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You were officially forty-one weeks pregnant.
Forty-one weeks. Not thirty-nine. Not even the neat, ominous weight of forty. No, you had blown straight past your due date like a train with no brakes and were now living in the swollen purgatory of maternity hell—bloated, achy, short-tempered, and so fed up with your body that you would’ve gladly traded it in for a paper bag and a nap.
Your body ached in places you didn’t know could ache. Your back felt like it had been used as a trampoline in the night. Your hips were stiff. Your feet looked like they belonged to someone who’d spent ten hours standing in a swamp. And your belly? Your belly felt like it had become its own planet, stretching your skin so taut you were convinced you could drum a beat on it.
Nothing fit anymore. Not your clothes. Not your shoes. Not even your own skin, if you were honest. Your maternity leggings had officially waved the white flag. Your bras were lost causes. Your wedding rings had been stashed in a drawer weeks ago, too tight to slide over even a knuckle. And the seatbelt? Daichi had to adjust it for you now, like you were precious cargo—though to be fair, at this point, you basically were. He was careful and considerate and just a little too cheerful about it all, which made it even more infuriating.
“Got everything?” he asked softly, adjusting the strap of your maternity bag over his shoulder like it weighed nothing.
You didn’t look at him. You didn’t smile. You didn’t even grunt. You groaned—a long, low, theatrical sound of suffering as you slowly lowered yourself into the passenger seat like an elephant easing into a beanbag chair.
He took it in stride. He’d stopped taking anything personally around week thirty-seven.
Still, he reached across and placed his warm palm on your thigh once you were settled, rubbing his thumb in slow, steady circles. You didn’t push it away. You rested your hand on top of his and gave him a tired look that said, If I have to live in this body one more day, I will cry.
The car ride to the clinic was mostly quiet. You sighed a lot. Adjusted the air vents. Rolled down the window. Rolled it back up. Turned the A/C colder. Then warmer. Daichi drove patiently, sneaking occasional glances at you like he wanted to say something encouraging but also very much wanted to survive the day.
The clinic’s waiting room was somehow worse than usual. The chairs were uncomfortable, the light was too bright, and the cheerful wall art—baby elephants, pastel hearts, encouraging quotes in cursive—made you want to scream. You stared at the pamphlet beside you titled “Smiling Through the Third Trimester” with a level of disdain typically reserved for war crimes.
Daichi sat beside you flipping through a magazine that he absolutely wasn’t reading, occasionally peeking at you with quiet concern while trying not to make eye contact with the receptionist, who kept looking at you like you were a ticking time bomb.
When the nurse finally called your name, you heaved yourself up with a groan and waddled toward the hallway like a warrior going into battle. Daichi followed at a polite distance, like a man who knew better than to walk too close to a woman this pregnant and this pissed.
The exam room felt like a refrigerator. You plopped down on the crinkly paper with another long sigh, then glared at the stirrups like they’d personally wronged you. Daichi sat in the chair next to the table and gently rubbed your back, his thumb tracing light circles over your spine.
“Almost there,” he murmured, ever the optimist. “Just hang in a little longer.”
You turned your head to him, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and fury. “I swear to god, Daichi. If one more person tells me I’m almost there, I will throw something. Possibly this table. Possibly you.”
He only smiled through it, squeezing your hand like he hadn’t just been threatened with airborne furniture.
When the doctor entered, she was all serene smiles and clinical calm, her tone chipper and maddeningly upbeat.
“Well,” she said after a quick check, “good news is you’re making progress. The baby’s definitely settling into position. But you’re still not quite there yet. I’d give it another few days.”
You stared at her like she’d just told you the world had been cancelled.
“More days?” you repeated, your voice a cracked whisper. “As in, plural? Like… multiple?”
The doctor gave a warm little chuckle. “It’s different for everyone, but yes, could be a few more. You’re doing great, though.”
Your jaw dropped. You made a noise that was somewhere between a sob and a scream, your hands clenching the edge of the table like it might steady you.
The doctor handed Daichi a brightly colored handout titled “Natural Ways to Encourage Labor.” It had illustrations of smiling pregnant women doing yoga and eating pineapple.
“Try some of these at home,” she said kindly. “Spicy food, gentle movement, maybe a warm bath. You’re almost there.”
Daichi nodded like the polite, helpful husband he was, tucking the paper into your maternity bag as you stood slowly, moving with the weary determination of someone who had carried life for too damn long.
The walk back to the car was slow and tense. You didn’t speak. You didn’t look at anyone. The receptionist offered a cheery “Good luck!” as you left and you very nearly flipped her off.
When Daichi helped you into the car again and got you buckled in, you exhaled long and hard, the sound more like a groan of existential dread than a sigh.
“I’m going to die pregnant,” you said flatly, head tipping back against the seat as your eyes glazed over. “This is it. This is how it ends for me. Swollen and sweaty in the passenger seat of a Toyota.”
“No, you’re not,” he said gently, lips twitching as he reached over to adjust your seatbelt one last time. “You’re going to give birth soon, and then this will all feel like a weird dream.”
You turned your head just enough to shoot him a dry look. “A weird dream where my hips feel like they’re being sawed in half and I haven’t seen my own feet in two months?”
He chuckled under his breath, brushing your hair out of your face. “I’m just saying, you’re doing amazing.”
“Don’t lie to me,” you snapped, though your voice lacked real venom. “I look like a pufferfish and I cry every time I drop something on the floor because I can’t pick it up anymore.”
“I pick it up for you,” he said, unbothered.
“Yeah, and I still cry!” You groaned louder, tossing your head back again. “I’m like a feral raccoon in maternity leggings. I can’t keep living like this.”
“You’re not a raccoon,” he said with a straight face. “You’re majestic. Fearsome. A hormonal goddess.”
You snorted so hard it startled a hiccup out of you. “Oh my god.”
“And soon,” he added, leaning closer to kiss your temple, “you’ll be holding the baby and none of this will matter.”
You didn’t move. You just stared up at the ceiling.
“Watch me die pregnant,” you said again. “They’ll write it on my tombstone.”
--
By the time you made it home, your mood had not improved. You kicked your shoes off at the door, grumbling as you peeled off your coat and waddled into the kitchen, leaving Daichi to trail behind you, pamphlet in hand and hope still stubbornly etched into his expression.
“Okay,” he said as you slumped down at the kitchen table, head in your hands. “Let’s try some of these. Worst case, they don’t work. Best case? Maybe we’ll get things moving.”
You didn’t respond right away. Just groaned into your palms.
He set the paper down gently in front of you. “It says spicy food might help. We could start there?”
You looked up with bloodshot eyes. “I want something violent. Like pepper-spray levels of spice.”
Daichi raised his eyebrows. “I’ve got extra hot chili ramen packets. You could probably weaponize them.”
“Perfect,” you growled. “Boil ‘em.”
Ten minutes later, you were perched on the couch with a bowl of nuclear noodles while Daichi sat beside you with his own, bravely taking a bite. He lasted all of three seconds before coughing into his fist, eyes watering.
“Oh my god—this hurts,” he rasped.
You, completely unaffected, slurped up another bite. “Nothing. Not even a twinge.”
He blinked at you, face red. “I’m going to need milk. And possibly CPR.”
You sighed and set the bowl aside. “Next idea.”
And so began the ridiculous journey.
You drank herbal teas that smelled like dirt and despair. You choked down thick slices of pineapple while muttering curses under your breath. You did the hip-opening stretches the pamphlet suggested, groaning with effort and telling Daichi that if this didn’t work you were going to shove a yoga ball down the stairs. He helped you do slow laps around the living room, hand on your lower back while you walked in increasingly impatient circles.
You even tried the dreaded castor oil. One teaspoon. Two. Mixed into orange juice so it wouldn’t taste like paint thinner. You gagged, glared, and gagged again. Daichi looked horrified but held the glass steady like he was assisting with a medical emergency.
Hours passed. The sun dipped lower in the sky. You had tried every single item on the pamphlet short of hiring a witch to chant over your uterus. And yet—nothing. No contractions. No discomfort. No sign the baby had any plans of evacuating. Just the same heavy weight in your belly and the constant ache of your ribs.
You threw yourself back onto the couch with a long, miserable sigh, your belly rising and falling like a dramatic mountain of defeat.
“This baby,” you declared, voice scratchy with exhaustion, “is never coming out. This is it. They’ve made a permanent home. They’re going to graduate college still inside me.”
Daichi, kneeling next to the couch, chuckled softly and leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Can you blame them?” he murmured. “You’ve made them a pretty amazing home.”
You blinked at him, half-touched and half-annoyed. “That’s not helpful.”
He grinned and sat back on his heels, picking the pamphlet up again with exaggerated patience. “Well, if they’re not leaving on their own, we’re gonna have to evict them.”
You groaned dramatically. “We’ve tried everything. I’ve eaten enough pineapple to singlehandedly wipe out Hawaii’s exports. I drank that weird tea that tastes like boiled weeds. I took castor oil, Daichi. Castor. Oil. Nothing works.”
He hummed, eyes skimming down the page.
Then he paused.
You watched as his brow arched just slightly.
“…What?” you said slowly.
He cleared his throat. “Well, technically… we haven’t tried everything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “What do you mean?”
He turned the pamphlet toward you and pointed at a single line with a very straight face.
“Intercourse may help induce labor.”
You stared. Then looked at him. Then back at the pamphlet.
Your eyes narrowed, your lips pressing into a line as the wheels in your head began to turn. For a long moment, you didn’t say a word. But something changed—visibly, unmistakably. Your posture shifted. Your breath stilled. Your entire demeanor settled into something focused, determined, just a little bit unhinged.
Daichi saw it immediately. He watched the transformation like someone witnessing a weather shift, like a man who’d seen the sky turn before a storm. His back straightened. His eyes went wide. He held up one hand as if you were a wild animal and he needed to de-escalate the situation.
“Babe—let’s just think this through—”
You sat up slowly. Deliberately. Every movement a signal.
Your voice dropped, calm but commanding, your eyes locked on his.
“…Get upstairs.”
Daichi followed you up the stairs like a man walking toward something both holy and terrifying.
You didn’t speak. Just kept your back straight, your breath steady, your feet deliberate on the steps. Every part of you radiated heat—rage, desperation, need. By the time you reached the bedroom, you were already tugging off your shirt, grumbling under your breath as it got stuck around your chest. You were a force of nature, belly full and breasts heavy, skin flushed with exertion and irritation.
“Help me,” you snapped, voice breathless.
Daichi was at your side in a second, pulling the fabric over your head, his hands lingering for just a second too long on the bare curve of your shoulder. It had been a while since the two of you had made love—between the fatigue, the constant discomfort, and the way your body had become less your own and more a vessel of life, intimacy had taken a quiet backseat. You missed it. Missed him. And he missed you—his touch tentative and reverent, like he was savoring the moment as much as you were. You turned to him, eyes burning.
“This baby is coming out tonight,” you said, voice low and deadly serious. “So get on the bed.”
He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to. God, did he want to. But his eyes kept flicking to your belly, the way it rounded out so full and taut, the faint sheen of sweat already glistening along your collarbone.
“Are you sure?” he asked, hand resting against your waist, careful and reverent. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” you said, grabbing him by the wrist and guiding him toward the mattress. “And if you do, I won’t care. I need this.”
He let out a shaky breath as you pushed him down onto the bed and climbed over him. The tension between you was thick, every inch of skin electric. Months of abstaining made everything heightened—your nerves tingled where his fingers grazed your hips, and his breathing hitched every time you shifted above him. His hands went instinctively to your thighs as you straddled him, palms warm and wide and trembling just slightly.
You leaned down to kiss him, hard and fast, teeth scraping his bottom lip as you ground your hips against his crotch. He gasped, his body already responding beneath you.
“Fuck,” he groaned, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Good,” you muttered, dragging your fingers down his chest. “Then we’ll die together.”
He chuckled breathlessly, then hooked his fingers in your waistband, easing your underwear off your hips with slow, reverent care. When he touched you, his fingertips sliding through the wet heat between your thighs, he exhaled like he was in awe.
“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice tight, eyes dark with restraint.
“I’m ready,” you breathed, rolling your hips into his touch.
He didn’t argue. He pushed his boxers down and kicked them off, his cock thick and flushed against his stomach. He gripped it at the base, ready to guide himself in, but you brushed his hand aside and positioned yourself with shaking thighs.
“Let me,” you murmured.
And then you sank down, slow and deep, the stretch sharp enough to make you gasp. Your hands clutched his shoulders, fingernails digging into his skin as you took him all the way in, inch by aching inch.
