tsukishima kei doesn’t need to tell you he loves you, he’s always showing it …
he lets out a deep exaggerated sigh. it’s a sigh of contemplation.
tsukishima kei is tucked into the warm fuzzy pink blanket you bought online, his glasses placed on the nightstand besides your shared bed. he’s ready to head to bed, so comfortable, a part of him wants to turn around and act as if he doesn’t see the way your eyes repeatedly flutter open and close — struggling to keep yourself awake.
you should’ve finished your night time skincare routine before the sleepiness kicked in, instead you spent over three hours on animal crossing doing all kinds of tasks for bells. when kei attempted to remind you of the time, you ranted about needing to pay off the loan from a greedy raccoon named tom nook.
kei tugs the warm blanket off his body, sitting up on the mattress before walking in your direction. you feel the warmth of his presence before you see him. he leans his large frame down, placing a peck on the side of your face before grabbing your headband and placing it around your neck before pushing all the hairs back. tsukishima makes sure not a single strand of hair touches your face by using a hair tie and putting it up in a messy bun.
he snickers, a soft smile tugging on his lips when he notices the way your eyes shut close and body relaxes with his touch.
tsukishima shifts your body in his direction, getting a proper view of your face, he begins the first step of your skin care routine. his slender fingers gently gliding over your face spreading the cleanser. you begin to hum a gentle tune, one he recognizes as atm by twice’s jihyo (he’s heard you sing along over a billion times).
you’re trying to keep yourself awake, feeling a little guilty for forcing him out of bed to care for you. he can tell by the way your nose scrunches up and brows furrow together, a little habit you do when the overthinking begins to take over your mind.
“stop worrying,” your eyes flutter open at his words, “i’d do this for you every night if you let me.” the sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, oh how you continue to love this blonde man.
he watches the way your eyes flutter open to meet his, your face heating up and eyes shyly flickering to the ground at the sudden eye contact. kei thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world, how you manage to get so flustered by him despite the few years you’ve been together.
yours eyes snap shut in pain, a whine escaping your mouth when your eyes begin to sting. tsukishima laughs, while rushing to wash your face. he finishes the last steps of your routine, applying moisturizer, allowing the product to set for a few minutes before sweeping you off your feet and into his arms.
the way he places you down on your shared mattress is gentle, kei doesn’t hesitate to wrap you in the blanket pressing the most tender kiss on your lips before climbing in beside you. his large arms pulling you close against his lean body, one hand is wrapped around your waist — keeping you close, while the other is stroking your hair.
you nuzzle your head in the croak of his neck, and he can feel the way your lips curve into a smile. tsukishima kei isn’t the kind of guy who always says, “i love you,” that doesn’t mean he doesn’t say the words at all. he does, but kei is better at showing you the love he has for you.
despite the commonly cocky act that ATSUMU puts up, he is a real loverboy. he gets so incredibly whipped for his girl that, frankly, it is embarrassing. everyone is sick of the doughy look he gets in his eyes if you are so much as in his line of vision, let alone close. he sees the flecks of colour in your eyes, smells the faintest bit of your perfume, and simply melts. he becomes a mass of wax liquidizing into you and forming to the shape of your body, the imprint of you forever left on him. he carries his love like a physical weight — not a burden, but something to be proud of holding.
atsumu is a loud lover. not with his words, but with his being. your love is ever present in the eyes of others, known by all and then some. but it is when you are alone that really makes your chest warm. you could take now for example; the sound of the door clicking shut behind him and his heavy footsteps bounding toward where you stand in the kitchen say well enough about the sucky mood he is in.
it really is not his fault. he walks in, tired after a long day. his hands ache from impact, eyes stinging with exhaustion. and then you are there, standing with your back to him, looking so inviting and warm as you saunter around your shared living space. it makes something in his heart twist in a warm, fond sort of way, and before he knows it he is padding over to you. his rough hands are doing an oddly boyish, clingy action as they wrap around you and fist your shirt, face pressing into the back of your shoulder.
his weight sags against you, nearly knocking you into the counter. you put down the fruit you had been cutting and snort. “tired?”
you feel a faint exhale against your shoulder, warmth spreading across your skin through the fabric of the shirt you wear. he speaks, muffled by cotton but coherent nonetheless, “what, I gotta be exhausted to wanna show my girl a little love?” a short pause. “I mean, I am, but i’ll hug ya’ if I want to anyway.”
his words come as a petulant murmur. biting back the laugh that crawls up your throat lodged to be incredibly difficult, but he does not notice the quirk of your lips. he happens to be rather preoccupied with nuzzling into you and seemingly trying to crawl into your skin. he would become one with you if he could, you are certain.
“yeah, yeah, you big loser.”
“yer’ so mean to me.” he is whining, but you feel his lips curl into a smile. he loves it, the back and forth. he loves you. he has long since given up on hiding the latter fact, though.
