🐞 ࣪ ˖ 𖦹°⋆

if the human brain were a volleyball, kageyama tobio’s would be a scuffed mikasa that had been slammed against a gym wall ten thousand times until the only thing left inside was the rhythmic, echoing thud of your name. it was a legitimate medical mystery how he hadn't yet collapsed into a puddle of setter-shaped goo whenever you breathed in his general direction. he was beyond “gone”; he was orbiting a planet that consisted entirely of your existence, and he had no intention of ever finding his way back to earth.

living alone was both a blessing and a psychological hazard for someone as far gone as him. his apartment was a shrine to two things: precision-guided sports performance and you. there was no middle ground. the air in his living room felt heavy with the unspoken weight of his devotion, a silent pressure that usually only existed in the final seconds of a five-set match.

he was currently sitting at his kitchen table, his posture so rigid he looked like he’d swallowed a steel rebar. the only thing moving was his hand, clutching a mechanical pencil with a grip strength that could probably crush a boulder. spread before him was his volleyball journal—the sacred text, the holy grail of his daily grind. usually, these pages were filled with rigorous critiques of his finger placement or the exact trajectory of a jump serve.

tonight, however, the technical drawings of court rotations were being colonised by something far more dangerous.

“y/n kageyama.”

he stared at the scrawl. he’d written it in the margin, tucked between a note about protein intake and a diagram of a quick set. he’d written it so many times that the graphite was starting to shimmer. it looked right. it looked like the only logical conclusion to the universe. if he could just sew your lives together with the same surgical precision he used on the court, he would. he wanted to tuck you into his ribcage and carry you around like a heart he’d forgotten he owned.

“stupid,” he whispered to the empty room, his face heating up until he felt like he was undergoing atmospheric reentry.

he flipped to a fresh page, his eyes darting around as if a hidden camera might catch him in his moment of total, unadulterated weakness. he had a list. a very specific, very curated list of english words he’d been memorising. he knew you liked it when people put in effort, and he’d heard you mention a foreign movie once, so he’d spent three hours on a translation app trying to find words that felt heavy enough to carry the weight of his feelings.

“b-beautiful, eks— exque— exqui— exquisite,” he practiced, his tongue feeling like a lead weight.

“y/n is… anjerl— anjiel— angelick— angelic.. y/n is… breat..? breast..? breath— breathtakein— breathtaking..!”

it sounded like he was choking on a whistle. he scowled, his dark brows knitting together in a terrifying display of concentration. he just wanted to be enough for you. he wanted to be the only thing you looked at, the only person you relied on, the only name you ever felt the need to speak. it wasn't just a crush; it was a total system takeover. he was a computer and you were the only software he was capable of running.

the sound of a key turning in the lock made his heart lurch into his throat.

you had a spare key. he’d given it to you months ago, claiming it was for “emergencies” or “if he forgot his bag,” but in reality, he just wanted to know that you could enter his space whenever you pleased. he wanted the scent of your shampoo to haunt his hallways.

“tobio? you home? i brought those meat buns you like!”

your voice was like a physical blow to his chest. he panicked. he didn’t just close the journal; he practically tackled it, shoving it under a pile of sports magazines with the subtlety of a runaway freight train.

“i’m—i’m in here!” he shouted, his voice cracking like a middle-schooler’s.

you wandered into the kitchen, looking unfairly radiant in a baggy sweater, clutching a plastic bag that smelled like heaven. to kageyama, you didn't just walk; you moved through the air like a perfect set—graceful, intentional, and meant entirely for him. his eyes locked onto you with a predatory intensity that would have been scary if he wasn't currently vibrating with nerves.

“you look like you just committed a crime,” you chirped, dropping the buns on the table. “did you finally kill your toaster for burning the bread?”

“no,” he grunted, his eyes following the movement of your wrists, the way your hair tucked behind your ear. he wanted to reach out and touch you, to verify you were real and not just a hallucination brought on by overtraining. “just… studying.”

