab them— and your hands brush again, just like the first time you met.
it makes you pause this time.
not startled. just aware.
you straighten slowly, drink in hand, leaning your shoulder lightly against the machine beside him.
he’s still focused on opening his carton, movements precise but slightly stiffer than usual.
you watch him for a second.
then, casually, like you’re commenting on the weather—
“hey.”
he glances over.
“…yeah?”
you take a sip first, buying yourself half a second of silence, then lower the carton.
“do you wanna go out with me?”
the question lands quietly in the humming space, but the effect is catastrophic.
his hand tightens too hard around the carton.
it slips.
milk spills across the floor in a pale splash that spreads toward your shoes. he doesn’t even notice.
he’s staring at you like his brain just lost power.
“…what?”
you tilt your head slightly, completely calm.
“date me,” you repeat. “you like me, right?”
heat floods his face instantly, color rising from collar to ears so fast it almost looks painful.
his mouth opens then closes.
he looks down at the spilled milk like it might contain answers.
“…how do you know that?” he manages finally, voice rough.
you shrug, pushing off the vending machine so you’re standing a little closer now.
“i dunno. just a guess.”
that does him in completely.
he exhales hard through his nose, eyes darting anywhere but your face.
there’s no dramatic speech in him. no practiced confession.
just honesty, raw and unpolished the way everything about him is.
“…okay.” it’s quiet, but certain.
you smile— slow and satisfied, nudging his shoulder lightly with yours. “is that any way to accept a girl's confession?” you tease.
you take another sip of your drink, watching him try to explain how you caught him off guard. it was cute.
“i'm playin' with ya, calm down. you’re my boyfriend now.”
he nods automatically, like he’s agreeing to terms he hasn’t fully processed yet.
but the warmth spreading through his chest is undeniable.
standing there in the vending machine glow, milk still pooled on the floor, your presence steady beside him, it feels surreal in the calmest way possible.
like the routine he’d grown used to walking through had just shifted again.
dating kageyama doesn’t feel dramatic at first.
there’s no grand announcement, no visible change, no moment where the world suddenly realizes something has happened between you.
if anything, the shift is so quiet it almost feels like it exists only in the space between you.
but the secrecy isn’t your idea.
it’s his.
not because he’s embarrassed— you know that much from the way he looks at you when you’re alone— but because he knows his team too well.
you’ve seen enough to understand.
tanaka would cry.
nishinoya would cry louder. or maybe they'd cry equally as loud.
tsukishima would be on his ass.
and hinata…
hinata would ask approximately eight million questions per hour.
so the relationship settles into hidden spaces instead.
staircases no one uses, quiet hallways before practice, vending machine corners just out of sight of the gym doors.
you never walk into the gym together.
never leave side by side when others are around.
if you talk near the team, it’s casual— friendly, but nothing that lingers long enough to spark suspicion.
you’re good at that kind of social navigation.
he isn’t.
so you handle most of the stealth.
it becomes almost funny how successful you are.
you’ll be leaning against the wall beside him one minute, talking quietly while he drinks his milk— then the second you hear tanaka and noya's voice echoing down the hall, you step away like magnets repelling.
by the time the team rounds the corner, you’re already scrolling your phone like you were never close to begin with.
kageyama stands there stiffly, trying to look normal while tanaka launches into whatever loud story he was mid-sentence about.
you hide your smile behind your drink.
somehow, weeks pass without anyone figuring it out.
not anyone, not even hinata, despite how closely he orbits kageyama’s personal space.
and there’s something strangely thrilling about it— the secrecy, the hidden glances, the knowledge that this version of him exists only for you.
the closest you ever get to being caught is small things.
a split-second pause when your hands brush and don’t separate fast enough.
the way his gaze lingers a fraction too long when you walk away.
the way you instinctively look for him in a crowded hallway.
tiny tells.
nothing concrete. nothing provable.
so the team remains blissfully unaware. completely, impressively fooled.
and kageyama, who thought keeping a relationship private would be impossible with teammates like his, starts to relax into the illusion that maybe— just maybe—
you two can keep this secret a little longer.
so that's why the staircase becomes your favorite place.
it’s tucked far enough from the classrooms that no one passes unless they’re lost or deliberately avoiding crowds— concrete steps dimly lit, the air cooler, quieter.
you find him there during breaks between classes some days, waiting halfway up the landing like he always does, hands in his pockets, posture stiff until he sees it’s you walking up the steps.
today is one of those days.
he relaxes immediately.
you lean back against the wall, watching him with a faint smile. “you’re getting bold, tobio. asking me to secret staircases now?”
“you came,” he points out.
“obviously.”
he steps closer, close enough that the space between you disappears naturally— no hesitation anymore, no awkward recalculation.
his hand finds your wrist first this time, thumb resting lightly against your pulse like he’s grounding himself.
“…you’re less jumpy lately,” you murmur.
he exhales quietly, gaze softer than it ever is around anyone else.
“wha— i was never jumpy..”
“yeah, yeah." you snort. "embrace it. confidence looks good on you.”
he almost rolls his eyes— but the faint pink at his ears gives him away.
the quiet wraps around you both, heavy but comfortable, broken only by the low hum of the flickering stairwell light.
it feels removed from the rest of the world.
safe.
like no one could possibly interrupt this space even if they tried.
you reach up, tugging lightly at the collar of uniform, pulling him just a fraction closer.
he doesn’t resist.
doesn’t even hesitate.
his hand tightens slightly around your wrist in response.
and for a moment, the world narrows down to proximity— shared breath, steady silence, the quiet awareness of each other.
you lean closer, minty breath against his parted lips, until—
rapid footsteps echo, coming up closer and closer.
hinata rounds the corner at full speed, probably looking for a lost volleyball, and he freezes. like, cartoon skid-stop, eyes going saucer-wide.
you both turn.
hinata sees: tall, scowling kageyama looming over kiyoko's pretty bestfriend, pinning her to the wall, faces inches apart. from hinata's point of view? it looks aggressive as hell. no context, no "oh that's just how they flirt" memo. just "oh shit, kageyama's finally snapped and is harassing a girl" panic.
kageyama releases your wrist instantly, eyes widening.
“it’s not—”
hinata’s gaze snaps to you.
wide. protective. panicked.
he takes one step back and doesn't even process. he yelps— actual high-pitched yelp— "KAGEYAMA WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" then bolts like his ass is on fire.
he full sprints to the other guys' classes, like nationals depends on it. "GUYS! GUYS! EMERGENCY! KAGEYAMA'S CORNERING (Y/N) IN THE STAIRS! HE'S BEING WEIRD! WE GOTTA SAVE HER!"
you turn back to kageyama and he looks like his soul just left his body.
you press your lips together.
try to stay composed.
fail instantly as laughter starts spilling out of you, echoing loudly in the empty staircase.
kageyama drags a hand down his face in despair.
you’re still laughing when you hear it. footsteps. multiple this time.
fast. heavy. uncoordinated.
voices echoing faintly down the hallway outside the stairwell door— overlapping, urgent, loud enough that you and kageyama both freeze mid-breath.
he straightens immediately, posture snapping back into rigid alarm.
“…he got them.”
you wipe at your eyes, still smiling despite the incoming disaster.
“how many is ‘them’?”
you don’t have to wonder long because daichi steps in first.
his presence alone fills the stairwell— broad shoulders, captain aura overwhelming with an expression so serious in the way that means he’s already prepared for the worst.
sugawara is right behind him, eyes scanning quickly, concern written plainly across his face.
then tanaka.
then nishinoya.
and finally hinata, pointing dramatically past them like he’s leading a raid.
“they’re here!”
the entire stairwell goes silent.
every set of eyes lands on you and kageyama.
you’re standing a normal distance apart now— but the tension in the air is still thick enough to feel.
daichi assesses the scene in one sweep.
you're calm, unharmed.
kageyama's embarrassed, not aggressive.
distance is appropriate.
he already knows this is not what hinata thought it was.
you can see the exact moment the disappointment settles into daichi's bones.
sugawara knows too— his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh at the absurdity.
but tanaka and nishinoya?
they are operating on pure protective instinct.
tanaka steps forward immediately, sleeves already half rolled like he’s about to square up.
“oi, kageyama.”
his voice drops into that low, dangerous register he reserves for “honor defense” situations. he's not even yelling, that's how you know it's serious serious.
“step away from her.”
nishinoya is already beside you, planting himself like a human shield, arms crossed, eyes sharp.
“don’t worry, my sweet angel. we got you.”
you bite your lip so hard it almost hurts because the urge to laugh is climbing your throat again.
hinata rushes to your side, face tight with concern. “are you okay?! did he do anything?!”
you blink at him, still trying to process how this escalated so fast.
kageyama, meanwhile, looks like he wants the staircase to collapse and swallow him whole. “i didn’t do anything!” he snaps, mortified. “we were just talking!”
“in a dark staircase?” tanaka fires back.
“alone?” nishinoya adds.
“holding her wrist?!” hinata says, voice climbing.
kageyama chokes. “i wasn’t— that’s not—”
daichi pinches the bridge of his nose, already exhausted. while sugawara turns slightly away so no one sees him laughing.
you could end this instantly in one sentence.
we’re dating.
problem solved.
but where’s the fun in that?
you straighten slightly, folding your hands behind your back, expression calm— sweet even. “he was asking about class notes,” you say smoothly.
sugawara coughs into his hand.
hinata frowns. “then why was he grabbing you?”
you glance down at your wrist like you forgot it existed. “…i owed him money.”
kageyama makes a strangled noise beside you.
tanaka’s eyes widen in outrage. “HE'S COLLECTING DEBTS NOW?!”
nishinoya looks ready to square up harder. “THAT'S LOW EVEN FOR YOU, KAGEYAMA!”
“I WASN’T COLLECTING—”
you elbow him lightly before he can finish. "i was kidding. he was just asking me to lend him notes from class."
daichi sighs so deeply it echoes.
it takes several painful minutes of explanation, clarification, and hinata apologizing to you at least three separate times before the rescue squad finally starts to stand down.
but of course, noya, tanaka, and hinata grabs kageyama by the shoulders, shaking him violently.
“HOW?!”
“STOP SHAKING ME—”
“HOW DID YOU EVEN PULL HER?! YOU’RE ALWAYS GRUMPY AND BOSSY AND YOU'RE ALWAYS SCOWLING!”
“WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING?!”
“YOU YELL AT ME FOR EXHALING WRONG!”
“BECAUSE YOU DO IT WRONG!”
“YOU DON'T EVEN TEXT PROPERLY!”
“I DO—”
then tanaka staggers backward, clutching his chest.
“…this is betrayal.”
nishinoya grabs his arm for support, equally shaken.
“we trusted you.”
kageyama stares at them, bewildered.
“trusted me with what?!”
“I DON'T KNOW!” tanaka cries.
nishinoya’s eyes start watering.
“you can’t just secretly get close to (y/n)… without telling us…”
tanaka’s voice breaks.
“…we would’ve supported you.”
that’s when the tears start.
full grown second-year tears.
tanaka wipes his face angrily, but it makes it worse. hinata looks between them, horrified but also emotional by proximity.
kageyama looks like he wants to evaporate.
“why are you crying?!”
tanaka points at him accusingly through tears.
“because YOU pulled someone way out of your league without even consulting us!”
“i didn’t ‘pull’ anyone—”
“YOU’RE GRUMPY!”
“STOP SAYING THAT!”
nishinoya wipes his eyes dramatically. “first kiyoko-san was already unattainable…” he sniffles.
“and now her best friend too?!” tanaka wails. "WHAT DOES HE HAVE THAT WE DON'T?!"
eventually, daichi claps his hands loudly, cutting through the chaos and herds them all back down the staircase, muttering something about “practice discipline” and “false alarms.”
hinata's convinced kageyama's secretly the devil who cast a spell on you. and tanaka starts a conspiracy theory that kageyama must have saved your life in a past one or something because "no way natural selection lets THIS happen."
and sugawara gives you a knowing smile as he passes.
“so that’s what’s been going on.”
you just smile innocently.
“we were doing so well.” kageyama sighs into his hand.
“confidence got you caught, babe.”
and just like that—
your perfectly maintained secret relationship timer officially runs out.
im rewatchng hq rn and brooo i cant get enough of this guy i swear hes such a cutie patootie ughhhh
i tried to make the kiyoko thing make as much sense as possible LMAO but i lost the plot
SUMMARY ✩ in which you post a video online of a hot setter from schweiden adlers in hopes of finding said player, only for it to blow up online. you find out he's your childhood friend from kitagawa daiichi?! and the internet breaks at the thought of the two of you 'dating'. so, the two of you do what you think is right - date each other. fake, of course...until it doesn't feel fake anymore.
PAIRING ✩ contentcreator!uni!fem!reader x schweidenadlers!kageyama
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS ✩ smau (will be some written chapters), clueless!kags, vulgar/dirty/nsfw jokes
you’re a fashion designer who unexpectedly runs into your best friend kageyama—a pro volleyball player in rome—after years of no contact, in the most cliché romcom way, giving you both a chance to heal and maybe something more.
starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader
wc. 19.6k
author's note: this is one of my fave fics and good thing this was saved in my docs but still currently frustrated on how my account was terminated suddenly huhu
You and Kageyama had been friends for as long as you could remember—maybe since you were three or four years old.
It started the day you moved into the neighborhood. Your parents, hoping to ease your transition, brought you to the local playground not far from your new house. Kids were everywhere—running, shouting, hanging from monkey bars, chasing each other across the padded floor.
But your attention was pulled in a completely different direction.
There, off to the side of the court, sat a boy with a volleyball tucked under one arm. He looked your age, maybe a little older, but something about his expression was too serious for someone so small. He bounced the ball against the pavement with focused rhythm, his eyes fixed on it like nothing else around him mattered.
The other kids ignored him. Or maybe he ignored them first.
Either way, he seemed completely content being alone.
But something about him made you curious. Maybe it was the way he scoffed whenever someone looked at him. Maybe it was how he held that volleyball like it was his best friend. Maybe it was because he looked lonely and didn’t even realize it.
So you walked up to him.
“Hi!” you said brightly.
Kageyama didn’t look at you. Didn’t say a word. He just kept bouncing the ball.
You blinked. Not discouraged, you tried again. “I just moved here. What’s your name?”
He shifted slightly, turning his body a bit to the side, blocking you out.
Wow. Okay.
You stood there, unimpressed. You weren’t used to being ignored, and honestly? You didn’t like it. But you also weren’t ready to give up.
Just then, someone else spoke up.
“Tobio.”
You looked over your shoulder.
A tall girl—probably in middle school or even older—stood a few feet away with her arms crossed. She had the same dark hair, sharp eyes, and unmistakable don’t-test-me energy. She’d been sitting on a bench nearby, clearly watching the whole thing unfold.
Kageyama flinched at the sound of her voice.
“I saw that,” she said, walking over. “Don’t be rude.”
He glared down at his shoes. “I wasn’t.”
“You didn’t even look at her,” she shot back, then turned to you. “Sorry about him. He doesn’t talk to anyone unless the conversation involves a volleyball.”
You giggled, shaking your head. “It’s okay.”
She smiled at you, then turned back to her brother. “Tobio, say hi. She’s being nice.”
“…Hi,” he mumbled, barely audible, eyes still glued to the ball in his hands.
Miwa raised a brow. “Louder.”
He exhaled sharply like it physically hurt him. Then, louder but with the energy of a grumpy old man: “Hi.”
You grinned. “Hi, Tobio.”
Miwa patted her brother’s head—he ducked away like it was the end of the world—and gave you an encouraging nod.
“Good luck,” she said under her breath, before heading back to the bench.
You looked back at Kageyama, who was now staring at the volleyball like he wanted to disappear into it.
But you didn’t mind. You stayed right there beside him.
Because even then—even before you knew his name, his favorite food, or how much he’d end up loving that sport—you already knew one thing:
You were going to be his friend.
Whether he liked it or not.
And that’s exactly what happened.
You two ended up enrolled in the same kindergarten class, and even though he rarely spoke, you always noticed him—quiet, serious, and a little bit out of place. In the late afternoons, your parents would take you to the nearby park, and almost every time, you’d find him there too.
Kageyama was always with his volleyball.
While the other kids played tag, climbed the jungle gym, or raced each other to the swings, he stayed off to the side, bouncing or tossing the ball with focused, almost obsessive precision. Alone.
He still didn’t say much to you, but slowly, he began to acknowledge your presence. A glance. A subtle nod. A quiet, barely-there “hi.”
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Eventually, you learned why he was always alone.
One afternoon, while you were building a lopsided sandcastle, a boy leaned over and said, “You know you shouldn’t hang out with him, right?”
You blinked. “Why not?”
“He’s weird,” the boy whispered. “Thinks he’s better than everyone. He never wants to play anything unless it’s volleyball. And when someone messes up, he acts like it’s their fault.”
Another girl joined in with a nod. “He says everyone’s too slow for him. Nobody wants to play with someone like that.”
You didn’t answer.
You just turned to watch Kageyama across the playground, standing in the same spot he always did, his eyes locked on the ball like it was the only thing that mattered.
They didn’t understand him. Maybe no one really tried.
But you would.
That same afternoon, you approached him like always.