Hajime Iwaizumi has always been private; so, it didn't come as a surprise when he mentioned keeping y'all's relationship a secret. And it works... until it doesn't. Because one afternoon, you overhear just enough of a conversation to spiral.
wc: 5.2k
a/n: sooo I broke this into two parts. This one-shot is supposed to be centered around miscommunication (with a good ending, dw everyone!). And I really wanted to give background as to why Iwaizumi would say the things he did/act the way he did. Hopefully, this set-up of how you met and how... some teammates act around you... gives lead way into his reasonings in part two.
❀ all images are found off of pinterest! I do not own them.
The first time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were in second grade.
You’d wandered into the school gym after classes like you always did, mind filled with anticipation as you pictured the small square scooters lined up against the wall — the very ones Mr. Nakamura let you ride while you waited for your parents. It wasn’t anything special, not really. But it was yours. A moment in time that was quiet and predictable.
Except that day, it wasn’t.
Because two boys, who appeared older (not to mention louder), were dragging a long white net across the floor, stretching it right through the space you’d claimed as your own for the past few weeks. And honestly, the scrape of it against the worn down scooters made something ache in your chest.
Maybe it was because your once predictable atmosphere had turned incalculable. Maybe it was because you couldn’t fathom how the gym teacher would allow such preposterous energy to enter this space during your quiet time. Or maybe it was because you were wholeheartedly, unexpectedly, thrown into a lion’s den; mind racing with possible conversations the two boys could conjure up.
I mean, of all days for someone to take over your spot. Of all people for Mr. Nakamura to say yes to. You were irritated; Infuriated, even. So rightfully vexed that you were preparing yourself to turn around, maybe even say something — something dismissive, something that would make it clear the situation irked you.
Until one of them looked up.
His short hair was a mess, eyes narrowed in concentration as if the world around him didn’t matter as much as the unfolded net. There was something almost stubborn in his expression. A flicker of indignation that gleamed in the rounds of his eyes.
And just like that, the irritation fizzled out as quickly as it had come, replaced by something far worse — heat creeping up your legs, blood quickening through your veins.
He was cute.
“Hey!” You flinched at the sudden outburst, irises glancing over to his friend. It was odd, the way they differed so distinctly from each other. The taller one was clean-cut; an innocent smile glued to his face. There were no narrowed brows, no sense of exasperation. Just a young boy oozing with confidence. “Think you can toss some balls for us?”
Your heart jumped at the query — shit, this wasn’t part of your scenarios. Not once did you anticipate that they’d ask you to join. But rehearsed or not, it didn’t matter. Because that meant staying. That meant being closer… and maybe, just maybe, the cute boy would look at you again.
But then the voices echoed. The cynical notions that would always find a way to etch itself into the grooves of your brain, replaying at a constant rate until every pragmatic counter argument became nothing but fibs: What if you messed up? What if your throw was awful? What if you embarrassed yourself? What if he noticed — and not in a good way?
Your throat tightened. “I—” Yet nothing came out. All that remained was the suffocating silence and utter confusion written on both of their faces.
So, you did the only thing you could at eight years old: You turned on your heel and bolted. And by the time you made it outside, your vision had blurred, tears slipping out before you could stop them — frustration and embarrassment were the sole embodiments of your existence. I mean, why did something so small feel so overwhelming?
All you could discern was the fact that you hadn’t even learned his name. And next time — next time you weren’t going to freeze up. In fact, you’d never let a situation like that cause such panic ever again.
Which was why the second time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, you were different. You had spent the past nine years of your life forcing yourself to talk more, smile more, throw yourself into conversations before doubt could catch up. And it worked, mostly.
At least, until he appeared again.
You were mid-conversation, attention narrowed entirely on the blonde in front of you — the one currently rambling about the science project you’d just been paired on. Normally, you wouldn’t have given such undivided attention to a mundane conversation. But he was cute. And you’d be damned if you got another A- in this course.
“I was thinking we could do reaction times,” Haru continued, completely unaware of the advantage he had just by existing the way he did — longer strides, effortless pacing. You noticed it immediately, the way you had to step forward, then quicken, just to stay beside him. “Like, testing how different stimuli affect reflex speed. It’d be fun. There’s a ton we could do with that!”
You nodded, keeping pace as best as you could. “I agree.”
“Oh good! I knew choosing you as a partner would be a good idea…” You didn’t notice the chair. Nor did he. At least, not until your shin collided with cold metal; the impact sent a sharp jolt up your leg, your balance pitching forward before you could catch it, allowing a sliver of moment to let your head collide with the edge of a table. The pain was instantaneous; a flourish of heat ruminating the left hemisphere of your forehead.
