#hq!! X reader

[airybcby]

જ⁀✦ TALK BOUT INNITTTT

── .✦ wc: 603

thinking abt just being so obsessed with your bf...so yeah.

Look.

You’re not saying you’ve lost all self-respect.

You’re just saying… if your boyfriend posted a blurry picture of his elbow with the caption “gym day ” you’d be under it in 0.3 seconds with a comment like:

he posted. everyone shut up.

I’d let him ruin my life and THEN say thank you

youruser: #needthat 

youruser: #lickthat 

youruser: #lovethat

youruser: drop the skincare routine (and the location)

youruser: #thatsmine

And you wouldn’t even be ashamed.

Because what are you supposed to do? NOT be obsessed with the man you love? 

Be normal about it? 

Sorry. Not in this lifetime. 

You don’t know peace. 

You know his Spotify password and what time he usually opens his eyes in the morning. 

You love him so bad it’s borderline academic. 

A case study. A TED Talk. A Netflix documentary.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even do anything

It’s not that you’re being dramatic.

It’s just that you’ve never seen a man tie his hoodie strings so fine in your life.

And yeah—maybe it’s just your boyfriend opening a bottle of water, but to you? It’s art. You’re archiving it. Black-and-white-filter, faint music in the background.

He’s the lockscreen. The home screen. The wallpaper. He’s the entire aesthetic.

Your friends are concerned. 

Your phone gallery is a shrine. 

Your notes app is filled with things he’s said that made your brain do backflips.

You once asked him to open a jar and when he did it with zero struggle you had to sit down for five full minutes and reevaluate your life choices. 

You have stared at his hands like they’re the Mona Lisa.

You’re obsessed. Deranged. On your knees every Tuesday just thinking about him breathing in a way that you’ve deemed “hot.”

But like… he’s your boyfriend??? What else are you supposed to do???

Love him quietly???

And it’s not just how he looks—it’s everything.

The way he reverses and has his arm behind your headrest while looking over his shoulder?

The way he says “c’mere” with his hand out and you go. Like you don’t even think about it. You just go.

And the thing is—you’re not even hiding it.

You tag him in every post. Your story highlight with his name has like 84 videos in it. 

When he sends you a mirror pic, you zoom in, screenshot it, and whisper “I’m so blessed” like you just won a raffle.

You’ve gotten to the point where people swipe through your stories and go, her man again?

YES. HER MAN AGAIN. 

You hype him up like you’re on payroll.

“Look at him. Look at that face. Look at those hands. Look at the way he exists. Don’t talk to me we’re going to our room.”

He walks by shirtless and you’re clutching the edge of the kitchen counter like:

“this is too much. you’re doing this on purpose. I have things to do today.”

You’re not over anything he does. 

Not his sleepy voice, not the way he rests his hand on your thigh while driving, not the text that just says “you home?” because it makes your whole stomach do cartwheels. 

You’ll be 85 and still thinking about the time he winked at you while brushing his teeth.

You want to bite his jaw. You want to kiss his shoulder. 

You want to record a podcast just about how good he looks when he's not even trying.

You’re in love. Loudly.

On main. In HD. Filtered or not.

And you’re gonna keep posting him until your phone dies. Or he does something else hot again.

Which is in like… five minutes.

𓆩✦𓆪 windbreaker ✦ jo togame ✦ umemiya hajime ✦ suo hayato

𓆩✦𓆪 blue lock ✦ kunigami rensuke ✦ barou shoei ✦ shidou ryusei

𓆩✦𓆪 tokyo revengers ✦ hanma shuji ✦ baji keisuke ✦ chifuyu matsuno

𓆩✦𓆪 haikyuu ✦ bokuto kotarou ✦ sakusa kiyoomi ✦ osamu miya

+ your faves !

જ⁀✦ ©airybcby ✩ masterlist

✩ likes ✩ comments ✩ and reblogs are appreciated

[deardaichi]

031. thrones, scrolls, and seals — oikawa toru.

wc: 0.5k cw: gn!reader. prince!oikawa. advisor!reader. pining if you squint a/n: pining oikawa my love. requested by @sweetseaweed <3 i hope you enjoy

the evening sun slips through the tall windows, throwing golden streaks across the stone floor. it catches in the lattice of shadows from the carved archways, pools quietly beneath the tapestries, and glints off the prince’s rings as he lounges on the throne like it's any other chair.

from the raised dais, the court is nearly empty now — dismissed hours ago — and yet the prince has not moved.

“you’re still here,” he says, chin balanced on one palm. “how dutiful.”

the only reply is the faint scratch of quill against parchment. on the heavy oak table, lit by the amber spill of sunlight, the latest merchant reports are being transcribed with careful precision.

“you asked for the trade records by nightfall.”

“mm,” he hums. “i did.”

he’s reclined halfway across the throne, legs stretched, crown tilted just enough to be undignified. the collar of his embroidered doublet is loosened, one sleeve shoved to the elbow. he looks every bit the picture of a prince unbothered by decorum, except for the way his eyes keep straying toward the table — measuring, watching.

it’s the third time today he’s tried to make eye contact for longer than necessary.

and it’s the third time the gesture has been ignored.

“and you’ve delivered, as always.” he leans forward now, forearms resting on his knees, voice low with something practiced. “what would i do without you?”

“overspend on citrus imports. sign treaties you haven’t read. forget your own speeches,” comes the reply, not unkind, but unshaken.

his grin is immediate — crooked and pleased. “i’d argue the citrus was a worthy investment.”

“you argued that last month. the council still disagrees.”

his fingers tap idly against the armrest, and the stone floor holds the echo. outside the windows, the wind stirs the garden trees. faintly, the scent of lavender drifts in with the breeze, mixing with parchment and wax.

he rises without ceremony, footsteps soft against worn rugs as he crosses to the table. there's a shift in the air — not loud, not sharp, but enough to be felt. the quill pauses. he rests one hand on the edge of the wood.

“stay a little longer,” he says, quieter now. “i haven’t had anyone clever to talk to all day.”

there’s no immediate answer. just the soft rustle of paper, the careful straightening of a scroll.

“you were in council with lord hanamaki for three hours.”

“exactly,” he sighs, hand to his chest like he’s been personally wronged. “three hours.”

finally, a glance. brief. measured. it lingers just a moment too long.

he smiles at that, as if the look alone is a gift.

the final report is sealed — neat and deliberate — wax pressed and cooling beneath careful fingers. there’s still a formality in the posture across from him, but it wavers, just slightly, around the edges.

the sun dips lower. orange light slipping toward dusk. it streaks across the table, the wall, the silver clasp at his throat.

neither one moves.

“five minutes,” comes the compromise.

he leans in, eyes bright.

“then i’ll make them count.”

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia@iwantfoodpleasebuymefood @dira333 @kcandyliciouss@carm1lla@beee1221249qq@x3nafix @bambi-lia @sweetseaweed

© deardaichi | everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[chimielie]

the lucky ones

summary: Hinata x Reader. on your twenty-second birthday, your well-meaning family does something awful.

word count: 1.5k

cw: reader's parents do something shitty, insecurity, mild peril, not a soulmate au but the concept of soulmates/fate/etc is central

a/n: elements of truth everywhere... aunt saki and uncle junichi's stories are real... everyone in my family met their life partner by age 21... i'm cooked

"We just want you to be happy," your mother says, her tone apologetic even through the tinny audio of your phone.

You smile with gritted teeth and wrap the arm not holding the device around yourself. It's cold standing outside the restaurant, your thin cardigan not doing much to protect you from the wind chill.

"I told you we shouldn't mess with this kind of stuff," you hear your father chide her, barely loud enough for the speakers to pick up on. "Just let it be the kid's birthday. We'll come now, okay?"

You have... a particular family inheritance.

Your grandfather and all of his siblings and all of their children met their soulmates by the age of twenty-one.

Aunt Saki met her husband in junior high, starting dating in first year, and have been married for twelve years. Great-uncle Junichi and his wife went to high school together and never spoke, then bumped into each other on the street while both on vacation in a different country a year after graduation and have a summer home there. Your mother had been engaged, met your father at university, and penned a letter to her fiancé right away that she had met someone who would make her laugh for the rest of her life.

To make things worse, they're all deliriously happy. You grew up surrounded by couples who loved each other truly, madly, and deeply, your childhood belief in fairytales cemented by the plethora of evidence all around you.

When you got to be of dating age, that belief had been rudely shattered.

The rest of the world didn't live like your clan did. You went on first dates and came away being told that you expected too much, that you would never find a partner willing to do all that for you.

You're nice, but I don't think I can give you what you need.

We're so young. I'd have to be crazy to commit this early.

I can't see a future with you.

Each mismatch chipped a little further away at the bubble your family had built. At the same time, as the years passed, your relatives began to grow antsy, subtly nudging you when an attractive man walked by, failing to comment casually when you posted a photo with a pretty friend. You wanted to think it was sweet, that they wanted the happiness for you that they had, but the closer you got to leaving twenty-one behind, the more you began to feel like each matchmaking effort, blind date, and engineered meet-cute screamed "what are you doing wrong?"

"This is ridiculous," you say finally, squeezing your eyes shut. Despite yourself, a tear slides down your cheek. "This is—don't bother coming. I don't want to see you."

