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omgggg you're the sweetest (T_T)♡
oh! can i request a fic about rivalry with kita? i'd love to see him fuming and stuff since he rarely mad about anything. by anything, i mean ANYTHING. and... i don't mind a pinch of nsfw in it btw (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ but if it's not necessary for the plot you can take that away, that's okay. thanks in advance ^^♡
(you don't have to rush, take your time writing it (*ゝω･*))
Thank you so much for the sweetest request!! ♡ I had so much fun exploring what it would take to actually get under Kita’s skinn heheheh
no smut just yet! but trust me—I’ve got some spicy ideas brewing for part two 👀
Thank you for reading lovely 🥰
--
The gym echoed with squeaking sneakers and shouted drills, the clash of balls against hardwood punctuated by the shrill calls of coaches on either end. Co-ed training camps were chaos on a good day. On this day, it was warfare—at least, it felt that way to Kita Shinsuke.
Across the net, you stood with your hands on your hips, eyes cool and sharp, as if you could predict every move his team made. And worse—you smirked when you were right.
“That’s the fourth time your middle’s fallen for the cross,” you called out across the net, voice far too casual for his taste. “You might wanna switch it up before he tears his ACL.”
Kita’s eyes narrowed.
He didn’t respond. He rarely did. But he filed it away. Like he always did.
Osamu muttered beside him, “They’re good.”
Kita hummed in agreement. “Too chatty.”
You were, admittedly, talented. Strategic. A good captain. But the way you barked directions with a bite of sarcasm, the way you smirked when things went your way, the way you carried yourself with this insufferable looseness like volleyball wasn’t sacred—
It got under his skin.
And you knew it.
You took every opportunity to needle him. Subtle things. Walking just a little too close when switching drills. Offering sly suggestions to his players during breaks like you knew them better. Commenting on his rigidity with a grin that never met your eyes.
Today was only day three of the camp. And he was already counting down to the end.
Later that afternoon, the teams broke into a scrimmage. Mixed lineups, random assignments.
Unfortunately, you were on his side of the court.
“Wow,” you said, eyes scanning the rotation chart as you stepped into place beside him, “I didn’t think they’d actually put us together. Do you think they’re trying to test how long you can tolerate me?”
Kita didn’t even glance at you. “Keep your mind on the game.”
“Always do,” you chirped.
The first serve came, and to your credit, you didn’t miss a beat. Your timing was perfect. Your approach was clean. You called the ball clearly, landed sharply, and turned back with a smirk.
“What, no feedback?” you asked breathlessly. “Not even a little pointer?”
Kita stared at you, flat and unimpressed. “You were slightly late on your first step.”
You blinked. “Was not.”
He turned away. “Yes, you were.”
You scoffed. “Kita, if I was any more precise, I’d be a stopwatch.”
He didn’t reply.
You, of course, took that as a challenge.
Practice ended, finally, after a brutal hour. Kita dismissed his team with a bow and collected the stray balls with quiet efficiency. You lingered, sweat still clinging to your brow, hair pulled back, muscles humming with exertion.
You approached slowly, ball in hand, rolling it against your palm.
“You know,” you said mildly, “I can’t tell if you hate me or if that’s just your default personality.”
Kita didn’t look at you. “Is there a reason you’re still here?”
“Yup. I like the view.”
His jaw ticked. His shoulders squared just slightly, a subtle but unmistakable signal of irritation.
You came a step closer. “What is it about me, huh? The fact that I don’t shut up? That I challenge you? That I coach with instinct instead of a clipboard?”
“You coach with your ego,” he replied, finally turning toward you. His voice was sharp—colder than you’d ever heard it. “You don’t respect the game. You treat it like a stage for your mouth.”
You raised a brow, momentarily taken aback by the vehemence in his tone.
“And you treat it like a religion,” you said evenly, though the smirk had faded from your voice. “But not everyone worships like you, Kita.”
He stepped forward once, not quite in your space but close enough to make your breath hitch. His posture was tense now, fists loosely clenched at his sides, back straight like he was trying not to launch into a full tirade. His voice was low, deadly quiet.
“You think being loud makes you better. You think swagger makes up for gaps in discipline. But this—this isn’t your team. These aren’t your players. And I’m not going to stand by while you make a spectacle of the game I’ve spent years building.”
You stared at him.
For a moment, all your usual wit dried on your tongue. Your hands curled tighter around the volleyball in your grip. His jaw was set, the muscle twitching, and his brows were drawn low, eyes locked on yours with a kind of restrained heat you didn’t expect.
No sarcasm. No smirk. Just anger. Real, burning anger.
You hadn’t expected that.
“You’re mad,” you said finally, voice quieter.
“I’m focused.”
“No.” You took a step forward this time. “You’re mad.”
His nostrils flared. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up.
“And why is that?” you continued, cocking your head. “Because I’m not like you? Because I don’t worship your little routines? Or is it because someone finally rattled that polished little mask of yours?”
His mouth parted slightly, but he didn’t answer.
“Right,” you murmured, taking another step closer—close enough to see the veins in his neck standing taut, the slight tremble in his fingertips. “Because someone like you would never snap, right? You’re too composed. Too perfect.”