“Oh fuck, are you alright?” You tilted your head upwards, vision spotting at the edges as you forced your eyes open… Oh. Weird. This guy’s hair looked so similar to the same unruly mess you took note of in 2nd grade. “I’m so sorry,” he was already crouching beside you, voice tight in a way that didn’t quite sync with his otherwise steady movements. “I should’ve made Lazykawa push his stupid ass chair back in.” His hands came up without hesitation, steady and warm as they framed the base of your neck, tilting your head just enough to check you over. Haru hovered somewhere beside him, still mid-panic.
But it was too much: The noise. The neverending cycle of murmurs building around you, the sharp inhales, the shifting bodies, the way attention became positioned at every angle. You wanted it to go away. You wanted this whole ordeal to be a forgotten memory. So, you braced your palm against the boy’s shoulder, pushing just slightly to give cue of your pending sense of rise. “I’m,” your first word was hoarse, a hint of agony still laced deep in your throat no matter how hard you tried to smooth it over. “I’m okay, don’t sweat it.”
Haru leaned further into your line of sight, his expression warping as he took in the small stream of crimson cascading down your brow. “You’re bleeding!”
No. No, no… Please no.
Your right hand removed itself from the student’s broad shoulder; fingers brushing up toward your forehead. The second you felt it, the damp slick, you froze. “I’m so sorry.” Honestly, you didn’t even know what you were apologizing for.
“Sorry?” The boy’s tone shifted after that; his sentences now edged with something closer to irritation as if that was the last thing you should be saying. “Yeah, no. We’re not doing that.” And before you could respond, before you could even explain your reasoning behind such nonsensical verbiage, his arm slid behind your back, the other hooking beneath your legs. You gasped at the sudden lift, your hand instinctively grabbing onto the front of his shirt as he adjusted your weight against him. “I’m taking you to the nurse.” He said, already moving, stride steady as he turned down the hall.
Haru scrambled after him, still talking — still panicking. But you barely registered it; too fixated on the drops of red pooling in your palm.
“If you’re just going to ramble, get out.” Haru blinked, clearly caught off guard, his mouth parting as if he had some sort of rebuttal towards the boy’s directness. Still, he didn’t seem like the type to delve into confrontation. So, Haru just nodded, demeanor a little more flustered now, bowing once toward where you sat.
“Sorry — yeah, I’ll, uh, I’ll text you later. Make sure you’re okay.” His words tripped over themselves on the way out, fading as he backed toward the door. And just like that — he was gone.
Honestly, you felt bad for Haru. Anyone in this situation would’ve panicked. One second you’re talking about a project, the next there’s blood running down the side of your face like something out of a thriller. So Haru wasn’t wrong for freezing up. If anything, he handled it well for most people’s standards.
Which is why you were already opening your mouth — ready to say something, anything, to the boy in front of you. Because did he really have to be so… taut about it?
But then the door clicked; and everything else went with it. The chatter outside dulled, footsteps became distant. Even the weight of people watching seemed to be categorized as unimportant — peering eyes blocked by the tall wooden door. All that remained was the faint hum of the cheap fluorescent lights and the quiet rustle of fabric as you eased your palms back onto one of the beds.
Finally… you could breathe.
“That your boyfriend?”
You blinked, lifting your head slightly despite the dull throb that followed. “What?”
“If it is,” he continued, tone more matter-of-fact than anything else. “Sorry for grabbing you like that in front of him. He didn’t look like he was going to handle the situation well.”
Your brows knit together, confusion flickering through the lingering haze. You shook your head. “No. He’s just my new science partner.”
“Oh.” The brunette leaned against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest as his eyes dragged along the curve of your cheek. “Alright.”
Alright?
The corners of your lips tipped downwards, canine dug deep against the tissue of your cheek as you observed the boy in uniform. Truthfully, something about him was weird. Not in a bad way — just… off. Like trying to recall a dream you know you had, but can’t quite piece together no matter how hard you focus. But you didn’t dwell on it. You did just have your head slammed into.
“Well,” you started. “Thanks for bringing me.” Your gaze soon flicked toward the door, subtle but intentional, giving him a clear out to the situation he had unexpectedly found himself in. Except, he didn’t take it. Didn’t even move, really. He just continued to lean, still watching you in that same quiet, almost absent way — like he wasn’t trying to stare, but couldn’t quite stop himself either. Honestly, it was making your demeanor border diffident more than anything else. A sense of unease that hadn’t appeared in your vocabulary since you were eight. “Guess I should really watch where I’m going, huh?” You added, a weak attempt at humor slipping through.
Fuck. Why was he making you so… Awkward?
His expression remained stoic, a slight sigh escaping his nasal. “Yeah.” You almost whined in pure embarrassment at his response. I mean, that was it? Not even a courtesy laugh — just that dry, practical agreement like your attempt at easing the situation hadn’t even registered as a joke.
“C’mon man. The least you could do is pretend that was funny.” You muttered, warmth already creeping up the base of your neck.