You'd been meant to meet them for dinner tonight—for your fucking twenty-second birthday dinner—but you'd arrived at the restaurant and been guided to a table for two, an ornate display of roses sprayed up between the chairs, and a man waiting for you.

You hadn't been proud of it, but you'd refused to even speak to him beyond a perfunctory get out, knowing exactly what your parents had done. You click off the call and wish you could throw your phone in the street, tilting your head up and trying to force yourself to take deep breaths. How your own parents standing you up was supposed to make you happy, you had no idea.

You sigh and walk away from the restaurant, knowing that you'll never be able to come back. It's a shame; you really liked their coq au vin.

It's a busy night downtown. People stream past you on the sidewalk, couples and families laughing, the city lights so bright you imagine they're twinkling along with the music of love. You'd be appreciative if you weren't feeling so crushed.

You don't mind that you haven't met the love of your life. You know love is still out there—out there for you, even, not as jaded or lovelorn as your family seems to assume. You just wish the expectation from all the epic romances you grew up with wasn't so high-pressure.

As you stew, your pace quickening as you visualize the bubble bath and bottle of wine waiting for you at home, you don't quite look both ways when you cross the street.

There's a gust of wind—a screech—a shrill noise you only realize a few seconds later is your own scream. You blink and suddenly you're knocked on your ass, sprawled back in the middle of a cross walk, one of your wrists bent at an awkward angle. You stare into the headlights of the car that just missed hitting you by a hair, shaking out your wrist once you're sure it's really not moving anymore. Not broken, but it'll be stiff for a few days, you're sure.

"Oh—" there's a bitten off curse. You're still a little shocked as the owner of the car, his hair as orange as the vehicle and hurtling towards you twice as fast, rushes out, babbling apologies. "I'm so sorry, are you okay? Did I kill you? Crap, I killed someone!"

You shake your head slowly, starting to push yourself up and wincing as you lean on your bad wrist. The stranger offers you his hand, putting a hand on your back, not too low, steadying you. It must be the adrenaline—your nerves spark under the touch.

"Thanks," you say, your voice low. "Sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going."

"No, I'm sorry," he shakes his head vigorously, unintentionally shaking you a bit with him. You laugh a little. It's hard to be angry with someone so dynamic.

You sneak a glance up at him as he guides you to the sidewalk. He's also handsome. He's stocky, well-muscled from what you can tell of his body that's supporting yours, but his face is almost pretty, his features delicate over strong bones. There are earrings, little gold studs, glinting in his earlobes that you hadn't noticed until he'd come this close. His eyes, though: they're alight with life, shining under the streetlights even as he's so obviously worried about you. You lose your breath all over again.

"I should make it up to you," he says when you've safely reached the sidewalk. "You could hit me, if you wanted." He starts fishing around in his pockets, presumably for his car keys, before you can even process that insane sentence.

"No, I don't want that!" You blurt as he pulls out a keyring, trying not to look at the way his shorts stretch around his thighs or his button-up over his pecs. "You don't have to—just, um, what's your name?"

"Shōyō," he says, and you can see it in his eyes again, that spark warming and steadying, like a wildfire put in a hearth. "Yours?"

You tell him. "Seriously, you didn't hit me."

"But your wrist," he takes your hand, stroking rough fingers over the exposed skin of your arm. There are bandages on some of them, making you wonder what he does for a living. Maybe carpentry? When your breath stutters in your chest, you swear he heard it from the snap of his gaze to yours, the subtle twitch that pulls you closer to him.

"It'll be okay," you insist. "But, um, if you really wanted to help me out... I've had kind of a shitty night and a ride home would make things much easier."

"Yes!" He says, his volume making you flinch back. "Sorry. Yes. Of course. Be happy to."

His car is still in the middle of the street, the hazards blinking merrily. It's a nice car, you note, its color as bold and vivacious as the owner. As you slide into the passenger seat, Shōyō holding the door so you don't have to use your injured hand, you notice something that makes your heart drop in your chest for the second time that night. A spray of red roses sticks out of the cupholder, the stems carefully protected by a clear wrapping.

"Are you on your way to a date?" You ask as he gets in on the other side, blinking at you owlishly until you gesture to the bouquet. "I'm so sorry, you really don't have to do this—I don't want to make you late—"

"No!" He assures you, yelping over your stumbling speech. "No. I, um, actually was coming back. She cancelled last minute. In fact," Shōyō says, tugging the roses out of their makeshift sheath. "I think these are for you."

You accept them, wordless with shock, slouching down a little in your seat. When you touch your cheek, your skin is warm, your chilled fingers against it enough of a sign that you're awake. Your phone buzzes under you, a notification from your dad that you swipe away without looking.

You were a late baby, stretching out your due date and waiting almost until midnight for the timestamp on your birth certificate. You're not twenty-two for another few minutes.

"Shō," you say, not sure what confidence possesses you to call him by a nickname when you've only just met. "What do you think of fate?"

[marisolls]

011925. cw | slightly suggestive (?) i hate him (affectionate)

if tsukishima kei learns the full extent of you losing your mind over the minuscule of things with everything he does,

babe, you’re done for.

if he learns that removing his glasses while kissing you makes your stomach do saumersaults, or when he fixes your clothes casually; smoothing down your skirt or adjusting your shirt, hand on your waist. or when he cups your face and squeezes both of your cheeks together, when it shows that he loves the physical touch in ways that feel crude if you say it aloud. in ways that no one else can speak about, makes you so mushy with him. to the point that it makes you sick, head throbbing.

if he learns that you find his jealousy kind of attractive, all cutting and ruthless, snappy. that you're totally not weak in the knees. if he learns that whenever he leans in whenever you speak is the cause of why you feel flustered, when he hums softly in question, tilting his head, or when he just hook you in his arms to get closer.

god. he will take absolute pleasure in pushing those buttons even more—actually, he’d press them with the precision of someone who knows exactly how far he can go to leave you reeling, all while pretending it’s no big deal.

and this is exactly what happens, as expected, but no less frustrated.

when he realizes how much removing his glasses during a kiss messes you up, he’d start doing it slow and methodical, taking his time to set them aside while giving you that piercing look, like he knows exactly what’s coming next. “what, nervous?” he’d ask, leaning in just a fraction, his tone laced with mockery, but his lips soft when they finally meet yours.

those casual touches? forget it. his hands—though he would ask first—roam your body and let them linger around your waist dangerously longer than necessary, you're not making it up now, you know you feel the slight squeezes his does on your skin, letting his fingers graze, just enough to send shivers down your spine.

when he holds your face in one hand, there’s something about how his thumb lingers near your jawline or how he leans in just a little too close. it’s playful, sure, but there’s a tenderness beneath it that leaves you spinning. because he knows. he knows all too well.

it's game over when he finally does this—one arm braced above your head, his whole figure towering over you, casting a shadow which makes him look ten times more insufferable. you cannot breathe.

his lips hover just shy of yours, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. “do i really make you that nervous?”

"fuck off."

"really? that’s all you’ve got? how original.”

“kei, i swear to—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as his thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, the touch barely there but devastating all the same.

“what? gonna tell me to stop?” the glint in his eyes turns playful, pupils dilated, “you’re all talk, aren’t you?”

your hands twitch at your sides, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer. “i hate you,” you hiss, but it lacks any real bite.

“sure you do,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery, and then—because of course he does—he closes the infinitesimal gap between you, his lips brushing against yours with infuriating slowness.

he kisses you chastely. it feels so wrong with how he already built so much tension. that this all just a stupid game he can easily control.

there’s a distinct edge of smugness to it, like he’s savoring every second of your undoing. when he pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, the smirk is still there, lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“still want me to fuck off?” he asks, though he already knows the answer to it.

you can only scoff and roughly smack your lips against his in a solid, and very straightforward reply. your heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

he relents to you just as easily, this is why he simply can't get enough of you.

my stupid writers block is not making me write properly for the hershey’s kisses mini series so i had to pull this stupid drabble outta my sick ass (coughing loudly as we speak)

[shouyuus]

I've been seeing this trend every where but how do you think our haikyuu boys would react to "this is my current boyfriend" 👀 I just know atsumu would throw a fit

not the fact that i had to look this up bc im so behind on sm trends but i actually now love this trend and absolutely atsumu would not fucking have it --

sfw, aggressive green flag atsumu

"hey guys -- so today, my current boyfriend and i are gonna be making some onigiri based on --"

"ha?"

you pause, blinking owlishly at the camera before pivoting to stare at your boyfriend. he's staring back, both eyebrows in imminent danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"what?" you ask, feigning innocence.

atsumu narrows his eyes.

"oi, what did you just call me?"

"i -- my current boyfriend -- is there something --"

"your current boyfriend," he parrots back, folding his arms across his chest. you lick your lips, feeling a fit of giggles tickling at the back of your throat.

"yeah, cause... that's what you are... right? currently, you're my boyfriend."

atsumu puffs out an annoyed breath, "uh, way i see it, i'm yer only boyfriend. now, 'n ferever --"

you try not to crack at the way his accent skyrockets; not that he usually tries to hide it but you've always loved the way his osakan twang gets thicker when he's agitated or excited.

you feel a hot flush eating into your cheeks, "right, so there's nothing wrong --" you turn away from him, pressing your lips tight to keep from grinning too hard.