Daichi groaned, low and guttural, his head tipping back against the pillows. “Jesus, you’re so tight—fuck—”
You paused, hips resting flush against his, just breathing. The fullness was overwhelming, perfect, exactly what you needed.
When you started to move, it was unhurried. The sensitivity of not having touched like this in weeks made every motion feel magnified—every grind, every squeeze, every brush of skin set fire to your nerves. You both gasped more than once, surprised by how much you'd missed this, missed each other. Deep, rolling thrusts that had you grinding down with every motion, drawing small sounds from your throat as your body adjusted to the rhythm.
Daichi’s hands moved to your waist, holding you steady, thumbs stroking gentle circles along your skin.
“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice shaky. “You’re carrying our baby, and you still want me like this?”
“I don’t want you,” you corrected breathlessly. “I need you.”
Your pace picked up, just slightly, each roll of your hips drawing gasps from both of you. The bed creaked under the rhythm, your swollen belly brushing against his chest every time you leaned in to kiss him, desperate and messy and aching.
He slid one hand up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple until you arched into him. Your moan was sharp, needy, your body clenching tight around him.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groaned, fingers tightening on your hip. “You’re so—god, you feel so good.”
You chased the friction, riding him harder, faster, the pressure building between your legs in thick, pulsing waves. He met your thrusts now, his hips lifting off the bed, his face buried against your neck as he groaned into your skin.
When your orgasm hit, it slammed through you like a tidal wave, your body locking up around him as you gasped his name, trembling all over. He held you through it, rocking you gently, murmuring praise into your shoulder until your shudders turned to aftershocks.
Then he flipped you gently onto your back, careful with your belly, bracing himself above you as he drove into you with long, deep strokes, chasing his own edge.
You watched him through hooded eyes, heart racing, mouth parted in a soft, dazed smile. He looked wrecked—sweat-damp hair, flushed cheeks, jaw clenched with restraint as he fucked you slow and deep.
“I’m close,” he warned, voice fraying.
You cupped his face, nodding, heart still thudding from your own climax. “It’s okay. Come inside me. I want to feel you.”
With a broken sound, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he came, thick pulses filling you, his body trembling with release. You wrapped your arms around him as he collapsed slowly beside you, one arm still curled protectively across your middle, his breath hot against your shoulder.
Neither of you said anything for a long while. The room was warm and quiet, filled only with the soft sounds of your breathing. His hand smoothed over your belly, the rise and fall of it still unsteady. You were both flushed, glistening with sweat, chests heaving.
You turned your head toward him slightly, letting out a huff of a laugh. “Well… at least I feel better.”
Daichi huffed a laugh, his voice still rough. “Honestly? Same. Not sure if we jumpstarted labor or just obliterated our spines, though.”
You both lay there for a beat longer, catching your breath, limbs tangled, and the faint hum of calm settling over you.
Eventually, you shifted, groaning softly as you sat up on your elbows. “Okay,” you said, voice still breathy, “I should probably clean up—”
And then it happened.
A sudden, warm rush.
You blinked. Froze. Looked down.
“…Oh my god,” you whispered. “Daichi.”
He sat up slowly, still half-lost in the afterglow. “Hmm?”
You stared at the sheets beneath you, soaked through in a way that was definitely not from sex.
“My water broke,” you said, blinking again. The shock in your voice cut through the air.
Daichi’s head snapped toward you.
“My water broke,” you repeated, louder this time, voice rising in panic. “Daichi, my fucking water broke.”
The adrenaline that had left your limbs warm and loose now twisted into pure, electric panic.
He was moving before you could spiral further, sitting up and cupping your face with both hands.
“Hey, hey—look at me,” he said quickly, steadying your breathing with his voice. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
You nodded, dazed, still processing the rush of adrenaline and disbelief. Just moments ago, you had been begging for something to happen—for anything to finally signal the end. And now that it had, now that it was really happening, your heart felt like it might explode with the sheer weight of it. You had wanted this so badly. You had cursed the waiting. And yet now, the second it arrived, you were caught somewhere between terror and awe.
“I wanted this,” you whispered, almost to yourself. “I wanted this to happen.”
Daichi brushed a strand of damp hair away from your face, smiling warmly. “You did. And now it’s happening.”
You exhaled a shaky laugh, voice cracking. “I’m terrified.”
“I know,” he said, cupping your cheek with a hand as steady as his voice. “Me too. But we’re ready. You’re ready.”
You nodded again, tears welling in your eyes, this time from joy—not just from fear or exhaustion. You were going to meet your baby. Tonight. Maybe in just a few hours.
Daichi pressed a kiss to your forehead before swinging his legs off the bed, already grabbing the overnight bag he had packed and repacked a dozen times.
“Let’s go meet our baby,” he said, voice warm and certain.
And this time, you smiled through the chaos. Because it was finally happening—and you weren’t doing it alone.
HIIII ❤️❤️
Ive been reading around and oh my gosh i’ve been on your page for hours I LOVE THESE SMSMSMSM
I was wondering if you could make a nishinoya yuu x reader jealousy situation of sorts with some other character of your preference 😛
TYTYTY AND HAVE A GOOD DAY
HEYYY ❤️❤️
omggg THANK YOU you're literally the sweetest?? I’m so glad you've been enjoying the writing, that means everything 😭💕
I dug around my heart for this one hehehe enjoy <333
--
The Italian coast had a way of folding people into it.
The small harbor town of Portoscala wasn’t marked on most maps, but it was the kind of place that pulled you in by scent and sound alone—basil, brine, the sharp bark of espresso machines, the hiss of fishing lines cutting into saltwater. The houses stacked up the hillside in sun-washed pastels, terracotta roofs leaning toward one another like gossiping old women, and each morning bloomed in gold, dust, and noise.
Nishinoya had been living there for almost a year.
He liked the simplicity. The rhythm. He fished in the early morning when the water was still like glass and the mist clung to the backs of boats. He traded with the locals for olives, lemons, sun-warped tomatoes. He learned to speak enough Italian to argue over coffee but kept to himself when he could. That is—until the morning he saw the shop.
It was tucked quietly between buildings like it had grown there, ivy tumbling down the stucco in lazy loops. Not flashy. Just a wide, sun-fogged window and a crooked, hand-painted sign that read: “STAMPE DI PESCI – Art of the Sea.”
He might have passed it—would’ve passed it—if not for what he saw in the window.
A fish. Flattened. Inked. Pressed onto thick, textured paper with no signature, no flourish. Just the clean, solemn truth of its shape. It hit him like a wave. Not the artwork—though it was stunning—but the memory it dragged up from deep inside him.
Gyotaku.
He hadn’t seen it in years. Not since Japan. Not since he was a kid trailing behind his grandfather at the docks, watching weathered hands lift up fish with reverence. Not since he learned the words “This is how you honor the catch.”
He didn’t hesitate. He walked straight in.
The bell above the door jingled. The smell inside was rich and unfamiliar—sumi ink, sea salt, rosemary from the windowsill. The walls were lined with delicate scrolls, prints hung to dry on twine lines, their outlines crisp and real, as if they might still swim.
And there you were.
Barefoot, sleeves rolled to the elbows, brush in hand. You were crouched over a long table near the back, smoothing the belly of a halibut with fingers stained black at the tips. Your hair was tied up but loose in places, ink streaked across your cheek in a streak you hadn’t noticed yet.
You looked up at the sound of the bell, blinking once before smiling. “Can I help you?”
He opened his mouth, paused, then blurted, “Where’d you learn to do that?”
You stood, wiping your hands on your apron. “Gyotaku? From an artist in Hokkaido. I lived there for a few months.”
“I’m from Miyagi,” he said. “My jii-chan showed me once. Said it was… respectful.”
You nodded. “It is. It’s also beautiful.”
He stepped closer, eyes flicking over the work laid out on your table. They weren’t just prints. They were preserved motion. Like each fish had whispered something to you, and you'd sealed it in ink.
“I fish,” he said suddenly. “A lot.”
That made you laugh. “Lucky me.”
From that day forward, he brought you fish. Not for money. Not for trade. Just… because.
You specialized in gyotaku: honoring a fish's form by inking it and pressing it into rice paper. Some saw it as odd, but Nishinoya understood it immediately. "You're printing souls," he’d said once, eyes wide. "You're like... a fish priest." You laughed so hard you smudged your sleeve in ink.
Sometimes he brought tuna. Sometimes eels. Once, a marlin.
“Found this guy giving me attitude,” he said, setting the marlin down with a triumphant grin that practically gleamed in the sunlight. His shirt was half-untucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and there was a visible scrape down one forearm you suspected had a very fishy origin. “I spotted him darting through the current like he thought he could out-swim me. I told him, ‘No chance. You’re going straight to her studio.’ It was like he knew you’d been looking at other marlins.”
You squinted at him, folding your arms. “Wait. Are you saying you chased down a marlin because you were jealous of hypothetical fish?”
He looked at you with complete sincerity. “He was flashy. Had that whole deep-sea bad boy look. I wasn’t taking chances.”
You stared. “Yuu. Did you wrestle a marlin because you got jealous of how it looked?”
He shrugged, utterly unapologetic. “I mean, I won. So… not that weird, right?”
What he didn’t know was that your manager, back in Tokyo, had recently started sending rare fish your way for commissioned prints. They were oddities—deep-sea rarities with exotic fins and unusual shapes, packed in sleek crates with dry ice and impersonal paperwork. It was nothing personal. Just a business arrangement. Your agent insisted the pieces would catch the eye of collectors and museums. You weren’t even sure you liked it. The fish felt clinical. Shipped from a catalogue. Still, you printed them, because sometimes art meant compromise.
One morning, you were laying a freshly defrosted anglerfish onto your press table, arranging the fins just so, when the studio door creaked open.
“That’s not mine,” Nishinoya said flatly.
You glanced up, brush poised midair. “No. It’s from my manager. Special commission.”
He didn’t respond. Not immediately. He just crossed his arms, standing there in the doorway like he'd been slapped with a cold towel. His brows furrowed hard enough to crease the space between them, and his eyes flicked between the anglerfish and you like he wasn’t sure which of you he felt more betrayed by.
“Yuu?” you asked, already hearing the shift in his silence.
“So now you’re just taking fish from whoever sends them?” he muttered, voice sharp around the edges but too controlled to be casual. There was disbelief there—wounded pride dressed up in sarcasm. His posture was all puffed-up defensiveness, hands tucked under his arms, one foot tapping absently against the tile.
You blinked. “It’s for a commission. I didn’t pick it. They just send them.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered, still eyeing the fish like it had personally flirted with you.
“Yuu—”
“I just thought I was your fish guy,” he said, louder now, pacing a few steps forward before turning on his heel. “Guess I got replaced by some frozen deep-sea glow stick.”
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried not to laugh. You really tried.
“A glow stick?”
He shot you a look, scowl deepening. “With teeth. Look at it! That thing’s got more spikes than a sea urchin in a blender.”
You set the brush down and crossed the room, reaching out to tug gently at his sleeve. “Yuu. Come on.”
He let you pull him a little closer, though he kept his head turned stubbornly to the side.
“You are my fish guy. My ridiculous, dramatic, jealous fish guy. Who once named a swordfish after me and then told the whole pier she was impossible to catch.”
He sniffed. “To be fair, she was very stubborn. And she slapped me. Right in the nose.”
You bit back a grin. “Exactly my point.”
His eyes flicked to you finally—brown and bright and still a little hurt, like he wasn’t quite ready to admit how much the whole thing had gotten under his skin.
Without a word, you reached beneath your worktable and pulled out a wrapped scroll, tied carefully with twine. “I was saving this for your birthday, but… now seems like a good time.”
He took it hesitantly, brow furrowed, and began to unroll it.
The moment the marlin came into view, he froze. The print was bold—ink sweeping across the paper in clean, elegant lines. Powerful. Still. The exact shape of the fish he’d caught for you weeks ago. You’d captured its spirit perfectly, the curve of its body frozen in motion like it was still alive.
“I made this for you,” you said softly. “I couldn’t hang it in the studio. It didn’t feel right. It’s yours.”
He stared down at the paper like it was something sacred. His fingers tightened around the edges.
“You’re not crying, are you?” you teased gently.
“No,” he said quickly, voice higher than usual and cracking a little at the end. “I just got fish guts in my eye or something.”
You laughed, and he stepped forward to pull you into him, one arm wrapping tight around your waist, the other holding the scroll safely behind your back like it was too precious to wrinkle.
“I’m still your number one fish guy, right?” he murmured into your shoulder.
You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Always.”
He pulled back just enough to grin, the edges of it crooked and boyish. “Even if I name the next one after your middle name?”
“Yuu.”