“studying? since when do you study something that isn’t a playbook?” you laughed, and the sound made his stomach do a backflip into a bucket of ice water.

you reached for the stack of magazines. kageyama’s soul nearly left his body.

“wait—no—don’t!”

it was too late. you were already moving, your curiosity a force of nature he was powerless to stop. the magazines slid off, revealing the worn leather cover of his journal. you grinned, thinking you’d found a secret stash of embarrassing volleyball doodles.

“oh, is this the legendary tome? the kageyama chronicles?”

“give it back!” he lunged, but you were quick—years of hanging out with athletes had given you reflexes that were nothing to sneeze at. you pirouetted out of his reach, holding the book high.

“let’s see… ‘improve contact point,’ ‘drink more milk,’ ‘y/n kageyama, future wife’—wait, what?”

the silence that followed was so thick you could have sliced it with the razor-sharp, lethal precision of a certain overworked blonde office worker’s jawline—the kind that looks like it was carved out of pure, high-grade spite and overtime pay.

​kageyama stood frozen, his arms outstretched like a gargoyle. his face wasn't just red; it was a deep, pulsing purple. he looked like he was about to spontaneously combust and take the entire apartment block with him.

you flipped the page, your eyes widening as you saw the margins. it wasn't just one mention. it was everywhere. little hearts drawn with the mechanical precision of a geometric blueprint. your name looped in his jagged, aggressive handwriting. and then, the english.

“y/n is angelic. y/n is breathtaking.”

you looked up at him, your breath hitching. the sheer, raw devotion radiating off him was enough to make your head spin. he wasn't looking away. he was staring at you with an expression that was half-terrified and half-starving. he looked like a man who had just handed you the detonator to his entire life and was waiting for you to press the button.

“tobio…” you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs. “did you… write all this?”

kageyama felt the world tilting. his brain was screaming at him to say something—something suave, something english, something that would make you fall into his arms.

“yeah.. it’s because you’re… you’re…” he started, his voice a gravelly mess. his eyes darted to the page where he’d written exquisite. his tongue tripped over itself. his pride, his nerves, and his overwhelming need for you collided in a catastrophic wreck.

“you’re a moron! you’re a stupid fool! give it back!”

he scrambled forward, finally snatching the book from your hands, but he didn't pull away. he stayed right there, his chest inches from yours, his breath hot on your face. he was shaking. the great king of the court was trembling because he’d accidentally let you see into the furnace of his heart.

you didn't move. you couldn't. the air between you was electric, charged with the kind of energy that precedes a lightning strike.

“you wrote my name with yours,” you said, your voice soft and teasing but laced with a genuine heat that made his knees weak. “and you think i’m breathtaking?”

kageyama’s grip on the journal tightened until the leather groaned. he looked down at you, his blue eyes dark and swirling with an intensity that felt like being submerged in a deep, cold ocean. he was tired of hiding. he was tired of the journal. he wanted the real thing. he wanted to be the only person you ever thought about.

“i don’t just think it,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, losing its aggressive edge and becoming something much more dangerous. “it’s a fact. it’s a… a biological necessity. you’re the only one i can see. when i’m on the court, when i’m here, when i’m sleeping. it’s just you. it’s always been you. and if you don’t give me back my journal and let me take you to dinner, i’m going to lose my mind.”

the honesty of it was a sledgehammer. there was no “maybe,” no “almost,” no “perhaps.” there was only kageyama tobio, standing in his kitchen, offering you his entire world on a silver platter made of volleyball leather and sheer, desperate love.

you reached up, your fingers brushing the heat of his cheek. “you’re so dramatic, tobio.”