Sadly, he didn’t bite. “But I agree. Watching where you’re going would definitely help.”
Yep, you wanted to disappear; drag the thin, crinkling sheet over your head and hope that somehow, miraculously, you’d phase out of existence. Because what was this? Why was this happening? And more importantly — where the hell was the nurse?
She’d stepped out not long ago; something about a call, leaving you behind with gauze pressed to your forehead and that stupid wrap snug around your head. Frankly, her being here would’ve helped. At least then there’d be something to focus on. Something to fill the thick stretch of silence that made every aching second worse.
Your fingers twisted into the sleeves pooled around your hands, fabric bunching as you tried to steady yourself; tried to find that version of you that didn’t get like this. Because you didn’t — not anymore. You’d worked too hard for that: You knew how to hold conversations, how to stay present, how to keep your thoughts from spiraling into something unmanageable. You were good at it.
So why was it unraveling now?
Your gaze flicked up before you could stop it. And of course, he was still looking at you. “You seemed like you were pretty into that conversation.”
“Huh?”
“With him,” he clarified, nodding vaguely toward the door. “Before you ran into the desk.”
Normally, a query like that would signal some underlying intention. A sliver of inquisitive wonder to get some sort of information. But for some reason, his tone didn’t have an ounce of accusation to it. “Oh — yeah. We were just discussing an upcoming project.”
“What kind?”
“Reaction times,” you said; voice a little steadier now that the topic made sense. “We’re thinking of doing experiments on reflex speed. Different stimuli, stuff like that.” He hummed once: Not fully impressed with the reasoning behind your lack of awareness, but not dismissive either. “I think we need people for it, though,” you added. “Like actual participants. Not just me and him. And I’m not sure how we'd even round anyone up for that.”
The boy cleared his throat, back straightening as his shoulders returned against the wall. “Volleyball players would work.”
“What?”
“They’ve got fast reflexes,” he said simply. “More consistent results.”
Huh. That actually… made sense. But how in the hell would you get a whole team to participate in such a random quest? You opened your mouth to respond, ready to dig deeper into his thought process, yet the door slammed open, a soft voice quickly following suit. “Iwa-channn, I got wind from Hanamaki that you snapped and started hitting people other than me. I’m impressed. But also a bit annoyed because I thought I was the only one—” The boy faltered, eyes widened for a fraction of a second as he peered down at you. It was Oikawa. Now he, you knew — your friends could never really shut up about him and his unparalleled beauty. “Oh,” he said, goaded tone immediately shifting to intrigue. “It’s you.”
You scrunched your nose. “Me?”
“Mhm.” His smile came easily, a sense of confidence etched into his stance as he rested an elbow atop of his friend’s shoulder. “You’re friends with Matsuda, right? I noticed you always hang around her in the hallways whenever she drops by my classroom.”
Yeah, this was not helping your current state of mind. Your fingers lifted, the pad of your pointer pressed against your temple as you tried to recall moments of passing. But everything seemed fuzzy; at least, everything regarding Oikawa. The only faint memory was Matsuda goggling at a few of the volleyball teammates in class 3-6, but you didn’t really pay much mind to that. I mean, why would you? You only ever stayed around that room for a few minutes before darting off.
Iwa-chan (at least, that’s what Oikawa called him) exhaled sharply through his nose, a quiver of irritation evident in the way his nostrils flared. “Why are you here, Oikawa?”
“To visit my dear teammate, obviously,” Oikawa alleged, sliding his elbow away and stepping further into the cramped room without a hint of hesitation. “And to meet the head-injury victim.” His gaze flicked back to you, lingering just a second too long for your comfort.
“Oh. I’m fine.” You said quickly.
“Good,” he replied. “You’re pretty, so I'd hope you were okay.”
Your brows pulled inward immediately at that. For two people who seemed so different, they both had this same problem — talking like their thoughts didn’t need filtering. The difference was that Oikawa’s bluntness landed somewhere between observation and flirtation, which only made your posture tighten, shoulders drawing in slightly as heat prickled the tips of your ears.
“What?” he said innocently, hands lifted in mock surrender. “It’s true.” The air notably shifted at his reluctance to back down. Subtle exchanges between the two boys had become increasingly common. Like something in the room had been recalibrated, off-center, and they didn’t quite know how to work it out yet (with words, at least). But you could see the way Iwa’s jaw tightened. And you could see the way Oikawa noted it immediately. His expression changed — camera-ready grin softening into something more calculated, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Anyway,” he resumed. “I did happen to hear something about the volleyball team. If you ever need the team, I can make that work: The team… Me… Whatever you need!”
Iwa-chan’s patience visibly snapped. “Shittykawa,” he said flatly, stepping forward just slightly. “We’re trying to help her. You offering yourself up sounds less like helping and more like you just want attention. Fucking idiot.” His hand raised, palm smacking against the back of his friend’s scalp.