He laughed into your neck. “Fine. But she better be as stubborn as you.”
The overhead lights in your office buzzed faintly, casting a sterile sheen across your desk, your tea, your meticulously arranged files. Every folder sat aligned at a perfect angle, every spreadsheet tabbed and color-coded to hell and back. You had done it all this morning, trying to distract yourself—trying to settle your mind with clean lines and predictable logic. The problem was, your hands weren’t moving. Your cursor blinked on the empty field of the player report form, waiting for an input that wasn’t coming.
You were still in last night’s gym.
You could feel it—his hand at your waist, his breath ghosting along your neck, the focused burn in his eyes like he’d been trying so hard not to look and failing anyway. That single brush of his fingertips over your lower back had lingered longer than it should have. You’d felt the press of his palm even after the janitor’s voice startled you both apart.
You clicked your pen hard against the desk, leaving a dent in the paper beneath it. No. You are not spiraling over Iwaizumi Hajime’s fucking triceps. This wasn’t high school. You didn’t have a crush. You had standards—and a job to do.
So why the hell couldn’t you stop replaying how his eyes had dropped—not to your clipboard, not to your notes—but to your mouth, right before the door opened?
Another sharp click. Another unfinished line of text. The memory flushed through your chest like static, and you were just about to stand and walk it off when a knock sounded on your door.
It was brisk. Familiar. Firm.
You barely managed to school your features into something neutral before the door cracked open—and there he was.
Iwaizumi Hajime, looming like a storm cloud, his Olympic-branded laptop tucked under one arm. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins tracing his forearms like tension maps, his jaw tight, unreadable. He didn’t say anything at first, just stepped inside your office with the restrained efficiency of a man too used to high-stakes situations.
“I’ve updated the training program,” he said, voice rough and clipped, as if last night hadn’t happened. “Based on what you showed me yesterday.”
He moved toward your desk, tilted the screen toward you. The moment the spreadsheet opened, your eyes skimmed the rows—and your stomach tightened.
Komori’s lateral sequences had been scaled down. Hyakuzawa’s overhead load was decreased. Flexibility modules were individualized. The wording was precise. The ratios were accurate.
You couldn’t believe it.
“It looks… solid,” you said, cautiously. “You actually listened.”
Iwaizumi’s mouth quirked. “I always listen.”
“You just don’t usually believe me,” you muttered, fingers tapping the edge of the keyboard.
He shrugged. “I believe you when you’re right.”
You were about to fire back when the door slammed open.
“Whoa—no yelling?” Bokuto’s voice rang out with playful disbelief as he peeked in, already grinning.
Behind him, Yaku gave a nod like he’d seen this coming from a mile away. “Told you they’d mellow out eventually.”
You crossed your arms, glaring. “What the hell are you two doing?”
“Seeing if the explosion already happened,” Bokuto chirped, eyes darting between you and Iwaizumi. “But this? You’re practically cozy. Suspicious.”
“Get out,” Iwaizumi growled, his voice all grit and warning.
“Wait, are you two—” Bokuto began.
“Absolutely not,” you cut in, sharp enough to decapitate.
Yaku raised a brow. “You’re denying it a little too fast, Doc.”
Iwaizumi’s glare could have melted iron. “Say one more thing and you’re benched for the week.”
“Okay, okay!” Bokuto backed up, laughing. “Damn. Just saying—it’s new energy.”
You stood, jaw clenched. “Out. Now.”
The two Olympic players exchanged a final glance before Bokuto tossed over his shoulder, “If it does happen, call me for the wedding.”
As the door shut behind them, you exhaled sharply. “They are insufferable.”
Iwaizumi rubbed the back of his neck, sighing. “Because we let them be.”
He turned toward the door, laptop still under his arm. Before leaving, he hesitated—just for a beat—and looked at you over his shoulder.
“Seriously. You were right. Yesterday.”
The words landed heavy. Too heavy.
“…Thanks.”
He nodded once, then walked out. Door closing on his way out.
And you didn’t move for a long time.
Not until your pulse calmed and the sound of his voice stopped buzzing in your ears.
--
You’d barely made it back to your office from your lunch break and shut the door behind you before there was another knock. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was. That rhythm was far too obnoxious to belong to anyone else.
“Doc!” Atsumu Miya strolled in like he owned the place, grinning with all the charm of a cat who’d just knocked something off a counter. “Got a second? My shoulder’s actin’ up again—figured you’d be thrilled to poke around in it.”
You rolled your eyes, but gestured toward the exam bench anyway. “Sit. Shirt off. Keep the commentary to a minimum.”
“That’s no fun,” he mumbled, but obeyed, peeling his shirt off with the practiced flair of someone who knew exactly what his arms looked like in fluorescent lighting.
You slipped on your gloves, moving around him with practiced ease. “Still some impingement from the inflammation?”
“Mmhm,” he replied, rotating his arm slightly. “Worse after I sleep on it wrong.”
You pressed gently along the front of the shoulder, assessing the rotation with subtle shifts. He winced once, which you noted.
Then, predictably, the smirk returned.
“Ya and Iwaizumi-san looked cozy earlier,” he said casually, not even trying to be slick. “Should I be worried?”
You froze for half a second, just enough for him to catch it.
“Worried he might kill me?” you deadpanned, fingers still pressed to his deltoid. “Absolutely.”
Atsumu huffed a laugh, but his eyes narrowed, too observant for your liking.
“I was thinkin’ the opposite,” he mused. “Didn’t look like hate to me.”
Your brows twitched.
You narrowed your eyes. “Did the rest of the team put you up to this?”
Atsumu’s smirk deepened. “What? Can’t a guy notice things on his own?”
You scoffed and reached for his shoulder again. “I’m going to press deeper into the joint now.”
Atsumu, still grinning, relaxed his shoulder—and immediately yelped when your fingers dug just slightly harder into the inflamed tissue.
“Still tender, I see?” you asked innocently, lifting a brow.
“Ow—damn, Doc!” he hissed, rubbing the area as you pulled back. “That was a low blow.”
You offered a thin smile. “Consider it a reminder to keep your theories to yourself.”
He winced, stretching his shoulder slowly. “You wound me. Here I am, bringin’ you a little entertainment in your dull clinic, and you repay me with violence.”
“I repay you with diagnostics,” you replied coolly, stepping around to the back of his shoulder. “And unsolicited opinions get the treatment they deserve.”
“Don’t know why you’re actin’ like this is such a scandal,” he muttered. “Half the gym’s been waitin’ for you two to snap and jump each other.”
Your glove-clad fingers stilled mid-rotation.
Atsumu grinned like a shark. “C’mon, you mean to tell me ya don’t see it? All that arguing—feels like foreplay.”
"It is not in your best interest to continue that train of thought."
You moved to the back of his shoulder and rotated the joint again, this time met with less resistance.
But your heart was suddenly in your throat.
Atsumu didn’t push further—blessedly—but his silence was far louder than any teasing remark. He watched you finish the check-up with a strange sort of calm, the air between you humming with something unsaid.
“You’re good,” you said finally, peeling off the gloves and tossing them into the bin. “Still keep the compression sleeve on when you’re not on court. I’ll send you some updated stretches.”
“Thanks, Doc.” He hopped off the bench, slinging his shirt over his shoulder. But just before he stepped out, he paused at the door.
“Y’know,” he said, almost too casually, “it’s kinda wild. Iwaizumi’s been here for years, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone like that.”
The door shut behind him before you could ask what the hell that meant.
And you hated—hated—the way your face warmed.
--
The lights in the hallways were dim, the soft hum of the facility settling into its nightly lull. Most of the staff had already cleared out—offices darkened, doors locked, the echo of your footsteps the only thing keeping the silence company. You rolled your shoulder, spine aching after another long day of meetings, treatment notes, and dodging the smug glances Atsumu kept throwing you every time he passed your office.
You were halfway to the exit, bag slung over your shoulder, keys in hand, when something made you stop. A dull, rhythmic sound. The muted clang of weights meeting padded flooring.
Your eyes cut to the side.
The training gym was lit only by a single overhead bulb in the far corner, flickering slightly above the racks. Inside, shirtless, sweat-slicked, and visibly focused, stood Hajime Iwaizumi. Alone.
You didn’t mean to stop. But your feet planted themselves anyway.
He was mid-lift—some kind of upright barbell press—and the curve of his back shifted with every rep, sweat rolling down between the muscles that flexed and released with practiced rhythm. His sweatpants clung to the powerful line of his hips, and a notebook sat open beside him on the bench, filled with scrawled corrections and diagrams. He wasn’t just working out. He was testing.
Your breath snagged, and before you could stop yourself, your hand reached out to gently push the door open.
Iwaizumi looked up.
He didn’t pause. Didn’t blink. Just kept lifting, jaw tight, eyes catching yours.
"You just gonna stand there," he said, voice gravelled with fatigue and something warmer, "or you planning to come in?"
Your heart gave an inconvenient lurch.
You stepped in. Slowly. The door clicked shut behind you, the echo bouncing off the gym walls like a warning shot.
"Didn’t think you’d still be here," you said, keeping your voice neutral.
He lowered the weights, rolling his shoulders back with a grunt. "Didn’t finish the work. That thing you won’t stop nagging me about."
Your lips twitched. "Right. That thing."
A beat of silence. Thick and heavy.
You moved closer, eyeing the open notebook.
"You’ve changed a lot," you said, voice quieter.
He arched a brow. "Excuse me?"
You pointed at the program updates. "The circuits. You adjusted the progression intervals. And you finally stopped overloading the endurance drills."
A shrug. "You were right."
Your eyes flicked up, surprised to hear it from his mouth.
"Don’t get smug," he muttered.
"Wouldn’t dream of it."
The corner of his mouth quirked, and for a moment, the silence between you was less heavy. Just taut. Like a pulled wire.
You pointed to the bar. "May I?"
His brow raised, but he stepped aside. You brushed past him—just barely—but the heat that rolled off his skin followed you like static. You wrapped your fingers around the bar, adjusted your stance.
"Like last night," you murmured, reaching back with your hand, brushing your palm across the taut muscle of his abdomen. "You’re still tensing too soon. Posterior tilt’s off."
He let out a rough exhale. "You always this picky?"
"You always this stubborn?"
He caught your wrist. Not hard—just firm enough that your eyes snapped to his.
"You know what you’re doing."
Your pulse jumped. "Do I?"
His mouth crashed into yours before you could answer.
Everything went hot and messy.
His lips were rough, desperate, teeth scraping your lower lip like it was a grudge he meant to settle. You gasped into his mouth as his hands found your waist, calloused fingers digging into the soft give of your skin like he could anchor himself there. The gym’s cold air was a distant thing, barely felt beneath the furnace of your bodies colliding, friction turning tension into fire.
You didn’t remember moving, only the wild clutch of your limbs and his, the stumble of your shoes across the floor. One step. Two. Then you were walking him backward toward the center mat, his chest rising beneath your touch. He was tugging your shirt up, shoving it over your head with a grunt of impatience, and it hit the ground somewhere behind you. You didn’t care. You needed more—needed his skin under your palms, needed to feel him, solid and hot and here.
"You’re such a pain in my ass," you growled, teeth flashing as you wrestled with the waistband of his sweats.
"Yeah?" he rasped, his hand already sliding past the waistband of your leggings, fingers curling possessively around your ass. "Then why do you keep showing up?"
You shoved him. Hard.
He hit the mat with a thud, breath whooshing out of him—and still he grinned like the bastard he was, even as he yanked you down on top of him.
Your thighs spread across his hips as you straddled him, your palms braced on his chest, feeling the flex of muscle beneath each ragged breath. You kissed him again—slower this time, deeper. Your tongue slid against his, your hips beginning to roll, teasing friction where your bodies met. His cock strained against his sweats, thick and hot and barely contained.
"Take them off," you muttered.
He obeyed. Sweats shoved down, boxers next, and his cock slapped against his stomach, flushed and ready. You stared for a beat too long.
"What?" he panted, eyes dark and glassy.
"Nothing," you lied. "Just shut up."
Clothes hit the floor in a trail of skin and fabric. Your leggings. Your panties. His shirt. Everything discarded in your frantic need.
He sat up just enough to run his hands up your sides, thumbs brushing the swell of your breasts, then down to your thighs as you shifted above him. You held his gaze as you reached between you, guiding him to your entrance. Your breath caught at the first stretch—then you sank down, inch by inch, until he was fully seated inside you.
You both froze.
Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body adjusting to the thickness of him. The sensation was overwhelming—stretching you open, the slow drag of every inch sending a shiver down your spine. It had been too long since something felt this good. Since someone felt this good.
He groaned, hands trembling against your waist, gripping you like he might come undone.