“shut up,” he muttered, but he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as he let out a shuddering breath. “just… shut up and stay here. don’t go anywhere. ever.”

you laughed, a warm, bright sound that filled the room and settled in his bones like a permanent glow. you stepped into his space, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest. he dropped the journal—his life’s work, his pride, his soul—onto the floor without a second thought, his large hands coming up to clutch you to him as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.

he pulled you so close you could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic beat that spelled out your name in morse code. he pressed his face into your hair, inhaling the scent of you, his eyes squeezed shut in a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph. he didn't need the english words. he didn't need the journal.

he had you. and he was never, ever letting go.

“fool,” he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with a tenderness that could melt glaciers. “my fool.”

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes dancing. “was ‘breathtaking’ one of the words you practiced?”

kageyama’s face flushed again, but this time he didn't turn away. he leaned down, his lips brushing against yours in a promise that was as firm and undeniable as a match-point spike.

“yeah,” he breathed against your mouth. “but it wasn't enough. nothing is ever enough for how much i want you.”

and as he kissed you, the world outside his apartment ceased to exist. there were no more matches, no more rivals, no more journals. there was only the heat of your skin, the weight of his devotion, and the absolute, terrifyingly beautiful certainty that you were his, and he was yours, exactly as it was meant to be.

n: i’ve been playing roblox hehez that’s why i’m so distracted and i still have 2 more exams before my classes return.

tobio’s taglist 1/2

@lsirria @cvntyandfasionable @the-bloopsters @trulyylee @highandalive @nelinkythoughts @kukikoooo @sleepykeijiii @n-o-b-o-d-y123 @averys-place @reverd-ck @sxnnee @anzuuhoshi @evilari111 @rabbitcola @s1lly-bon @yeonette @forgottensniper @katzline @michexoxo @asthmaticasma @meonelixir @immortalblazethief @pelicanpizza @x3nafix @knkzshx @han0vyc @meikstv @depressinglyobsessed @keiob @ghostwifeyy @perpetuallydone @mptality @qardasngan @crystal-lilac @methiart @bloodredblessy @wensurr @alyriaschoenheit @rafsbeloved @suha-reads @adagio4strings @sillylule @horanghaepaws @imjustanobody2024 @hibernatinghamster @eri0-0 @imjustanobody2024 @windsblow @fiannee

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners !

the nekoma gym was nearly empty by the time you finished tying your shoes. practice had been tough—not because of the physical strain, but because something in the air felt heavier, charged with small silent frustrations and averted glances.

kuroo had been the last one to leave the court. of course he had. the captain who absorbed everyone’s storm, always with a calm smile and a ready joke, even when he was the first to feel the impact of things.

you found him sitting on the bench, elbows on his knees, head lowered, his hair even messier than usual.

“rough practice today, huh?” you said, trying to break the tension.

kuroo lifted his gaze. a smile appeared… the kind that doesn’t convince anyone.

“‘rough’ is… almost too soft,” he let out a weak laugh. “feels like everybody’s carrying something today.”

you walked closer and sat beside him. the distant sound of a few balls bouncing echoed through the gym, but right there, in that corner, it felt like the world had shrunk.

“and you?” you asked. “what are you carrying?”

kuroo frowned slightly, as if the question had hit exactly where he was most vulnerable.

“ah… nothing much.” he tried to dodge. “just mental exhaustion. captain stuff. the kind of… trying to be everything at once.”

you tilted your head, looking at him.

“you don’t have to be everything, kuroo.”

those words hit him like something he didn’t know he needed. his shoulders relaxed a little. the air left his chest slowly.

“yeah. i know,” he murmured, staring ahead. “but sometimes i feel like if i ease up, if i slip… someone else might fall with me. and i don’t want that.”

his sincerity had a beautiful weight—not suffocating, just real.

you placed a hand on his shoulder. his breath hitched for a second, subtle but there.

“you don’t have to carry everything alone. if no one’s ever told you that… i’m telling you now.”

kuroo looked at your hand, then at you. this time, the smile forming on his lips was different. less theatrical. more human.