"no, jus' say it normally -- i'm yer boyfriend --"

the tickle at the back of your throat gathers until you can't swallow it down anymore. you burst out laughing.

atsumu, to his credit, scoffs and eyes the phone before reaching out to click off the recording.

"y'tricked me."

you shake your head, clutching at your stomach; there are tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

"i -- i didn't! it was -- you -- you are my current --"

atsumu leans forward to hoist you into his lap, shaking you by your shoulders, even as he pins you to the table with a smirk.

"say that one more time t'my face," he goads, leaning in so close his nose almost brushes yours. you bite back another fit of giggles, blinking rapidly at him as he bears down over you.

"t-tsumu -- don't --" you squeal as he buries his face in the crook of your neck and blows a loud raspberry, his fingers digging into your waist. you try to squirm away from him, but he huffs right against your skin, tickling you on purpose.

"current boyfriend -- like yer gonna have another boyfriend or sumthin' --" he mumbles, scowling as he looks up at you from dark, hooded eyes. you still, crinkling our nose slightly as you tug on the ends of his bleached hair.

"well... you won't be my boyfriend forever, right?" you ask lightly.

atsumu opens his mouth to argue but he freezes before chuckling and leaning back to fix you with another shrewd look.

"mm... not ferever," he agrees, nodding as he looks you over; you feel a tingle race up your spine as he rakes his eyes up and down your form, still propped up in his lap. he leans in to brush a strand of hair from your cheek, brushing it with his knuckle.

"jus' till i marry ya, right?"

[seiwas]

you're the reason (i got a weakness) | miya atsumu

wc: 2.9k

summary: it’s not that atsumu doesn't like you dressing up like this—in fact, he loves it. just not when you're fighting. not when he can't even call you "baby".

contains: post-timeskip atsumu, arguments and atsumu feeling really sorry, flashbacks, uses the nickname “baby” & “my love”, reader is described as “pretty” and wears heels, hurt/comfort.

a/n: atsumu isn’t a sucky boyfriend he just gets carried away sometimes. song inspo: can you blame me? - kehlani, lucky daye.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

sponsored by @itskilau and @tasoyoru for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please check it out and support if you can!

“Bab—”

Atsumu lingers by your bathroom door, eyes drooping lower and sadder than they ever have. The steam makes the bleached strands of his hair cling to his forehead, his thick eyebrows now damp and flattened. 

You sigh, the big, heavy, and deep kind, shoulders dropping as you clasp the lock of your necklace.

He stares. 

That’s his job. You always ask him to do it the moment you step out of the shower. 

His lip trembles, eyes watery.

“Not now, Atsumu.”

You walk past him as you adjust the towel around your chest, your arm brushing against his. It’s a small thing, a sensation ingrained so deeply into the past two years you’ve been together, but he feels it like it’s the first time you ever touched him—and in a way, it is. Since yesterday, at least. 

The silence that trails after you is so deafeningly still, he thinks he can hear his heart breaking. 

“Atsumu,” your voice rings. 

Who the hell is “Atsumu”? 

He’s not supposed to be “Atsumu” to you. He’s “Tsum.” He’s “baby.” He’s “my love.”

Anything but “Atsumu.”

When you close the door of your walk-in closet to change, the metaphorical volleyball of hope floating right into the palm of his hand misses and drops straight to the floor. 

It started with volleyball, as all things with Atsumu do. 

You’d met him at the rise of his career, just a few years of him being pro. You were friends first, but if you ask anyone around Atsumu, they’d tell you you were never just a friend to him; he’d invited you to all his games and practice matches, spent a bit more time in the locker rooms before going out for dinner with you and the rest of the team. 

Osamu has the receipts of all the extra orders of onigiri Atsumu started adding to his regular weekly subscription since meeting you. 

Your first ‘date’ was Atsumu treading the very fine line between teaching you how to play volleyball and teaching himself self-control. Keeping an eye on the ball is hard enough, what more when he has to resist staring at you in very cute volleyball shorts too? 

As MSBY’s success skyrocketed, so did Atsumu’s—brand deals left and right, solo work trips during off seasons, commercials; the whole thing. When Atsumu wasn’t training, he was either traveling  or attending events and photoshoots. Always on-the-go. Moving. 

And he knew you understood, knew you knew him and his tendencies to overwork; knew him, and his habit of getting stuck inside his own world. You’d driven to late practices with bento boxes to share, and you’d packed his gym bag more than a few times, brought in extra clothes without him having to say a word.

You’ve managed his lifestyle better than anyone could.

But, Atsumu has a bad habit of promising more than he should, of serving white lies just as easily as he does volleyballs behind the service line. 

“Won’t take long, baby. Swear it,” he holds on to the wall by your door, slipping his feet inside his dress shoes. “Pick ya up at 6:00?” 

He’d winked at you then, kissed you between your eyebrows and nose before sneaking one more right at that spot underneath your ear.

What he’d give to be able to do that right now. 

“Okay,” you giggle, swatting his chest as you nod, “better hurry then, you might be late.” 

When Atsumu remembers that moment, the way you’d agreed so doubtlessly, he hates himself even more. You trusted him, have trusted him so wholeheartedly this entire time, so maybe you’re right—

“Would it hurt for you to just be honest?” 

—Atsumu has no excuse standing you up on the date he promised you weeks ago all because he lost track of time in some brand event, listening to a potential collaboration on volleyball shoes. Atsumu has no excuse agreeing to “some drinks” right after just to meet the executives of the company. 

There are meetings for those things, ones that can be scheduled and agreed upon. Ones that don’t compromise or add on to the already long list of missed dates with you. 

“I know you’re busy and I understand,” you sigh, turning the knob of the kitchen stove as you heat up the kettle, “you know I do.” 

He stands before you a quarter past 11:00 p.m., cologne long faded and the smell of alcohol spilled on his sleeve. The kitchen island stands like a net on the court, the ball being sent over to his side. 

“Baby, I—”

He passes it back.

You turn from the stove, face fresh and hair tied into a messy low bun as you look at him—how could he have ever stood this–you–up?

You take the ball, “Can I finish what I have to say first?” 

He nods. The kettle begins whizzing.

“I’m happy and so, so proud that you have all these opportunities,” you reach for the cupboard above head to grab a mug. The box of tea bags sits to your right, a mix of Lemon Balm and Chamomile that Atsumu swears keeps his anxieties at bay during the night. “But at least tell me if you can’t make it.” 

You tear open a tea packet, dangling it inside the mug. The kettle whistles, and he feels the onset of a spike. 

“Please don’t keep my hopes up every time.” 

You turn back towards the stove, turning the burner off as you pour in the steaming water inside the mug. 

“Baby, I swear, they just–they started talkin’ ‘bout these shoes, ‘n I thought t’was cool, ‘n the execs–they said the execs’d be there in the afterparty, and—” he breathes, “won’t happen next time, baby. ‘M so—” 

“Can I really believe you next time?”

You approach the kitchen island slowly, holding the piping hot mug carefully as you set it down in front of him. 

Atsumu stood you up on your date, and you still made him tea. 

You hold his stare for a brief moment before you walk away, sadness and disappointment all-in-one.

It is now that Atsumu knows, he’s fucked up.

The ball lands on his side of the court. 

And so, he’s spent this entire day trying to make it up to you—breakfast in the morning, right before training (which he absolutely tanked because all he could think about was how sad you looked the night before); flowers that he brought home after lunch time, just to find the apartment empty. It’s only after a full text thread and three missed calls to your phone that he finally gets a response.

“Nail appointment. Going out tonight,” is your reply (using speech-to-text too, he suspects, with how formal it sounds). 

Which is fine and dandy to him; you should do everything that makes you feel better after he practically took you for granted. It’s just—he hasn’t even said sorry yet, can’t even call you “baby”, can’t even touch you even though he really, really, really wants to. 

And now, with you closing the door on him while you’re changing—there’s nothing else he can do, really, but to walk away and give you some space. 

He shifts his feet, dragging them lightly against the wooden floors of your bedroom.

The moment he hears the door of your walk-in closet slide open, he hurriedly sits down on the edge of your bed, acting as if he wasn’t just anxiously pacing, waiting for you to come out. 

He feels like shit, if he’s being honest—like how he does when he misses a serve; if not, worse. 

You look good. Make-up done to only emphasize the features he loves (which is your entire face, really), and your outfit perfectly accentuating the dips and curves of your body. 

He follows you as you exit the room, tailing after you like a lost puppy. When you stop by your entryway, all he can do is watch as you bend down to put on the straps of your heels. And it sucks, because if you weren’t fighting, Atsumu would be right by your feet, crouched low so that you wouldn’t have to. 

It’s pathetic and a little helpless of him to just stand and stare in the middle of your living room. He should say something at least, but, you just look so good, and his throat feels dry; his heart all achy and stomach twisty. 

He doesn’t want to be away from you. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t like you going out looking like this—he loves it. But as soon as you step out the door with a soft “don’t wait up for me” mumbled from your glossed lips, Atsumu can only taste bitter regret at the fact that he wishes he were coming with you. 

He couldn’t even give you a goodbye kiss. 

The blond groans, pulling at his hair as he rests his elbows down on the kitchen counter. 

“Don’t wait up for me,” you said. As if he can even sleep without you around. 

.

.

.