He was tossing the ball into the air again, catching it, resetting. His eyes flicked toward you briefly—just enough to acknowledge you before returning to his rhythm.
You stood there for a moment, then asked, “Can you teach me how to play?”
He froze mid-toss.
The ball dropped into his hands, but his eyes didn’t move. He just stared at you like he wasn’t sure he heard you right.
“…You want me to teach you?” he asked slowly.
You nodded. “Yeah. I want to learn.”
There was a pause.
And for the first time since you met him, you saw something shift in his expression.
It wasn’t a full smile. Not even close. But there was a flicker—something bright and alive behind his eyes. A quiet spark of surprise… and maybe even something close to happiness.
“…Okay,” he said softly.
He passed you the ball, adjusting your hands with careful, clumsy touches. He didn’t talk much—just short, blunt instructions—but there was a new energy to him. Focused, but not just on the ball anymore.
It was the first time Kageyama didn’t look like he wanted to be left alone.
And it was the first time you felt like he wanted you there.
At first, it was subtle—barely noticeable unless you were really paying attention. The usual sharpness in his eyes dulled ever so slightly when you were near. His shoulders didn’t sit so stiff when you joined him and Miwa for practice. And though he rarely said anything outright, there was something in the way he passed the ball to you—controlled, careful, like he was actually thinking about where you'd be rather than just tossing it with no regard.
Eventually, you found Kageyama warming up to you. Slowly but surely, he stopped looking like you were intruding. He started explaining plays to you—not always clearly, and often with furrowed brows and a frustrated sigh—but you saw the effort.
“Your timing’s off again,” he’d mutter when you tried to mimic his toss.
You blinked at him, confused. “My what?”
“Timing. You’re hesitating,” he snapped, already moving into position to demonstrate. “You have to move faster. Watch.”
But just as you tried again, off beat, he groaned and mumbled something under his breath. Before he could spiral into his usual irritated silence, Miwa would smack him lightly on the shoulder with a wooden spoon from the kitchen. “Tobio! Don’t be rude.”
“I wasn’t—” he started, defensive, but he shut up when Miwa raised an eyebrow at him. You bit back a laugh.
Moments like that became more frequent.
On weekends, you often wandered over to the Kageyama house, which was just beside yours. Their backyard had turned into a makeshift training ground over the years—chalk marks on the pavement, a net strung up between two metal poles, and volleyballs scattered across the grass. You’d sometimes find Kageyama practicing serves on his own, or with Miwa calling out tips from the sideline.
Their grandfather—who insisted you call him Ojichan from the first day you visited—always greeted you with a warm smile and a snack tucked in his palm. “You’re basically part of the family,” he chuckled once, ruffling your hair. “Might as well start calling this your second home.”
And so, you did. Every visit began with a cheerful, “Ojichan!” followed by your habitual run to the back where Kageyama was already working up a sweat.
He trained harder than anyone you knew. It was a constant in your childhood—rain or shine, summer or winter, Tobio would be out there, obsessed with getting better. You admired him for it. Quietly. From the sidelines.
Even back in elementary school, you’d watch from the edges of the court, occasionally picking up stray balls or clapping when he spiked one over the net. He’d barely acknowledge it, but there were times he lingered just a little longer after your cheers—like he heard you. Like it mattered.
You, on the other hand, knew how to play volleyball thanks to Miwa and Kageyama, but you never had the same passion for it. Not the way he did. Still, you were always there. It became a habit: watch Tobio, support Tobio, and every now and then, challenge him just to see that little fire in his eyes light up when you made a good move.
By the time you both reached middle school, things started to shift in small, unfamiliar ways.
You weren’t sure when it started. Maybe it was during that one summer afternoon when you handed him his water bottle after practice, and his fingers brushed against yours. He didn’t pull away immediately, and neither did you. Or maybe it was when he called out your name—just once, softer than usual—after a long rally, and you turned to see him smiling faintly before quickly looking away.
Somewhere between first crushes and late-night texts about homework, you realized you had feelings for him.
You tried to push it down. It was Tobio, after all—your childhood friend, your neighbor, the boy who still scowled when he messed up a toss but also tried to quietly share snacks when you looked tired.
But that didn’t stop your heart from fluttering when he looked at you just a little too long.
He wasn’t any better.
Kageyama, for all his intensity, wasn’t stupid. He started noticing the little things: how your laughter made his chest feel warm, how he searched for you in the stands even when he told himself it didn’t matter, how you stayed after practice even when you didn’t have to.
One evening after club, while everyone else had already left, you waited for him like always. He had been practicing his serve, over and over until the sun started to dip behind the trees.
He jogged over to you, panting lightly, eyes shining.
“Did you see that last one?” he asked, sweat dripping down his neck.
You smiled and nodded. “Of course I did. It was perfect.”
The way you said it—so sure, so sincere—made his heart skip. He looked away quickly, mumbling, “Tch. I still need to fix the angle.”
But his ears were red.
You didn’t say anything else. You just sat beside him, shoulder brushing his lightly. Neither of you moved away.
Neither of you dared to admit it out loud—but in those quiet, suspended moments, it felt like maybe you didn’t need to.
Something about the way your eyes always sought his in a crowded gym, or how his hands found just the right height for your spike during practice, said enough. There was a comfort in the silence you shared—a familiarity that didn’t need words.
High school came, and the both of you found yourselves walking the halls of Karasuno.
Your first day arrived with spring in full bloom. Cherry blossoms drifted lazily across the sky, blanketing the school grounds in soft pink. The scent of fresh petals and new beginnings filled the air.
You spotted him instantly.
“Tobio!”
You jogged toward him with that familiar smile he hadn’t seen since graduation day. Before he could process it, you had already grabbed onto his arm, matching his pace as if no time had passed.
He blinked, startled—but the tension in his shoulders eased.
“Ah… you’re here too.” His voice came out lower than intended, betraying the relief that bloomed quietly in his chest. Thank god, he thought. I’m not alone.
From then on, it was like slipping into a rhythm you both already knew. Between classes, club activities, lunch breaks—he got used to seeing you around. Too used to it. He didn’t say much, but his eyes always followed when you laughed with someone else. He memorized the sound of your sneakers running down the gym floor. He noticed when your hair caught the sun differently each season.
You were always in the stands at his games, cheering like your life depended on it. You watched him rise, stumble, and rise again—never missing a beat. And maybe somewhere between the second set and the post-game exhaustion, your feelings for him shifted into something deeper, warmer, harder to ignore.
You also noticed the change in him.
Kageyama wasn’t the same boy from middle school who barked orders at his teammates and expected blind obedience. You saw how he listened now—how he tossed not just with skill but with trust. You caught him laughing after long rallies, offering quiet encouragement instead of critiques.
You were proud of him.
And every time he lingered after practice, you stayed too.
"Again?" you’d ask, already reaching for the ball.
He nodded. "One more."
You tossed it up for him, but sometimes he’d toss for you. He always tossed perfectly—high and just slightly ahead, the way you liked it. Your hands stung from spiking, legs burning from repeated jumps, but it never stopped being fun.
The team started to notice.
“Oi, Kageyama, when’s the wedding?” Tanaka teased one afternoon after practice when he caught you two still on the court.
“She’s got better form than half the girls’ team,” Daichi added with a laugh. “Why don’t you join them already?”
“I-It’s just a hobby,” you muttered, waving them off with a sheepish grin. “I’m not that serious about it.”
But Kageyama knew better.
You were good. More than good. Your timing, your footwork—it was clean. Natural. He found himself thinking, If she joined a team, she’d be scary. But a selfish part of him liked having you like this—just for himself. Just in moments like these.
“I like spiking your tosses, that’s all,” you told him one night after everyone had gone. “It feels right.”
His ears turned red. “Oh.”
But he never stopped asking you to stay after that.
From then on, he didn’t even need to ask. It became a quiet, unspoken agreement between the two of you—whenever he was done with practice or you were done with your duties, you’d find each other. Sometimes he’d wait by your shoe locker. Other times, he’d pass by your classroom with two bottles of vending machine milk, holding one out wordlessly. You were always within reach.
Your friendship, surprisingly, didn’t change much—at least not on the surface. You still teased him mercilessly, still poked fun at how serious he got over the smallest things. He still barked your name like you were an opposing team’s middle blocker who messed up his timing. You still occasionally helped him with his sets during training, especially when Hinata wasn’t around and Coach wanted a second look at different plays.
But the real change came in the most unexpected way—when he flopped dramatically onto your bed one afternoon and handed you a crumpled exam paper.
You unfolded it.
Stared.
Laughed.
“You got... five out of fifty?”
Kageyama didn’t even look remotely ashamed. “It was hard,” he mumbled, rolling over so his face was buried in your blanket. “I didn’t get the stupid poem thing.”
You stared at the paper in disbelief. “Tobio, this isn’t even about the poem. This is grammar. Basic. Sentence construction. And your handwriting—what is this? Morse code?”
He groaned louder into your blanket. “Shut up.”
You crashed onto your desk dramatically, arms limp. “I finally understand how Yachi felt when she tutored you and Hinata. I think I just lost brain cells.”
That was the start of it.
Tutoring sessions became another strange addition to your routine. Sometimes they were held in your living room while your mom prepared snacks in the kitchen, peeking in now and then with a knowing smile. Other times, it was at Kageyama’s house, where he’d already have his notebook open and two cups of miso soup ready—hot, because he knew you liked it that way.
“You know you can’t just glare at the words until they explain themselves,” you sighed one evening, tapping the textbook with a pencil. “Try reading aloud. It helps.”
“It doesn’t,” he grumbled.
“It does.”
He mumbled through a stanza of a Meiji-era poem with the passion of a soggy towel.
You facepalmed. “You sound like you're in pain.”
He tossed his pen down. “Maybe this is revenge.”
“What?”
“For when you were stupid at volleyball and I had to teach you everything. You kept getting in the way and I kept yelling, and you’d cry—”
“I didn’t cry—!”
“You sniffled.”
“You traumatized me!”
“Exactly.” He turned to you with a smug little grin. “Now it’s your turn.”
That became a recurring joke between the two of you. Every time he misunderstood a math problem or forgot the plot of a story you’d already explained three times, he’d look at you and go, “This is revenge, isn’t it?”
And every time, you’d roll your eyes, shove a worksheet in his face, and mutter something sarcastic—but you’d always stay beside him, quietly helping him sound out the harder kanji, gently breaking down the formulas, pointing out what he got right just as much as what he got wrong.
And he, for all his complaints, always tried.
Sometimes he tried so hard you had to remind him to take a break.
Sometimes you’d catch him reading on his own, chewing on his pen cap with furrowed brows as he read over a page of notes you’d scribbled for him. And sometimes, you'd catch him smiling—just a little—when he got the answers right, not looking at you but still waiting for you to praise him.
Even in those quiet, academic moments, you could feel it.
The unspoken closeness blooming quietly between your sighs and his grumbles. In the way he never let you walk home alone anymore. In the way he’d buy you melon bread when you were cramming for exams. In the way your name rolled softer off his tongue now, no longer barked like a command, but said like a promise.
It wasn’t sudden—this shift between you and Kageyama. It never needed an announcement. Like the slow warming of spring thaw, it unfolded in little things: the laces he tied for you before volleyball club, the way his gaze lingered a second too long during lunch breaks, how your fingers brushed when passing notes during lectures.
As time passed, the crush that bloomed in middle school rooted deeper, steadier. It wasn’t just liking anymore.
It was how you started seeing him in everything. In the sky after it rained. In the blue of your pencil case. In the leftover citrus scent from the sports drink he always carried. He wasn’t just your childhood friend, or the boy who played setter with a perfectionist's glare—he was slowly becoming a part of your everyday. The part you didn’t know how to function without.
And unbeknownst to you, Kageyama felt the same—he just didn’t have the words to say it. Not yet. But he showed it. In the way he’d walk a little slower when you were tired. In how his bag always had a spare bottle of water for you, even though he never said it was for you. In the way he memorized the exact way you liked your cup ramen. Small, quiet acts—louder than any confession he could muster.
Now, it was your final summer vacation of high school. The last before everything changed.
And, like clockwork, Kageyama was at your front door again.
Your mother barely batted an eye as she let him in—she knew him as well as she knew her own kid. “She’s still upstairs, Tobio. Probably drooling on her pillow,” she said with a laugh, sliding him a cold barley tea.
Kageyama gave a short, polite bow and took the drink, muttering a soft, “Thank you.” He was already toeing off his sneakers and heading up the stairs like it was routine. Because it was.
He took the familiar left at the top landing and reached your door—ajar, sun filtering in through the curtains.
“Seriously?” Kageyama muttered to himself as he peeked in.
There you were—sprawled out in bed, hair messy, one leg kicked free from the blanket in the summer heat, your lips parted slightly in sleep. The fan in the corner whirred softly, fluttering the pages of an open notebook on your desk.
He hesitated for a second at the threshold, then stepped in with the same quiet care he used every summer.
Kageyama bent down near the bed and tapped your shoulder lightly.
“Oi. Wake up,” he said, voice low.
You groaned and swatted weakly at the air, rolling away from the touch.
He clicked his tongue. “It’s already past noon. You promised you’d go to the summer matsuri with me.”
You opened one eye, still half-asleep. “Tobio… too hot... five more minutes.”
“No,” Kageyama said bluntly, tugging your blanket away. “Get up. I already brought the yakisoba coupons.”
That made you pause. “…You brought them again?”
“Of course,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his neck. “You always forget.”
You sat up, blinking the sleep from your eyes. The heat made your skin feel sticky, and you reached for your water bottle groggily.
“You remembered the yakisoba coupons,” you repeated, grinning now.
Kageyama looked away, ears faintly pink. “It’s a tradition. Idiot.”
You laughed, and he risked a glance at you again—hair still messy, eyes puffy from sleep, but smiling like that was enough reason to go to any festival in the world.
“I’ll get ready,” you said, standing and stretching, the hem of your pajama shirt lifting slightly as you yawned.
Kageyama quickly averted his eyes and turned around. “I’ll wait downstairs,” he mumbled.
“Wait—Tobio.”
He paused, halfway to the door.
You rubbed your eyes and gave a sleepy smile. “Thanks for coming to wake me.”
He shrugged, but didn’t look back. “Told you. It’s tradition.”
But the truth hung in the silence between his retreating steps: it wasn’t just tradition anymore.
It had started way back in elementary school. Back then, you’d both trail behind your parents at the summer festival, little hands gripping yakisoba coupons while fireworks burst high above your heads. By middle school, the adults began staying home, and it was just the two of you—awkward, quiet, but inexplicably comfortable. No need to fill the silences. No need to explain why it always had to be the two of you.
And now, years later, that same tradition threaded its way through time. But somewhere along the way, it had softened into something else. Something quieter, deeper. Something Kageyama wasn’t sure how to name just yet.
You came down a few hours later, the wooden stairs creaking under your gentle steps. The evening sun dipped low outside, golden light spilling into the hallway as you reached the last step, the hem of your yukata swaying with every careful movement.
It was a new one—powder blue with pale white blooms brushed across the fabric. You’d bought it yourself this year. Your mother used to choose your yukata for you each summer, but you were older now. This time, you picked it out thinking of the sky. Thinking, maybe, of the boy who always looked like he belonged to it.
Kageyama was sitting cross-legged in your living room, fork halfway to his mouth, chewing on a slice of cake your mother had made. The sound of your approach made him glance up—
And for a moment, he forgot how to blink.
You were always beautiful in yukata. He’d seen you wear them every year. But this time—this time you looked different.
No, maybe he was just seeing you differently.
Your eyes caught his and you smiled, soft and teasing. “You’ve got frosting on your lip.”
“Huh?” he blinked, scrambling to wipe it with the back of his hand.
You walked closer and knelt beside him, leaning in just a bit to show him something clipped near your ear. “Also,” you said lightly, “look familiar?”
Tucked just above your temple, nestled in your hair, was a small, delicate floral pin. Its petals shimmered with a faint opal sheen that matched the hues of your yukata exactly.
“It’s the one you gave me,” you added, fingers brushing over the pin. “You probably forgot, but you won it from one of the festival stalls back in first year of high school. I never wore it before ‘cause it never matched. But this yukata… felt right.”
You didn’t say you picked the yukata because it matched the pin. But maybe y
you didn’t need to.
Kageyama’s heart stumbled in his chest, beating just a little too fast, too loud in his ears. He looked away before he did something embarrassing—like stare too long or say something dumb.
You grinned. “What, no reaction? You falling in love with me or something?”
He scoffed, cheeks tinged faintly pink. “As if. You’re so full of yourself.”
But his voice was softer than usual. No real bite. And he didn’t look at you right away.
The sun began to dip further as you left the house and headed toward the festival grounds. The air smelled of grilled squid and sweet dango, laughter echoing between rows of food stalls and game booths. Bright paper lanterns hung above the crowd, flickering softly as twilight melted into evening.
You walked side by side, barely brushing arms but never straying far from each other.
After sharing yakisoba from the coupons your mom had given you, the two of you wandered into the rows of stalls—shooting games, ring toss, goldfish scooping. You laughed when Kageyama tried to win you a plush keychain and missed by an inch.
“That was rigged,” he grumbled.