Oikawa gasped dramatically, clutching his skull in effort to dull the radiated pain. “How cruel. I’m offering resources.”
“You’re saying you are the resource.”
“And a very valuable one!” Oikawa added immediately. You stared between them, unsure where you were supposed to land in this conversation — if you were even meant to be part of it at all. But Oikawa’s attention drifted back to you again.
“As I was saying. Think about it.”
The third time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi, it was in the high school gym.
And boy was it… different. Your once solidified memory of predictability and contentment had no longer meshed with the word gymnasium. Because this one was louder: Shoes screeching against the once polished floors, sharp echo of volleyballs colliding with hands at each corner.
This wasn’t your space. Not like before, at least. And yet — you had still walked in. Because, somehow, you had agreed to this. Agreed to the arrangement that now had you standing just near the entrance, fingers curled back into your sleeves, eyes trying hard to ignore the chaotic movements of rowdy boys.
Yeah…No. This wasn’t going to work.
Your heels dug into the wood, fully prepared to swivel your body out the door before anyone could take note of your appearance. But you could feel it; the vibrations of Haru behind you. And there was no way in hell he was going to let you walk out. “This is perfect,” he beamed, already pulling out his notebook. “Do you see their form? Their reaction speed? This is exactly what we needed.”
Of course it was. Of course he was thrilled. Easy volunteers, controlled environment, data that would probably carry the entire project on its back.
Oh, Haru had won. And he knew it.
You exhaled slowly, gaze drifting across the gym in reluctance — only to catch something familiar. Or, more accurately, someone: Iwa-chan stood across the court, a volleyball resting loosely in his palm as he listened to something one of his teammates was saying.
Yet, for a second, his gaze flicked up, meeting yours in an instant. And you couldn’t help it; the center of your chest tightened, warmth shedding your entire body. It was the same feeling you had at eight years old.
Oh god, please don’t run away and cry.
But his lingering gaze soon turned into a subtle gesture; a small tilt of his head toward the court, like he was telling you to come closer without making a big deal out of it. And this was what you had prepared for all those years ago. The rare moment that would allow you to refine your past into something more ameliorate. You took a big gulp and pushed your weakening feet forwards.
It was difficult though; finding a reason not to bolt. The sounds only sharpened the deeper you got in the gym: Their voices became more disordered, their serves became a little less predictable — near misses to the side of your head inevitable. Your shoulders pulled in just slightly, gaze flicking from one player to the next, trying to map out where you were supposed to stand — where you were supposed to even exist in this environment.
“Oi, Iwaizumi…” The voice drifted off the second he saw you. And there was no subtlety to your intrusion anymore — just pure dubiety written across everyone’s faces as you turned to the brunette for any sort of repose. “Uh, who’s that? New manager?”
“No,” Iwaizumi shifted his jaw around, thumb hooking around the collar of your shirt as he tugged you forward slightly. “She’s here for a project.” His tone wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to settle his teammates' questions before it could spiral into a mountain of more queries. The group nodded in understanding, attention fixed neatly on you as they awaited more clarity on their pending participation. Yet, you couldn’t move. I mean, who knew volleyball players could be so… intimidating. Iwaizumi stepped closer, finger still hooked within your fabric while the ball in his right hand tapped once against his palm before he stilled it. “Head okay?”
“Yeah.”
His irises narrowed, a look of uncertainty engrained in the crease between his brows. But he didn’t push it. That wasn’t really his place. “Alright,” he noted, glancing past you briefly — probably toward where Haru was still hovering near the entrance. “Get whatever you need to set up.”
Right. Setup.
You turned slightly as you waved Haru over. And he didn’t need much convincing (unlike you) — already halfway across the floor before you fully gestured, notebook still clutched in one hand, the other digging through his bag for whatever materials he had insisted on bringing.
“This is fantastic,” he breathed, eyes darting everywhere at once. “We can start with baseline reaction tests, then move into variable stimuli: auditory, visual—”
“Keep it simple today.” Iwaizumi cut in.
Haru stuttered. “Simple?”
“Yeah. Don’t overcomplicate it.”
Haru nodded quickly. “Right. Yes, okay, we can do that.” You glanced between them, then back toward the rest of the team who were still watching, some more subtly than others. It was peculiar, observing the intensity Iwa possessed when discussing with Haru. For anyone on the outside, it would seem as though the volleyball player harbored hatred towards the blonde.
Huh, maybe it was because of the way he reacted this morning.
No matter the cause, it would appear that you had, unbeknownst, become the best mediator in the situation, the one who would oversee communication between the players and Haru. Although, one particular team member deemed it a necessary obstacle you’d have to overcome.