The hours go by but they feel like days. Atsumu’s done every possible thing he can do in this apartment and it still hasn’t breached 11:00 p.m.. He’s cleaned down the kitchen (twice!) and arranged the food inside the fridge like those ‘stock up my fridge with me’ tiktoks he’s seen on Sakusa’s phone. The clothes on his side of the closet have been arranged by color and length, with all the ones in his dresser refolded, Marie Kondo style. He’s also pretty sure he’s scrubbed the bathroom down enough that you can probably see your reflection on the tiles of the damn thing. The laundry baskets for both your clothes are now empty, and he’s changed the bedsheets too and—

He’s still restless. The numbers on the clock taunt him, moving up agonizingly slowly. He can’t stop looking at the time, itching for you to come home. 

Atsumu is sorry, so so so incredibly so, because you’re right―he hasn’t been fair to you at all, and he needs you to know that he knows it, too. 

His eyes go over the clock again, only a minute having passed since the last time he checked it. 

Is this how you felt? Every time you waited for him to come home for a date he promised you? 

He squeezes his eyes; it hurts him just thinking about it. 

That’s it, he decides, grabbing his phone and wallet as he walks out the door. 

. 

.

.

Atsumu doesn’t check your location often (maybe only a few times). It’s not a trust thing, he swears; it’s just for when he wants to make sure you’re somewhere safe, or in a place he can reach you should you need him there. 

And, you clearly don’t need him right now, but, Atsumu is a little selfish, he admits. 

Sitting at home with all his regret feels worse than seeking you out to beg for your forgiveness, whether you want him to or not. 

He’s barely dressed for the venue as he steps inside the bar, a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt with those fashionable Birkenstock clogs on. A few people seem to recognize him, tilting their heads and murmuring among themselves as he walks through door, but none of them approach him, thankfully, except for a server asking if he needs assistance. 

His eyes scan the tables first, searching for any semblance of the outfit he’d seen you leave in earlier. The dim lights make it increasingly difficult for him to look for your properly as he squints his eyes some more, narrowing his vision to the people at the front bar this time. It’s after the fourth person he dismisses that he feels himself getting desperate, nearly turning towards the server beside him to ask for help.

Until he spots you—tucked in the corner of the front bar, sitting on the barstool with your legs crossed as you swirl around your drink. 

You look bored, and a little sad, chin resting in your hand as you lean your elbow on the table. 

He frowns, thanking the server on the side as he makes his way to you slowly. You barely notice him as you bring out your phone, tapping on the screen as you stare at it almost longingly―a photo of you and him some time ago after one of his games. He knows it well, can still remember that day so clearly: when he became a PR nightmare because he couldn’t help but announce your relationship by kissing you in front of everybody. 

It makes his chest hurt. 

Then, you swipe it open, and he’s close enough now to be able to catch a glimpse of what’s on your screen: your text thread with him, his last message being, “Did you make it safely?” 

(You pout, eyes pricking with tears. You didn’t reply to him then because you weren’t ready to fully talk to him yet, still upset and disappointed. 

It was easy to make yourself feel better by dressing up and stepping out of the apartment earlier, the promise of good drinks and good company awaiting your arrival; you couldn’t think about how you felt if you were busying yourself with others. But now that all of those feelings have died down and most of your friends have started chatting up other people they’ve found, it’s beginning to hit you all at once just how much you still prefer Atsumu’s company more than anything else.

Your fingers hover over your text box, typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.) 

He’s two stools away from you now, and he can barely contain it―

“Baby,” his voice trembles, unsteady. 

Recognition fills you as you turn to the sound, half-confused at whether you’re hearing things; whether―

(“Tsum,” you mutter, eyes catching a pair of familiar warm brown staring back at you. His bottom lip quivers, the embodiment of a dam starting to crack, vibrating.

Your emotions are a mess, your breath on hold as you feel tears welling up in your lashline too. You still feel upset, still a little sad, and a tiny bit disappointed, but what coats them all is a sense of relief because—)

―he’s here, standing in front of you like he just rolled out of the house with barely enough time to get dressed (which, you’re sure is exactly how things went), and you’re sliding off the bar stool in the prettiest outfit, looking like the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. 

“‘M so sorry,” he breathes out, stepping closer as he grabs your hand, “Don’t ever wanna make y’feel like that again.” His knee gives way as he starts sinking to the floor, “I won’t do that anymore―” 

“Tsum,” you try to call his attention.

He’ll beg for your forgiveness whether you like it or not. 

(The interaction is causing nearby tables to look, murmurs and whispers in your periphery as you catch vague sentences here and there. He still is a public figure, after all.) 

But Atsumu is unaware, looking at you and you alone as he pleads, “No, please hear me out first. I promise I’ll tell ‘em they can speak ‘ta―” 

“Tsum,” you squeeze his hand, whispering more firmly as you try to pull him up. 

“Baby, please. Gimme the chance ‘ta show ya that I―”

(You look around and notice even more eyes on the two of you, fond looks on their faces as they prepare their phones for what seems like something momentous. Then it hits you, how this looks―)

“Tsum, please stand up,” you tug at his hand strongly, urging him to stand. His eyebrows furrow as he obliges, only comprehending why when you explain it to him softly, “people were starting to think you were about to propose.” 

He pauses for a moment, a slight, “Oh,” as he ponders on it. “Well, if that’s what’ll prove it t’ya, then—” 

You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curling slightly as you hit his shin with your foot and squeeze his hand again, “Don’t joke about things like that.” 

Well, it’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind, if he’s being honest. 

He sighs, sitting on the stool beside you as he rubs his thumb over your hand again, bringing it close to his lips to kiss softly. 

“‘M really sorry, baby,” he mumbles against your skin before moving your hand over his heart. “Don’t ever want ya feelin’ like this again.” 

“I know,” you give him a small smile, patting down some of the strands of his hair that stick out, “you didn’t have to come out here though, you know. I was about to go home soon, anyway.” 

“Can ya blame me? Seein’ ya off like that?” he grips your hand tighter as his voice softens. “Y’re too pretty to be sad,” he plays with your fingers, intertwining them with his.

You hit his shin again, feeling shy. You always do when Atsumu likes to sweet-talk you. 

“Do ya forgive me?” he asks after some time, as you take the last few sips of your drink. 

You hum, looking him in the eyes as you nod, pouting, “I don’t like being mad at you, you know.” He lights up, beaming, but you add on, “We still have to talk about it properly, though. Later, when we get back.” 

He nods in agreement, holding your hand as you slide off the barstool, guiding you out of the bar and into the car. 

. 

.

.

(You both do talk about it properly, and the next time Atsumu promises you a date, he blocks it out of all of his calendars, sending the date to his manager even, just to be extra sure.) 

a/n: this has been such a long time coming, i'm sorry to those who waited! i hope you enjoyed even though this simmered with me for way too long 😭 i love writing atsumu a little lovesick but i also think he deserves someone who is equally as in deep as he is 🥺

thank you notes: to 🍧 anon for helping me figure out "what would make you mad at atsumu?" and to @ceroseis and @mieiri for always listening to my shenanigans pre-writing!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[heartkaji]

★ HQ BOYS + COPY MY SNAP !

౨ৎ synopsis. based on the tiktok trend where you send them a bicep pic & ask them to copy it !

౨ৎ author’s notes. this has been in my drafts since january & it’s just seeing the light now.. ik this trend is dead now but whatever 💔 enjoy !!

౨ৎ starring. suna rintarou, atsumu miya, osamu miya

❤︎ THE SNAP !

❤︎ SUNA RINTAROU !

❤︎ ATSUMU MIYA !

❤︎ OSAMU MIYA

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈 ー do not steal, edit, copy, translate or re-upload

[ktsumu]

18+ NSFT MDNI. POLY MATSUHANA. ALCOHOL.

“What do you mean you don’t like making out?”

Makki looks at you like you’ve betrayed him, on his side of the couch with his half-full beer can in hand. “That’s the best part!”

You shrug. “Dunno. Just never been with the right person, I guess.”

“That’s some bullshit. Guys don’t even know how to kiss a girl right? We used to hunt, you know—“

“Makki sucks at it, too,” Issei chimes, leaning against the other end of the couch with his own can half-empty. He nurses it in one hand, lazily plays with a curl in the other. “Can’t say shit.”

“What the fuck? I’m such a good kisser,”

“You—“

“Wait, why do you know how good or bad he is?” you ask, turning towards Issei on your left.

Over your head, he and Makki share a grin.

“Actually? Forget I asked.”

“Don’t be green, friends kiss all the time.”

“Yeah, sure.”

You slide your back down the couch, crossing your arms over your chest as you focus back on the movie playing on the TV. Your cheeks feel hot.

You’re aware of their legs craned out to rest on the coffee table, a set on either side of you. You’re watching them out of your line of view, but when Makki’s head cranes back over the couch to look at the man to your left, you lose track of them.

They’re bickering, you can tell. Issei keeps breathing out little laughs and Makki’s making obscene hand gestures, shaking the cushions when he tries to reach behind you and smack him.

It’s the fifth time the couch jerks that you groan, pushing yourself back upright to break them up.

“Can you not?” you groan. “I’m trying to finish the movie?”

“I’ll stop when he admits I’m not a shit kisser.”

“Too much tongue, babe.”

“I was drunk!”

You swallow. “You’re probably both good kissers, okay? Settle it at that.”