“You’re just bad at carnival games,” you teased, licking cotton candy off your finger.
“You want me to prove you wrong?” he challenged, already eyeing the next stall.
You stayed like that for a while—wandering, playing, eating until your stomachs felt full and light at the same time.
Eventually, you made your way to the quiet park beside the festival grounds, just a little beyond the lanterns and stalls. A soft breeze passed through, ruffling the trees. The glow of distant fireworks was just starting to warm the horizon.
You found a bench shaded under an old tree, and sat beside each other, the weight of the night settling comfortably between you.
And that’s when Kageyama turned, a strange seriousness in his expression.
“I need to tell you something,” you both said at the exact same time.
The words hung in the air for a second before you both paused—eyes wide, lips twitching—until laughter spilled out of you, mixing with the faint music from the festival in the distance.
You grinned and tilted your head toward him. “Seriously? What are the odds?”
“Fine,” he said with a slight shake of his head, lips curved in a rare, small smile. “No way. You first.”
You nudged him with your elbow. “No, you first.”
Kageyama gave you a look like he was deciding whether to argue—but instead, he caved, turning his gaze out toward the horizon, the last shimmer of sunset brushing gold against his sharp features.
“…Okay,” he exhaled, then met your eyes again. “I got scouted.”
You blinked, brows furrowing in confusion. “Scouted?”
“By a volleyball league. In Italy.” He scratched the back of his neck, his voice low, almost unsure despite the weight of the news. “They’ve been following my games since middle school, apparently. High school especially. After nationals… they reached out. They invited me for a training camp.”
Kageyama wasn’t someone who showed off. Never had been. So the way he said it—like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to be proud of it—made it hit even harder.
Your jaw dropped slightly, then the corners of your mouth stretched wide into a beaming, breathless smile.
“Tobio, that’s—what the hell—that’s amazing!”
His eyes widened at your reaction.
You threw your hands up, laughing. “Italy?! That’s huge! You’re finally getting the recognition you deserve! Oh my god, this is incredible.”
Kageyama let out a breath, a slow, quiet smile tugging at his lips. “You’re more excited than I am.”
“Of course I am!” you grinned, nudging him again. “I’ve seen how hard you’ve worked. Every practice, every game, every time you went home with bruised knees and a stiff shoulder—Tobio, you earned this.”
He ducked his head slightly, eyes darting to the side, but the flush on his ears betrayed him. That quiet pride he rarely let show—it was there, blooming slowly in his chest like spring finally arriving.
You gave a playful huff. “Just don’t forget me when you’re famous. If I see you on a billboard one day and you walk right past me pretending you don’t know me—”
For a second, your heart stuttered—because that wasn’t a joke, and he wasn’t teasing. He meant it.
And it almost made you forget what you were going to say.
Almost.
“So…” he looked back at you with an expectant tilt of his head. “What were you going to tell me?”
Your lips parted—but the words caught in your throat.
You looked down at your lap, suddenly aware of the way your fingers were fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, heart racing in your chest like it didn’t know how to slow down.
“Oh… uhm,” you mumbled.
Kageyama blinked. “Hm?”
You swallowed, eyes darting to the side. You’d been so sure a minute ago. So ready to just say it. But now—knowing he was leaving, knowing he was being pulled toward something he was meant for—it made everything feel more fragile.
“I—” you started, then stopped. You let out a nervous little laugh, brushing hair behind your ear. “It’s probably not as big as Italy.”
Kageyama leaned in slightly, brows furrowed. “Doesn’t matter.”
You glanced up at him—really looked at him.
The same boy who once fumbled with his words and scowled at textbooks now stood taller, surer. He didn’t hide behind his hoodie anymore or tense when people called his name. His hands were tucked into his pockets, but there was a lightness in his shoulders now, a steadiness in his voice when he spoke. He had grown—inch by inch, match by match, season by season. And somehow, you’d had the privilege of watching it happen. Of being beside him for all of it.
"The mail came last week," you said, breath catching slightly on the end.
He blinked. “Then?”
You inhaled deeply, eyes flicking down to your hands before returning to his. “It’s… it’s good news. I got accepted. Full scholarship. Everything’s covered. Even housing.”
Kageyama stilled for a moment, like he was processing it slowly—carefully—like he always did. Then he exhaled, and it came out soft. Proud.
"That's amazing," he said. And then, because he was always blunt, always honest—"Why didn’t you tell me sooner?"
You let out a small laugh, one that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "You just told me about Italy, remember? I didn’t want to steal the moment from you."
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s dumb.”
You raised a brow.
“Your news is just as important. Idiot,” he added lightly, not unkindly. “Why would I ever not be proud of you?”
There was a pause, the air thick with memory. Of scraped knees and shared notebooks. Of staying up late to help him study. Of carrying his bags home from practice when his arms were too sore to lift them. Of him, taping up your fingers when you pricked yourself too many times on sewing needles. Of vending machine snacks and train rides and promises whispered in the quiet space between school days.
He nudged your shoulder, gaze still focused on you. “We’ve always celebrated together, haven’t we?”
You smiled. “Yeah.”
“You winning that design contest in middle school. Me getting my first starting position. We always did it like that.”
You nodded, heart feeling like it was swelling a little too big in your chest. “I leave a few days after graduation. I want to settle in early before the semester starts. Get used to the place, the people.”
Kageyama was quiet for a second. Then:
“So we’ll probably leave around the same time.”
You both turned your heads then, in perfect synchrony, to the sky as the first firework bloomed above the park—bursting golden light into the air with a low thud that echoed through your ribs.
The colors painted his face in soft hues—blue, pink, silver—each crackle of the fireworks stretching across his expression like slow brushstrokes on a canvas you knew too well.
You didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there on the grass, shoulders brushing. Watching.
Because it was your last fireworks together for a while. And you both knew it.
Not because things were ending—no, never that—but because they were beginning.
His path curved to courts in cities neither of you had seen. Yours wound through ateliers and fashion shows, through sketches and fabric swatches and dreams once whispered into the dark.
But even as the fireworks danced above, and your futures branched like constellations, one thing remained certain.
He would always be someone you looked for in the crowd.
And he, without fail, would always look back.
When the final firework boomed overhead and glittered out like a spark fading into the night, he turned to you, quiet.
“You’ll do great.”
You smiled, slow and steady.
“So will you.”
And for a moment, it felt like the world had paused just for the two of you. Not out of sadness. Not out of fear. But reverence—for everything that had been, and everything still to come.
You leaned your head against his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch. Just let you rest there as the sky turned dark again, leaving behind only smoke trails and the faint smell of powder.
The days that followed felt like a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from—soft, slow, and fading too quickly to hold onto. And then, like everything in high school, it came quietly but all at once.
Graduation.
The cherry blossoms had bloomed overnight, painting Karasuno’s courtyard in shades of pale pink and white. The trees swayed with the early spring breeze, petals falling like confetti around the students gathered outside the gym. But there was still a bite in the air, the lingering chill of winter clinging to the edges of your sleeves.
You stood beside Kageyama at the bottom of the gym steps, your breath barely visible as you looked up at the school you’d known for the last three years. It felt surreal—too ordinary for something that marked the end of everything.
“They didn’t even change the banners,” you murmured, trying to laugh.
Kageyama followed your gaze and gave a small shrug. “Still looks like Karasuno.”
You let the silence sit for a second, then said, “I used to think I’d run out of here the second I graduated.”
He turned toward you slightly. “You still can.”
“I don’t want to anymore,” you admitted, smiling faintly.
He didn’t say anything to that, but he didn’t need to.
“I was thinking about our second year,” you began, looking out across the schoolyard where your classmates milled about, posing for pictures or saying their final goodbyes. “You were practicing by yourself in the gym after everyone left, remember?”
“I always did that.”
“Yeah, but that one time I stayed.”
He paused, then nodded. “You asked why I kept messing up my tempo.”
“And you got annoyed.”
“Because I wasn’t messing up.”
You laughed. “You absolutely were.”
His mouth twitched.
“I told you to soften your fingers when you tossed the ball. To feel the rhythm instead of forcing it.”
He side-eyed you. “You sounded like a weird coach.”
“And yet,” you said smugly, “your sets got better.”
“I already knew how to set.”
“Not like that.”
He didn’t argue, just looked down at the ground, lips pressed together in a way that wasn’t quite a frown.
“I also saved your math grade.”
“You didn’t save it,” he muttered.
“I carried it,” you corrected.
Kageyama exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You were bossy.”
“I was patient.”
“You were scary.”
“And yet, you passed.”
He didn’t respond to that either, but you caught the slight curve of his mouth before he turned away.
The wind picked up again, fluttering your skirt and blowing stray petals past your ankles. Somewhere near the gym doors, someone called out to take a group photo.
You didn’t move.
“Remember the Sports Festival last year?” you asked quietly, not looking at him.
He stilled.
“I told everyone I was fine, even after I landed funny on my ankle.”
“You weren’t fine,” he said immediately, his voice low and tight.
“No,” you smiled sadly. “I wasn’t.”
“You tried to keep running.”
“I didn’t want to let the team down.”
He finally looked at you, brows furrowed. “You should’ve stopped.”
“I did. When you picked me up and carried me off the track.”
“You were crying.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
“I was frustrated.”
“That still counts.”
You laughed again, but it was quieter this time. “You didn’t even hesitate. Just... lifted me and kept walking. Like it was nothing.”
He shrugged. “You always helped me. I just returned it.”
You turned to him fully then, eyes soft. “You really were my partner in crime, huh?”
Kageyama didn’t answer right away. His expression was unreadable—but his eyes lingered on you, like he was memorizing every detail.
“You were always... around,” he finally said. “Even when you didn’t have to be.”
“Because I wanted to be.”
Another gust of wind swept through, and a shower of cherry blossoms rained down over you both. Some stuck in his hair, others caught on your shoulder. And for a second, it felt like the world slowed down again, just long enough for this moment to matter.
Neither of you said it—but maybe you didn’t need to.
Because you were there.
Because you stayed.
Because this, for all its quiet goodbyes and soft endings, had meant something.
A soft blur of summer days followed graduation, where the finality of everything didn’t quite hit yet—because you and Kageyama were still here. Together. Floating in that space between what was and what was about to change.
You spent more time together than ever. The kind of time that didn’t need permission or plans. Days bleeding into each other, filled with errands and half-joked arguments over who needed what for their big move—him to Italy, you to New York. Shopping trips turned into detours: boba runs, trying on ugly sunglasses in kiosks, fighting over luggage colors, and getting distracted by massage chairs in department stores.
“You don’t need this many socks,” he muttered, pulling a tenth pair from your shopping basket.
“They’re stress socks,” you shot back. “And they match my jackets.”
He didn’t argue after that. He just paid.
Eating out became routine too. Cafes, food stalls, vending machine dinners on park benches when the sun was dipping. He never minded. Sometimes he stayed even longer at your place—long after the food had been cleared and your playlist had drifted from upbeat to mellow. Other times, you stayed late at his, helping Miwa chop vegetables while Kageyama dried dishes beside you.
Miwa caught on quickly. She said nothing but smiled whenever you passed her brother the soy sauce without asking or when he stole a bite from your bowl with his chopsticks.
And then came the night before your flight.
You were cross-legged on the floor of your room, luggage open, half-packed, your room a battlefield of folded shirts, travel-sized bottles, and a growing pile of things you forgot you owned. Kageyama was beside you, silently rolling your socks into neat little balls and sneaking your favorite snacks into the pockets of your carry-on when you weren’t looking.
You caught him slipping in a pack of matcha Pocky.
“I knew I was missing some,” you accused, narrowing your eyes.
“They’re not for now,” he said without looking up. “They’re for when you’re there. In New York.”
You blinked. “You’re sentimental.”
“No, I’m practical,” he said, stuffing a chocolate bar in next. “You’ll forget to eat.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop him.
It was only when you reached for your printed itinerary that the conversation shifted.
“My flight’s tomorrow too,” he said quietly, fingers grazing the zipper of your bag.
You paused. “Tomorrow?”
“Late afternoon. About the same time as yours.”
You frowned. “Wait—then why the hell are you here helping me and not packing?”
He glanced up at you, deadpan. “I already packed earlier. My bag’s in the hallway.”
“But—”
“Our houses are beside each other,” he said flatly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I can walk over in like, thirty seconds.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it. Because, well. Fair point.
Still, something warm bloomed in your chest. He could’ve stayed home, could’ve gotten more rest, could’ve done anything else with his last evening in Japan.
But he chose to spend it here.
With you. Sitting on the floor, folding clothes, quietly making it easier to say goodbye.
You didn’t say anything else. Just reached for his hand, laced your fingers through his, and let the silence speak for you both.
It was an action you two had developed over the years—an unspoken ritual that calmed your nerves. Something simple, but grounding. Something that said I’m here without needing to say anything at all.
It always made you nervous. The contact, the weight of his hand in yours, the quiet vulnerability that came with it. And you knew it made him nervous too. Not in a bad way. Just... in the kind of way that meant it mattered.
So you stayed like that. Fingers interlaced, kneeling among half-packed bags and scattered shirts, clinging to this final moment of stillness before the world inevitably spun forward again.
When morning rolled around, the scent of garlic rice and fried egg filled the kitchen before you even opened your bedroom door.
Your parents were already up—your mom bustling by the stove, and your dad slicing mangoes with practiced ease. It was your favorite breakfast. A quiet sendoff wrapped in warm food and soft glances.
They didn't cry. Not yet, anyway.
“We’ll miss you,” your dad said, pressing a hand to your shoulder as he slid the plate in front of you.
“And we’ll try to visit New York once we sort out our schedule,” your mom added, sitting across from you, trying to smile despite the emotion pooling in her eyes. “But until then... video calls every Sunday, okay?”
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat with a spoonful of garlic rice. “Sunday. Promise.”
From the window, golden sunlight spilled over your bags by the door. And beyond that—just barely—you saw the silhouette of Kageyama in his front yard, adjusting the straps of his luggage, talking to Miwa.
It was really happening.
You were both leaving.
And yet, somehow, you’d never felt closer.
After eating breakfast and washing up, your dad helped you bring your luggage down the stairs, cracking a joke about how you must’ve packed your entire closet and maybe even the neighbor’s. You only laughed and shrugged, the knot in your stomach getting tighter with every ticking second.
You and Kageyama had agreed to go to the airport together. It just made sense. One last shared ride before the two of you flew off in different directions—him to Italy, you to New York.
When you rolled your suitcase out to the driveway, Kageyama was already there. He stood next to his own tower of luggage, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, posture straight but eyes soft. Miwa was beside him, arms crossed until she caught sight of you, immediately unfolding them to pull you into a warm hug.
“You know,” she began with a teasing lilt in her voice, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were both migrating.”
You laughed, clinging to her just a second longer than necessary. “Kind of feels like it.”
She pulled back, grinning. “Well, at least you have an excuse. My brother? He’s coming back in a few months! I don’t know what the hell he packed his entire room for.”
Kageyama scowled, just a little. “It’s just clothes and shoes.”
Miwa raised a brow. “Shoes, Tobio? There were six pairs. You don’t even go out that much.”
Your parents came out then, breaking the moment. Your mom handed you your water bottle and reminded you to keep your passport in your carry-on, while your dad began loading up the trunk. With six full suitcases and two personal bags between you and Kageyama, it really did look like you were relocating permanently.
“Good thing we decided to drive you,” your dad muttered, straining to lift one of Kageyama’s bags. “If we left it to you two, you'd miss your flights just trying to wrestle these into a cab.”
Miwa snorted and leaned over to whisper, “He’s not wrong.”
Kageyama mumbled something under his breath, but when you caught his gaze, you could tell he wasn’t really annoyed. Just quiet. That quiet he got when something heavy was sitting in his chest.
You reached for his hand, threading your fingers with his in that same, familiar way you’d always done whenever either of you needed grounding. He didn’t pull away. He never did.
And as the car doors shut and the house got smaller in the rearview mirror, you didn’t say anything. You just held on.
When you arrived at the airport, the familiar buzz of voices and rolling suitcases filled the air, echoing against the high ceilings. Your parents parked in the loading bay, then turned to face you and Kageyama as you both stepped out.
“Call us once you land,” your mom said, her voice firm but eyes glistening. “Both of you.”
“And don’t forget to send photos,” your dad added, pulling you into a brief hug that lingered just a second longer than usual. “Of your dorms, your new friends, your food. Everything.”
Kageyama nodded, solemn as ever, while Miwa gave him a pat on the back before pulling you into another hug.
You split up then, heading toward different check-in counters—his for the Rome flight, yours for JFK. The moment you handed off your passport and watched your luggage disappear on the conveyor belt, reality hit again. Hard.
But as promised, after you were both done, you found each other again near the seating area across from security.
He spotted you first, lifting one hand lazily, like he knew you were coming. You walked toward him, rolling your now much lighter carry-on and giving him a look.
“You couldn’t stay away for five minutes, huh?” you teased, nudging his arm with your shoulder.
He raised an eyebrow. “You came looking for me first.”
You smiled. “Touché.”
There was a beat of silence, then you added with a low laugh, “Our attachment issues are showing.”
Kageyama blinked, then let out the smallest chuckle, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. “You started it.”