“Hey l/n-chan!” You turned, watching as Oikawa stood just a few steps away — one hand rested on his hip, the other lifting in a small, easy wave. “You made it. Nice bandage too. Looking cute!” It was a simple comment; a declaration followed by his warm and inviting smile. But that wasn’t what caught you: It was your name, and the way it came out so easily for him. Not to mention the honorifics he added to the end of it. “Oh, wait,” he added, tilting his head slightly. “It is l/n, right? I asked Matsuda earlier.”
Yeah, Matsuda was definitely going to give you an earful about this later.
Iwa, however, looked like he was two seconds away from combusting. His finger, still hooked lightly beneath the collar of your shirt, tightened just enough to tug you back — to pull you out of the center like you didn’t belong there in the first place. It was subtle: Controlled. But it still made you feel like a ragdoll being repositioned without warning.
“Yeah. It is.” You answered, slower this time. Honestly, you weren’t sure if that was the right response. Or if you were supposed to correct him, say something about the honorifics, tell him not to use it so casually. But maybe that’s how Oikawa was. So who were you to shut down his playful mannerisms? Yet with the way Iwaizumi lingered, the way his finger kept a firm grip on your clothes, it felt like that was the wrong decision. And it was becoming painfully clear that Iwa wasn’t going to be your sense of relief anymore.
Unfortunately, that left Haru. Who, completely oblivious, was already across the court trying to line up a ruler with one of the players’ hands like none of this was happening.
“Perfect!” Oikawa continued, completely unfazed to his teammates' death glares. “For a second I thought I had it wrong. That would’ve been embarrassing, huh?”
You let out a polite laugh, something to fill the uncomfortable silence that threatened to build. “Yeah.”
Iwa didn’t budge to the fibbed innocence. He placed his right leg in front of yours, the ball resting in his hand thrown roughly against the chest of the captain. “Unbelievable,” Oikawa squealed, hand pressing to his sternum. “You always resort to violence!”
“I wouldn’t have to if you were smart.”
Yeah, you needed this to end — It was becoming painfully uncomfortable. “Why don’t we start?” You asked, palms clasped together in an effort to cut through whatever that was trying to become. “We’ll just start with something simple. Reaction timing.” A few of them straightened slightly, attention shifting back. “We’ll start with you all catching the ruler when it drops. That way, we can measure the distance and convert it into reaction time.”
“Cool. Sounds easy enough.” Someone mentioned.
“I can go first.” Your head turned instinctively: Iwaizumi. He stepped forward without hesitation, rolling his shoulders once before holding his hand out, palm hovering just below the ruler. “Like this?” he asked.
You nodded, stepping closer to position it properly. “Yeah, just don’t grab it until it falls.”
“Got it.”
You adjusted the height slightly, trying your hardest to ignore his bicep brushed against your shoulder. But with the way the tension in his arm pressed against the fabric, muscles set in preparation — you almost let the ruler slip. “You, uh, ready?” He nodded once and that was all the confirmation you needed; anything to get him and his body away. So, you let go, observing as his fingers snapped shut around the ruler instantly.
What the fuck. That was fast.
A small scoff came from somewhere behind you two, a tall figure looming within your peripheral vision. “You’ll have to try harder than that if you want accurate data, y/n.” You shivered at Oikawa’s address: It was one thing to add honorifics to your last name. But your first name? That was something you were definitely going to have to get used to. “Right, Iwa-chan?”
Iwaizumi’s posture shifted, tongue pressed tight to the inside of his cheek as your name echoed within the group. He needed to control himself, to restrain himself from smacking Oikawa so hard he’d forget his own birthday. So, he resorted to gripping the ruler, knuckles white from the tension. “Shut up, Shittykawa. Or I’m making you run laps.”
Yep. You were absolutely turning red — you needed Haru, and stat.
“You can’t do that! I’m captain!” Iwa-chan narrowed his gaze, earning a small whimper from the boy to the side. “How about I just try?” Oikawa puffed his chest out as if that statement alone justified everything that had come out of his mouth — hand already reaching for the ruler like he had every right to take over. Iwaizumi, however, was swift to smack it away before his fingers could even brush the plastic.
“No.”
“Wow. Again, violent. In front of a girl too,” Oikawa muttered, rubbing the back of his hand before flashing you a grin that didn’t quite rival the look of irritation in his eyes. “See what I deal with, y/n?”
There it was again: Your name. You swallowed, ignoring the grunt that escaped Iwa’s throat at his incredulous friend. “I’ll adjust. Hold it higher to match inconsistencies in height.” You stated, stepping back half a pace — anything to create space from the touch of Iwa’s bicep.
“Do it again.” Iwa stated.
Your head lilted innately, a few blinks fluttering at the newfound abruptness. “What?”
“The test,” he clarified, holding his hand out again. “Do it again.”
Oikawa dragged his tongue across his lower lip, cheeks puffed out at the frustration iwaizumi was putting him through. “You’re acting like you didn’t just ace it.”