They quiet after that.

The room gets quiet, save for the wind coming through the window and the movie playing still. There’s a steady picking on fraying cushion behind you, no doubt from Makki’s antsy hand.

“You think we’re both good?” Issei prods.

“Sure. Whatever floats your guys’ boats.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“How would I know, Issei?”

The three of you— you’re close enough friends by now that silence is rarely awkward, but you’re not dumb. You know what hole you just dug.

Dig your grave and lie in it, or whatever.

“You wanna find out, then?” he asks, maybe a little quieter if you’re paying close attention.

Makki is hot against your other side, leaning ahead to see the both of you as good as he can. You slink back a little into the sofa— you’re in deep literally and metaphorically.

Issei slips his hand up your leg, watching your lips part the second he sets his eyes on yours. It stays on the backside, coming back up to skip over your ass, resting on your back.

His other hand is hot on the side of your face, tilting your chin up so you’re almost touching him.

“Can I show you something?”

You huff a quick breath, and nod even quicker.

Issei takes you whole, it doesn’t feel like just a kiss. It’s not just lips, even though it starts that way— it’s a graze of his teeth against your jaw before he steals your breath away that makes you slump down the couch, an exchange of power that gives your all to him.

He’s languid and slow, tongue taunting yours and his hand dauntingly large on your side. Makki’s slips beneath his and then under your sweater, nails scratching beneath your navel as they span over your skin.

You forget to breathe. He tastes like espresso and a good time. You lose track of whose hands are which. You don’t know anyone but them. You forget any other lips who have ever tasted yours.

When you reach up into his hair, knotting your knuckles in his curls, Makki takes the back of your neck and pulls you back. You’re looking at Issei, but he doesn’t look mad.

He’s smiling. You blink. You’re looking at Makki, now, and he’s smiling too.

“My turn?” He says it like a question. He might be saying it like he’s begging.

Makki moves so he’s just about on top of you, coming from above when you lean your head back to see him from below. He’s quicker than Issei, hard against your teeth and against your thigh, dizzying in how he pushes and pulls, rutting against you like he’s always wanted this.

Issei tugs your leg over his, smoothing his hand up the inside of it, skipping over where you’re too sheepish to say you want it.

It rests on your stomach, fingertips dipping beneath your waistband as Makki groans so low it vibrates in your throat. They’re playing give and take with you, back and forth like magnets, closing in and giving you space again like a corset.

Issei’s hand cups your chest and Makki’s rests on your throat. You’re being swallowed whole, and all you want them to do is spit you up and do it all over again.

Then, the storm breaks, and when you come to, they’re starry-eyed and staring at you.

“What?” you gasp.

You turn your head back and forth, looking between them like you’re checking your blind spots. You still think somethings gonna come out of nowhere and hit you; bring you back to reality.

“Nothing,” Issei shrugs. But, he leans back. “Do you wanna stay overnight? Save you a drive in the dark.”

They surround you. They encapsulate you differently, like smoke and water. You’re hot and all too aware of the things you’d say yes to.

Makki’s fingers burn against your shoulder, dragging the collar of your top down your collarbone as you nod.

Issei grins, cheshire and warm. “Mm, good.”

[ikchos]

★ THREE'S COMPANY.

feat. hajime iwaizumi & tooru oikawa (hq)

cw. MDNI, afab reader, smut, threesome (reader x iwa x oikawa), oral (male receiving), face-fücking / deepthröating, cümplay or cüm-eating whatever you wanna call it, cursing, hair pulling, kinda bratty tooru / reader & softish dom iwa? mentions of polyamory? pet names (sweet girl & baby).

author's note — this is my first full-length smut fic, i hope it's okay... [not beta read] and a happy (very) belated bday, iwa! ♡

HAJIME... sat on the couch, a mix of disbelief and want washing over him as he glanced down. there you and tōru were, both kneeling between his legs, creating a sense of intimacy that was palpable in the air. the atmosphere crackled with unspoken desire, a tension that had weaved itself into the fabric of your friendship for as long as he could remember. it reminded him of a wine glass, filled to the brim with water, just waiting for the slightest touch to send it tumbling over the edge, spilling its contents and an undeniable passion onto the surface.

the eldest of the two men finally understood what that surface tension felt like as his two best friends licked at his (almost embarrassingly) hard cock. would hajime be a complete liar if he said he never dreamed of a moment like this, being pleasured by his two friends—his treasures? absolutely. but he didn't expect it to ever happen in this lifetime.

his rough hand petted through yours and tōru's hair, a relieved sigh escaping his throat as the two of you worked in tandem to get him off. your lips, glossy from lip gloss and saliva, kissed and gently sucked at the pinkish-tan tip of his cock... it seemed you were wanting more. the way your eyebrows furrowed when tōru's head bumped into yours and your cute huffing when you couldn't get to the spot where you wanted.

"iwa... tell tōru to stop being so fucking greedy," you whined. to this, he let out chuckle.

"not my fault, be more... proactive, y/n-chan." tōru was being his usual annoying self, hogging up the space, taunting you. however, his snark disappeared the moment hajime tugged on his friend's chocolatey brown locks to pull him away. "ah! sorry, sorry!"

hajime looked down at his long-time friend, eyes squinting and an expression on his face that left no room for nonsense as he began to scold him. "be nice..."

with a pout from tōru, he did what he was told—he usually did whatever hajime told him to do anyways, he didn't want to get smacked around like he knew he would. tōru shared the space between his friend's legs as you smiled happily.

"go ahead, baby, take what you want," hajime cooed, allowing you more access to him now. immediately, he groaned as you wrapped your plush lips around the head of his cock. your tongue swirled around the tip, tasting the salty precum leaking out. "ha- that's..."

his cock was so much bigger than you had expected it to be when you and tōru had whipped it out of hajime's pants. not only that, it was prettier too. hajime threw his head back onto the couch cushion, reveling in the feeling of your hot mouth slowly taking him into your throat. tōru made himself useful below the belt, going between kitten licking the spots that you just couldn't reach and sucking gently on hajime's balls... and the sounds hajime made were just so blissful.

"fuck... i'm so lucky aren't i?" hajime didn't realize his words were said out loud but he meant it. who wouldn't feel lucky in his position? his rough hand cupped tōru's cheek tenderly. tōru wasn't used to the affectionate gesture—he was always on the receiving end of a punch or hard pat on the back, he almost moaned at the touch.

all of that bickering was set aside and replaced with quiet hums being muffled as you both focused solely on hajime's pleasure. it was like both you and tōru were finding just as much joy in giving as he was receiving. long stripes from the base to the tip from both of you, hot tongues almost clashing against each other. fuck, hajime was a goner for sure. he couldn't help but push tōru down when you had given the younger man space to take the full thing into his mouth. tōru, a charismatic smooth talker, was great at using his mouth in other ways it seemed. it took everything in hajime not to buck straight up and fuck his face... would he even have minded if he did?

no, he wouldn't.

tōru gurgled and gagged around hajime's cock but didn't show signs of wanting to stop—that only spurred hajime to making the choice to fuck up into tōru's mouth.

"holy sh- fuck..." hajime ran breathless as his friend's throat wrapped snugly around his dick with wet squelches. you climbed onto the couch next to him to pull him into a hot kiss. your tongues thrashed against each other, not competitively but complementary. as hajime's hand snaked up to the nape of your neck to force you closer to his face, he groaned into your mouth. his other hand tangled itself in tōru's soft hair, forcing him to bob his head to take the entirety of his length. the tip hit the back of tōru's throat repeatedly.

"sounds like you're feelin' good," you said, trailing kisses towards his reddened ears. you bent down and pushed sweaty strands of hair away from tōru's face when he came up for air. you took over for the guy, trying to give him a brief break. hajime's hand roamed down your back and gripped your skirt-covered ass that was poking up into the air.

your mouth was more gentle but still eager to please him. that soft pink muscle trailed over the long vein of his cock before fully taking him in with a sweet, suppressed moan. hajime didn't want to push you down, he wanted to be gentle to you. there were clear differences in how he showed you affection versus how he showed tōru but that didn't mean that he loved you any less than him or vice versa.

"sweet girl... that mouth is so perfect."

"i think he's close, y/n..." and hajime was so close... he felt that familiar burn in his stomach as you pulled off and joined tōru back on the floor. hajime bit his lip while watching his two friends wrap their hands around his length and stroke him together. his eyes nearly watered at the feeling and the sight of both you and tōru working to get him off. he didn't want to let go, not right now. he wanted to savor this feeling for as long as he possibly could—he didn't know if this would be a one-time thing, he wished he could do this forever.

you spoke out before hajime could even make the decision about holding off. "cum for us, iwa, it's okay." he had a strong love for you both. the two of you were so special to him, a piece of his heart that would be permanently damaged if you weren't there.

with two open mouths in front of him, two pretty mouths, hajime couldn't hold anything back. he let out a strangled groan, eyes barely staying open. thick ropes of cum coated both yours and tōru's tongues, a sight that could've made him fall in love.

then, you and tōru shared a kiss—a sloppy one, swapping spit and cum between each other... yeah, he definitely fell in love. the kiss was heated and hajime couldn't tear his eyes away. when you and tōru pulled away, you shared a look.

"that was gross, you're so disgusting," you said frowning. your words made tōru jump defensively.