"Fuck," he whispered. "You—"
"Don’t talk," you snapped, breathless.
You rocked forward, and he moaned. A sound from deep in his throat, guttural and raw. You did it again—slow, dragging circles with your hips, feeling every ridge, every inch, the way he filled you so completely you could barely breathe. The pleasure curled through you hot and tight, blooming in your belly, liquid heat spreading with every thrust.
His mouth found your neck, tongue tracing the line of your throat before he bit, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you whimper.
"You drive me insane," he muttered against your skin, and this time, you didn’t argue.
You set a rhythm, your hands on his chest, his hands on your ass, guiding you down harder, deeper, every motion building heat in your belly. Sweat slicked your skin, your thighs trembled, and every thrust sent sparks up your spine. The tension climbed higher, unbearable, addictive.
He met you thrust for thrust, rising to meet you, hips snapping up as you dropped down, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing off the gym walls. You felt yourself unraveling around him, muscles tightening, your body shaking.
"You like this, don’t you?" he growled, voice low and fucked out. "Being in charge. Getting your way."
"Shut up, Hajime."
He grinned—and flipped you.
You hit the mat with a gasp, his body heavy and hot above you. He braced one arm beside your head, the other slipping under your thigh as he pulled your leg higher around his waist.
"Not gonna let you win everything, Doc."
Then he was pounding into you, unrelenting, deep and fast, and your fingers clawed into his back, desperate to hold onto something as pleasure overtook you. Each thrust filled you to the hilt, your walls fluttering around him, slick and tight and aching.
You cried out, eyes fluttering shut, hips canting up to meet his every thrust.
"There," you gasped. "Right there—"
He didn’t stop. Not until your back arched, legs locking around his waist, and you came with a broken moan, pleasure snapping through you like lightning. You pulsed around him, body locking up as ecstasy tore through you.
He followed seconds later, groaning into your neck, his body trembling with release.
For a long moment, all you heard was breath. Harsh. Labored. Yours and his.
He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed, forehead pressed to your shoulder, his hand tangled in your hair.
You stared at the ceiling.
Oh, fuck.
What now?
The shop is quiet, bathed in the golden light of the early evening, the kind that settles over wood and stone like a warm sigh. A gentle hush lingers in the space, broken only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional click of the camera shutter. Most of the chairs are stacked, the door flipped to its "CLOSED" sign, and the scent of vinegar and freshly cooked rice still lingers in the air. You're both still inside—Osamu behind the counter in his slightly wrinkled apron, you crouched near the front display trying to get the perfect shot of a tuna nigiri against the fading light.
You’d met in college—him, a culinary student with arms always dusted in flour or sea salt, and you, a sharp-tongued marketing major who could charm a room with a smile and tear apart a branding pitch in under a minute.
You clicked almost immediately. It started with coffee-fueled group projects, late-night ramen runs, and long, quiet study sessions where neither of you said much but never seemed to want to leave. By the time you graduated, you'd both moved back home, and when he opened up his own nigiri shop, it felt natural to call you in to help make it shine.
Osamu’s had a crush on you since your second year. He’s certain of it. The first time you snapped at him for being late and then bought him lunch anyway, he was done for. But he never said anything—not when you were swamped with internship applications, not when he got too busy building his dream from scratch. He just... kept you around. Close. Safe. Until now.
“You’re supposed to be takin’ photos,” he says, voice low and amused as he leans against the counter, watching you from across the room.
“I am,” you say around a mouthful of nigiri, holding your phone up with one hand, chopsticks in the other. “I’m multitasking.”
Osamu lifts a brow. “That your fancy marketing term for stealin’ my hard work?”
You grin, chewing contentedly. “Not stealing. Quality control.”
He huffs a laugh, arms crossed, apron a little wrinkled from the long day. You’ve been at this for hours—prepping a new campaign for the shop’s upcoming anniversary special, trying to capture the perfect lighting, the perfect angle, the perfect bite. The trouble is, the food is too good. And you’re hungry. And Osamu’s expression every time you sneak another piece is too funny not to provoke.
“Y’know,” he says, walking over to the bar where you’ve made a makeshift photography studio of cutting boards and empty plates, “I could’ve just hired a photographer.”
“Yeah, but they wouldn’t have my good side memorized.”
He pauses behind you, and you feel his gaze on the back of your head before he leans slightly over your shoulder to glance at your camera roll.
“Half these are just you eatin’ food,” he mutters.
“Well, you can tell it's good food.”
“Yer a menace.”
You laugh, the sound bouncing off the walls of the quiet shop. As you're reaching for another piece of nigiri, he eyes you from behind the counter.
“Oi,” he says, pointing a chopstick at you, “I said stop eatin’ 'em all.”
You pop the bite into your mouth with a grin. “Oh, c'mon. This is my payment for staying late and taking these photos.”
Osamu raises a brow. “Yeah, well, you can’t get the damn photos if there’s nothin’ left to shoot.”
You reach forward and pluck another piece off the plate just to spite him.
Osamu throws his head back with a groan, but the sound blends into a laugh—low and unfiltered. His arms uncross, one hand resting on the counter’s edge as he leans forward, shaking his head.
His smile cracks wide across his face, tugging at the corners of his eyes, and for a moment, he just watches you with something helplessly fond behind the amusement. His shoulders lift slightly with each breath, the kind of laugh that takes over your whole body before you even realize it. There’s no trace of the usual teasing smirk, no sarcasm—just the kind of joy that escapes when you stop trying to hide it.
“Hey—stop eatin’ all the—ugh, I love you.”
The words slip out in the middle of a breathless laugh, tangled in warmth and amusement, tumbling into the open before either of you can brace for the impact. His voice trails off at the end, like his brain only just caught up with his mouth—and then the moment hangs.
Still.
Your fingers hover above the plate, chopsticks clutched mid-air, and your smile falters as the weight of what he just said sinks in. The warmth still lingering in your chest twists into something deeper—sharper.
Both of you freeze, suspended in golden light and thick, heady silence. His laughter dies like a flame catching wind.
Your hand stops mid-air, halfway to your mouth. “...What did you say?”
Osamu straightens up like he touched a live wire. “Nothin’. I didn’t—I mean, that wasn’t—”
“No no,” you say, slowly lowering the chopsticks, your eyes narrowing with disbelief and something else—something softer. “Did you just say you love me?”
“I didn’t mean to say it like that!” he blurts, already rubbing the back of his neck. “I was just—ya were bein’ you, and I laughed, and it slipped out, but I do, I mean, I didn’t plan to just—shit—”
You cut off his rambling by stepping forward and wrapping your arms around him in a sudden, fierce hug.
Osamu goes completely still for a second, his breath shallow as his arms remain half-curled like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold you yet. Then you feel the tension give way as he exhales against your hair, and his arms tighten around you just slightly, enough to pull you flush against his chest.
You bury your face into the soft cotton of his shirt, the scent of soy and rice grounding you. “I love you too, you moron.”
You feel his breath stutter against your temple, and you tilt your head up just enough to see his eyes—soft, stunned, and a little dazed.
"Took you long enough," you add with a teasing smile.
He huffs a laugh, low and disbelieving, the sound rumbling through his chest. His shoulders sag, relief pouring through him in quiet waves. “You’re not just sayin’ that?” he asks, voice rough at the edges, like he still doesn’t fully believe he didn’t just hallucinate this entire thing.
You grin. “Would I lie to the man who makes me free food every week?”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face before ruffling the back of your hair affectionately. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, but his tone is nothing but fond.
He’s smiling, really smiling, like the kind of smile that lives in the corners of his mouth even after it fades, the kind you remember for days. His hand finds yours without hesitation, fingers curling through yours like he’s done it a thousand times in his head already. You stay like that for a moment—standing in the golden hush of the closed shop, surrounded by the scent of rice and vinegar and the lingering echo of laughter.
“You still owe me promotional photos,” he murmurs against your lips.
You pull back just enough to smile. “Only if I get to eat the props after.”
“Fine. But I’m writin’ you off as an expense.”
You didn’t usually date short guys.
It wasn’t personal—just a preference. You liked being manhandled. Liked being tossed around, bent over, pinned. You’d always thought height made that easier. You wanted to be overwhelmed, and you never thought someone with a boyish grin and a 174 cm frame would be the one to do it.
But Hinata Shōyō?
Was a beast.
Not just in the way he moved, though that was devastating enough. He had stamina for days, legs like pistons, arms strong enough to lift you like you weighed nothing. But it was the way he looked at you when he was inside you—like he was starved, like he was built for this. Like your pleasure was his mission.
And when you were underneath him? Flat on your back, legs thrown over his shoulders, Hinata kneeling over you with your ankles hooked behind his neck?
There was no going back.
“I wanna see everything,” he’d whispered the first time, flushed and breathless, the tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. “Wanna see your face when I make you lose it.”
And now?
Now he was fucking you like he meant it.
Your thighs trembled where they rested over his shoulders, calves draped down his back as his hips snapped into yours. His hands were braced beside your head, body bent forward so his chest hovered over yours. The position had you folded nearly in half, stretched wide, completely taken.
“So—tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched as he pounded into you with brutal rhythm, curls damp and clinging to his forehead. “God, you feel… fuck… you feel so good.”
Your back arched off the bed, fingers fisting the sheets, eyes fluttering as pleasure crackled through your nerves.
“Shōyō—too deep, it’s too much—”
“No,” he gasped, snapping his hips harder, “It’s perfect. You can take it. Just hold on, I’ve got you.”
You sobbed as his cock hit that devastating spot inside you over and over, your body clenching, quivering. The position had you stretched and pinned, his body grinding into yours with relentless force. You could feel the headboard banging against the wall, the slap of skin-on-skin loud in the air.
Hinata leaned closer, your knees nearly pressed to your chest, and he grabbed your hand, lacing your fingers together as he fucked you harder.
“I wanna see it,” he panted, eyes fixed on your face. “Come for me. Right now. Let me see how pretty you look when you break.”
And you did.
You shattered with a scream, back arching violently, mouth falling open in a ragged cry as your orgasm slammed through you. Your vision went white, your body seizing under the weight of the pleasure, twitching uncontrollably. You couldn’t even breathe—couldn’t think.
It didn’t stop.
He kept fucking you through it, hips rolling hard and deep, watching you fall apart beneath him like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Your hands clawed at his arms, thighs trembling wildly, mouth babbling nonsense—you didn’t even realize what you were saying. You were crying. Moaning. Whimpering please and don’t stop in the same breath.
Hinata groaned, deep and broken, and you felt his rhythm falter just slightly before he buried himself deep, grinding his hips hard into yours as he came with a strangled gasp. The warmth of him flooding you only sent another pulse of aftershock through your body, another twitch of oversensitivity that made your breath catch.
He stayed there, chest heaving, forehead resting against yours.
Your chest was heaving, fingers twitching, mind blank except for the echo of your own voice—broken, desperate, high-pitched and gasping his name like it was the only thing you knew how to say.
Your body was still convulsing in little aftershocks when Hinata leaned over you, his breath warm and uneven, and started pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin.
First to your collarbone. Then lower.
His lips trailed down the curve of your breast, lingering over the swell as his hand spread wide over your stomach—grounding you, holding you, but never still.
You jolted when his mouth dipped lower again, his tongue lapping at the sheen of sweat on your ribs, and then his lips brushed just under your navel.
“Shōyō—” you whimpered, voice rasping from overuse, hips twitching.
He smiled against your skin, kissed lower.
“Too much?” he whispered, but didn’t stop. He was everywhere—on your hips, your thighs, your waist, like he needed to taste every part of what he just ruined.
Every place his mouth touched made you flinch, a fresh wave of oversensitivity crawling across your skin. But you didn’t stop him.
You couldn’t.
And neither could he.
By the time he leaned up again, his hands were back on your waist, thumbs stroking soft, absentminded circles against your flushed skin. His eyes were bright, cheeks still a little pink, and his grin—smug, breathless, a little crooked—stole the last of your breath.
“Wanna go again?”
You blinked. And despite the fact that your legs were jelly, your brain scrambled, your body completely wrecked—you still managed to nod.
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
Yeah. You didn’t usually date short guys.
But Hinata wasn’t like anyone else.
The night had no plans. And that was the plan.
Warm lamplight painted the apartment in soft amber hues, flickering gently across a half-finished bottle of wine, socks abandoned near the doorway, and the lazy sprawl of two bodies tangled beneath a fleece blanket on the couch. Outside, the city murmured in the distance—traffic, wind, someone’s music a few blocks away. But here, the only sounds were the low thrum of a playlist you both forgot to turn off and the occasional clink of glass as you sipped.