You looked at him for a moment—really looked. At the soft slope of his shoulders in his sweater, the dark circles under his eyes that even a good night’s sleep hadn’t chased away, the quiet grief hiding in the tight press of his lips. He looked how you felt. Like the universe had moved forward without giving either of you permission.
And still, you were here. Still standing side by side, even if only for a few more minutes.
You sighed. “We should head to security soon.”
He nodded, but didn’t move. Neither did you.
After passing through security—an ordeal that felt more final than it should’ve—you and Kageyama wandered into the terminal, a quiet sort of tension sitting between you. The kind that said this is ending without either of you actually having to say it.
You both knew it. The silence wasn’t awkward; it was heavy.
Still, when you passed the overpriced food court, your stomach growled and Kageyama glanced over.
“Want to eat?” he asked, like he was offering something more than just a last airport meal. Like he was trying to stretch time a little longer.
You nodded. “Might as well blow our remaining yen on a sad ¥2,000 bowl of ramen.”
So you sat in a corner booth—he insisted on sitting across from you, though you were tempted to sit beside him instead. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, and the seats were too stiff, but it didn’t matter. Not when this would be your last proper meal together for who knows how long.
You poked at your noodles with a pair of disposable chopsticks, glancing up to see Kageyama sipping miso soup, his expression unreadable as ever. You wanted to memorize the way he looked right now: hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy from his beanie, a faint frown on his lips not from irritation, but deep thought.
“You board before me, right?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on his bowl.
“Yeah. Like twenty minutes earlier,” you murmured, trying to sound casual, though your throat was starting to tighten.
He just hummed, stabbing at a boiled egg with his chopsticks. “I’ll wait until your gate clears out before I go to mine.”
You blinked. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
You didn’t argue. What was there to say? This wasn’t a breakup. It wasn’t even goodbye, not really. But it was still a kind of ending. A pause in the only version of life you knew—with him always just one text away, a train ride apart, someone to walk you home when the night got too cold.
And now it was airports and time zones. Delayed texts. Phone calls scheduled around practices and rotations.
Still, for now, you just sat with him in a near-empty food court, pretending the overpriced ramen made everything a little easier.
The noodles were soggy, and the broth was bland, but you both ate in silence like it mattered. Like if you just kept chewing and slurping and avoiding the inevitable, time would somehow pause here—stretched between two gates and a pair of carry-ons too heavy with everything unsaid.
Kageyama poked at the last of his egg with his chopsticks.
“You didn’t finish your narutomaki,” he said.
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“I would’ve eaten it.”
You shrugged. “Should’ve asked faster.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile but close enough to one for you to count it. You rested your elbow on the table, chin propped in your palm as you stared at him, memorizing the little things—the soft furrow between his brows, the way his hair flopped slightly forward from the hood of his sweater, the tiny scar near his jaw you always forget is there until you’re sitting this close.
You wanted to bottle this. To fold it up and pack it away like the socks you forgot in your side pouch.
But time wasn’t stopping.
Once you two finished, you tossed your trays and wandered toward your gates—slowly, not in a hurry, maybe even subconsciously avoiding it. Despite both of you flying often, the airport still felt like a maze, especially since you’d never departed from each other before.
“Are you sure it’s this way?” you asked.
“I’m literally following the signs.”
“Right, but your sense of direction—”
“My sense of direction is fine.”
“You got lost at Tokyo Station.”
“That place is a labyrinth.”
You snorted and followed him anyway, dragging your feet more than your suitcase. When you finally found Gate 33, people were already queuing, their boarding passes in hand. The screen blinked your flight number in bold.
Group 3 now boarding.
Your fingers tightened around your handle. Kageyama stood beside you, silent.
“This is it,” you murmured.
He gave a small nod, but he didn’t move. His lips parted slightly, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to capture every feature before it blurred behind security glass.
You turned to face him fully, stepping close until your toes bumped. His hands stayed by his side, clenched loosely, unsure whether to pull you in or let you go.
You reached up to smooth down the collar of his hoodie—a nervous habit you’d developed during your relationship. A pointless gesture, but it made your chest ache with how familiar it was.
“Don’t forget to eat the airplane food,” you whispered, fingers lingering near the drawstrings. “Even if it’s gross.”
“I’ll try.”
“And don’t sleep the whole flight. You’ll mess up your rhythm.”
“Okay.”
“And text me—”
“I will text you,” he said firmly, finally meeting your eyes. “The moment I land. And when I get to my hotel. And when I unpack. And—”
You leaned in.
You kissed him.
Just his cheek—but it was enough to stop everything. His eyes widened the moment your lips brushed his skin, warm and deliberate. He blinked slowly, mouth slack in shock as you pulled back, smile creeping at the edges of your mouth.
“I—” he stammered. “You just—why—”
“You looked like you needed it.”
He stared, still processing.
“You’ve been good lately,” you added, teasing.
“You always say that like I’m a well-behaved dog.”
“You’re my well-behaved dog.”
He scoffed, cheeks turning red all the way to his ears.
The line inched forward. You took a small step toward the boarding gate, slinging your personal bag over your shoulder.
“You should go,” you told him softly.
But he didn’t move.
You handed your boarding pass to the attendant, and she scanned it with a practiced beep before motioning you toward the jet bridge. You took a few steps toward it, then paused and looked back over your shoulder.
Kageyama was still there.
Standing just past the rope divider, watching. Eyes locked onto you like he was counting your breaths, like every second he didn’t see you would already be too long.
You gave him a small wave.
He didn’t smile, but he nodded. His expression didn’t change—but it didn’t have to. You knew what he was saying with that look.
Go. I’ll be here.
So you turned. Walked into the passageway that led to the plane, to your new city, to everything unknown and just before you disappeared from his view, you glanced back one last time—
He was still standing there.
Not ready to leave until you were gone. Until he saw you take that step. Until he knew for sure you were really flying toward something without him.
For now, it was goodbye. Not forever, not in the kind of way that stripped the air of hope—but just enough to make the distance feel a little too real.
Kageyama stood still for a moment after you disappeared through the gate, watching until your figure was swallowed by the final checkpoint. The boarding zone buzzed with motion—families reuniting, business travelers checking their phones, flight attendants preparing—but his eyes lingered where he last saw you. His hand tightened slightly on the handle of his carry-on as he exhaled slowly, then finally turned away.
His gate, just a few paces down at 35, was already flashing boarding signs in big bold letters, but he walked slowly, as if he could still drag a few more seconds out of the morning. His footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, the weight of his bag rolling quietly behind him. A new city waited for him. A new team, new challenges, new dreams he was meant to chase.
But even as the future unfolded in front of him like a runway, he couldn’t shake the faint ache nestled in the corner of his chest—a dull regret that lingered like an unanswered question.
He never got the chance to tell you how he really felt.
Not when you were joking about overpriced ramen. Not when you got lost trying to find his gate together. Not even when you leaned in and kissed his cheek so suddenly he almost forgot how to breathe.
He should’ve said something—anything. Maybe not a full confession, not some dramatic declaration, but something true and soft and honest. Something that would’ve told you that this wasn’t just friendship for him anymore.
But maybe... maybe there would be time for that. Maybe not now, but later. After he found his place in this new city. After you both figured out what this next chapter looked like.
He passed by Gate 34 without looking.
Meanwhile, your own flight was already boarding, and you had just settled into your seat by the window. The business class cabin was quiet, polished, and softly lit—an upgrade fitting for a long-haul flight and, frankly, the least the company could do after sending you halfway across the world. You sighed into the cushion, adjusting your seatbelt, then let your gaze wander out the window.
Just two gates away, you could still see the tail of the plane he would be boarding. Gate 35. Close enough to see, too far to reach.
You leaned your head back against the seat, your lips curling slightly—not in a smile, not quite—but something close to it.
You hadn’t told him either.
All those years of knowing him, traveling together, growing up side by side. All those nights you stayed up, pretending your chest didn’t ache when he said goodnight like a best friend should. You could’ve told him. Maybe over breakfast. Maybe at the gate. Maybe during that one second after you kissed his cheek and saw his eyes widen like he was about to say something back.
But neither of you did.
Not yet.
And yet, the thought didn’t feel like an ending. Just a bookmark. Just a pause. The kind that existed between chapters.
Because if the universe had gotten you this far—two best friends, just two gates away from each other, both about to take on different worlds—it wouldn’t be the last page.
Maybe not today.
But maybe, someday.
Maybe in the future.
When you finally stepped off the plane and into the quiet chaos of JFK’s international terminal, the weight of the 17-hour flight pressed behind your eyes, the ache settling into your spine and shoulders. You moved on autopilot—follow the signs, shuffle through immigration, wait for baggage—but your hand reached for your phone almost instinctively.
The moment you were through the last checkpoint, you opened your messages. The first thing you did was type.
just landed
You didn’t overthink it. It wasn’t poetic or dramatic. Just three words. But they felt heavier than they looked.
The message sent with a soft whoosh. You slipped the phone into your coat pocket and adjusted your carry-on strap, stepping into the early morning hum of the city that never really slept. You were here. You made it.
But your chest still felt like it hadn’t caught up with the reality yet.
And then—your phone buzzed.
You paused near a row of signs pointing toward the exit, pulled it out, and saw his name on the screen.
Just landed too.
Simple. Blunt. Typical Kageyama. But for some reason, it made your throat tighten.
You smiled—quietly, gently—and stared at the message a little longer than necessary. It had really happened. In the span of one sunrise, the two of you had flown in opposite directions across the world. Gate 33 and Gate 35—just two steps apart in Tokyo, but now…
Thousands of kilometers away.
You didn’t reply right away. Not because you didn’t want to, but because for the first time, it fully sank in.
You were on your own now. He was too.
Different cities. Different lives.
And still, at the very same time—both of you had landed.
Days turned to weeks, and weeks slowly slipped into months.
Despite the six-hour time difference between New York and Rome, you and Kageyama continued to talk. It wasn’t every day—but it was enough. Enough to make you smile when your phone pinged at 2 a.m. or enough to stay up just a little longer, even with morning classes looming. The occasional FaceTime calls were comforting. You showed him your cramped, sunlit dorm decorated with mood boards, fashion sketches pinned on a corkboard behind your bed, and thrifted fabric swatches scattered across your desk. In return, he gave you short tours of his apartment in Rome—always neat, bare except for a few volleyballs stacked in the corner and a Japan flag folded over the back of a chair.
You celebrated each other’s birthdays through calls. When his birthday rolled around in December, you stayed up till past 3 a.m. just to wish him in real-time.
[tobio]: aren’t u supposed to be asleep
[you]: shut up it’s ur birthday
[tobio]: u didn’t have to stay up
[you]: yeah but i wanted to see your dumb face in real time
You remembered him chuckling softly, eyes crinkling as he leaned back against the wall, his breath visible in the cold of the early Roman morning. That was the first time in a long time you realized how much you missed him.
One random evening, during another FaceTime, he was stretching in his jersey while the video shook with every slight motion.
“Oh yeah,” he said, in that same casual voice he always used when he was concentrating on something else. “What’s your address again?”
You blinked at your phone. “Why?”
“Nothing,” he replied, shrugging, like it wasn’t important.
But three days later, you were in your dorm common room when the front desk called your name. A large, beat-up box sat on the table. You read the return address: Roma, Italia.
Inside were snacks—packs of biscotti, dried pasta, Italian candy, chocolate bars, and even a postcard of the Colosseum where he scribbled in all caps:
THEY TOLD ME THIS WAS TOURISTY BUT I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO GET -TOBIO
Your hands were full of wrappers when you messaged him.
[you]: this is so much
[you]: what am i gonna do with 6 bars of italian chocolate
[tobio]: eat them???
[tobio]: share if u want
[you]: no
It felt like a piece of him had found its way to you—even if you were still thousands of kilometers apart.
Eventually, the training camp with Ali Roma ended. You were sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed, pinning sketches onto a mini mannequin when he FaceTimed you out of the blue. His face filled the screen, looking a little more tired than usual, but still...him.
“I’m flying back to Japan next week,” he told you. “Ali Roma wants to keep in touch though—coach said there's potential if I want to come back after next season.”
Your eyes widened. “Wait, seriously? Like… the Italian league?”
He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe. But when I land, the Schweiden Adlers want to meet. There’s a spot opening with their new roster.”
“The Adlers?” you gasped. “Wait—that’s… like, the pro team? With Ushijima and Hoshiumi?”
“Yeah,” he said, scratching the corner of his brow, “them.”
You fell back against your pillow with a dramatic groan. “Okay, superstar. When did we grow up this much?”
He gave a small laugh, something rare but always worth the wait.
You never said it out loud, but somewhere in your chest, it ached with pride. You remembered watching those athletes play against each other in high school—the intensity, the impossible verticals, the brutal spikes. And now… Tobio was one of them.
You weren’t just watching him on a screen anymore. You were watching him become someone. And even though you were just a freshman fashion major with a sketchbook full of half-finished designs and fingers always pricked from pins, it somehow felt like you were growing up right alongside him.
The time difference never mattered much in the beginning.
Thirteen hours between Tokyo and New York should’ve been a hassle—should’ve made conversations difficult, inconvenient even. But somehow, Kageyama made it work. He’d call you just as you were brushing your teeth before bed, or send a message as you stepped out of your morning lecture, his name lighting up your screen like some quiet reminder that distance, no matter how cruel, wasn’t stronger than what you two had.
He was always calling, at first. Always checking in. His messages came between flights and practices, on buses after games, with photos of things that reminded him of you—clumsy shots of street food, videos of Miwa teasing him, even the occasional picture of the sunset from his apartment window, captioned simply with: it looked like the sky in new york that day.
You never missed a call.
Even when your deadlines piled up, even when your hands were stained with charcoal from your sketchpad or stiff from stitching late into the night, you’d drop everything just to hear his voice. The connection sometimes lagged. His face would freeze mid-sentence, brows furrowed and lips pursed, and you’d laugh at the screen, screenshotting the worst angles and sending them back to him later with heart emojis and captions like my favorite setter ever.
Sometimes the calls were only ten minutes. Sometimes an hour. And sometimes, he’d fall asleep mid-sentence, his cheek pressed against his pillow, breathing steady and soft on the other end while you whispered a goodnight and stared at the screen longer than necessary.
But things changed—slowly at first, and then all at once.
Kageyama joined the Schweiden Adlers not long after coming back from Rome. You’d watched him on TV for the first time in your tiny New York apartment, face flushed with pride as he stood tall on the court beside names you’d only ever seen in national tournaments—Ushijima, Hoshiumi. It was surreal. He looked different now. Sharper. More composed. Like someone you were still trying to keep up with.
Still, he messaged when he could. Short bursts. Sporadic photos. A video here and there of Miwa waving at the camera with a carton of milk in hand.
Then the messages came slower. Weeks apart. Facetime became rare.
You told yourself it was understandable. He was in the pro league now, after all—busier than ever. Training, traveling, media. You understood. You did. Of course you did.
But that didn’t make it hurt any less.
You remembered the first time he forgot to reply to your message. It was nothing serious, just a stupid meme you sent about milk expiration dates, and when he didn’t answer, you shrugged it off. Then it happened again. And again. Until the little texts turned into double texts, then triple. Until your conversations became lopsided and heavy with silence. Until even sending him something as simple as “good luck today” felt like screaming into a void.
He didn’t respond.
Not even once.
And by the third week of unanswered messages, you stopped trying.
You didn’t cry. You didn’t rant. You just… stopped.
Who were you to demand anything, anyway? You weren’t his girlfriend. Never had been. Just a friend. A name in his contacts. An old echo from a different time zone.
But that didn’t stop your parents from dropping by New York every few months. They always insisted on bringing something back to Miyagi for Miwa and Tobio—your “little tradition,” they called it.
And you still packed their bags with your hands.
Snacks Miwa liked. Skin care she once raved about. Scented candles you thought she’d enjoy. For Tobio, protein bars in bulk, cooling patches for after training, small handmade trinkets tucked at the bottom—scrunchies in Schweiden colors, a patch you stitched that read #1 because you believed it long before the world did.
Miwa always called when the packages arrived. Her voice would ring loud and bright through the line, full of thank-yous and gushing over how thoughtful you were. Sometimes she’d show you how she’d arranged your gifts on her shelf, laughing about how she caught Tobio sneaking one of the bath salts once after a bad game.
But Kageyama never called.
Never texted.
Not even to say thank you.
And you never asked why.
Instead, you just adjusted.
The notes stopped. The handwritten letters you used to attach, those little inside jokes and doodles? Gone. Eventually, your gifts became more generic. Pre-packaged. Detached.
When news broke that Kageyama had been named to Japan’s National Volleyball Team, you watched the livestream alone in your apartment, heart a quiet mess of awe and ache. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him. You just bought a new sports towel, had his name embroidered in navy blue, and asked your mom to pack it in their suitcase when they visited you next.
This time, your note was barely a sentence.
Congrats, Tobio.
You didn’t even sign your name.
Still, you kept sending the gifts.
But somewhere along the way, you stopped sending your heart with them.
The boxes still made their way across the ocean—neatly wrapped, thoughtfully filled, tied together with tradition and habit. But the part of you that once hoped, once waited for even the smallest gesture in return, slowly faded. You still remembered birthdays. You still remembered them. But not in the way you used to.