“you always say things that break people’s defenses, you know that?” he said softly, almost a whisper.

“only with people who deserve honesty.”

he lowered his eyes for a moment—a rare gesture from someone who always kept eye contact like a tactical advantage. and when he looked back at you, there was something deeper there. gratitude… and maybe something he’d been holding back for a long time.

“thank you. really.”

the words were simple, but spoken with a sincerity you could almost feel against your skin.

silence. but the good kind. a silence that didn’t need any explanation.

when you were about to stand up, kuroo gently took your wrist—not forcefully, just enough to ask: stay a little longer.

“hey…” he murmured. “can i… just stay like this with you? just for today.”

you gave him a soft smile.

“of course you can.”

and then, for the first time that day—maybe that week—kuroo tetsurou rested his forehead on your shoulder, breathing slowly, as if he had finally found a place where he could relax without fear.

  “i’m not sure yet,” you squint, hand pushing up against your hairline, “this is not comfortable carpeting…”

  the man accidentally lets a laugh slip, looking away to hide his smile, “well you have to be doing somewhat okay if you still have a sense of humor. i’m sorry about knocking you over, i was making sure my workout started on an app i use.”

  “well, you might want to pause it considering you’re still standing here,” you finally open your eyes, getting a good look of the man in front of you, watching the morning sunlight cascade over him. 

  a muscle tee stops at his shoulders, toned muscles running up and down his arms. nodding, his hand runs down your forearm, grabbing ahold of yours. his palms are rough and there’s a glean of sweat against his skin. “you’re probably right, but i’d like to at least get a look at you before i go. i am a physical therapist and do know a thing or two about concussions.”

  “and my name is iwaizumi, i live down the hall from here,” iwaizumi pulls you up from the ground in one gentle motion, accidentally pulling you right up against him, his free hand pressing against the small of your back to keep you from falling backwards. 

  you try to say something but the words catch in your throat. biting your lip, you take in a deep breath through your nose, nodding your head slowly. “nice to meet you.”

  “now, can you tell me the year? your name?” he questions, keeping you close to him as his gaze flickers between your eyes. 

  “uh- yeah? it’s 2025 and my name is l/n y/n,” you give a short smile, not wanting to move an inch out of fear that he’ll let you go and you’ll lose the warmth of his touch.

  iwaizumi nods, smiling back at you, lines forming around his eyes. there’s a haze in the way that he looks at you, like you couldn’t actually imagine him standing here holding you up against him. “that’s a good sign, although i might need some more one on one time with you to ensure you haven’t endured any lasting effects,” his face slowly inches closer. 

  “i’d love a little one on one time,” you lean forward as well, closing your eyes as you grow closer.

  “are you okay?” he whispers, sounding louder as it echoes through your head.

  “what?” you quickly question, eyebrows furrowing. 

  “are you okay?” 

  you finally open your eyes, finding yourself back on the floor. he’s standing above you with an apologetic look on his face, one hand feeling the back of your head for any bumps. blinking quickly, your face scrunches up, “uh yeah, god my head hurts.”

  “i’m not surprised, you went down pretty hard. this isn’t the most cushioned carpeting, now, can you tell me your name and maybe the year? i work as a physical therapist so i just need to make sure you’re not suffering from a concussion,” he looks down at you, gaze flickering between your eyes.

  “i’m having an intense feeling of deja vu.. uh i’m l/n y/n and it’s 2025,” you feel your heartbeat racing as he grabs ahold of your hand to pull you onto your feet. 

  “that’s a good sign, i’m sorry again for bumping into you. i’m iwaizumi and i live down the hall, if you don’t mind, i’d like to try another few things to make sure you’re healthy,” iwaizumi takes a step back, keeping your hand in his as he keeps you standing upright.

  nodding, your hand starts to feel clammy in his. his kind smile and your head injury induced hallucination creating a terribly timed feeling of infatuation.