"you kissed me too! how am i disgusting?"

hajime watched the both of you bickering, already accustomed to it and kind of endeared. taking yours and tōru's chins into both of his hands to face him and cease the battle, he looked at you both with fondness.

"are you two even friends?" hajime joked.

you and tōru looked at each other for a moment, almost confused.

"have any of us ever been just friends?"

© ikchos. ⌇ do not steal or translate my work.

[admiringlove]

[14:22] . . .

“screw this,” you mutter, the words tasting bitter in your mouth as you shove the pen across the book you hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. “i’m going home.”

kuroo tetsurō looks up from his own mess of notes and highlighters, his face an assemblage of quiet mockery—one eyebrow perched like it’s considering leaping from his face, the corners of his mouth lifting into a half-smile, the kind that made you think he was perpetually on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t. when he speaks, his voice is a drawl, a flick of something sharp: “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you snap, a little sharper than intended, though the satisfaction of it dulls the sting of your frustration. your hands fumble as you cram the book into your satchel, pages bending at the corners. “screw this. and screw you.”

his smile falters for just a second, replaced by something unreadable—surprise, amusement, offense, some strange combination of all three. “what’d i do?”

you stop then, standing still in front of him, the strap of your satchel clenched tight in your hand. your chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm, your breath catching on the edge of something you can’t quite name. he’s looking at you with those stupid, stupid eyes—sharp and dark and just a little too knowing, except for the moments when they aren’t.

you exhale sharply, the sound of it cutting through the low murmur of the library. “you’re an idiot.”

he tilts his head, clearly amused now. the slight quirk of his lips tells you he’s not taking this seriously, and why would he? you’ve never managed to hold your own against him before. not when he looks at you like that. “an idiot?” he repeats, as though the word is foreign to him, his voice teasing, lilting.

“yes,” you bite out, the word sharp and precise. “a dense, oblivious idiot.”

you’re walking away now, your steps purposeful, though there’s a tremor in your hands as you push the heavy library doors open. the hinges groan in protest, but you don’t stop. he’s already following you, the sound of his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor echoing in the quiet space.

“wait, wait, wait,” he says, stumbling over the words as he catches up to you. his hand hovers in the air between you, like he’s unsure if he should reach for you or let you go. “what do you mean by ‘dense’? what’s that supposed to mean?”

you stop at the threshold, the cold air from outside rushing in and biting at your skin. the streetlights cast long, wavering shadows on the pavement, and for a moment, the two of you are framed in that glow—his tall figure towering over yours, his expression softening with something you can’t quite place.

“for someone as smart as you,” you say slowly, deliberately, your voice low and steady, “you’re so stupid. you’re blind, tetsurō.”

he blinks at you, the words clearly sinking in one by one, but his confusion remains intact. “okay,” he says cautiously, “and why, exactly, am i blind?”

you let out a long, exasperated sigh, your breath visible in the chilly air. “you flirt with me,” you say, your voice rising now, “and then you flirt with other girls—girls who wouldn’t know what a periodic table was if it hit them in the face! and i’m just supposed to sit there and watch?”

“wait,” he interrupts, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “you’re mad because i flirt with other girls?”

you narrow your eyes at him, your face heating despite the cold. “i’m mad,” you hiss, “because you don’t get it. you don’t see it. you’re too busy being... being you.”

he’s staring at you now, the realization dawning slowly, like a sunrise he hadn’t expected to see. “oh,” he says, the sound soft, almost reverent.

“yeah,” you snap, your voice thick with something you don’t want to name. “oh.”

for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind and the faint hum of distant traffic. then, he takes a step closer, his breath warm against your skin despite the chill in the air. “so... you like me?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady, like he already knows the answer.

you don’t look at him when you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. “yes. i like you, you idiot. and you’re so... infuriating about it.”

his laugh is soft, almost disbelieving, and when you finally look up, his face is inches from yours. there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach flip, something raw and unguarded. “if it makes you feel any better,” he says, his voice low, “i’ve been trying to get you to notice me for two years.”

“two years?” you echo, your voice cracking slightly.

he nods, the smirk returning to his face, though it’s softer now, almost shy. “two years,” he repeats.

and then he’s kissing you.

it’s soft at first, tentative, his lips barely brushing yours like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. but when you don’t—when you lean into him, your hands clutching the front of his shirt—he deepens it like he's been waiting for this his entire life, his hands sliding to the small of your back, pulling you closer. the world blurs around you, the cold and the noise fading into nothing as his mouth moves against yours.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, he’s grinning like he’s just won the lottery. “three years,” you mumble, your voice shaky.

he pulls back slightly, his eyebrows furrowing. “what?”

“i’ve liked you for three years,” you admit, your cheeks burning.

his grin widens, and he leans in again, his lips brushing yours as he whispers, “then i guess we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

© all works belong to admiringlove on tumblr. plagiarism is strictly prohibited.

[airybcby]

We've Already Done It In My Head ;)

( kissing with the haikyuu boys )

a / n — was listening to guilty as sin? by taylor swift and knew i had to write something for my boys

content — haikyuu! boys x GN! reader, some suggestive parts, some characters repeated,

synopsis — just kissing with the haikyuu boys <3

✿.｡. “ without ever touching his skin, ” .｡.✿

Always feels like the first time

they're always so giddy to give you a kiss, whether it be a small peck or a full make out session, they are always bouncing up and down in excitement. while they're always the most excited to kiss you, they're also so insanely clumsy about it too.

you couldn't keep count of how many times the two of you had clinked your teeth together, accidentally headbutted each other, and even accidentally bitten each others lips.

maybe it wasn't always the most picture perfect kiss, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

after all, people do say they wish they could experience their firsts again, and you get that anytime you're around them.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ HINATA SHOYO, shohei fukunaga, YAMAGUCHI TADASHI, asahi azumane, TOBIO KAGEYAMA

Always turns into a make-out session

if there was one thing that was 100% certain in your life, it was that you could never kiss them in a purely innocent way. you could be in a very - and i mean VERY - public place, and if you want to give them a small peck?

nope, it's turning into a whole pda session. sometimes you don't mind, but other times you're a little embarrassed because of their boldness.

even while you're at a big event, they have to have their hands on you at all times. "you look so good right now." ignore. "wanna kiss you so bad." ignore. "wanna go to the bathroom?" ignore, ignore, ig-freaking-nore!

if the two of you can get through the whole evening without a big display, maybe you'll reward him when you get home ;)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ATSUMU MIYA, korai hoshiumi, BOKUTO KOTARO, hinata shoyo

Always ends up in you getting what you want

it's not nice to manipulate people, especially not by kissing them until they can't tell you no. your boyfriend was a meanie. nothing more and absolutely nothing less.

all you wanted was to watch a rom-com for your weekly movie night, but nooo, they wanted to watch some boring history retelling film. you weren't sure if they really wanted to watch it or if they were only putting it on to piss you off.

so, of course, what else were you supposed to do besides slide yourself onto their lap and start kissing them until you could slip the remote from their hands and into yours.

" i hate you." he grumbled as you switched from the boring documentary to one of your favorite rom-coms of all time.

" no, you love me. " "...sadly."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ KEI TSUKISHIMA, suna rintaro, OSAMU MIYA, TETSURO KUROO, yaku morisuke

Always gives the perfect kisses

they're literally a perfect specimen, it's really unfair.

you're sad? they're always there giving you small kisses on your head, forehead, and of course your lips. you're in the mood to just be hateful? he's there rubbing your back and kissing your temple while nodding along to your words.

there is no place in the world where they won't fit in perfectly.

and you're just lucky enough to be part of it.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ AKAASHI KEIJI, koshi sugawara, KITA SHINSUKE, toru oikawa, HAJIME IWAZUMI

✿.｡. “ how can i be guilty as sin ? ” .｡.✿

thanks for reading!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[deardaichi]

025. whistles, warmups, and wandering eyes — oikawa toru.

wc: 0.5k cw: gn!reader. seijoh 4 friendship. oikawa has a crush ^.^ a/n: sorry of this is a little ooc. can you guys tell i really love the seijoh 4. i love them more than anything. i hope you enjoy <3 requested by @sxnnee

you don’t notice him at first.

there’s too much going on — tape rolls, clipboard sheets, tanaka forgetting which knee he’s supposed to wrap. the gym’s full of echo and movement, stretching mats shuffled across the floor, someone setting to no one in particular just to feel the rhythm of the ball.

but when you finally glance up — towel bag slung over your shoulder, heading toward the bench — oikawa is already looking.

he doesn’t look away fast enough.

just shifts his weight and starts talking to iwaizumi like he wasn’t staring in the first place. but you saw it. clear as anything.

iwaizumi jabs him lightly with his elbow, the kind of jab that says you’re obvious. matsukawa catches it too and grins behind his water bottle. hanamaki says something under his breath that makes oikawa flick his towel at him in protest.

you don’t dwell on it.

you stack towels, check your rotations, make sure the bench is clean and water bottles are full. oikawa doesn’t look again. or if he does, he’s better at hiding it now.

but a few minutes later, once stretching ends and teams shift into more focused warm-ups, you catch footsteps near your bench.

not one person.

four.

“karasuno’s manager,” hanamaki greets, hands in his pockets, expression entirely too casual. “nice to finally meet you up close.”