Suna Rintarou sat at the opposite end of the couch, half-lidded eyes drifting toward the TV screen though he hadn’t looked at it in twenty minutes. One knee bent, the other foot on the floor, hoodie loose around his shoulders, collarbone peeking out where the fabric hung unevenly. His phone rested facedown on the coffee table—abandoned, for once.
You lay curled into the armrest, sipping your wine, cheek pressed into the pillow, watching him with the slow, foggy fondness of someone three glasses deep and completely content.
He looked relaxed. Comfortable. Maybe a little too smug.
"You ever get bored of being effortlessly cool?" you asked, voice low and amused.
Suna didn't even glance at you. “You ever get bored of talking out your ass?”
You smirked into your glass. “Mm. Nope.”
The silence between you was warm. Familiar. Filled with shared breath and the lazy weight of the night.
After a moment, you tapped the side of your glass with your fingernail and looked over at him, eyes half-lidded. “Wanna play something?”
Suna raised an eyebrow without moving. “Like what?”
You shrugged, smiling. “Truth or dare.”
He blinked slowly. “…What is this, a middle schooler’s basement?”
You laughed and kicked him in the thigh with your socked foot, not even hard. Just enough to say shut up.
Suna grunted on impact, shooting you a narrowed glance as his hand caught your ankle under the blanket.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
“You love me,” you shot back easily.
He didn’t answer—just let your leg go and leaned forward to set his glass down on the table with a soft clink.
“Fine,” he said, finally. “You first.”
The couch creaked quietly beneath you as you shifted upright, adjusting the blanket to pool at your waist. Your glass was nearly empty now, fingers curling loosely around the stem while your legs curled underneath you. Suna stayed reclined, eyes on you now with that low-burn stare—quiet, unreadable, like he was already trying to guess what you’d ask.
You toyed with the rim of your glass, lips twitching. “Okay. Truth or dare?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Truth.”
Of course. It was always truth with him. He’d rather be caught dead than do something performative, especially under your watchful, goading eye. Suna Rintarou didn’t dance for anyone—but he’d let you look inside, if only a little.
You hummed, pretending to think, even though you’d already decided. “What was your first impression of me?”
He scoffed softly, dropping his head back against the cushion and staring at the ceiling for a beat before turning his gaze lazily toward you again. “Honestly?”
“Obviously.”
“You were annoying.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Wow.”
“In a cute way,” he added with a lazy grin.
You lifted your leg and nudged his thigh again. “You’re cruising for another kick.”
“Worth it,” he muttered, taking a sip of his drink.
He set the glass aside again, arm draping along the back of the couch behind you, fingers brushing the fabric near your shoulder.
“My turn,” he said.
You met his gaze, chin raised. “Hit me.”
“Truth or dare?”
You grinned. “Truth.”
Suna’s eyes lingered on your face for a beat too long. Then: “Top three best times you’ve ever had in bed.”
You blinked. Hard.
A short laugh escaped you. “Are you—seriously?”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You asked.”
Your cheeks warmed—not from embarrassment, but from the audacity. He was leaning into the cushion now, head tilted slightly, eyes hooded, watching your reaction like he was tracking the slow spread of heat across your skin.
“Okay,” you said finally, placing your glass on the coffee table. “Fine.”
You sat back and raised three fingers.
“Number one…” you began, grinning. “That night you came home after being gone for four days? Didn’t even make it to the bedroom. You dropped your bag and practically tackled me into the wall.”
Suna made a small, satisfied sound in his throat, but didn’t interrupt.
“Number two: the kitchen. I don’t even remember what started the fight, but you shut me up pretty effectively.”
His lips twitched, the barest hint of smugness there now.
You raised your third finger—and then paused. Let the silence stretch.
“And number three,” you said, tone suddenly breezy, “was probably this one time with my ex.”
Suna didn’t react at first.
Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
You waited.
Then he turned his head slightly, slow and measured, like processing a minor glitch in a system. His eyes dragged across your face. He looked calm. Relaxed. His arm still hung behind your shoulders.
“You’re putting someone else on that list?” he asked quietly.
You smiled, feigning innocence. “Didn’t think you’d be the jealous type.”
“I’m not,” he replied.
Then he shifted.
His legs uncrossed, knees spreading slightly as he leaned forward, forearms braced on his thighs, eyes still locked on yours.
“I’m competitive.”
You opened your mouth to respond—something flirty, maybe a little smug—but before you could speak, he was already moving.
One hand slid behind your neck, the other gripping the back of your thigh, and he pulled you forward in one fluid motion. Your knees hit either side of his hips as he dragged you into his lap, not rough, but not exactly gentle either. It was purposeful. Controlled.
You gasped softly, wine-blushed hands flying to his shoulders for balance. The heat of his body met yours in a slow burn as his mouth grazed your jaw, barely touching, the edge of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips.
“Third place,” he murmured. “You serious?”
You opened your mouth to tease him—but he cut you off with a kiss.
It wasn’t soft.
It was deep and slow and toeing the line between affection and punishment, his tongue sliding into your mouth like it belonged there, like he was reclaiming territory he thought he already owned. One of his hands found your lower back, pressing you flush against him, your hips cradled perfectly against the slow, rising hardness beneath his sweats.
He pulled back just enough to murmur, “You said top three, right?”
Your breath hitched.
He tilted his head slightly. “Let’s make it a clean sweep.”
You never made it to the bedroom.
You didn’t even make it to your feet.
Suna laid you back against the couch with a quiet, measured ease, like he was tucking you into something soft instead of preparing to ruin you. The throw pillows shifted behind your shoulders as he moved over you, the heavy drag of his hands along your thighs lighting every nerve with anticipation.
Your shirt was still on. Your panties, around your knees. Everything else was tossed aside: the rules, the game, the ex you’d mentioned like it wouldn’t cost you everything.
His fingers gripped the backs of your knees, pushing your legs apart until you were open—displayed—for him and only him. You felt the chill of the air hit your slick skin, and then the warm press of his palms smoothing up your inner thighs like he was marking them.
You were already wet. Ridiculously so. The kind of wet that made your skin sticky and your mind hazy. He hadn’t even touched you properly and you were half gone.
Suna didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just lowered himself between your legs and settled in like this was his seat.
The first press of his tongue was slow. A long, deliberate drag from your entrance up to your clit, tasting you like he already knew exactly what he was about to do.
You gasped—back arching, fingers twitching against the cushions as his mouth closed around your clit, lips plush and wet, tongue circling until your thighs trembled.
He moaned, low and hungry, like you were a meal he’d waited all day for. And then he began to eat.
It wasn’t messy. It was precise. Calculated. He licked in slow, repeating patterns, pressure building perfectly with every stroke. The couch dipped under his weight as he adjusted, one hand splayed across your stomach to keep you pinned, the other trailing over your thigh with soft, absentminded affection.
Your hips tried to move—tried to chase the friction—but he held you there.
“You taste better when you beg,” he murmured into you, voice deep and quiet like it wasn’t meant to be heard. His lips never left your skin.
You whimpered, hands flying to his hair, gripping the strands like you were trying to ground yourself. You couldn’t.
Your first orgasm crept up before you could stop it—warm and relentless, your stomach tightening as he flicked the tip of his tongue over your clit in tight, practiced circles. You shook beneath him, thighs clamping instinctively, voice cracking as you gasped—
“Rin—oh my god—Rin—”
“That’s one,” he murmured.
He didn’t stop.
He pushed two fingers inside you, slow and deep, curling them up until you let out a sharp, broken moan. You were already pulsing, already drenched, and he was fucking into you with just his fingers and tongue like he had all night to unravel you.
The second orgasm hit harder.
You choked on it, the pleasure sweeping through your body in sharp, dragging waves, so intense your fingers went numb and your vision blurred. You tried to close your legs again. He held them apart, fingertips digging into your thighs like they belonged there.
“I’m not done,” he said simply.
You were crying now—soft, helpless tears slipping down your cheeks, your breath coming in ragged gasps. You didn’t know if you were begging for more or begging him to stop. Your body didn’t care. It wanted everything.
“Rin,” you whimpered. “I can’t—”
“You can.” His tongue flattened against your clit, firm and unrelenting. “I know you can.”
Your third orgasm snapped like a thread pulled taut too long. Your body shook, hips jerking off the couch, mouth open in a soundless cry. Your hands were everywhere—gripping the cushions, his hair, your own thighs—anything.
He finally pulled away, lips and chin slick with you, and looked up through his lashes like he was barely winded. His hand was still working inside you, fingers slow and deep, pressing against that soft spot that had your toes curling.
“Still thinking about him?” he asked softly.
You couldn’t speak.
Suna kissed the inside of your thigh. “Didn’t think so.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood, shoving his sweatpants halfway down before sinking back onto the couch—grabbing your hips and hauling you down the cushions like you weighed nothing.
Your back hit the armrest, legs dangling off the edge, and he was lining himself up in seconds.
You felt the press of him at your entrance—thick, hot, already leaking—and then he pushed in.
You moaned—loudly, mouth falling open as he filled you inch by inch. He didn’t stop until he was buried to the hilt, the stretch so deep it made your whole body arch.
He stilled, breathing hard through his nose, eyes on your face.
“So tight,” he muttered. “So fucking wet. You’re shaking.”
He pulled out halfway—slammed back in.
You cried out, nails dragging down the armrest as he fucked into you, hard and deep, every thrust sending shockwaves up your spine. The couch rocked. Your body bounced. And all you could do was take it.
He found your clit again—this time with his thumb—and rubbed tight, fast circles that had your fourth orgasm snapping violently through you, your cunt clenching so hard around him he cursed under his breath.
“You gonna come again?” he murmured, hips still snapping into yours. “You gonna give me five?”
You sobbed. “Rin—yes—yes, I can’t—”
“Yeah, you can,” he whispered. “You will.”
The final orgasm came like nothing you’d ever felt.
You screamed—loud, raw, pleasure flooding every part of you. Your entire body went stiff before it collapsed, twitching, legs trembling as you came so hard your ears rang.
Suna groaned deep in his chest, fucking you through it until he came too—hips jerking, cock pulsing inside you as he filled you up with every last drop.
When he stilled, you were ruined.
Sweaty, twitching, wrecked.
He leaned over you, pressing kisses to your temple, your jaw, your cheek, as your chest rose and fell in ragged breaths.
The air smelled like sex and sweat and your perfume still clinging to his hoodie.
You didn’t move.
You couldn’t.
He kissed your shoulder once more, nuzzling into the space just below your ear, then whispered—
“So…”
A pause.
“Did I make the leaderboard?”
Your brain was mush. Your limbs were jelly. Your body was still throbbing.
And all you could do… was nod.
Suna smiled.
“Good.”
It was supposed to be one of your favorites.
Yaku stood proudly in front of the stove, dishing up a steaming plate of oyakodon—fluffy egg, juicy chicken, perfectly seasoned rice. You’d been craving something warm and comforting, and he’d been more than happy to oblige. He even made miso soup on the side, garnished just the way you liked it, with the little tofu cubes floating lazily in the bowl. The apartment smelled like soy sauce and dashi, rich and nostalgic.
You waddled into the kitchen with one hand on your lower back, the other absentmindedly tracing the edge of your growing bump, already smiling at the scent you knew so well.
But then—
It hit you.
The smell.
Hard.
You stopped short. The smile slipped from your face. Your nose crinkled, your eyes went wide, and your stomach lurched.
You gagged once, loud and sudden.
Yaku turned from the stove instantly, eyes narrowing with alarm. “Hey—are you okay?”
You waved him off, trying to speak, trying to play it off like you could power through it.
“Yeah, I just—” You gagged again, louder this time, one hand flying to your mouth. “It’s fine, I think I just need a second—”
Then your stomach gave up entirely.
The rich scent of simmered egg and soy sauce suddenly turned rancid in your senses, and before you could say a word, both hands flew to your mouth. You staggered toward the sink, breathing hard through your nose.
Yaku turned just in time to watch you sprint the rest of the way.
You barely made it. Gripping the edges of the basin, you gagged violently, doubling over as your body heaved with no warning. Your knees buckled slightly from the effort, and tears sprang to your eyes as you fought to keep control.
“Oh—oh my god,” Yaku choked out, dropping the plate onto the counter with a sharp clatter. His hand hovered midair, frozen, like he wasn’t sure if he should run toward you or flee entirely.
He chose you.
“Hey, hey—it’s okay,” he said, voice slightly high-pitched, his mouth tugging awkwardly to one side as he fought against his visible discomfort. His nose wrinkled despite himself, but he pressed a hand to your back, rubbing slow, shaky circles. “It’s okay. Just breathe. You got it.”