Then, time did what it always does.
Years flew by.
You didn’t go back to Japan after graduation. Not because there was anything left unresolved, not because you were angry, but because life moved forward—and you let it. Your parents, though gently surprised, never pushed. They came to understand your silence as strength, not bitterness. And when they visited New York, walking beside you through avenues thrumming with taxis and dreams, you could tell they were proud.
They asked once—only once—if you wanted them to move. To start over in this city of noise and light, just so you wouldn’t be alone. But you shook your head with a quiet smile, brushing your hand over your mother's wrist in reassurance.
“I'm okay here,” you said.
And it was true. You were.
The city had become yours. And somewhere between sleepless nights and morning coffees, between hundreds of fabric swatches and the sound of sewing machines humming like lullabies, you built something no one could take from you.
Success didn’t arrive like a lightning strike—it was slow and demanding. It asked for everything. Your time. Your patience. Your heart. But you gave it, piece by piece. Until your name began to float into conversations you weren’t even in.
First it was local buzz—underground features, city pop-ups, boutique shows. Then it was press inquiries. Collaborations. A celebrity caught in one of your coats during fashion week. Then another, walking a red carpet in one of your gowns like it was made of fire and elegance.
And suddenly, you weren’t just someone with talent.
You were the name behind the next wave of design. An innovator. A voice. A force.
People asked about your inspiration, your philosophy, your story. They listened when you spoke. They quoted your interviews. Models requested your fittings personally. Stylists held up your pieces like treasure. Some even said your lines felt like poetry—that your clothes didn’t just fit bodies, they understood them.
And the little girl who once spent summers sketching on the porch in Miyagi? She would have cried if she saw how far you’d come.
Because you made it. You really did.
You had your own studio. A small team who admired you. A growing archive of work. Your designs traveled to places you hadn't even seen yet—worn by people you’d never met, but who carried your dreams stitched into the seams of their sleeves and skirts.
And every night, when the world quieted and the streetlights painted soft golden lines across your windows, you would lie back on your couch, legs tangled in a blanket, and just breathe.
Not because you were tired.
But because you’d earned it.
There were no more unanswered texts, no more ache buried beneath every notification that wasn’t him. There was only you. The woman you had become.
And for a long time, that was enough.
Or, at the very least, it had to be.
And for a long time, that was enough.
Or at least, it had to be.
You made your peace with silence and distance, folding them into the fabric of your daily life like well-worn seams. You moved to New York and stitched yourself into something new—something whole again.
Your designs made headlines. Your brand drew in celebrities and runways alike. You became the name whispered behind the scenes of fashion week, a designer people didn’t just admire, but remembered. You poured your heart into patterns and pins, pouring everything but him into your work.
And yet—Rome.
You hadn’t planned to stay long. Milan Fashion Week had drained you in the most glamorous way, and a quick escape to Rome felt like the right kind of indulgence. A treat. One stolen weekend just for yourself before the next storm of deadlines.
You packed light: comfortable flats, oversized sunglasses, and your oldest Moleskine for sketching. You wandered through antique bookstores and gelato shops, letting your mind rest. Rome made it easy to breathe differently—slow and romantic, like life itself was flirting with you.
And that morning, the sun barely clearing the rooftops, you found yourself tucked into a cozy café on a quiet street corner, far from the busy tourist crowds. The window seat had called to you—the soft light perfect for your sketching, the scent of espresso sharp in the air.
You sipped your cappuccino, pen in hand, sketching a neckline that had teased the back of your mind since Milan. The café buzzed quietly, a couple reading newspapers, a barista humming along to a playlist.
And then you heard it.
"Order for Tobio!"
The pen stilled in your hand.
The name sliced through the haze of your morning like a wire snapping tight. You blinked.
No.
It couldn't be.
Your fingers trembled slightly as you glanced up—casual, as if you were just stretching your neck.
There he was.
Kageyama Tobio.
Still tall, still carrying that impossible intensity, dressed in black joggers and a fitted hoodie, a cap pulled low over his face. He looked like someone trying not to be noticed. Earbuds in. Expression unreadable. But unmistakably him.
The world tilted on its axis for just a second. Your chest squeezed and you panicked.
You moved quickly—too quickly—shoving your sketchpad into your tote bag and standing with a clumsy kind of grace. You didn’t want him to see you. You didn’t want him to not see you.
God, what were you doing?
You adjusted your sunglasses, dipped your head, and turned for the door. Your heart slammed against your ribs as you slipped past the register, avoiding his line of sight. His back was to you. Good. You pushed the door open and stepped out into the morning light.
Don’t turn around. Don’t look back. Just go.
You made it several feet down the narrow cobblestone street, weaving past locals and tourists. Your pace wasn’t quite a run—but it wasn’t casual either.
Then your foot caught on an uneven stone.
A sharp crack of your ankle twisting, and before you could catch yourself, you stumbled forward with a quiet gasp. Your knees hit the pavement hard. Palms scraped. Your tote slid off your shoulder and hit the ground with a muffled thud.
"Shit—"
It wasn’t loud, but it was jarring. You hissed as you straightened up on shaky legs, already wincing at the sting in your palms and the dull throb beginning in your knee. You didn’t care. You just wanted to disappear.
But you weren’t fast enough.
Because at that very moment, the café door behind you opened. The little bell above it chimed.
Kageyama stepped out, earbuds now tucked into his pocket, to-go cup in hand. He looked up, probably out of instinct.
And he saw you.
You—hobbling forward, trying to gather your things, sunglasses askew. You—knees scraped, clutching your bag like a lifeline. You—trying to disappear before he could truly register what he was seeing.
His entire body stilled.
His fingers tightened around his coffee cup.
“…Wait—”
Your head snapped up.
For a second—just one—your eyes met his.
Panic. Recognition. All of it hit like a wave crashing too fast.
But before he could move, before he could take even a single step toward, you turned and bolted, disappearing into the side street with your heart in your throat.
He stared after you, rooted in place. The Roman sun spilled over the stone buildings, and the world kept turning, as if nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
He was sure of it now.
It was you.
Kageyama didn’t hesitate. As soon as realization hit, he muttered your name under his breath like a prayer and immediately sprinted across the plaza after you. You’d barely made it a few steps past the fountain when, as if Rome itself conspired against you, your heel caught on the edge of a cobblestone. The sound of it snapping was instantaneous, a sharp crack that echoed louder than your pride would ever admit.
You stumbled forward, landing on your hands with a soft oof. Your tote bag thudded to the ground beside you as your ankle twisted at just the wrong angle—again.
"Shit!" you hissed, not even bothering to get up as you sat there glaring at your poor, abused heel. “I knew I shouldn’t have brought these stupid shoes. Of course they’d betray me in Italy.”
“Are you okay?” Kageyama was suddenly crouched beside you, his eyes wide with concern, one hand already reaching for your arm while the other hovered awkwardly, unsure where to touch. “You’re bleeding.”
You looked down—just a scrape, barely worth noting. What hurt more was your pride and the dull throb in your ankle, aggravated from the earlier stumble.
“I’m fine,” you muttered, trying to wave him off, but your voice lacked the bite you were going for. “Just a bruised ego and a broken heel. And probably a sprained ankle. Again.”
Kageyama sighed and gently brushed your hand aside to inspect your foot, his brows furrowing. “You shouldn’t walk on this.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” you grumbled, wincing as you tried to shift your weight. “I swear the Roman gods are laughing at me right now.”
Without warning, he slipped his arms under you—one behind your back, the other under your knees—and stood up, lifting you clean off the ground.
“Whoa—Tobio!” You yelped, hands scrambling to hold onto your tote bag and his shoulder at the same time. “Put me down! I can walk!”
“You just said you sprained it.”
“Sprained-ish!” you argued, face hot with embarrassment. “You can’t just princess-carry me through Rome!”
He didn’t even slow down, walking with the calm efficiency of someone used to pressure—well, he was a professional athlete, after all.
“Oh my god,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “I’m going to go viral for this. Ali Roma’s golden boy caught carrying a girl through the streets. Someone’s already filming, I bet.”
“Let them,” he said bluntly. “You shouldn’t be walking on that ankle.”
You peeked at him from between your fingers, lips twitching. “Wow. Look at you. You got...assertive.”
He glanced at you, expression unreadable. “I’m always assertive.”
You snorted. “Not when we were in high school.”
He blinked, as if the memory of the past had only just caught up to him. “You’re...different now.”
You tilted your head. “Different how?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You’re snappier. Less... I don’t know. You used to smile more.”
Your smile faltered for a moment before you scoffed. “Well, people change. Try surviving the fashion industry and not turning into a fire-breathing witch.”
Kageyama said nothing at first, just adjusted his hold on you and turned a corner like this was just another stroll and not a walk of infamy with a woman dangling from his arms. Eventually, he said, “I liked it when you used to laugh.”
You glanced at him then, and for a moment—just a flicker—it felt like high school again. Like shared lunches and side comments in class and him awkwardly passing you water during your speech because he thought your throat sounded dry.
And then you remembered you were in his arms in the middle of Rome and snapped back to the present.
“Okay, seriously, where are we going? I can call a cab. Or limp to one. Or—”
“I’m taking you to my apartment.”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You need to ice your ankle,” he said plainly, as if the idea of not carrying you to his personal space wasn’t even on the table.
“You can’t just—Tobio—I could have, like, murder tendencies. You don’t just invite unstable women to your place,” you protested, though your arms remained around his neck because, well, gravity.
He gave you a look. “You’re not unstable.”
“I tripped twice in one day and threatened to fight a cobblestone.”
He didn’t even flinch. “Still not unstable.”
You groaned, letting your head fall back dramatically. “God, you're still so literal. Hasn’t Rome taught you anything? Metaphors? Sarcasm?”
“I know sarcasm,” he said, turning onto a quieter street. “You’re using it right now.”
You blinked. “Okay. You’ve improved.”
Kageyama smirked, and it caught you off guard. That tiny, cocky twitch of his lips made your stomach flip in the worst-best kind of way.
“And anyway,” he added, “you were always snappy. You’re just louder now.”
“Wow,” you deadpanned. “That’s so romantic. Want to write that on a Hallmark card?”
He gave you a side glance. “If I did, would you actually read it?”
You stared at him, taken off guard again—not by the words, but by the soft tone beneath them. And suddenly, your mouth didn’t know what to say.
You looked away, focusing on the rhythmic sound of his shoes against the cobblestones. You hated how steady he felt. How warm. How… easy it was to fall back into this rhythm, despite the years. Despite the distance.
“Fine,” you muttered. “But only because I don’t want to die from tetanus.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I could, Tobio.”
He rolled his eyes. “You won’t.”
You huffed, tightening your grip slightly. “Still dramatic.”
And Kageyama, of all people, smiled. Actually smiled.
Rome, it seemed, was full of surprises.
You two arrived at his apartment building—a five-story walk-up tucked neatly between more modern complexes, its stone façade slightly weathered but charming, like something out of an old Italian film. It didn’t look new by any means, but it had that unmistakable aura of quiet wealth. The balcony railings were wrought iron, the windows framed with dark wooden shutters, and the whole place just… looked like it came with a lifetime supply of good espresso and generational secrets.
Kageyama didn’t say much as he led the way to the entrance. You limped after him, still half-hopping thanks to your cursed heel, and when he turned to offer his arms again, you held up a hand like a traffic enforcer on strike.
“No. I can walk,” you declared with the pride of a woman who clearly could not.
He looked at your wobbling ankle and raised an eyebrow. “You call that walking?”
“Wobbling with purpose,” you said defensively. “There’s a difference.”
His eyes flicked toward the elevator down the hall—and you already knew what was coming before you even saw the sign.
“OUT OF ORDER – MANUTENZIONE.”
You stared at the taped paper. Then at him. Then back at the elevator as if you could will it into working through sheer spite.
He crouched without a word and jerked his chin. “Get on.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not serious.”
“It’s three floors.”
“I can climb three floors.”
“You couldn’t even cross a street.”
You let out an exhausted sigh, muttering under your breath, “The Roman gods are absolutely screwing with me today.”
“Get on before I carry you again without asking.”
That earned a reluctant grumble from you, but you threw your arms around his shoulders anyway and climbed onto his back, your tote bag swinging dramatically like you were being airlifted out of a battlefield. “This is undignified.”
“Stop talking,” he muttered, hooking his arms under your legs. “You’re heavier when you complain.”
“Wow,” you gasped. “Kageyama Tobio. Silver medalist. Still unmatched in his ability to charm women with his incredible way with words.”
He didn’t even flinch. “You never shut up in high school either.”
You scoffed dramatically as he started climbing the stairs, steady and effortless as if you were just a lightweight gym bag full of volleyballs. “You know, you could’ve just let me suffer. I was mentally prepared to crawl.”“
That’s stupid.”
“And this isn’t?”
He said nothing—typical. But you didn’t miss the slight upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. A rare sighting. Practically an eclipse.When he reached the third floor, he stopped in front of a wooden door with a sleek matte-black keypad, entered a code, and nudged it open with his foot. The door swung in silently, revealing—An apartment that was… surprisingly clean. Like, suspiciously clean.
The floors were dark hardwood, the furniture minimal but stylish—think bachelor pad meets Muji catalog. The place smelled faintly of cedar and detergent, and the lighting was soft and warm, not the harsh overheads you expected from someone who once used to chug milk like it was an energy drink.“…Is this Airbnb?” you asked, frowning as he let you down gently onto the couch. “Did I just get catfished into someone else’s apartment?”
“No.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“Volleyball pays this well?”
He threw you a look as he grabbed a throw pillow and tucked it under your ankle. “You know I’m sponsored, right?”
You looked around again—clean kitchen, smart lighting, even a little plant in the corner that looked alive—and then back at him. “Okay, I take it back,” you muttered. “The Roman gods weren’t messing with me. They were humbling me.”
Kageyama just handed you a glass of water without comment, then sat across from you like carrying you up three flights was nothing.
Honestly? It was almost unfair how hot he looked in his own living room, sleeves rolled up, jaw sharp, and hair slightly tousled from the climb.
You took a sip and mumbled, “Just so you know, you carrying me bridal-style and then giving me water like some kind of domestic fantasy is extremely misleading.”
“Misleading?”
“You can’t just do that.”
He tilted his head. “Do what?”
“Be casually husband material. It’s confusing.”
He blinked. “You’re the one who broke your shoe.”
You groaned, sinking deeper into the couch. “This is why I hate you.”
“Good,” he muttered. “Because I still think you’re annoying.”
You rolled your eyes at his comment, tossing a pillow at him, which he easily caught. That little smirk tugging at his lips told you he knew exactly what he was doing. Asshole. Still… fuck it. You gotta admit—he looked good. Not just in the “he got taller” kind of way, but in the broad shoulders, sculpted arms, veins on forearms kind of way. Years in the pro league really worked wonders on him. Bulky, sharp-jawed, and wearing a fitted black tee like he was in some magazine ad for “Hot Athletes Who’ll Ruin You.” Not that you were gonna tell him that. Yet.
“I’ll get my first aid kit. Stay there,” he said, heading toward what you assumed was the bathroom. “Not like you’ll be going anywhere with that sprain.”
You huffed. “Dick.”
“Still your favorite,” he called back casually.
Your cheeks heated—because ugh, he wasn’t wrong.
Left alone in his living room, you took the chance to glance around while keeping your ankle propped up. His apartment was clean, neat—very Kageyama. Minimalist, but not cold. There was a plant in the corner that surprisingly wasn’t dead, a stack of volleyball DVDs on a shelf, and a few framed pictures on top.
You leaned forward slightly, squinting at them. Most were what you expected—team shots, post-game moments, maybe a training camp memory or two. But one frame made you blink. It was… you.
Well, you and him. A photo from middle school, probably during a summer festival. You were in a yukata, mid-laugh, clearly teasing him about something. Kageyama stood beside you, looking awkward as hell with goldfish-in-a-bag dangling from his hand and a stiff posture like he didn’t know what to do with you. His face was red. You remembered that night.
But what made your breath catch was the plush toy sitting right beside the photo. A small, soft dog wearing a hoodie with a bright red “NY” stitched across the front. You bought that years ago in New York and gave it to him after some random call when he was having a bad week.
“For your desk. Or your dumb shelf. Whatever,” you’d told him.
He hadn’t said much back then. Just took it with that usual grumbly expression of his. But… he kept it?
Your heart fluttered weirdly in your chest. You didn’t even hear him come back until his voice cut through the air.
“You’re still nosy as hell.”
You looked up, startled, caught red-handed staring at the shelf. He knelt in front of you, opening the first aid kit. “Didn’t expect you to notice that old thing.”
You glanced back at the plush. “Didn’t expect you to keep it.”
He shrugged, focused on unwrapping the bandage roll. “Didn’t want to throw it away.”
Your brow arched. “Aw, is this your soft boy era?”
“Shut up,” he mumbled, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Lift your leg, dumbass.”
You smirked, doing as told. “Still the same Tsundere Tobio.”
“And you’re still a pain in my ass.” But his hands were careful, his touch gentle as he tended to your ankle—like maybe the years hadn’t changed everything between you. "You're an idiot for spraining the same ankle from the sports fest."