“we’ve decided you should transfer,” matsukawa adds. “come to seijoh. cooler jerseys. better snacks. cleaner benches. better view.”

you raise a brow. “view?”

“oikawa,” hanamaki supplies, nodding at him. “he’s a little obsessed.”

“i am not,” oikawa says immediately, in that calm, practiced voice that only cracks a little at the edges.

iwaizumi, predictably, looks done. “we told you not to come over here.”

“i came over here to say hi,” oikawa mutters, before correcting himself. “we came over here. as a team. to be polite.”

“and to scout,” hanamaki adds. “don’t forget that part.”

matsukawa leans in slightly, voice light. “you don’t scare easy, huh?”

“i’m used to worse,” you reply, tone even. “we practice with hinata.”

oikawa huffs a laugh at that — the real kind. soft, surprised.

you look at him then, fully. he’s calm again. composed. like he didn’t get caught looking before. like he’s been doing this a long time.

“good luck today,” you say, not teasing.

he nods. “you too. not too much, though.”

a whistle cuts through the gym — sharp and short — seijoh’s coach signaling warm-up rotations. iwaizumi gestures toward the court with a tilt of his head.

“coach’s calling.”

“saved by the whistle,” hanamaki sighs. “see you around, manager-san.”

they turn to go — all four of them, shoulder to shoulder, seijoh blue moving back across the court like they never stopped being a unit. but oikawa glances back once.

just a flick of his gaze.

like maybe he thinks this won’t be the last time.

you watch him go.

and you think he might be right.

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia@iwantfoodpleasebuymefood @dira333 @kcandyliciouss @beee1221249qq

© deardaichi | everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[chimielie]

“what’s the wi-fi password?” you ask tooru. more accurately, you ask tooru’s back, because he’s busy turning on the tv and setting the channel to JSPORTS.

“oh, your name,” he says, “and then 13.”

you snort at his predictability. your name is kind of sweet, though, you remember watching it with him as teenagers, the tears running down his face and his thick denials that he totally wasn’t crying at the end.

Incorrect password for “Oikawifi.” your screen reads.

“it didn’t work,” you say, leaning over the back of the couch and stretching your arm out towards him. he’s standing about a foot from the screen with his left hand on his hip and the remote in the other, looking vaguely reminiscent of a father trying to navigate technology.

“dumb-dumb,” he turns to you, “did you forget how to spell your own name?”

“eh?” you say. “your name?”

“no, your name,” he says your forename then, and you color brilliantly, or at least it feels like it, your face hot, suddenly unable to look at him head-on. “and then 13. like—“

“josé blanco, i know,” you roll your eyes fondly, a defense against whatever this reveals about him. “you’re gonna get hacked.”

“no way, blanco will protect me,” he says. “and you. you’d protect me, wouldn’t you? since i put your name as my password and all?”

“uh-huh,” you say, distracted as your phone accepts the password combo. “hey, is your bank account password my name too?”

[marisolls]

012825. moon carved, love written on skin

tsukishima kei x reader . . . cw / tsukki has a back tattoo. fluff. not proofread and i am sleepy. i dreamt about this lmao. notes / when will i stop writing for this 6ft stickbug pls. (gn again im gonna eep)

tsukishima kei, years after high school, now in his mid-twenties. no longer the snot-nosed looking teenager that he once was, more taller, and softer and tender and so much more forgiving of himself— allowing his vulnerabilities to slip through quite easily with you.

then there's the tattoo, one he doesn't tell you about until now.

you only find out when the two of you are lounging at home one night, moonlight filtering through the curtains, bathing his skin in a dim-lit glow, low music humming in the background. he's lying facedown on the bed, his shirt discarded, and his glasses abandoned on the bedside table. he almost fooled you, making it seem like he’s sleeping, with slow breaths and closed eyes.

you see it clearly, the moon cycle inked onto his back.

“love,” you murmur, your voice laced with curiosity, careful as to confirm if he’s actually out like a light or not, “when were you planning to tell me about this?”

he stiffens almost instinctively, your fingers trace the faint outlines of his shoulder blades, trying to ease him. he turns his head slightly, one eye peeling open, the corner of his mouth curves in faint amusement, as if he didn’t anticipate getting caught in the first place. “wasn’t planning to.”

your hands explore the tattoo—the phases of the moon, spanning the breadth of his back and etched in crisp black ink. each phase feels like a pulse of one’s heartbeat you’ve come to learn and memorize, mirroring the cycles of your lives together: waxing, waning, full, and new.

“why the moon?” you ask softly, running a fingertip along the crescent. you’d never have guessed that the man you’ve come to love had anything as sentimental as this. feels like another layer of intimacy you’ve set foot on, a secret unearthed by the only person he’s planned to reveal it, almost as if this occurrence was already predetermined by him.

he trusts you so much it hurts, in a good way.

he hums, burying his face into the pillow, muffling his voice. “it’s for you.”

“for me?”

“yeah. don’t make me explain it—it’s embarrassing,” he grumbles, his ears tinged red. even more so when you chuckle whilst letting your hand caress his back.

but you can’t stop smiling, “no, no, kei. you can’t drop something like that and not explain.”

he groans into the pillow, but you don’t miss the way his fingers twitch against the sheets, betraying his nerves. after a beat, he rolls over onto his side, propping his head up with one hand, the other resting on his stomach, he looks at you and—your smile curls into a smirk, raising one eyebrow playfully—and then he urges you to join him.

so you do. cuddling into him as he sigh in faux resignation and gently planting a kiss to your temple. the old habits from his teenage years die hard.

“it’s... stupid,” he starts, hesitating.

you interrupt, your voice gentle but insistent. “i want to know.”

he exhales, trying to steel himself, his gaze fixating somewhere over your shoulder. “it’s the phases of the moon. you know, waxing, waning... all that.”

“i can see it, thanks,” you tease lightly, earning yourself a flat look.

“let me finish,” he mutters, his cheeks slightly pink. he fiddles with the hem of the blanket before continuing, quieter now. “it’s... because you remind me of the moon. you’re constant—always there—even if i’m too blind or stupid to notice it sometimes. and even when things feel... off, like everything’s dark, i know you’re still there, just waiting to come back.”

your chest tightens, his words sinking into you, pulls you in like gravity.

“you’re always changing, too,” he adds, his voice steady but soft. “growing, shifting... but still you. and i—” he pauses, swallowing thickly before meeting your gaze again, his expression open and raw in a way the ache never buries itself, only stretched into a shelter inside you that is love. “i just wanted something permanent. something for me. to remind me of you, even when you’re not... here.”

you blink rapidly, trying to keep your emotions in check, but your voice wavers when you respond. “...that’s not stupid at all.”

he scoffs lightly, looking away again, but there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “a little, still.”

“it’s perfect,” you counter, sliding closer to press your forehead against his. “and you’re lucky you explained it, or i might’ve cried.”

“you’re already crying,” he points out, brushing a thumb against your cheek, his voice teasing but tender.

“my bad.”

he laughs quietly, you stare at the moon with warmth.

his thumb lingers on your cheek, tracing gentle circles, “you’re ridiculous,” you say, though your voice carries no malice—just a kind of awe tinged in disbelief. “keeping this to yourself for so long…”

he shrugs one shoulder, the ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“you have an entire tattoo on your back—dedicated to me—and you thought it wasn’t worth mentioning?”

he opens his mouth to respond but falters, and for a second, you see the remnants of his old high school self, the boy who avoids vulnerability like it was a volleyball hurtling toward him. but he doesn’t retreat now, he lets you see him in full view.

“it’s not that i didn’t want to tell you,” he admits. “it’s just… i didn’t know how. or when. and i guess…” he trails off, his brows knitting together like he’s trying to piece together the right words. “i guess i wanted it to be... ours, you know? just ours. something no one else gets to know about.”

you cup his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, and he leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut.

“kei,” you murmur, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “you’re incredible, you know that?”

his eyes flutter open, half-lidded gaze as he blinks to your lips, “you’re being dramatic.”

“no, i’m being honest,” pressing a kiss to his forehead as you continue, “you’re incredible, and this—” your hand moves to trace the outline of his tattoo again, arms stretched to reach his back, fingers light and reverent. “this means the world to me.”

you hear the slight hitch of his breath. the way his arms tighten around you says more than words ever could. “i’m glad you like it,” he murmurs eventually, breathless.

“i love it. just like i love you.”

“good,” he says, his voice teasing but soft. “because i don’t plan on getting rid of it.”

“good,” you echo, settling back against him, your head resting on his chest. you can feel the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, it’s telling you what you already know, but always search for a reminder: you’re home with him.

the two of you stay like that for a while, until kei speaks again,

“i guess this means you’re stuck with me now,” he says, his tone light but tinged with something deeper. he chuckles to himself, “i love you, too.” and he’s glad these words are already carved to his skin. his own museum he’s carved just for you.

© SOLVISUN 2025. all rights reserved, do not repost/alter.