You were sobbing before you even lifted your head.
“I loved that dish,” you wailed, tears streaming freely now. “You made it perfectly and I—I threw up in front of you, and I can’t even eat it now, and I’m so sorry—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said quickly, helping you upright and handing you a cool cloth from the fridge. “None of that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You wiped your mouth, sniffling. “But I ruined dinner.”
He glanced warily at the plate, now abandoned and beginning to cool. “Yeah, well, it’s not my best memory of oyakodon anymore, but that’s fine. It’ll survive.”
You hiccupped a wet laugh. “You’re grossed out.”
“I’m... challenged,” he admitted with a strained smile. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll gag quietly in the corner if I have to.”
You buried your face in his shoulder. “I hate that my body’s doing this. I hate that I wanted something so badly and then just—rejected it like that.”
He stroked your back, gentler now. “It’s not rejection. It’s just... a rebranding.”
You pulled back slightly, puffy-eyed. “What does that even mean?”
“It means,” he said, tipping your chin up, “that we’re finding new favorites now. So tell me what you can stomach, and I’ll make it happen.”
You hesitated.
“…You’re not gonna like it.”
“I just watched you throw up mid-step and I stayed. Try me.”
“…Pickles.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
“With peanut butter.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And crushed ice.”
He blinked. “Separate or…?”
“Side dish.”
“Of course.”
“And I want a plain bagel. But I want to dip it in cream cheese and ketchup.”
He exhaled. “Naturally.”
“And maybe some frozen corn niblets? Not cooked. Just... straight from the freezer.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Making a list.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” he interrupted, already walking to the counter. “Because you’re growing a whole human, and apparently that human is very specific.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Even if I hate this list.”
And with that, he kissed your temple, grabbed his keys, and set off to hunt down every absurd craving you’d dreamed up—with only a faint grimace and a stomach made of steel.
--
It took him two corner stores and a specialty deli, but Yaku returned triumphant, arms full of grocery bags and a look of determination on his face. He laid everything out on the coffee table like it was a five-star buffet: pickles, peanut butter, crushed ice in a big bowl, a plain bagel, cream cheese, ketchup, and a bag of frozen corn.
You were already curled up on the couch in one of his hoodies, and your face lit up like the sun when you saw it all. “Oh my god,” you gasped, reaching for the pickles first and dipping one straight into the peanut butter without hesitation. “This is perfect.”
Yaku sat on the edge of the couch, watching with a blend of horror and awe as you crunched down on your Frankenstein meal with pure, genuine joy.
You munched happily, cheeks puffed out, eyes dreamy as you chewed. “Oh my god, I love you so much.”
He smiled, soft and full of affection. “I love you too.”
Then, quieter, barely a mumble as he stared at the bagel going into the ketchup-cream cheese dip: “This kid is gonna be weird.”
The office door clicked shut behind you, tension coiled tight in your shoulders like a spring ready to snap. The argument with Iwaizumi had dragged on longer than either of you expected, every word exchanged like a verbal spar, blades dulled by professionalism but no less sharp.
Coach Fuki Hibarida sat behind his desk like a man who’d already fielded more than his share of chaos before lunch. His fingers steepled under his chin, his gaze sharp as it flicked between you and Iwaizumi. The air in the office was thick enough to choke on.
“I appreciate both of your passion,” he said finally, voice flat and uncompromising. “But if you keep at it like this, the only thing we’re going to accomplish is splitting the damn team in two.”
You leaned forward in your chair, back ramrod straight, the fire in your voice only barely tempered. “With all due respect, Coach, I’m not trying to split anything. I’m trying to protect these athletes from outdated training philosophies that completely disregard their medical history.”
Iwaizumi’s jaw flexed, arms crossed so tight across his chest it looked like he was trying to restrain himself from lunging across the room. “And I’m trying to prevent injuries before they happen. Without a baseline of strength, flexibility means jack shit.”
“Tell that to Sakusa’s ACL.”
He scoffed, sitting forward just enough that your knees almost touched. “You think I don’t know their files? I’ve worked with these guys longer than you’ve even been part of this team.”
“And yet your ‘expertise’ almost put Yaku back in a brace.”
“Enough!” Hibarida barked, and the room dropped into silence.
His eyes moved from Iwaizumi to you and back again. “You’re both right.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and begrudging.
“I’m signing off on your proposed changes,” he continued, nodding toward you. “Flexibility and personalized conditioning will take precedence moving forward. But Iwaizumi—your job is to ensure the training stays rigorous and strategic. Adjust programs for injury history. No exceptions.”
There was a long pause.
Iwaizumi’s voice, when it came, was stiff as granite. “Understood.”
Hibarida’s chair creaked as he stood, clearly eager to be done with the two of you. “I want the updated plan submitted by Friday. Together.”
You stood without looking at Iwaizumi. But as you passed him, shoulder nearly brushing his, you said under your breath, “Try not to screw this one up.”
His grunt of irritation followed you out the door.
--
Iwaizumi stood at the front of the gym, clipboard clutched tightly in his calloused hands, the glossy finish damp where his fingers curled. The fluorescent lights hummed above the Olympic training gym, casting cold, clinical shadows over the rows of elite athletes stretching and rotating through warm-ups. Despite the early hour, the place buzzed with restless energy.
But Iwaizumi wasn’t paying attention to any of that.
His eyes tracked every movement with practiced detachment, but his thoughts were far from the court. A dull headache had taken up residence behind his eyes, and the usual rhythm of morning practice only aggravated it. The pressure building in his temples had nothing to do with lack of sleep—and everything to do with you.
He was still pissed.
“We’re holding off on the strength circuits until the new plan is finalized,” he said, voice clipped, tone leaving no room for discussion.
Heads turned.
Atsumu blinked up from the mat where he’d been balancing his ankle on his opposite knee. “Wait, what? We’re not lifting today?”
Bokuto, halfway through a forward lunge, perked up instantly. “What happened to ‘no excuses’? Did we slip into an alternate universe or something?”
Even Sakusa raised a brow. “Did she win the argument?”
Yaku’s smirk was slow, subtle. “Feels like she won.”
Iwaizumi’s jaw clenched so tightly it made the muscle near his ear twitch. “I said they’re on hold,” he growled, tone sharpening. “New guidelines. End of discussion.”
“Wow,” Suna muttered, droll as ever. “He’s actually mad.”
“I will make you run drills until your legs fall off,” Iwaizumi snapped, voice a low bark. “Stretch. Now.”
That shut them up.
A beat of tense silence passed before the team shifted into their warm-ups. The sounds of light chatter and sneakers resumed, but the atmosphere was noticeably stiffer. The undercurrent of curiosity and amusement didn’t go unnoticed by Iwaizumi, but he shoved it down beneath years of discipline.
The rest of the session moved efficiently. Too efficiently. Every minute felt like an itch he couldn’t scratch.
By noon, the players filtered out of the gym in loose, staggered groups, sweat-darkened shirts clinging to lean muscle and jerseys half-hanging from relaxed shoulders. The air in the locker hallway was humid with effort, and banter floated lazily through the corridor.
Bokuto swung a towel behind his neck like a cape, laughing at something Suna had deadpanned. Sakusa lingered by the door for a beat, casting Iwaizumi a thoughtful glance before slipping out.
“Wonder if she’ll sign my cast when he snaps,” Aran muttered, nudging Hinata, who bit back a laugh.
Iwaizumi said nothing.
He turned on his heel, movements stiff, and marched toward the small office tucked off the side of the gym.
The door shut with more force than necessary.
He dropped the clipboard onto the desk. Papers slipped free, fluttering to the surface like discontent made manifest. The training revisions glared up at him.
And all he could see was your face.
The way you’d challenged him in Hibarida’s office—calm but cutting, your words sharpened like scalpels. The way the coach had leaned in your favor, as if your voice carried a gravity his didn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t accept change—he wasn’t stupid. He knew you were right about the numbers. About the science. About the goddamn knees.
But it burned anyway.
It was personal. He couldn’t separate the two. Not when you looked at him like that, like every disagreement was some gleeful test of willpower. Like you were waiting for him to crack so you could claim the final point.
Iwaizumi dragged a hand through his hair, sighing harshly. His shoulders were still tight from holding his voice steady all morning.
He sat down with a grunt, chair creaking beneath him as he opened his laptop. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, poised but reluctant.
He didn’t want to change the entire system. Didn’t want to concede. But the damn truth was already there, glaring back at him from between the numbers and patient logs.
So he typed. Adjusted. Modified.
And when he hit send, the sting of it settled low in his stomach.
The phone lit up before he even closed the tab.
You.
Of course.
He stared at the screen, jaw tight, teeth grinding as your name lit up the caller ID.
Twice it rang. He let it.
On the third, he answered—no greeting, no softness. Just barked, “What now?”
“This revision is still garbage,” came your voice, flat and scathing. “Komori’s and Hyakuzawa’s circuits are identical. One has chronic shoulder fatigue, the other doesn’t.”
“The adjustments are proportional,” he snapped back, voice low and sharp. “That’s how progressive loading works.”
“Progressive loading my ass. You copy-pasted three damn circuits and called it a day. You didn’t even touch their mobility metrics.”
“I factored in what matters.”
You laughed. Cold. “What matters is that Hyakuzawa won’t last another month if you keep pretending his joints aren’t glass.”
His hand slammed against the desk before he could stop himself, palm stinging. “You’re not his goddamn physical therapist.”
“No,” you snapped. “I’m the idiot burning her day off trying to keep him out of a hospital.”
He froze for half a beat.
Your words landed hard, scraping under his skin.
And god, you weren’t done.
“I’m not playing translator for whatever bullshit this is. If you want my sign-off, you’re getting it the right way. You clearly don’t understand the changes, so I’m coming in to explain them. In person. Like a teacher walking through homework with a slow student.”
He tilted his head back, jaw ticking, breath exhaling like steam. He glared at the ceiling tiles like they’d give him strength.
“Fine,” he bit out. “Thirty minutes.”
“Good,” you hissed. “Try not to screw anything else up in the meantime.”
The line went dead.
Iwaizumi stared at the phone for another second, his thumb hovering above the darkened screen.
The silence afterward rang louder than your voice.
And under his breastbone, the pulse of it—his rage, his pride, the heat of your words—all of it throbbed, slow and persistent.
Like something ready to burn.
--
You stormed into Iwaizumi’s office like a gust of controlled fury, not bothering to knock.
He barely had time to glance up before your voice cut through the air like a scalpel.
“It’s my day off, Iwaizumi. You know that, right?”
His brows lifted, clearly caught off guard—not just by your tone, but by your clothes. Joggers clung snugly to your hips, your tank top fitted and dipped in a way your usual business-casual never did. A jacket hung loose around your shoulders, unzipped, and your hair was tied up messily, strands falling out in a way that was entirely unfair.
Still, he bristled at your tone. “You didn’t have to come in.”
“Then maybe don’t make me rewrite your entire plan for you,” you snapped. “I told you Hyakuzawa’s shoulder range isn’t compatible with Komori’s. And you still sent it over like I wouldn’t notice.”
“I adjusted for mass and range—”
“You adjusted by copy-pasting,” you cut in. “Do you even read the assessments I send you?”
His jaw flexed. “I read everything. And I know how to train a team.”
“And I know how to prevent torn rotator cuffs.”
A sharp silence settled between you. You stood with your hands on your hips, breathing hard, Iwaizumi staring at you from behind his desk, every muscle in his arms coiled with tension.
He should’ve barked at you to leave. Should’ve snapped something back just as biting.
Instead, he stood.
“I’m not arguing with you in here,” he said, voice tight. “Let’s go.”
“To the gym?” you asked.
He nodded once, already stepping past you. “You said you’d show me. So show me.”
--
The weight room was empty save for the two of you. Echoes of distant foot traffic from the other side of the facility drifted in and out through the thick walls. Overhead, a single bank of lights buzzed faintly.
“Start with the squats,” you said, tossing a pair of 40-pound dumbbells his way.
He caught them with ease. “Loaded squats? Really?”
You folded your arms. “Humor me, Captain.”
He rolled his eyes but turned to face the mirror, feet shoulder-width apart, and dropped into his first rep. His form was solid—predictably—but your eyes tracked the subtle tremors in his posture, the way his shoulders bore tension even during a movement that should be driven by legs and core.
“Pause,” you ordered.
He straightened slowly, setting the weights down.
“You’re bracing too much in your upper back,” you said. “You’re engaging traps when you should be isolating quads and glutes. Komori compensates the same way, which is exactly the problem.”
You moved behind him, slid your hand down between his shoulder blades, pressing lightly.
“Here,” you murmured. “You feel how stiff this is?”