Your head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
Kageyama didn’t even flinch. He just crouched in front of you with the first aid kit, tugging your heel off with annoyingly practiced fingers. “Ten years later and still no balance.”
“It’s called fashion, Tobio,” you snapped. “Maybe if you had to strut across a Milan runway in five-inch heels, you’d have some respect for the art.”
“You tripped on a cobblestone.”
“It was an aggressively uneven cobblestone,” you argued, lifting your chin like you were making a case at Vogue HQ. “Besides, I walk in heels every single day for my job. My ankles are veterans.”
“They’re traumatized.”
You gasped. “Did you just insult my ankles?”
He gave you a look. The Kageyama Look™—somewhere between ‘you’re ridiculous’ and ‘I can’t believe I’m still talking to you.’ “You tripped during a relay in middle school and cried for twenty minutes while they wheeled you off the field.”
“That was a dramatic interpretation of events,” you huffed. “And FYI, everyone cries when the entire school watches their soul leave their body mid-fall.”
Kageyama smirked under his breath, placing the cold compress gently on your swollen ankle. “Still the same ankle.”
“And still the same smug attitude,” you shot back, folding your arms.
He looked up at you, eyebrows raised. “You done?”
“No.”
He leaned closer, the heat of his palm firm around your ankle. “You shouldn’t wear heels when you know you're gonna be running away from me.”
“Who said I was running away? Maybe I was leading you somewhere.”
He blinked, thrown off for a second—just enough for your lips to twitch in a satisfied grin.
“Same ankle,” he muttered again, taping the bandage into place.
“Yeah, well, some injuries are worth repeating.”
Kageyama paused, eyes flicking to yours. Something softened in the silence. “…Idiot,” he said again, but it came out lower, more amused than annoyed.
You smiled. “Glad to know some things never change.”
And maybe, just maybe, the ankle wasn't the only thing still hanging on after all these years. The silence settled just long enough to make your heartbeat louder. Kageyama leaned forward, brows drawing together—not at your words, but at your scraped knee.
“Hold still,” he muttered, reaching for the first-aid kit someone had dropped off earlier.
You rolled your eyes but didn’t move, hissing slightly when the cold antiseptic touched your skin.
“Seriously?” you snapped. “You could at least give a warning.”
He flinched—not at your words, but at the bitterness tucked behind them. “…I deserved that,” Kageyama said quietly.
You didn’t look at him. “Of course you do.”
He paused in the middle of wrapping gauze around your knee, hands still for a moment. Then he resumed, slower this time.
“I didn’t mean for things to end the way they did.”
You scoffed. “Right. You just… stopped showing up. No texts. No calls. Not even a damn birthday message. One day we were talking about graduation plans, and the next? You were gone.”
His fingers hesitated again, pressing the tape to secure the bandage. “I thought it was better that way. I was overwhelmed. Japan, the Adlers… the pressure. I thought keeping my distance would make it easier.”
“Easier for you,” you said bitterly. “You left me to fill in the silence with guesses. Was it something I said? Did I do something wrong? Or were you just too busy being Japan’s golden setter?”
He finally looked up at you then, eyes unreadable. “I saw every single gift you sent.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
“The bentos. The socks with owls on them. That dumb volleyball keychain Miwa still uses on her bag. I knew it was from you.”
“Then a simple thank you would’ve been nice,” you said, voice sharper than you intended. “Every time you received one. I know you were with the Adlers. I watched you play in the Olympics. And now? I know you got offered a contract here in Ali Roma too.”
His mouth opened, then closed.
“I knew,” you added, voice trembling. “Because I never really stopped checking in. Even when you acted like I didn’t exist anymore.”
“I didn’t know how to face you,” he admitted. “Not after pushing you away.”
You let out a slow breath. “Six years, Tobio. We’ve known each other since we were four. And you couldn’t even say goodbye?”
“I thought you hated me.”
“I did,” you said, finally meeting his eyes. “Still do… sometimes.”
A soft laugh escaped him. “I missed this.”
“What? Me yelling at you while you disinfect my wounds?”
He shook his head. “You. Talking to me like I’m still Tobio, not just the player.”
Your throat tightened, but you gave a small shrug. “You’ve always been Tobio to me.”
He sat back, his hands finally leaving your leg. “Then maybe we could start over.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Start over? You mean like erase six years of nothing?”
“No. I mean… from here. Start fixing it. One piece at a time.”
You looked at him for a long beat, emotions tangled in your chest.
“…You still owe me six years of birthday messages.”
“I’ll make up for every one.”
You rolled your eyes. “Damn right you will.”
You ended up staying the night, of course.
Not that you planned to. You even said it twice—loudly—that you were leaving after he finished patching you up. But the ache in your ankle, paired with the late hour and the awkward rain starting to fall outside, sealed your fate.
“I can sleep on the couch,” you said, arms crossed, standing your ground like it wasn’t 11:43 PM and your eyelids weren’t already drooping.
Kageyama was already pulling out a clean towel and a bundle of clothes from his drawer. “You’re not sleeping on that lumpy thing.”
“It’s fine,” you argued. “I’ve slept on worse.”
He gave you a deadpan look. “You once refused to sleep on a futon during training camp because it was ‘too thin and emotional damage-inducing.’”
“…Okay, that was one time.”
He stepped toward you, holding out a hoodie and a pair of drawstring shorts—his clothes, of course. “Shower first. You look like you fought a bear.”
“Your bedside manner is truly unmatched.”
“And don’t even think about limping to the couch,” he added, narrowing his eyes. “You’re using the bed.”
You opened your mouth to argue again, but he didn’t give you the chance. In one swift motion, Kageyama leaned down and scooped you up like it was nothing.
“Tobio—!”
“Stop kicking or I’ll drop you.”
“I will sue.”
He snorted. “You don’t even have a lawyer.”
“I know people.”
He ignored you, carrying you all the way down the hallway like you were some overdramatic princess in a bad soap opera. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far off.
By the time he lowered you onto the edge of his bed, you were still fuming—partially out of stubbornness, partially because his arms were way too solid and his scent way too distracting for someone you allegedly hadn’t talked to in six years.
“You’re still bossy as hell,” you muttered.
“You’re still dramatic.”
“And you’re still annoyingly… tall.”
He threw you a towel. “Bathroom’s on the left.”
You sulked your way to the shower, muttering about Olympic setters with control issues.
When you returned, hair damp and skin warm from the steam, you were dressed in his hoodie—oversized, soft, and smelling like whatever soap he used—and his shorts that hung loosely around your waist. You caught your reflection in the hallway mirror and blinked. You looked like a memory. Or worse—a domestic situation waiting to happen.
Kageyama had already taken the couch by the time you got back to the room. He left a water bottle and painkillers on the nightstand, along with a small folded note that just said, "Yell if you need anything. But not too loud. It's midnight."
You smiled in spite of yourself.
Lying in his bed, surrounded by things that were unmistakably him, you couldn’t help but whisper under your breath, “Still bossy. Still thoughtful.”
Some things really never change.
And maybe—maybe—some things shouldn’t.
The scent of garlic hit you first.
You stirred awake to the aroma of something being sautéed—maybe onions? Garlic? Whatever it was, it smelled divine and utterly unfair for someone who limped her way to sleep on a sprained ankle after embarrassing herself in a café the day before.
Right. The café incident. Where you tried to bolt like a cartoon character upon seeing him, only for your heel to snap in the most theatrical twist of fate the universe could orchestrate. You’d expected maybe a stranger or a kind barista to help you up—not Kageyama Tobio, looking unfairly tall and composed while you winced like a fallen giraffe.
And now, somehow, after a blur of pain, ego bruises, and his stupidly strong arms carrying you bridal style, you were waking up in his apartment wearing his hoodie and one of his volleyball tournament shirts as pajama shorts.
You groaned softly into the pillow and dragged yourself out of bed, blinking groggily at the soft sunlight bleeding through the apartment windows. With one foot still tender and the other sliding through his ridiculously oversized slipper, you made your way out of the guest room.
The moment you turned into the kitchen, everything went to hell.
Because there he was—shirtless, towel slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower, standing at the stove like some post-volleyball culinary god.
“WHAT THE HELL—” your voice cracked embarrassingly as you recoiled, nearly tripping on the edge of the slipper in panic.
Kageyama jumped slightly, nearly dropping the ladle. “WHAT?! What happened?!”
“You—You’re shirtless!” you gasped, eyes wide in alarm but also maybe—just maybe—lingering on the sharp line of his collarbone.
He blinked at you in confusion before glancing down at himself. “I just got out of the shower.”
“Put something on! You can’t just—be that naked this early in the day.”
“I’m not naked. I have shorts on,” he said like it was the most logical thing in the world. He gestured vaguely toward his torso. “You’ve seen me shirtless a hundred times.”
“Yeah! When we were twelve and you had the body of a popsicle stick!”
Kageyama raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms—and wow, mistake. Now his biceps were flexing and everything got worse. “So now you’re saying I don’t look like a popsicle stick anymore?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Now you look like someone who eats popsicle sticks for breakfast. Jesus.”
He smirked. “So you are staring.”
“I’m staring because I’m shocked,” you hissed, hobbling toward the stool and flopping down as dramatically as your dignity allowed. “And mildly blind now. Thanks for that.”
He turned back to the stove, humming as he gave the sauce a stir. “You should be thanking me. Most girls would be thrilled to wake up to a shirtless man cooking them breakfast.”
“I am not most girls,” you snapped, crossing your arms.
Kageyama glanced over his shoulder with a grin that looked far too pleased with himself. “Clearly. You’re way cuter when you're panicking.”
You stared at him like he just admitted to boiling puppies.
“Excuse me?”
“I said what I said,” he replied, grabbing two bowls and plating the pasta with more finesse than you expected from someone who once struggled to eat spaghetti without splashing sauce on his jersey.
You watched, annoyed, flustered, and—unfortunately—deeply aware of how broad his shoulders were now. He brought your plate over and placed it in front of you, brushing past you just slightly—enough for the heat of his skin to make you forget how forks work.
“Where’s the cheese grater?” he muttered, glancing around.
You didn’t answer.
Because you were definitely checking him out again. The way his back flexed when he bent to open the drawer. The faint trail of water still dripping down his spine from his shower. The way his shorts hung dangerously low on his hips and how the dim lighting made everything—
“Earth to you,” he said, voice suddenly closer.
You blinked—and yelped.
He had leaned in dangerously close, resting a hand beside your stool as he smirked at your expression. His face was mere inches from yours, breath warm and teasing, eyes dancing with mischief.
“You're cute when you're embarrassed,” he murmured.
You blinked. Once. Twice. Brain completely fried.
“I’m already figuring out where to hide your body,” you whispered like a threat—or a prayer.
“Make sure it’s somewhere remote,” he said, pulling away with a satisfied smile. “I get the feeling you’d make it look like an accident.”
You picked up your fork and stabbed the pasta with a vengeance, refusing to look at him while he grated parmesan over your bowl like this was just a normal breakfast between normal people who didn’t have unresolved tension simmering hotter than his marinara.
“You know,” he said after a beat, casually leaning on the counter again, “if you keep crashing at my place, I’m gonna have to start charging rent.”
You glared at him, cheeks still burning. “If I keep crashing here, it’s because you keep ruining my footwear and embarrassing me in public.”
“Wasn’t my fault you sprinted like a baby deer in heels.”
“You’re the reason I ran!”
“You’re the reason I’m shirtless and cooking pasta before noon on a Sunday.”
You opened your mouth, then promptly closed it. You had no good comeback for that.
Instead, you shoved another bite of pasta in your mouth, trying to ignore how good it was. Of course he had to be hot and competent in the kitchen. The universe clearly hated you.
Or worse—it wanted you to fall for Kageyama Tobio all over again.
And you were starting to think, with a horrifying realization, that it might be working.
Kageyama ended up accompanying you to your Airbnb that same afternoon—not that you had much of a choice.
You’d tried to be polite about it, insisting you just needed to swing by to grab new clothes and a couple of things before he dropped you off again. But he just gave you that look—stone-faced, stubborn, unmoved. The same one he used to wear in high school when you tried to convince him to skip warm-ups for bubble tea.
“You’re limping,” he said simply, already matching your slow pace as you hobbled toward the building. “I’m not letting you go alone.”
You scoffed. “You make it sound like I’m on the verge of collapse.”
“You tripped running away from a conversation.”
“That was a strategic retreat.”
His lips twitched like he was fighting a grin, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he waited as you gathered your essentials inside—clothes, charger, skincare—and silently carried your bag for you on the way back to his place like some annoyingly helpful personal bodyguard.
And somehow… you didn’t mind.
With the season on break, Kageyama had more free time than usual, and with your ankle still tender, he took it upon himself to show you around Rome—slowly, carefully, at your limping pace, but with a surprising amount of thoughtfulness.
He brought you to quieter spots most tourists missed. Tucked-away gelato shops. A rooftop view of the Vatican glowing at sunset. A family-run café that apparently served “the only lasagna that doesn’t taste weird.” He always walked a step ahead, glancing back occasionally to check if you were okay—even though he never asked out loud. He just knew.
One afternoon, he handed you a sunhat without looking at you, muttering, “You forgot sunscreen again. I could see you turning red.”
You blinked at him, flustered. “Since when did you become… observant?”
“I’ve always been observant,” he mumbled. “You’re just stupid.”
You smacked him on the arm—gently, because your balance wasn’t great—and he smirked at you, a soft rare thing that did something weird to your heart.
The more time you spent together, the more you realized how nothing between you had really changed—except maybe everything. He wasn’t that grumpy teenage setter anymore. But he was still your best friend. And maybe that’s what made it worse.
Because at some point—maybe it was during a walk by the Tiber River, or when he quietly tied your shoelace so you wouldn’t bend too much—your chest began to ache.
You watched the light catch in his hair as he looked out at the Colosseum and realized you weren’t just enjoying his company.
You were falling again.
Or maybe, you never stopped.
You weren’t over him—not even close. And the way he casually nudged your shoulder when you teased him, the way he instinctively reached for your arm when crossing busy streets, the way he remembered how you like your coffee even after six years—it all hit you at once.
You looked at him across a tiny table at a corner café, him sipping espresso and glancing at the guide map like he was planning another quiet adventure for the next day.
And you thought:
Shit. I never moved on and now he’s right here again.
Helping me walk.
Acting like we never drifted and it’s killing me.
You smiled at him when he looked up, playful and warm, because what else could you do?
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said suspiciously, brow furrowed.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re thinking something embarrassing.”
You snorted. “I’m just thinking how ridiculous it is that you became the considerate one.”
He rolled his eyes, muttering something about how he’s always been considerate, and went back to sipping his coffee.
And you… kept falling. Quietly, hopelessly, stupidly. All over again.
Meanwhile, Kageyama never really got over you.
He told himself for years that it was better this way—that the silence he left between you two would eventually dissolve the tension. Out of sight, out of mind. But the truth was messier than that. Quieter. He'd think about you when he passed a convenience store that carried your favorite snacks, or when someone made a joke with the same dry humor you had, and he'd catch himself laughing before the ache hit.
Ghosting you had been cowardly, and he knew it. But back then, it felt like all he knew how to do. With the demands of volleyball swallowing him whole and the hours between time zones stretching longer than his own words could reach, he’d convinced himself that fading out would hurt you less than dragging you along. It didn’t make sense. Still doesn’t. But at the time, it felt like survival.
Now, watching you limp beside him through cobbled Roman streets, cracking half-hearted jokes while stubbornly refusing his arm for support, he could barely believe you were here. With him. Again.
Even if it took the most cliché setup imaginable—heels snapping, ankle twisting, the universe practically shouting “DO OVER” in dramatic font—it didn’t matter.
He was just… glad. Grateful, even.
Grateful that whatever gods were watching—Roman, volleyball, or just plain absurdity—had decided you two should cross paths again. Grateful that you hadn’t slammed the door in his face, even if your words had every right to be sharp. Grateful that somewhere between the pain and pride, you let him stay.
And somewhere deep down—beneath the guilt, under the layers of awkwardness and time lost—there was hope.
Because the moment your laughter returned, even just for a beat, it made him think:
Maybe he hadn’t lost you forever.
Maybe—just maybe—this was his second chance.
And this time, he wouldn't let himself disappear.
Leaving Rome felt like leaving behind a dream you weren’t ready to wake up from.
The night before your flight, you and Kageyama had dinner on the rooftop of your Airbnb—cheap pasta, a bottle of wine you couldn’t pronounce, and laughter that came easily in the golden hue of the city lights. He held your hand the whole time, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you before you left.
“I’ll stay in touch,” he’d said quietly, staring at you like it hurt to blink. “I’ll call. Every day if you want.”
You had smiled, even though it cracked a little at the corners. “Every day might be overkill.”
“I’m serious,” he said, squeezing your hand. “I’m not letting you disappear again. I’ll do better this time.”
You leaned your forehead against his. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
But he said it again anyway.
“I promise.”
Fast forward fifteen hours, three time zones, and one long cab ride later—you were back in your New York apartment. And you were wrecked.
You didn’t even unpack. Your suitcase was a crumpled heap by the front door, your jacket had somehow landed on your kitchen counter, and you collapsed face-first onto your bed with a muffled groan.