Kita didn’t respond.
He couldn’t.
Because you were right. And he hated that.
The silence buzzed between you, thick and electric. And something shifted in the air—sharp, magnetic, inevitable.
“Say it,” you whispered. “Say you hate me.”
His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, firm but not painful.
You sucked in a breath.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, voice low and strained. “I just don’t know how to stand you.”
And that was the moment.
The shift.
The crack in the dam.
Your fingers twitched. His hold tightened. And for one suspended heartbeat, it felt like the entire gym faded around you.
Then—
“Everyone outta the locker rooms!” a coach barked from the entrance.
Kita dropped your wrist like it burned. You took a full step back, breath sharp, eyes wide.
No words passed between you.
The look he gave you said everything.
He was absolutely going to snap.
And you were absolutely going to be the reason why.
The club room door slammed open, rattling on its hinges.
“WHERE IS HE?!”
The team froze.
A half-eaten rice ball hit the floor. Water was choked on. Someone knocked over a sports bag in their rush to get out of the way.
Higashiyama whispered, “Oh, shit.”
Futamata grabbed Bobata’s arm. “Is it too late to run?”
Bobata just stared, resigned. “We’re already in the splash zone.”
But the one person who should have been afraid? He wasn’t.
Terushima barely had time to lift his head before you snatched him by the collar and slammed him against the wall, forearm pressing hard against his chest, pinning him in place.
A sharp oof left his lips, but even as you glared daggers at him, even as your breath came in sharp, furious exhales—
He grinned.
“Oh, wow,” he murmured, eyes flickering with something dangerous—something excited. “Didn’t realize you liked it rough.”
Your grip tightened. “Would you care to explain to me why I was just called into the principal’s office to be chastised for my so-called proposal for the volleyball team to offer shirtless pictures as a way to increase funding?”
The entire team collectively inhaled.
Futamata wheezed. “Oh my god.”
Higashiyama muttered, “That’s gotta be a new record for dumbassery.”
Bobata just covered his face with his hands.
Meanwhile, Terushima blinked at you, head tilting back against the wall as he let out a slow, amused exhale. “Damn. They really thought you—?” He laughed, shaking his head. “That’s actually incredible.”
“You absolute menace,” you snapped, shoving against his chest slightly before pressing him back down again. “You submitted that under my name.”
Terushima’s hands lifted lazily, like he was some innocent bystander in all this. “Now, now, let’s not jump to conclusions—”
“Jump to conclusions?” Your voice rose, incredulous. “You’re really about to stand here, pinned to a wall, and try to tell me I did this to myself?”
“Well—”
Futamata cut in, laughing in disbelief. “He’s gonna try it. He’s really gonna try it.”
And then, the real nail in the coffin—
Bobata scoffed, shaking his head. “He’s just trying to get Yoko Nakamura to date him.”
Silence.
Terushima’s expression dropped. “EXCUSE ME?”
Higashiyama immediately nodded. “Oh, yeah. Didn’t Yoko say she liked guys who were ‘confident but not too cocky’?”
Futamata grinned. “And someone said, ‘Hey, I know a way to prove I’m the perfect mix of both.’”
Your jaw dropped. “So you mean to tell me—” You exhaled sharply, shoving against Terushima’s chest one last time. “You pulled me into this mess because of a crush?!”
“Okay, first of all, I wouldn’t call it a crush—”
You leaned in, voice low and sharp as a knife. “Listen to me, very carefully, Terushima.”
For the first time, his smirk faltered.
“If you ever pull something like this again—if you ever use my name for one of your dumbass ideas, if you ever make me sit through another awkward meeting where the principal is looking at me like I’m about to pull out a portfolio of thirst traps—”
Futamata audibly snorted, but you didn’t even acknowledge it. Your glare burned into Terushima.
“I will make your life a living nightmare.”
The air in the room shifted.
You saw it—that flicker in his eyes.
Not fear. No, that wasn’t what you were going for.
It was something else.
A slow, sharp, assessing look. The slight way his jaw tightened, the way his smirk wasn’t quite as smug as before.
It was the realization that you were dead serious.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
Then, finally, finally, you let him go.
The second you stepped back, Terushima rolled his shoulders, exhaling deeply like he had to shake off whatever had just happened.
You, on the other hand, turned on your heel with a huff and stormed out, calling over your shoulder, “Get your act together, Terushima. Or don’t—I don’t care. Just stay the hell out of my way.”
The door slammed shut behind you.
Silence.
All eyes turned to Terushima.
He glared back. “What?”
Bobata shook his head, exasperated. “Honestly? Pulling her pigtails in the schoolyard would be more subtle than this.”
Terushima scowled, running a hand through his hair. “You’re all full of shit.”
Higashiyama shrugged. “Dude. She literally had you pinned.”
Futamata snickered. “I dunno, man. She got the last word and left you looking stupid. You sure you’re not into that?”
Terushima threw his head back with an exaggerated groan. “I hate all of you.”
But even as he muttered under his breath, even as he grumbled about his entire team being traitors, his eyes flickered toward the door.
And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t entirely sure who had won that exchange.