His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly.
“Try it again, but keep this area loose. Let the legs drive.”
He picked up the weights again and dropped down, this time more controlled.
You circled him once, sharp eyes on every joint.
“That’s better,” you said. “Still not perfect.”
He huffed through his nose. “Then what is?”
Your lips twitched, eyes gleaming. “I’ll show you.”
You stepped forward, picked up a lighter set of weights, and took your stance in the mirror. Your movements were deliberate, slow, each line precise. You dipped into a squat, spine long, and spoke as you moved.
“This is full isolation. Core tight. Knees over toes. Glutes firing.”
You looked at him through the mirror.
“Here—” You set the weights down and grabbed his wrist, tugging him forward. “Put your hand here.”
You placed his palm on your thigh, just above your knee.
“That’s the difference between alignment and load. You feel that tension? That’s what Hyakuzawa can’t hold for more than five reps. So when you give him a template that pushes twelve, you’re training him into injury.”
His fingers twitched where they rested against your leg.
You didn’t look up. Neither did he.
But the silence was loud.
You finally moved, stepping back, letting the contact fall away. His hand lingered for half a second before he pulled it back and flexed his fingers into a fist.
“Alright,” you said, exhaling. “Shoulders next.”
He didn’t speak, just nodded tightly and picked up a new set of dumbbells.
“This one’s more relevant for Komori. Upright rows. Don’t use momentum—go slow.”
He stood tall, lifting the weights to chest height with steady control.
You stepped in again, brushing your fingertips along his forearms as he moved.
“Good... Now hold.”
His muscles tensed, veins stark beneath tan skin, the curve of his biceps flexed just enough to make your breath catch.
You swallowed hard, refocusing.
“Lift from the delts, not the biceps,” you murmured. “They’re stabilizers here.”
Your hand moved to his chest, palm flat over his pec. The contact startled him—just enough for his eyes to flicker up and land right on the exposed line of your cleavage through your tank.
He froze.
And you saw it. That split second of his eyes widening before snapping back up to yours like he hadn’t seen a damn thing.
Your brow rose. “Focus, Iwaizumi.”
He gritted his teeth. “I am focused.”
You pressed a little firmer into his chest. “Then stop compensating here.”
His breath came a little heavier now.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t have to.
The tension snapped taut between you. Neither of you moved, the air thick with something sharp, electric.
Then—
“Ah—sorry!”
The door creaked open.
You both jolted, stepping back so fast you almost tripped.
A janitor stood in the doorway, expression blank. “Didn’t realize the room was still in use.”
You cleared your throat. “We were just wrapping up.”
Iwaizumi grabbed a towel, wiping the sweat from his forehead, still avoiding your eyes.
The janitor nodded and disappeared.
Silence returned.
You slung your bag over your shoulder, trying not to show how fast your heart was racing. “I’ll expect the revised plan tomorrow.”
Iwaizumi didn’t answer.
He was still staring at the spot where your hand had been.
Sakusa Kiyoomi had never liked mess.
He wasn’t fond of anything sticky, anything uncontrolled, anything that demanded he surrender to chaos.
And sex, by nature, was a little chaotic.
But with you—it wasn’t. With you, it was something else. Something he could control, savor, memorize.
And when you sat on his face?
It became his favorite thing in the world.
You’d asked him, once—quietly, maybe even shyly—if he wanted to try it. You’d been hesitant, even as you knelt over him on the bed, thighs trembling with anticipation. But Sakusa hadn’t hesitated.
He had only looked up at you with those dark, focused eyes and said, “Sit.”
And now?
Now, your thighs were trembling around his head.
His hands were firm around them, fingers digging into your skin, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth. His curls were damp with sweat and slick. His jaw worked with slow, punishing precision.
Every time his tongue dragged up between your folds, he flattened it against your clit and flicked—just once, just enough to make your body twitch—and then he did it again.
And again.
And again.
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. Your hands were buried in the sheets behind you, hips tilted forward as he held you steady, held you still, held you open.
"Kiyoomi—" you gasped, but it was barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His mouth was too busy—working you apart, slow and relentless, tongue curling, lips sealing around you with devastating pressure. He sucked you down, drew another sharp moan from your throat, and when you twitched above him, tried to lift off just a little—
His grip tightened.
“Don’t move,” he rasped against you, voice low, strained, and muffled by the heat of your cunt. "I’m not done yet."
Your breath caught.
You could barely hold yourself up. Your legs were shaking violently, muscles screaming, your entire body flushed with heat. You were soaked. You could feel it dripping down your thighs, clinging to his cheeks, smearing against his lips.
And he was loving it.
He groaned into you, hands pulling you down harder, deeper, locking you into place as his tongue fucked into you—slow, deep, precise. He was savoring you.
You sobbed. Loud, wrecked, desperate.
“I—I can’t—Kiyoomi—”
His only response was a low moan, like he was addicted to the taste of you, to the way you sounded. His nose was pressed against your clit, tongue working deeper, messier now, grinding slow and firm until your thighs were twitching with every stroke.
Your vision blurred. The knot in your stomach pulled tighter, tighter, too tight.
And then—
You broke.
You came with a scream, hips jerking, grinding into his face as your orgasm crashed through you in one white-hot wave. Your whole body locked up, the pleasure too intense, too much, almost unbearable.
But Sakusa didn’t stop.
Not even when your thighs started to shake uncontrollably.
Not even when you whimpered, “Please,” so softly it was barely sound.
He shifted the angle of his mouth, focused entirely on your clit now, his tongue flicking rapidly, pressure sharp and steady. His hands held you down as your entire body jolted with overstimulation.
You cried out again, voice cracking, hands flying forward to claw at his hair, at the headboard, anything you could reach.
He was going to make you come again.
And he did.
The second orgasm was worse. Sharper. It tore through you like lightning, and you couldn’t even scream this time—you just gasped, mouth open, eyes wide, legs clamping tight around his head as you sobbed through it.
And still—he didn’t stop.
Your body shook. Collapsed. Melted into his mouth.
Only when your hips bucked too hard—when your voice gave out entirely, when your whole body spasmed in his hold—did he finally relent.
He kissed your inner thigh once, slow and deliberate, then another kiss to your slick, swollen folds, almost reverent. You slumped forward, collapsing onto the bed, shaking.
Sakusa pushed himself up slowly, eyes dark and unreadable, curls stuck to his forehead. His face was soaked. His lips were flushed, chin wet with you, and he looked completely ruined.
And satisfied.
He crawled up beside you, his hand gentle on your hip.
“Still breathing?” he murmured, voice hoarse.
You could only nod, barely.
He leaned down and kissed your shoulder, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your spine.
“You’re going to do that again,” he said simply, like it wasn’t a question.
And in that moment, you knew he’d found his favorite position.
"You’re insufferable."
That was the last thing you hissed at Shirabu Kenjirō before the attending physician turned, red-faced and barely breathing through his nose, and barked loud enough to make half the emergency department flinch:
"Both of you—out. Now."
But that wasn’t how the day started.
It started with an argument.
“0.25 milligrams,” you said evenly, eyes flicking from the tablet to the patient. “He’s seventy-two. With a documented history of hepatic impairment. We’re not doing a full dose.”
Shirabu didn’t look up from the vial in his gloved hand. “He’s metabolizing fine, vitals are steady, and the attending’s notes—”
“—don’t override the risk of oversedation,” you cut in, sharper this time. “We need to adjust it. I already cleared it with Pharmacy.”
He glanced at you then, that cool clinical stare that always made your blood boil. “I triple-checked the chart. We’re wasting time.”
“You’re going to put a seventy-two-year-old man into respiratory depression.”
“And you’re going to let him seize while we argue.”
Your mouth opened, ready to fire back—and that’s when it happened.
The patient’s monitor screamed.
A violent shudder rocked through his body, limbs jerking, back arching off the gurney.
“Shit!” you both snapped in unison.
“Code blue!” you shouted into the hallway. “We need Ativan, now!”
The room exploded into motion. Nurses poured in. A crash cart slammed into the doorframe. Someone started chest compressions. And you—helplessly gripping the IV tubing you hadn’t primed—stood frozen beside Shirabu, both of you silent, horror pooling in your throats.
The attending shoved through seconds later, eyes wild. “Get the hell out!”
__
Now.
“You’re done here for today,” the attending had spat, voice blistering. “Go help the nurses. Clean linens, supply runs, sit with waiting patients—I don’t care. You’re both liabilities right now.”
Shame swirled in your gut. Not because you were wrong—no, you were right about the dosage—but because you’d let Shirabu get under your skin. Again. And someone paid for it.
You stormed out of the trauma bay, white coat flaring behind you like a war banner, and Shirabu followed half a step behind, not saying anything yet, which was somehow worse. The moment you passed the threshold into the hallway, you whirled on him.
“You’re unbelievable,” you snapped. “I told you the dose was too high—”
“And I told you I triple-checked the chart,” he said coolly, not even looking at you. “But of course, you think you’re always right.”
“Because I usually am. You never listen to anyone, you just go with your arrogant little gut—”
“My gut?” He turned then, sharply, eyes like frost over steel. “You mean the one that finished top of its class in diagnostics and surgical prep?”
“Oh, congratulations,” you snarled, hands tightening into fists at your sides. “You got a gold star while you ignored the actual patient in front of you.”
"You don't know how to read the room half the time," he snapped. "You’re so busy being morally superior, you forget we’re on a clock. You want to argue philosophy while someone’s bleeding out? Grow up."
You could feel your pulse in your teeth. Heat flooded your face. You weren’t even sure when the two of you had gotten so close—but now he was right in front of you, all sharp lines and cold fire, his jaw tight, breath shallow, his stupidly pretty mouth parted like he had one more insult on the tip of his tongue.
“You’re a condescending prick, you know that?” you hissed. “Always acting like you’re the only one with a functioning brain.”
“And you’re a self-righteous control freak who can’t take being challenged.”
“You don’t challenge, Shirabu. You bulldoze.”
“And you let your emotions run the whole goddamn room.”
You stared at him, breathing hard, chest rising and falling as if you’d just sprinted across the hospital. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Cold. The kind of person who drove you absolutely insane. And yet—
His mouth was moving again, eyes still sharp—but all you could think about was how close he was. How flushed his skin had gotten. How your stomach hadn’t stopped twisting since that patient flatlined. The adrenaline still burned in your chest like a furnace. And how long had it been since anyone had touched you, really touched you—looked at you like more than just a coat with a badge and a clipboard?
When was the last time I had sex?
The thought shot through your brain like a live wire. The frustration, the tension, the sheer exhaustion of existing inside a pressure cooker like this day after day—it all exploded behind your eyes.
Sixteen-hour shift. A missed lunch. A mistake that rattled your bones.
Fuck it.
You grabbed the front of his coat, yanked him forward, and shoved him—hard—into the nearest door. It flew open with a groan, revealing the dim, cramped supply closet, the air inside cold and sterile and completely indifferent to what was about to happen.
You shoved him inside.
He barely had time to stumble backward before you stepped in after him, kicked the door shut with a sharp slam, and crashed your lips to his.
It was a mistake. It was impulsive. It was heaven. A desperate, furious kind of salvation.
Shirabu froze for half a second—just long enough for you to think oh god, what have I done—before he growled low in his throat and kissed you back like he’d been waiting for this, like he had been burning too. His hands found your waist, fingers digging into your hips like he wanted to leave bruises, like he needed to anchor himself to something real.
You gasped when he walked you backward, guiding you with rough, hurried steps until your back hit the shelves. The plastic bins and paper-wrapped gauze rattled with the force of it.
“This,” he rasped against your jaw, breath hot and uneven, “is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had.”
“Shut up,” you whispered, clawing his lab coat open. “I don’t want to hear your voice right now.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to use it.”
You dragged him down again.
The kiss deepened, turned frantic, messy. Teeth. Tongue. Hot breath and sharp nails. The smell of antiseptic and the sting of fluorescent lighting faded into nothing. The only thing you could feel was the press of his mouth, the grind of his body against yours, the heat blooming low and hungry in your belly.
He yanked your scrub top up, pushed it out of the way with impatience, and bit down along your collarbone like he meant to leave a mark. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders. You wanted him closer. You wanted him rougher. You wanted to feel anything but the burn of regret and the echo of the code blue.
And you let him.
Because you’d been burning for too long.
And because, for once, Shirabu Kenjirō had finally shut the hell up.
You’re two months pregnant and absolutely glowing. There’s a nervous excitement in your every breath, your hand constantly drifting over your still-flat belly as if to check that it’s real. That there’s really a little life growing inside you. A little Miya, curled up and getting bigger by the day.