Jetlag was eating you alive. Your brain was in Rome, your body was in New York, and your heart? That was somewhere in between—probably still in his hand.
You hadn’t even processed it. Not really. How it ended, how it paused. You just knew your chest felt heavier now. Emptier.
You closed your eyes.
And then—you heard the doorbell ring.
You groaned into the pillow. “If that’s my neighbor asking about my WiFi again, I swear to God—”
Dragging yourself to your feet like a zombie with a hangover, you shuffled toward the door, hair a mess, socks mismatched, and opened it with the energy of someone who just wanted five uninterrupted hours of sleep.
What you didn’t expect… was him.
There, standing in your doorway with that boyish, awkward stance and a carry-on bag slung over his shoulder, was Kageyama Tobio.
Your mouth parted. “No—freaking—way.”
He held up a phone charger. Your charger.
“You left this,” he said casually.
You blinked. “I—what—how are you—?”
“And also,” he added, eyes not leaving yours, “you left your heart.”
You blinked again. Harder this time. “Did you… did you just quote a romcom line to me?”
He shrugged. “I Googled it.”
Your heart thudded like a drumline in your chest.
“I was on your flight,” he explained, stepping inside uninvited but somehow perfectly welcome. “Three rows behind. You were asleep before we even took off. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You… followed me?”
He didn’t even flinch. “Yeah. Because I didn’t want to let you walk out of my life again. I know it sounds crazy. But… I’ve done the silent goodbyes before. I wasn’t going to do it with you.”
You laughed—shaky and disbelieving. “Tobio, you flew nine hours just to return a charger?”
“No,” he said, stepping closer. “I flew twelve hours because I realized something the second you left. That Rome wasn’t what made this special. You did.”
You went still.
“I kept thinking—what if you get too busy? What if your career takes off even more and I’m just a dot in the background of your world tour? But then I realized I’d rather be a background dot in your story than the star of mine without you in it.”
You blinked up at him, wide-eyed and speechless.
“And I know I’m not the best with words,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck, “or emotions. Or… timing. But I’m not going to miss out again because I’m scared or stubborn.”
Your voice cracked as you whispered, “Are you serious right now?”
“Dead serious,” he murmured. “I’ve got two weeks off. And I plan to spend every single day with you. Even if it’s just helping you unpack or watching you sketch or falling asleep next to you while you curse at sewing needles.”
You laughed through your tears. “This is so stupidly romantic I could punch you.”
“Please don’t,” he said, pulling you into his arms.
And then he kissed you.
Not rushed. Not desperate.
But slow, sure, and full of all the unsaid words and delayed goodbyes and second chances wrapped into one long, world-stopping kiss.
He pulled back just enough to whisper, “I meant what I said. I’m not letting you go.”
You cupped his face, thumb brushing beneath his eye. “You were never supposed to.”
Years later, you found yourself back inside a stadium in Japan—this time not just as a spectator, but as his partner, standing beside your little bundle of joy as he clutched your hand tightly, bouncing on his toes to get a better look at his dad on the court.
Kageyama had returned to the Adlers after wrapping up his contract with Ali Roma, bringing back with him not just sharpened skill, but a stronger sense of self—calmer, more grounded. You still flew to New York occasionally to oversee your design collections, but Tokyo had quietly become your home too. You’d opened your flagship store here not long after the New York launch went global, and its success was just another testament to the name you’d built for yourself in the fashion world.
And now, you and Kageyama were something of a household name. A world-renowned fashion designer and an Olympic volleyball legend—revered individually, but beloved together. People still talked about your wedding in Rome: quiet, romantic, with only family present. A private moment in a city that once brought you back together when everything else seemed too far apart.
A year later, your son was born. Now four, he was all wild hair, bright eyes, and an unshakable obsession with volleyball. Especially when his dad played.
Tonight’s match had been intense, but the Adlers pulled through. Kageyama stood at center court, flushed from the win, sweat clinging to his temples as reporters crowded in. You made your way down with your son, weaving through the press crew until you were just a few steps away from the edge of the court.
One of the reporters leaned in with a smile. “Another MVP title to add to your name, Kageyama. Anything you want to say about tonight’s win?”
He was already glancing off-camera—toward you. And when his eyes found yours, something soft bloomed behind his usual deadpan expression.
“Yeah,” he said into the mic, clearing his throat. “I’d say it all started when I got reconciled with my first love.”
A few chuckles rippled through the group, but Kageyama didn’t look away. If anything, his gaze grew steadier.
“It happened in the most cliché way,” he added, shifting the weight of the towel around his shoulders. “Rome. Of course. But I don’t care how it sounds. That moment changed everything.”
The jumbotron above flickered—and suddenly, the entire stadium was seeing what he saw: you and your son standing courtside. Your hand over your mouth in surprise. Your son pointing up at the screen and giggling, “Mama, it’s us!”
The crowd broke into cheers, some swooning, others outright clapping. You could barely keep the heat from your cheeks, but when Kageyama walked over, lifted your son with ease into his arms, and then pulled you in close with his other hand around your waist, none of it mattered. Not the cameras. Not the jumbotron. Not even the fact that thousands of people were watching.
All that mattered was the way he looked at you.
Like he still couldn’t believe you said yes. Like Rome never really ended. Like this was always meant to be.
And with the stadium echoing with applause, your son playing with the edge of his dad’s medal, and Kageyama brushing a kiss against your forehead for the whole world to see—this, right here, felt like the real win.
Synopsis ❧ Idol!reader and Ushijima secret relationship faces a viral "soft launch" when he accidentally wanders shirtless into her live vlog.
It was supposed to be a simple "Get Ready With Me" vlog for the group’s official channel. You had your ring light set up on the vanity of your shared apartment, the camera angled perfectly to show your skincare routine while keeping the rest of the room a blur.
"And then, for the final step, I use this rosewater mist," you chirped at the lens, holding the bottle up. "It’s super refreshing after a long dance practice—"
THUD. THUD. THUD.
The rhythmic, heavy sound of footsteps approached. You froze. You had forgotten that today was Ushijima’s "active recovery" day.
The door swung open. Ushijima strode into the frame, shirtless, with a towel draped around his neck and a gallon-sized water bottle in one hand. He didn't look at the camera. He didn't even look at you. He walked straight to the closet behind you, reached for a fresh training shirt on the top shelf revealing every rippling muscle in his back to your 5 million subscribers and then paused.
He finally noticed the glowing ring light.
The silence lasted for five very long, very high-definition seconds.
Ushijima turned his head slowly, squinting at the camera lens as if it were a particularly difficult blocker at the net. You sat there, misting bottle paralyzed in mid-air.
"Are you recording a video?" he asked, his voice a deep, morning gravel.
"Toshi," you whispered, your face turning a shade of red that matched your group’s official fandom color. "I'm live-recording. To the internet. Right now."
He looked at the camera again. Most people would have ducked or dived out of the way. Ushijima Wakatoshi simply adjusted his posture.
"I see," he said. He stepped closer, his massive shoulder completely obscuring your face from the frame. He leaned down until his nose was inches from the lens. "Hello. Please ensure she eats the breakfast I left on the counter. She often forgets when she is focused on her choreography."
"Toshi! Get out!" you squealed, pushing his solid bicep. It was like trying to move a redwood tree.
"I am leaving," he said, unfazed. He looked back at the lens one last time. "Also, our next home game is on Saturday. Tickets are available on the V-League website. Goodbye."
He walked out, shutting the door with a firm, decisive click.
You sat in stunned silence for a moment before looking at the recording monitor. The comments section of the "preview" clip was already moving so fast it was a blur of gibberish.
Y/Nbunny: IS THAT SCHWEIDEN ADLERS USHIJIMA?!
hugs4Y/N: DID HE JUST PLUG HIS VOLLEYBALL GAME ON A BEAUTY VLOG??
foreverY/N: THE BACK MUSCLES. I AM GOING FERAL.
loveY/N: 'Please ensure she eats’ I'm crine he's so blunt but so sweet??
You sighed, burying your face in your hands. Your manager was going to have a heart attack, but your engagement metrics were about to hit an all time high.
the air tastes like dust and copper. you’re alone, the shouts of your classmates distant now, drowned beneath the thrum of your heartbeat. four figures step from the ruined hallway, backlit by the firelight spilling from shattered windows.
warp fist twitches, sweat gleaming on his temples, hands opening and closing like he can’t stop them. razorvine spreads his arms with a flourish, tendrils of thorny green slithering from the cracks in his skin. shatterpoint spins a pen between his fingers like a cigarette, smug grin plastered on his face. ironclad cracks his knuckles, metal rippling up his forearms like liquid steel.
you roll your shoulders. 1 vs 4. not bad odds.
razorvine goes first, because of course he does. vines lash toward you like whips, screeching as they cut the air. you sidestep, planting your heel into the ground just enough to let the kinetic jolt run up your leg. absorb. it tingles through your calves, settling into your core.
warp fist flinches and flicks his hand, and suddenly space buckles near your shoulder—a jagged rift, unstable, like glass under pressure. instinct snaps you back, your quirk buzzing in your nerves as fragments of warped air shear past, cutting into the wall instead.
you don’t have time to breathe. shatterpoint taps his pen and tosses it. pop. the hallway rattles with the blast, smoke choking the air. before you can blink, ironclad barrels through it, steel fist raised like a wrecking ball.
you take the hit.
it’s like being punched by a car, ribs screaming as the shock drives you back through a cracked doorframe. but your quirk hums, eager, drinking in the force. your chest burns, lungs straining, but the energy fills you.
“thanks,” you rasp, and you release.
your counterpunch slams into his chestplate with the fury of a cannon. the stored force ripples through your arm, detonating on impact. ironclad stumbles—metal ringing like a church bell—as he plows back into the opposite wall, masonry raining around him.
razorvine laughs too loud. “yes! feed her more, brothers! feed the storm until she breaks!” his vines swarm again, sprouting from floor and ceiling.
you dash low, ricocheting off a shattered locker. your feet spark against the tiles, the stored force from ironclad still burning in your bones. you weave between thorns, grabbing one mid-swing, and snap it clean with a twist of your wrist.
warp fist panics—of course he does—and opens another rift, this one wobbling wider, spitting arcs of raw light. you angle toward him, but shatterpoint is already there, finger tapping a loose locker hinge. bang. shrapnel sprays like bullets.
you shield your face with your arm, absorbing the peppering hits. sharp stings dot your skin, bruises blooming, but the energy stacks, hot and heavy.
too much, whispers the back of your mind. you can’t tell where the pain ends and the fuel begins.
you channel it anyway.
a spin kick launches you forward, the release forming a shockwave that snaps razorvine’s tendrils mid-air. the blast shoves warp fist off balance, his unstable portal wobbling like a puddle of oil about to spill.
ironclad roars, already back on his feet, dents marking his metal chest. “hit harder!” he shouts, charging again.
and you grin. these guys are stupid.
the hallway becomes chaos—razorvine shrieking about nature’s revenge, his vines clawing like a tidal wave; shatterpoint exploding tiles under your feet, smug voice echoing over the thunder; warp fist sweating bullets, rifts flickering open and closed like he’s juggling knives; ironclad smashing forward, relentless, tanking through debris.
but every strike they land only feeds you. every slam, every graze, every scrape of vine or blast of shrapnel—weaving into you, stored like fire in your veins.
you move like lightning ricocheting off steel. step, absorb. strike, release. walls fracture under your fists. the floor dips from shockwaves. you are the eye of the storm, and the villains are too blind to see it.
then—
warp fist screams. the largest rift yet yawns open behind him, sucking the air like a vacuum. this one isn’t controlled. this one is hungry.
“i—I didn’t mean—!” he stammers, clawing at the air as gravity itself twists sideways.
razorvine’s vines whip wildly, dragged toward the churning void. shatterpoint curses, dropping another pen that detonates uselessly mid-pull. ironclad digs his metal hands into the floor, anchoring himself as the tiles rip free.
and you—
you’re already halfway airborne, the pull catching your limbs. the energy in your body thrashes, begging to be released, but there’s nowhere to aim.
the world folds. colors smear. your stomach lurches.
you scream into the rushing dark as the rift swallows all of you—
and when the light returns, you’re standing on polished wood.
the ceiling is high, lamps buzzing above. a net cuts across the floor, white lines marking a pristine court. the villains sprawl around you, dazed, as ironclad crushes a volleyball under his weight.
you’re on a volleyball court.
villains crash down around you, tangled messes of blood and vines and steel. ozone and smoke curl up the rafters.
at least fifteen stunned eyes. shiratorizawa’s players freeze mid-drill, sneakers squeaking as they stagger back. a ball hits the floor, hollow and final. their coach shouts, voice breaking under the weight of the scene.
tendō breaks silence first.
“…uh, wakatoshi? i don’t think this is practice.”
“...what the hell?” one whispers.
shirabu grips the ball cart like it’s a shield. semi and goshiki stare wide-eyed, as if they’ve been dropped into the third act of a horror movie.
and then there’s him.
he doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. doesn’t need to. where everyone else recoils, his presence only sharpens. his stillness carries weight—like the gym itself is holding its breath around him. the air feels denser near him, as if gravity favors him over the rest of the world.
his gaze fixes on you, steady and flat, a pressure that crawls under your skin. no malice, no kindness, just inevitability—like a fault line waiting for the quake. every instinct screams danger. not because of what he does, but because of what he is.
your quirk hums, restless, drawn to it. not ironclad’s blunt force. not shatterpoint’s cheap sparks. not warp fist’s unstable void. him. a center of gravity in human form. an aura so heavy you can taste it, metallic on your tongue.
you drag yourself upright, blood streaking your face, chest burning, ribs sharp under every breath. your palm leaves a print of red on the wood. you don’t take your eyes off him.
the villains groan behind you, dragging themselves back to their feet. razorvine muttering, ironclad growling, warp fist trembling. you barely hear them.
every cell is locked onto the silent storm standing across the court.
your lip splits wider as you grin, feral.
“you.”
the single word cuts through everything—shouts, moans, even the squeak of sneakers. the gym falls colder, quieter. ushijima doesn’t blink.
you square your shoulders, blood on your cheek, quirk burning electric under your skin.
— wakatoshi’s old teammates accidentally expose the truth about the “retriever zone” on national tv, and now the internet won’t shut up about how he used volleyballs as guided missiles to protect his fiancée.
ts!ushijima wakatoshi x f!reader | fluff | request
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
there were three people you could always count on to ruin ushijima’s carefully cultivated “calm, professional athlete” reputation: tendō, semi, and shirabu.
and unfortunately, all three of them were invited to the same live interview.
you’d been watching from the couch, freshly showered and wrapped in ushijima’s ridiculously oversized adlers hoodie, sipping tea like a woman awaiting the explosion of a nuclear bomb she personally helped design.
the host smiled brightly at the trio. “so, gentlemen—what was ushijima like back in high school?”
the camera zoomed in on tendō’s grin, a grin that screamed oh i’m about to cause problems.
“well,” tendō began, “he was… protective.”
“protective,” semi repeated, snickering.
shirabu adjusted his mic. “that’s an understatement.”
“protective how?” the host asked, curious.
the three exchanged glances. tendō leaned forward like he was sharing a dark secret. “have you ever heard of the retriever zone?”
the host blinked. “the what?”
“the retriever zone,” semi said ominously, like it was a war crime.
the studio went silent.
and somewhere across tokyo, you groaned into your hands.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
tendō, of course, went on to explain the entire saga in painstaking, dramatic detail.
“he declared y/n his ‘official ball retriever,’ right?” tendō said, waving his hands. “but then he—get this—wouldn’t let her actually retrieve anything!”
“he used volleyballs as weapons,” semi added. “like actual missiles. anyone who went near her got sniped.”
“and i mean sniped,” shirabu emphasized, looking directly at the camera. “like, you could feel the wind from the spike before you even saw the ball.”
the host’s eyes widened. “you’re joking.”
“oh no,” tendō said solemnly. “we have footage.”
“FOOTAGE?!”
and before anyone could stop them, tendō was holding up his phone to the camera like a proud mother showing baby pictures.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
cut to: grainy old video from shiratorizawa’s gym, timestamped 2012.
you were standing by the bench, handing ushijima a towel, smiling.
goshiki dashed past in the background.
WHAM.
the volleyball blurred through the frame like a bullet, goshiki dove to the floor, and tendō’s voice from behind the camera yelled, “THE RETRIEVER ZONE CLAIMS ANOTHER VICTIM!”
the studio burst into chaos.
the host covered her mouth, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.
“this can’t be real!” she gasped.
“oh, it’s real,” semi said smugly. “the retriever zone was law. you entered, you died.”
“wakatoshi had zero chill,” tendō added fondly. “man was more trigger-happy than a sniper in an action movie.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
by the end of the segment, the internet had exploded.
clips flooded every platform within minutes.
#RetrieverZone trended number one in japan.
people were editing dramatic music over the slow-motion footage of ushijima’s spikes like it was a national geographic documentary about territorial animals.
tweets like:
@ creamatoes: “imagine getting body-checked by a volleyball just for standing near ushijima’s gf.”
@ teelovr: “he’s not blocking balls, he’s blocking competition.”