“I said do it again.”
The tone was enough to silence Oikawa, forcing him to back away, hands pressed against his shorts while his lips thinned into a tight line. “Fine, fine. I’ll wait my turn.”
Yeah, the hit to your head was definitely getting to you. “Alright then, ready?” A nod. And just like before, his fingers caught it instantly. “Okay, yeah. That’s, uh, consistent.”
“Told you.” Oikawa chimed in from behind, far too pleased for someone who hadn’t even participated yet.
But you ignored his commentary, your focus now fixated on the line of participants you needed to get through. How many rounds of experiments until you were able to escape such a fever dream. “Oikawa.” you waved him up, stepping a full pace away from the wing spiker before he even had the chance to pull you back into whatever invisible radius he seemed to keep you in.
And just like that, the rhythm picked up. Haru scribbled frantically beside you, muttering calculations under his breath as he eyed the measurements. It wasn’t until dusk had arrived, most members of the team gone, that time had caught up with you.
“I’m going to go home and get this data written out coherently before I forget,” Haru tipped forward, blonde hair framing the sides of his ears. “Please get home safe. I hope your head doesn’t hurt too much.”
You gave a smile, a gentle reminder to your science partner that you were, indeed, feeling loads better than the last time he saw you. Haru gave a weak thumbs up after that, scrambling out the door and into the night.
It was funny, really. The way you’d somehow ended up back in a gym alone. Only this time, the walls weren’t lined with those chipped scooters you used to wait for. No quiet corners carved out solely for you. Just buckets of volleyballs stacked along the edges, the faint scent of socks and varnished wood lingering heavier than it did a few hours ago.
“You’re still here.” You whipped around, watching as Iwaizumi stood near the bathroom door, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair damp at the edges, shirt clinging slightly from the perspiration of today’s training.
“Sorry,” you started, already backing up on your heels, fingers curling tight around the strap of your bag as the exit crept closer behind you. “Haru and I were just going over the results — like a debrief. I was about to leave.”
His gaze didn’t follow the explanation, though. It stayed on you; traced your face like he was looking for something specific — before dropping, settling on the bandage still stuck stubbornly to your skin. “I’ll walk you home.”
Your brows pinched together. Walk you home? He didn’t even know where you lived. What if you were on the complete opposite side of town? You opened your mouth, ready to question it, to at least clarify, but he already grabbed his bag in one smooth motion. No hesitation, no second thought, no reason for you to decline his declaration.
So, the fourth time you saw Hajime Iwaizumi — it was intentional.
Ushijima Wakatoshi had never paid much attention to positions before.
He had always focused on precision, control, endurance. He knew his own strength, the way his body worked, the way he could move with purpose. Most of the time, he stuck to the same tried-and-true motions, favoring what was familiar and effective. But tonight, you had looked at him with those eyes, voice soft and teasing as you asked, "Wakatoshi, can we try something different?"
He hadn’t expected much of a difference. A position was a position, right? But when he had you pressed against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist as he lifted you effortlessly—
Everything changed.
The first deep thrust had your breath hitching. The second had you whimpering, nails clawing at his shoulders. And by the third—
You were gone.
Your body tensed up so fast, so hard, that Ushijima nearly stopped, his brow furrowing as he felt you clench down tight around him, your head dropping back against the wall, mouth open in a silent moan.
His grip on your thighs tightened instinctively, muscles flexing as he kept you lifted, held, pinned completely at his mercy.
And then he felt it.
The sharp, desperate way you squeezed him. The way your entire body shuddered, overwhelmed and trembling.
Ushijima’s breath caught.
“Already?” His deep voice was laced with something close to wonder.
You gasped, hands gripping his broad shoulders, nails pressing into his skin. Your thighs quivered around his waist, your body limp from the force of your release. Overstimulated, wrecked—completely unraveled.
A slow, deliberate breath left him as realization settled in.
This position had made you lose control.
His jaw clenched, something dark flickering behind his usually calm expression. He wanted to see it again.
His grip on your thighs adjusted, his large hands spreading your legs wider, securing you against the wall like you weighed nothing. And before you could even recover, before the aftershocks of your first orgasm had fully settled, he started moving again.
Deep. Steady. Unforgiving.
His pace was measured, controlled, devastating. Each thrust pressed you tighter against the cold surface, the contrast of his warmth and the chill of the wall making your senses blur. Your body twitched in response, oversensitive and already on the edge again.
Your breath hitched, your back arching against the wall, and Ushijima watched.
His sharp eyes took in everything—the way your lips parted, the way your hands clawed at his skin, the way you gasped his name between every movement. His grip on you tightened, his fingers digging into your thighs as he picked up the pace just slightly, enough to make you shudder.
“You like this.” His voice was calm, deep, but something about it felt different now. Like he was coming to terms with something new. Something he didn’t know about himself before.
Something dangerous.