You’re in the passenger seat of the car, heading toward your very first ultrasound appointment. The windows are down, and the soft spring breeze is curling through your hair as the late morning sun streams through the windshield. Everything feels light. Hopeful. Surreal.
Atsumu is driving one-handed, his other resting on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against your leggings. He hums quietly to the radio, lips twitching into a smile every time he glances over at you.
“Y’know,” he says after a moment, “I been thinkin’ about what kind of nose they’ll have. Hopefully yours. Mine’s too pointy.”
You let out a soft laugh, the kind that bubbles up without effort. “As long as they don’t have your drama.”
“Hey!” he protests, though he’s still smiling as he squeezes your leg. “They’re allowed a little flair. They are mine, after all.”
You roll your eyes fondly, fingers tangling with his at the next red light. He lifts your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles before driving on.
When you pull into the clinic parking lot, your nerves start to set in—low and creeping. It’s your first time seeing the baby. Hearing a heartbeat. It makes everything feel suddenly, painfully real.
The waiting room is quiet, with soft instrumental music playing and the smell of hand sanitizer hanging in the air. You’re seated beside Atsumu, your knees bouncing ever so slightly as your mind races ahead. His hand is still in yours, firm and grounding.
When the nurse finally calls your name, you squeeze his fingers a little tighter.
The exam room is dimly lit, calm, with a monitor beside the table and soft instructions given as you lie back. You wince slightly at the cold gel, heart pounding in your ears as the technician glides the wand over your stomach.
She squints at the screen. Tilts her head.
Then her eyes widen slightly.
“Oh.”
You stiffen. “What? What is it? Is something wrong?”
She’s quick to reassure you. “No, no—everything looks good. It’s just... you’re having twins.”
Silence.
Atsumu leans in closer, eyes squinting at the screen. “Twins?”
“Twins,” the technician repeats, pointing to two distinct little shapes. “You see here? Two sacs. Two heartbeats.”
Your gaze locks onto the screen. Two. Not one. Not the tiny flutter you’d been preparing for, but two.
A sudden wave of panic crashes over you.
“Two?” you echo, your voice a shaky whisper. “Like... two babies? At the same time?”
The technician gently clears her throat. "Well, it’s a little early to know for sure if they’re fraternal or identical, but yes—twins."
You feel your breath hitch, the room growing smaller around you. “That’s two car seats. Two cribs. Two births. Two newborns crying at once—”
Your hand grips Atsumu’s forearm, eyes wide as your mind races. “I don’t—I wasn’t ready for two. I barely wrapped my head around one.”
You’re still staring at the screen when Atsumu shifts closer to the bed, his hand still resting lightly on yours.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Breathe for me, okay?”
You turn toward him with wide, overwhelmed eyes. “Tsumu... that’s two babies. That’s two of everything. What if I can’t—what if I’m not enough for both of them?”
“You are,” he says instantly, without hesitation. “You will be. We will.”
But your hand flails toward his forearm like it needs something to latch onto. “This is your fault. You and Osamu. You cursed me with twin genes!”
He stares at you, stunned. “What?! How is this my fault?”
“Because you’re a twin! That’s how!”
The technician offers a gentle smile, still watching the monitor. “Actually, twins are likely influenced by the mother’s genetics. So if anyone ‘passed it down,’ it’s likely you.”
You blink slowly. “So... it’s me?”
Atsumu exhales—relieved. “See? I didn’t do this! You doubled down on your own.”
Your head snaps toward the technician, eyes wide and blinking rapidly, a storm of disbelief swirling behind them. You don’t say anything—but your look says plenty.
The technician catches the expression immediately and offers a placating smile, lifting her hands lightly. "I’ll give you two a minute," she says gently, already stepping toward the door, and quietly slips out of the room, pulling it closed behind her with a soft click.
You drop your head back onto the exam pillow with a muffled groan. “I don’t know how to do one baby. Let alone two. That’s double the crying. Double the diapers. Double the college funds.”
Atsumu leans down until his forehead presses softly to yours. His hand finds yours again, grounding you with the warmth of his palm and the way his thumb strokes soothingly across your skin.
“Hey,” he says, voice low and gentle. “Breathe. We’ll figure it out.”
You don’t answer right away, eyes still locked on the monitor where two flickering heartbeats pulse in rhythm.
He kisses your forehead, slow and reassuring. “We’ll go one diaper at a time. One bottle at a time. One late-night rocking session at a time. We’re gonna be okay.”
Your lip trembles. “Are we?”
He smiles, brushing your hair back from your forehead. “I’m not lettin’ you do this alone. You’re stuck with me, baby. Me, and the two little monsters we made.”
You laugh wetly, a mix of shock and affection tangled in your chest. He leans down and kisses you again—cheek, then jaw, then temple—before turning to look back at the screen.
And in the glow of that monitor, with two tiny heartbeats tapping out the rhythm of your future, Atsumu squeezes your hand and whispers:
“They’ve already got the best mom in the world. The rest’ll be easy.”
You sit up slightly and reach for him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a hug, your chin resting against his shoulder. “Thank you,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I needed to hear that.”
hi i LOVE ur writing sm!! i look forward to pretty much every single one of ur posts, ur super talented :)
do you think you could do an akaashi x insomniac!reader? akaashi is known for overthinking and stuff so tbh i think his anxiety might make him stay awake sometimes, but prob not full blown insomnia. i js think a oneshot of him helping reader or maybe just the two of them hanging out super late one night because neither of them can get any sleep (maybe college!au where he’s stressing about his classes? or could be just volleyball related. whatever works for you!).
maybe it could be pre-relationship too. like they might be friends then reader sees him active on some social media and decides to text him to hang out and they get super close after this night. again, whatever works for u!!
omgg my heart thank you 😩❤️ Your words mean so much to me 🥹
I think I hit all the boxes, I hope you enjoy <333
--
The clock blinked 2:47AM in soft digital blue, casting a dim glow that painted the walls of your dorm room in slow, pulsing light. You stared at it from where you lay on your back, eyes wide open, blanket pulled up to your chin like it would somehow coax sleep into settling over your body. It didn’t.
It never did.
Insomnia was a loyal companion. Even on nights when your limbs were heavy and your mind felt worn thin, your thoughts refused to settle. They danced along the edge of reason, hyper-fixating on things that didn’t matter: words you said three days ago, the shape of clouds you saw that afternoon, the persistent question of whether you locked the door. A quiet ache had formed behind your eyes from sheer exhaustion, but sleep wouldn’t come.
You turned over, grabbed your phone off the nightstand. No new messages. Just a faint glow from the charging screen illuminating your tired face.
Then, a notification.
akaashi_keiji posted to his story
You tapped it open without thinking. A dim photo of a laptop lit up against a pile of books and a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. The caption read: 2AM is a perfectly reasonable hour to still be working, right?
You stared at it. Your fingers hovered.
Then you sent a message.
you: you up up?
The reply was almost instant.
akaashi: Unfortunately.
you: Wanna hang? Can’t sleep and you look like you need a break.
A beat passed. The dots wavered, stopped. Then—
akaashi: Give me 5.
--
Akaashi showed up at your door at exactly 3:03AM. Hoodie pulled over his head, dark sweats clinging to the chill of the night, his hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it too many times. His eyes were tired but alert, flickering with that same sharpness he always carried—like he was cataloging everything, even now.
You stepped aside without saying a word. He entered just as quietly, slipping off his shoes and placing his bag beside your desk with a soft thud. He dropped to the floor beside your bed with a sigh that seemed to deflate the weight on his shoulders.
“Rough night?” you asked gently, perching on the edge of your mattress.
“I have a presentation next week, three deadlines, and Bokuto keeps texting me motivational memes like it’s going to fix my GPA.”
You laughed under your breath. “It won’t.”
“Exactly.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. The hum of your mini fridge and the occasional creak of pipes running through the dorm added to the low ambience of sleeplessness. You looked down at him, his knees pulled up slightly, arms draped over them, like he didn’t know how to get comfortable in his own skin.
“Wanna watch something?”
He shook his head. “Too much noise.”
“Read?”
“Already tried. Can’t focus.”
“Lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling until we disassociate?”
He glanced up at you with deadpan humor. “Honestly, that sounds ideal.”
You grabbed a second pillow and tossed it to the floor beside him. He didn’t hesitate. His body uncurled, long and lean as he stretched out beside your bed, head cradled in the fluff of borrowed comfort.
You joined him moments later, lying back so the ceiling filled your view. Pale shadows danced above you, shapes warped by passing cars and the swaying leaves outside the window. The ceiling fan ticked rhythmically above.
“You get this often?” he asked softly, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” you replied, your voice matching his. “Like... more nights than not. It just doesn’t stop. My brain, I mean."
Akaashi sighed, breath feathering the space between you. “Mine too. It’s like it waits until I have to sleep to start racing.”
You turned your head, studying the outline of his profile in the glow from your desk lamp. The slope of his nose, the delicate curve of his lashes, the soft press of his lips.
“So why’d you come?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Because you asked. And I figured... maybe it’d be better to not be alone with it.”
You nodded, the pillow rustling beneath your cheek. “Yeah.”
Minutes passed in silence. He turned to face you, and you mirrored the movement. The two of you laying side by side, not quite touching, breaths moving in rhythm.
“We could do this again,” you whispered. “If you ever can’t sleep. You could just... come over.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “I think I’d like that.”
At 3:57AM, you both fell asleep.
Shoulders brushing. Minds quiet. The night finally letting you rest.
Barcelona was always golden in the evening.
Sunlight spilled between buildings like warm syrup, painting the cobblestones in hazy orange light, alive with motion and music and voices raised in too many languages to count. The streets pulsed with energy, and Oikawa moved through it all like he belonged there—because he did.
You walked beside him, fingers laced loosely through his, sunglasses pushed up into your hair as you studied a nearby plaza, smiling at the crowd. You'd only stopped for a quick drink before heading home, but somehow a ten-minute rest turned into lingering.
Which was exactly how it happened.
He came out of nowhere—tall, handsome in that slightly too-smooth way, and a native speaker who clearly wasn’t shy about using his charm. He was friendly, casual, and you—being you—were nothing but warm in return. Oikawa was used to it. You made friends everywhere. Waiters, baristas, strangers on trains. He wasn't usually the jealous type.
Usually.
But today? You were laughing a little too softly. Tilting your head a little too far. And the guy? Oh, he was leaning in like he had a damn chance.
Oikawa didn't say anything right away. He just sipped his drink and watched, sunglasses shielding the slow burn building behind his eyes. Your fingers were still in his, but even that wasn’t grounding him tonight. Not when the guy started complimenting your accent. Not when he gestured toward the nearest bar with an easy smile and said,
"If you're looking for local recommendations, I could show you a few places."
That was when you felt it.
Oikawa's hand tightened slightly around yours, his thumb no longer stroking circles over your skin but now still, firm.
You turned toward him innocently, blinking up at his too-perfect face with a feigned sweetness that you knew drove him insane.
"Tooru," you said, voice syrupy, "he says he can show us some local spots. Isn't that nice?"
Oikawa set his glass down with a clink, but instead of stepping in front of you—he stepped behind. His arms slid smoothly around your waist, his chest pressing flush against your back as he dipped his head low, his lips brushing just below your ear when he spoke.
"You’re playing dangerous games," he whispered, voice like silk and warning all at once. The way his breath fanned across your skin made you shiver, your back unconsciously arching into him. He chuckled against your neck, low and warm, like he knew exactly what he was doing.
The guy took a half-step back, visibly caught off-guard now as his eyes darted between you and the very obviously possessive arms wrapped around your waist.
Oikawa turned his head, resting his chin on your head, and finally spoke aloud—his tone still pleasant, still polite, but tinged with something sharper.
"Oh, you didn’t know?" he said, gaze locking with the man’s. "She’s very much taken. Tragic, I know. Don't worry though, I've lived here for years."
The guy blinked, awkward laugh faltering. "Ah—right. My mistake. Sorry, man. Just being friendly."
"Of course," Oikawa said with a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. "Happens all the time." The guy took the hint and left, vanishing into the crowd, and you finally let the smile stretch fully across your face.
"You're so dramatic," you hummed, stepping closer, chest brushing his as you leaned into his space.
Oikawa narrowed his eyes, even as his arms slid around your waist.
"Do I really need to wear a sign?" he muttered.
You batted your lashes. "Maybe. Or just keep doing that thing where your voice gets all cold. It's kind of hot."
His brows lifted.
"You're doing it on purpose."
You grinned. "Maybe."
Oikawa sighed, burying his face in your neck, lips brushing the skin there.
"You're going to be the death of me."
"Mmm. But I’ll make it fun."