@ beetwos:“y/n is living every wattpad girl’s dream and every bystander’s nightmare.”
the adlers’ social media manager, poor soul, was having a meltdown.
you, however, couldn’t stop laughing.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
“wakatoshi,” you wheezed, scrolling through your feed. “someone edited your spikes to the avengers soundtrack.”
he blinked at you, freshly home from practice, hair still damp. “which one?”
“the dramatic one. with violins. every time you hit the ball, it goes dun dun DUNNNN—”
he didn’t even flinch. “that’s accurate.”
“accurate?! baby, they’re making memes of you. there’s fanart. there’s a subreddit called ‘men who would die in the retriever zone.’”
“that seems correct.”
you threw a pillow at him, giggling. “you’re unbelievable.”
he caught it effortlessly. “you’re laughing.”
“i’m dying!”
“you’re smiling.”
“because you’re ridiculous.”
“because i love you.”
and that shut you right up.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the second interview—because of course there was a second interview—was even worse.
the network had smelled gold and decided to run a live “proof special.”
tendō, semi, and shirabu stood in a studio gym, grinning like villains, with a literal net set up behind them. ushijima, already there for a press event, had been tricked into participating.
you sat in the front row beside the announcer, heart doing somersaults.
“so, ushijima,” the host said, microphone in hand. “rumor has it you used to, uh, ‘defend your girlfriend’s honor’ with volleyballs. care to comment?”
he stared into the camera, deadly serious. “she is my fiancée now.”
the audience screamed.
tendō hollered, “AND HE’S STILL JUST AS SCARY!”
semi yelled, “RETELL THE LEGEND, CAPTAIN!”
shirabu muttered under his breath, “this is going to end in a lawsuit.”
the host, losing it, pointed toward you. “would you like to see the retriever zone in action?”
you buried your face in your hands. “oh my god.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the demonstration
tendō and semi decided to “test the perimeter.”
“for science,” tendō said.
“for trauma,” shirabu muttered.
tendō took one step toward you—
SMACK.
the ball whizzed past his shoulder, brushing a strand of his hair.
the audience gasped.
semi tried next—
WHAM.
the volleyball ricocheted off the wall behind him, bounced off the floor, and landed neatly in ushijima’s hand again like it was trained.
the host nearly fainted.
the audience went feral.
tendō lay on the floor, cackling. “HE’S STILL GOT IT! THE ZONE LIVES ON!”
“of course it does,” ushijima said, walking over to you, calm and collected despite the hysteria. “some things don’t change.”
you could practically hear the collective swoon of a million viewers as he pressed a kiss to your temple right there, live on national tv.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
within hours, the internet combusted again.
the clip of him catching the ball one-handed and kissing you afterward had gone viral in thirty countries.
people were editing fake movie trailers titled “the retriever zone: based on a true love story.”
there were fancams of you and ushijima set to love songs. someone made fanart of tendō wearing a helmet labeled retriever survivor.
and under every post, thousands of comments:
@ unih8r: “he’s not just serving balls, he’s serving loyalty.”
@ baldby30: “this man’s reflexes are powered by devotion.”
@ ynfanclub: “every spike says ‘touch my girl and perish.’”
ushijima, completely unfazed, read one aloud. “this one says i have sniper instincts.”
“that’s because you do!” you laughed. “you’re like if cupid joined the military.”
he tilted his head, thinking. “that’s accurate.”
“no, baby, it’s not—”
“you were my target,” he said simply, “and i never missed.”
your brain short-circuited. “you can’t just say things like that on a thursday afternoon.”
“why not? it’s true.”
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
the next day, adlers practice was delayed because ushijima’s locker had been covered in heart-shaped post-it notes from fans reading things like ‘please spike me next’ and ‘retriever zone me, daddy.’ (these are my tweets, sorry y’all)
tendō sent you a photo. “look what you’ve unleashed.”
semi texted: “he’s trending higher than the olympics.”
shirabu just sent: “i hate it here.”
you, meanwhile, were curled up in ushijima’s hoodie again, scrolling through memes and trying not to scream every time someone called you ‘mrs. retriever zone’.
ushijima sat beside you, quiet, steady warmth radiating off him.
when he noticed you grinning at a compilation titled “reasons ushijima wakatoshi is the final boss of love,” he leaned over, curious. “what are they saying now?”
you turned the phone so he could see.
the video flashed through clips of him spiking, glaring, standing in front of you, kissing your forehead—and the final caption read:
“he doesn’t block volleyballs. he blocks the entire population from touching his girl.”
he hummed softly, wrapping an arm around you. “accurate.”
you laughed, half-exasperated, half-in-love. “you’re impossible.”
he smiled against your hair. “and you’re mine.”
and that—between the memes, the interviews, and the chaos of it all—was still the truest thing of all.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
when ushijima kissed you that night, soft and slow, his hand cradling your jaw like you were made of glass, you thought about how the world saw him now—this quiet storm of a man who launched volleyballs like bullets, who turned protection into poetry, who could make a stadium scream and still look at you like you were the only thing that ever mattered.
and you realized: they could meme him all they wanted, turn him into a joke, a legend, a trending tag—
but no one would ever understand that when he said safe,
what he really meant was mine, always mine, in every lifetime.
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡
a: i barely get any sleep these days. i got 2 hours today.
"I got possessed by a MCU yaoi demon and everything I thought I knew about storytelling was existentially destroyed"
(the essay about storytelling I'm never going to properly finish writing)
Back in December of 2025, I wrote this:
I read a piece of advice to actors. It said that if you are failing to truly inhabit the mind space of the character and portray them, you must imagine yourself as the body through which the character is allowed to live. You must become a conduit for the character’s spirit, screaming to exist and have life. They cannot breathe except through your breath, they cannot speak except through your voice, they cannot live except by living through you. I can’t even express it the way that it was expressed. I haven’t stopped thinking about it.
The verb “animate” keeps coming to mind. Not to animate, but to be animated. That is to say, to be moved by something else, to have your body filled by the life of a something that lives through you. I can’t stop thinking about it.
It's a long story, which I will shorten considerably because this is an essay about storytelling, not an attempt to explain the ecology of the Doohickey that is my brain.
The previous summer, I had a dream that told me to watch Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and I became obsessed and I mean OBSESSED with the character Bucky Barnes.
And I had never really read fanfiction before, nothing beyond short one-shots, but that summer I read an absolute FUCK TON of Bucky fanfiction.
What is annoying me about the intro to this essay, is that I keep trying and completely failing to convey how hilariously absurd the situation felt. It was like a demon was trying to possess me. I was fighting it. I was losing. I didn't give a shit about the MCU. I didn't read fanfiction. I definitely didn't write fanfiction. This was not going to be a thing that happened to me.
I made a spreadsheet, analyzing 20 of my most favorite long-form (shortest 20k, longest 275k, average 70k-100k words) fics and their characteristics and themes, with quotes.
I swore up and down that I would NOT write my own Bucky fanfiction.
I started writing my own Bucky fanfiction.
In this process, everything I thought I knew about storytelling was existentially destroyed.
This is not the beginning, but I'll begin there anyway
I had a major mental breakdown in 2021, and thereafter became obsessed with plants. I delved into a fascination with and immersion in the natural world that felt like a spiritual revelation and changed me irreversibly.
But I didn't know what to do with the self I had built before this, the one that was "a writer" as my fundamental identity. I had been consumed with being a writer every single day of being sentient thus far, and now, it was like I wasn't that person anymore at all. Suddenly, I had a self outside of my creative work; I had an identity, a consuming passion, that didn't revolve around writing.
I knew that a re-synthesis of the two "selves" was coming, but I demanded, when? I was frustrated with the immovable message that there was something in there I still needed to uncover or to understand before I could return to writing stories again.
I kept trying to come back to it, and every time, there was a quiet, "No, not yet."
I had been wandering a creative desert for 2 or 3 years, and this had never happened before in my life. I felt like I didn't understand what being a writer was all about anymore.
Early in 2025, I wrote this journal entry:
I want to make something, to do something with meaning. I want to be creative again like I was back when publishing a book seemed like the goal of my life. I have suddenly outgrown so much of myself. Maybe I need something that feels like a divine calling, to be illuminated and animated by the inevitability of my purpose.
(I started using the pronoun "you", talking to myself)
You’re like that with your plants. It’s an oddly religious fervor. You need to save the world so bad. You need to do something special and great and essential.
You made writing your identity in an intense and self-annihilating way. It wasn’t just who you were, it was what you were for, it was why you were. Then you had a time in your life where that hugely important and meaning-making thing was empty and alienating to you. The poetry could not save you. And if it couldn’t save you, was it saving anybody?
You found yourself repulsed by the things that had once felt so essential to humanity understanding itself, because you saw that they were full of false and cruel messages, preoccupied with despair without any inkling of how to move beyond it.
And it seemed to you that this idea—that art, specifically storytelling, literature, was what gave humanity the ability to lift a lantern to the darkness—might be one of those false and cruel ideas. These writers were egotistical, yourself included.
They wallowed in the idea of a dark and comfortless world lit only by the lanterns of writers to show us how to be human and relate to one another. But they did not love reality.
Now you still have this feeling that whatever you write has to perfectly capture all you want to do and be and say in some way. It’s very silly.
The problem with stories as fixed, owned things
So I was wrestling with this idea in my head, that writers don't necessarily actually create the things that they write, that they are more of an amplifier or something that stories flow through.
I felt that, even though it was tempting to think that writers were able to solubilize everything they took in and completely re-synthesize it into something “new,” whether this was stories they read, experiences they had, or what arrived with the even murkier provenance of imagination, writers weren't a special class of person capable of creating "new things."
Furthermore, I was beginning to feel that it was virtually impossible for the entire depth and breadth of a world that opens up within a story to be explored and plumbed by a single person. Fantasy and sci-fi authors toy with this idea of "world-building," but the "worlds" are mostly flat and repetitive of others' worlds.
Reading large amounts of spec fic as a teenager, I'd had the same thought over and over again, but just wasn't sure how to express it: all of this is so superfluous. It was so excessive to have each writer playing in the little tidepool of their own little "fantasy/scifi world" that they "created," which was 90% the same as every other "fantasy/scifi world," and had 2 or 3 incredibly powerful, compelling ideas in it, which would languish and wilt because no one else was allowed to use them and likewise the writer wasn't allowed to use anyone else's cool ideas.
Everything in "original fiction" is wildly derivative, but for bizarre legal and cultural reasons, we are forced to obscure or conceal the derivative nature of it. Our space wizards can't be Jedi, they have to be Auii'thar, and they don't use the Force, they tap into the Essence. And they can't use laser swords because that idea is Taken, so they have to use, like, bows and arrows or something.
But the thing is. You can't come up with something cooler than a lightsaber.
When "writers" are considered to be "creators," and to own the stories they "create," it means that engaging in storytelling as a "writer" excludes that story from being told by other people.
E.g. if I wrote a story about a bunch of cats that live in clans, wage war against each other, are given special names at different times in their lives, and receive visions from their cat ancestors, and I named prominent characters in it Graystripe and Firestar and Yellowfang, I couldn't profit off this story and more importantly, I really couldn't have it recognized as art, because that conceptual territory is already controlled by the Erin Hunters who "created" the Warriors series.
You might say that, well, eventually stories enter the public domain, but they still spent decades with their idea-space dominated, sterilized and controlled.
Once a story enters the public domain, the writer and so-called "creator" is dead; actual transmission of stories, inter-generationally, with call and response between teller and audience, with teller and listener inverting and exchanging positions, with multiple storytellers explosively interacting and exploring in the same initial idea-space that came into being in their own cultural context and time, cannot happen.
Yes, we are free to write our own stories about Nick Carraway and Jay Gatsby now and those stories are allowed to be "art" and high culture instead of "fanfiction" and low or folk culture, but for the past century this story was enclosed in a razor-wire fencing to exclude other tellers, the gravel around it sprayed with pesticide to prevent any story-weeds. We can tell the story again, but F. Scott Fitzgerald is dead and cannot sit around our campfire as a listener.
And of course, The Great Gatsby is now forever enshrined as The Definitive Version, the real version, the original version.
"Writing" and "Storytelling"
But fanfiction is something very, very different.
Captain America: The Winter Soldier is not the definitive, or real, or original version of the story Bucky fanfiction is telling. Bucky fanfiction is almost never retelling or competing with the "canon." It's usually not a direct continuation or sequel of the "canon," at least not one that is compliant with "canon" both in letter and in spirit.
There's a translation happening, film is a totally different medium than writing, and there is a different spirit behind the writing.
In other words, the Bucky fics aren't adding onto or seamlessly attaching to CA:TWS; they are using it for ingredients. They are taking the parts of it that are compelling and they are exploring what stories can be told with those parts. What ties the Buckyfic universe together is not that every teller agrees on a definitive version of the story or even likes the source material; it is that every teller has the same starting ingredients, just like storytellers of older times were all looking up at the same constellations.
It is not actually possible to say everything that a story CAN say in one telling. An idea-space can have multiple mutually exclusive, contradictory stories in it that are all valuable to tell, and the cultural and legal obligation to tell THE single true and exclusive version of a story, to own it and lay claim to it, extinguishes this incredibly vital aspect of the aliveness of storytelling.
I said before that I really liked reading fics where Bucky and Steve were part of a community of queer people in the 1930s and they weren’t just isolated and ashamed. That really compelled me. However, in my own Bucky fanfiction I wrote a version where Steve does struggle with internalized homophobia and the fact that he never actually expressed his feelings for Bucky. And that’s not rejecting the other version.
Different Bucky fics can and do explore suicidality, perpetrator trauma, survivor’s guilt, the effect of trauma on sexuality, loss of bodily autonomy, fragmented identity, agency and lack thereof, the ambiguity of memory, the survival behaviors created by abuse, the nationalist mythologizing of war, disability, caregiver fatigue, internalized victim blaming, and many more, and these versions become contradictory, but if you asked me to choose one Bucky fic to become “the canon” while all others were annihilated, I couldn’t do it.
They're all valuable. They all mean something and say something, and it's valuable to be able to read them all. None of them are "the real one" or "the original one." They're all equally real.
I had a moment of realizing...Oh. I am not its [the story's] creator. I am its host body.
Which raised the question of, why am *I* the host body? What does the host body *do*? What is my task, and how do I do it well?
The aliveness of stories
I thought about seeing a Shakespeare play in a community theatre. The story is reanimated every time the play is performed, flowing in many different bodies. Then I thought about a storyteller, telling a story in real time.
A storyteller sits around the campfire with their audience and tells a story. The storyteller is a performer. They may not be the originator of the story; they are simply embodying it.
The storyteller sits among their audience. The writer is separated from the reader’s experience, physically, temporally; the storyteller experiences the story’s unfolding alongside the audience. The audience and storyteller look one another in the eyes; they call and respond.
When a play is performed, decisions are made about how to embody it; everyone is a participant in that story. Even when the words are exact, even when the script is the same, a live performance has to re-animate the story every time. It is a different life, a different creature, every time it is performed.
Practically every performance of a play includes some kind of accident, where a line is forgotten or a prop breaks or an actor must improvise when the performance has veered off script, and this is part of the aliveness of theatre. When you participate in a play as an actor, you have to be ready to improvise, which means you can unexpectedly be pulled into the role of creator, required to invent something new in real time.
The world of fanfiction had that aliveness in a way that the world of original fiction did not. The interactions between writers and readers, the interconnectivity between all sorts of fan creators and enjoyers of their creations, the cross-pollination and contradiction, the way fanfics inspired and were derived from other fanfics until entire tropes and ideas were born completely separate from the canon; it was a dense, layered network of collective creation, and it honed in on and developed the most compelling ideas, telling the stories again and again in different ways.
Fanfiction has given me a glimpse into what storytelling could be. What storytelling has always been, really. It's made me realize how fake and restrictive "originality" is, and how egotistical and limiting it is to think of "writers" in the way we do, as special, talented people who shut themselves up in private and generate fully formed, fixed, definitive works of art out of their insides like magic.
It really just obliterates the entire way we think about art, like, the main fact you learn about any piece of art is who made it.
And when it is something big, like a film, there is a pyramid-like hierarchy of makers, with the Director and maybe the writer on top and everyone who does all the costumes and props and the stunt people and the actors and lights and sound technicians below.
But what if art doesn't happen like that? What if we collectively create it? What if we help create it by experiencing it and responding to it? How could art change if we changed the way we understood it?
Thanks for the enlightenment, Bucky. I know less than I ever knew before!
why the line “yet i am by nature a boy, not a girl” lives rent free in my head
So I watched 霸王别姬/Farewell my Concubine (1993) and the scene that stuck with me the most was a young Douzi finally singing a line from the opera Dreaming of the World Outside the Nunnery correctly. According to the subs the original line is “Yet I am by nature a girl, not a boy”. He repeatedly gets it wrong by saying “Yet I am by nature a boy, not a girl.” In my opinion. this ‘mistake’ is incredibly significant because when put in context, it shows how Dieyi and others perceive himself and most importantly, sums up his relationship with Duan Xiaolou.
This movie got me fucked up. The way it interplayed isolation, gender exploration, the volatile political landscape that was 20th Century China, cycles of abuse, and incredibly complex relationships was just perfection.