The way your body reacted to him, the way you broke apart so quickly in his arms— he liked it.
A lot.
His lips brushed against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping even lower. “I like it too.”
Your head tipped forward, forehead pressing against his shoulder as your nails raked down his back, the pressure inside you tightening so fast it was unbearable.
You whimpered, the sensation of being lifted, stretched, completely at his mercy making your head spin. Ushijima could feel it. The way you clenched down around him again, the way your thighs trembled in his grip.
He exhaled sharply, holding you even tighter.
“Cum,” he ordered, voice like gravel and heat.
Your entire body obeyed.
Pleasure slammed through you like a tidal wave, your moan caught somewhere between a cry and a gasp as you shattered all over again, trembling in his grasp, body locking up completely. The force of it left you whimpering, completely spent, completely undone.
Ushijima groaned at the feeling of you convulsing around him, his pace unwavering as he rode you through it, relishing in how easily he could pull you apart.
When you finally collapsed, head lolling back against the wall, Ushijima didn’t move.
He kept you pinned against him, breathing deeply, grounding himself in the sensation of you still trembling in his arms.
His lips ghosted over your jaw, warm and firm as he pressed a kiss to your temple—but he wasn’t finished.
With a sharp inhale, he pulled back slightly, shifting his grip on your thighs before his hips snapped forward, hard. A strangled cry tore from your throat, your fingers clawing at his back as the sudden force sent pleasure crashing through your system all over again.
“Too much?” His deep voice rumbled against your skin, deceptively calm despite the way his movements turned unrelenting.
You barely managed a response—your mind too fogged, your body too overwhelmed as he pounded into you, each thrust deeper, harder, perfectly precise.
The intensity coiled tight inside you, every nerve on fire as you felt it creeping up again—fast, uncontrollable.
His grip on you tightened as he felt it too. The way your walls fluttered, how your legs trembled around him. He knew.
“You’re going to cum again.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—a promise.
And he made sure of it.
Another deep thrust, another perfectly timed roll of his hips, and your vision whited out. The pleasure hit like lightning, your entire body jerking, shaking, completely wrecked as you gushed around him, soaking his thighs, the sound obscene in the air.
Ushijima groaned, his jaw clenching as the feeling dragged him over the edge with you. His hips stuttered, his pace faltering as he drove in one last time, spilling deep inside you with a low, guttural moan, his fingers bruising into your skin as he held you against the wall, his.
For a moment, neither of you moved—just the sound of ragged breaths and the faint, aftershocking trembles of your body in his grip.
Then, slowly, his lips brushed your jaw once more, voice deep, steady, satisfied.
𓂃⋆.˚ ( hq!! ) asking tsukishima "do you ever wish you were good at volleyball?" !
masterlists
"do you ever wish you were good at volleyball?"
tsukishima kei doesn't look up from his comic book. "do you ever get sick of the sound of your own voice?"
you roll your eyes, a knowing grin on your face. "no, but seriously. do you?"
"do you?"
you smack the back of his head, making his glasses jump forward and sit on the bridge of his nose. tsukishima inhales deeply and pushes them back up. "weaponising my glasses now? real mature, y/n."
the sarcastic lilt in his voice, usually laced with bite and condescension, is void of any real mockery. his voice is flat when he talks, but you of all people know that it's not reflective of his feelings.
you pick at the lint on his top and take a sip from the small carton of strawberry milk on his bedside table. "i'm taking your avoidance of the question to mean 'yes,' by the way."
"i forgot that you run a dictatorship," tsukishima retorts, placing his comic book face down on his lap, still open to the page he was on. he reaches over and takes the carton from you, putting the straw to his lips. "i'm already good. better than good, even. you've literally seen me play."
pursing your lips as if in thought, you hum. "safe to say i wasn't entirely impressed. i expected more, you know? do you ever crave that 'more'?"
one of his large hands grabs the top of your head and you squeak in surprise.
"you suck at ragebaiting," he snorts. "do you ever wish you were better at that?" he coos mockingly, teeth bared in a knowing grin.
"do you ever wish you were better in anything but ragebaiting?"
tsukishima mirrors your earlier expression, pursing his lips as if pondering the answer to your question. "mm, nope. don’t need to wish for skill i already have." he takes an exaggerated sip of milk.
you're too busy staring at him, feigning annoyance, to realise that he's scrolling through his photos. he presses on one and the hand on your head gently tilts it down for you to finally look at the photo.
it's a selfie of you and him after his successful pre-luminaries, you wearing a jersey sweater with his number and name on it, his face glowing from having just played a taxing match. you have an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to you, your cheeks pressed together. you're grinning with joy at the camera, while he has a small smile you can only label as happy and relaxed.
"didn't think i needed to be any better here, did you?" he teases, now ruffling your hair.
you blush deeply and swat his hand away. "oh, hush."