[shouyuus]

─── 飛雄 HE LIKES TO HOLD YOU, sling his arms around your shoulders, press his knee to your knee, crowd into your personal space; he likes to nose into the hollow of your neck, the warm, soft spot behind your ear, even if it makes you squirm away from him, he'd just pull you back and grumble at you to stay still, to stay close.

because he'd always want you close, wouldn't he? always want you within arm's reach, because tobio is nothing if not needy, nothing if not persistent in his petulant want for closeness, for the satisfying friction of skin on skin, for the warm tingle of goosebumps that chase up the length of your arms whenever he presses his lips to your cheek, your neck, the bare skin of your shoulder.

and he'd drink in the way you laugh, the tiny puff of breath before your gasping inhale — his name falling from your lips like a wish or a prayer.

"t-tobio!"

"what?"

he revels in the flush working into your cheeks, his eyes half-lidded in the starveling dark of this izakaya the jva's booked out for the night, the two and a half beers he's had fizzling in his stomach just enough to make his body feel light, to tug at the dwindling edges of his self-restraint till it's fraying. he pulls you into his chest, biting down a smirk at the shiver that shakes down your entire body as you peer up at him with dark, curious eyes.

"people... people will see!"

tobio frowns in earnest then, cocking his head as he weighs the implications. he blinks down at you.

"so?"

but before you can protest again, he bends down to catch your lips in his, humming against your lips, satisfaction unfurling in his chest as he feels you go molten in his arms. he pulls back to trace a thumb along your bottom lip, a dull pounding at the back of his mind, telling him that maybe, just maybe it's time to beg off from this party. he shoves the nagging feeling away for the comfort of pressing his forehead to yours, tracing a finger along the plush of your cheek.

"'s not like people don't know you're mine."

[seiwas]

₊˚⊹｡ mornings don't feel the same without you | iwaizumi hajime

wc: 3.0k

summary: ​​hajime thinks that it's been a long time coming for him to wake up with this realization.

contains: implied f!reader, lingerie, use of slut (teasingly/jokingly, not to reader), lots of suggestive stuff (touching, implied sex), so much love!!, hajime is also a wee bit sentimental here, established relationship

a/n: not a lot of plot, just a lot of love! haven’t written hajime in a while, but he’s on my mind all the time. these are the songs that inspired me: lights down low, never had you, it’s you, and forever right now. 

part of how to be your lover boy (a valentine's collab by augustinewrites & seiwas) + the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—good health, good job, good relationships; all on equal footing, in no particular order. The routine he’s built is deliberate and filled with purpose, a system diligently followed to keep himself running. 

He firmly believes that if you want to live the life you want, you have to start with yourself. A simple choice, the first step. 

And Hajime’s chosen the mornings, an old conscious effort to wake up at 6:00 on the dot now transformed into a natural rise to the softness of daylight. 

You call him a creature of habit, one that leaves no day to rest, even on Valentine’s Day. 

Sunlight trickles between his curtains, ripples of translucent white highlighting the tip of your nose. He sees you through a sleep haze, olive eyes blinking awake like the leaves on your bedside, ready to tickle your cheek and wave when you turn the other way. 

It suits you, he thinks, to be touched by light when you don’t know it. 

You’re warm under the palm of his hand, bare flesh a soft place to rest between him and your hip bone. If he focuses hard enough, he can feel the faint thump of your heartbeat, almost in tandem with the small puffs of air hitting his chin. 

He sighs, the corners of his mouth curling in contentment. 

A good life. 

Evidence of last night is strewn across the room—the red tulips on your bedside and his slacks hanging off the bed. The shirt he’d worn lies atop the dress he slipped off you, half of your black two-piece set caught in it.

The memory replays vividly—bites to his neck down to his collarbone, a pull of his hair and his lower lip caught between yours. You handle Hajime roughly because you know he can take it, know that it gets him going the more you want him. 

But with you, he takes his time—runs his fingers over every area he’s grown fond of (which is everywhere, really). He strips you down slowly, unwrapping you like a gift labeled: handle with care, open gently. 

Then, he savors it—you.

The wrapper lies next to his head, half-tucked underneath his pillow, a piece of elegant black lace you know drives him crazy. 

A perk of celebrating Valentine’s Day two ways is that one half belongs to him and the other to you—a team effort to make the day as special as it can be. 

He shifts, hand sliding up to rest on your waist. The movement causes you to stir, digging your cheek deeper into your pillow as you scrunch your brows—a sign of you coming to wake. 

Hajime immediately shuts his eyes, feigning sleep. Last night was all his—flowers, a nice dinner, and the dessert that came after it. This morning is yours, with only one instruction for him: sleep in. 

How upset would you be if he ruined your surprise? 

The bed dips on your side, no doubt you reaching for the bedside to check the time. Even with his eyes shut, he has your mornings memorized. A whispered ‘shit’ almost makes him break into a smile, but he reigns it in, expression neutral and breathing steady. 

You move again, his hand still on your waist as you turn once more, to what he can only assume is to face him. There’s a momentary pause that makes him worry you’ve found him out, but he feels your fingertips run over the crease between his brows, smoothening it out the way you always do. 

(He has a terrible habit of frowning in his sleep, he’s learned.)

It makes him nervous the longer you linger, the tips of your fingers sliding down the bridge of his nose to rest on his lips, running over it once, twice. Then you sigh, inching closer before gently nudging his nose with yours.

The small peck you land on his lips almost makes him break, but he holds it in, letting you sneak away (albeit badly) for whatever it is you’re planning for today. 

(The bed dips too deeply, comforter rustling as you untangle yourself from it. You stub your toe on the edge of your bedside table and attempt to muffle an ‘ouch’, even though he can hear you—pretty clearly actually. He has to bite his lip to stop himself from chuckling.)

If it were up to him, Hajime would just keep you here, no sneaking around or stubbed toes, no surprise or anything—just you, wrapped in his arms, under his sheets. 

.

Just as he’d promised though, he did sleep in (if an extra 20 minutes of forcing his eyes shut counts as that). 

The flowers on your bedside are gone, and so is his shirt—the sheets beside him crinkled in the shape of your haste to get up from it. He yawns, running a hand through his hair to fix up the mess you made of it last night. 

As part of his routine, Hajime stretches, first with his neck—side-to-side, up-and-down—then with his back, twisting left and right. Next, he changes, puts on a pair of gray sweatpants that you claim must be a staple in his wardrobe (you say he looks like he could fuck you up, its hem hanging dangerously low to reveal the grooves of that deep v-line leading to his pelvis).

After pushing aside the curtains for sunlight to stream through, he cleans the room, picking up the mess of clothes on the floor and making the bed; you usually do this, because you’re particular with the pillow placements, but he’ll take over for now. 

This should buy you enough time, right? An extra 10 minutes for your planned surprise.

He takes a breath, doing one last scan of the room before stepping out. 

As soon as he gets into the hallway, he smells chocolate. 

Each step he takes is consciously softened as he carries his weight, carefully making his way to the sight of you, back towards him in nothing but his t-shirt hanging temptingly high to barely conceal black lace. You seem focused, entirely preoccupied with the kitchen stove.

A familiar feeling settles into his stomach, warm and soothing, one he’s been having more and more around you lately. The corner of his lips curl up. 

For Hajime, the best way to start the day is with the morning light and you.

He sneaks up behind your back, peeking over your shoulder at the chocolate pancakes you seem to be slowly ladling into the pan. And just when you’ve formed a figure he can only assume is a heart, he takes a step closer, hands resting on your hips as he scrunches up the fabric between his fingers.

“Morning,” he whispers, chin resting on your shoulder as his lips brush the side of your neck, soft and ticklish; you shiver, just a little bit. 

The greeting comes out rough, husky, and you lean into him, your hand coming to rest over his, hiking up your (his) shirt to reveal a slight peek at the black lace hugging the curves of your buttcheek. 

“Morning.” you chuckle when you hear his breath hitch. The pancake in front of you gets flipped to the other side. 

“How’s your head?” he moves to peck your temple. Hajime knows you get the worst hangovers no matter how little you have to drink, and last night was by no means little.

You groan, turning off the stove, letting the residual heat cook the pancake through. 

“Terr–” 

As you turn to him within his arms, you pause, blinking uncontrollably at the presence of Hajime’s bare skin in front of you. Your eyes go wide, zeroing in on the full chest beneath your palms, the cuts of his shoulders, and his arms. Oh—

“Slut.” your brows furrow, lips pouting as you stifle a smile. 

Hajime laughs, olive eyes crinkling as he holds you closer, hands coming to clasp at your lower back. 

“Put on a shirt, you know I can’t focus like this.” 

He knows, because you say this almost every morning, every time. 

“I would,” remnants of his amusement linger on his lips, hand reaching to squeeze your butt as he narrows his gaze mischievously, “but someone stole it.” 

You giggle, arms coming up to wind around his neck, fingers playing with the shorter strands of his hair. Then, you tiptoe, white fuzzy slippers slotting itself between his matching green ones as you tilt your head up for a kiss. 

As it is, Hajime’s liking how this surprise is going. 

He leans in, eyes falling shut as he presses against you. His hand cradles your jaw, callused skin tickling you ever so slightly as he guides your head to turn the other way. Hajime can hardly stop whenever you get him started like this, your lower lip already caught between his teeth. 

But you nip it, right as his other hand crawls underneath your shirt, pulling away as he tries to chase for more. The frown on his face is hard to miss. 

“Gonna get dressed,” you smile amusedly, feigning innocence.

“Isn’t this already too dressed?” he raises an eyebrow, tugging at your (his) shirt. His fingers trail lower, hooking themselves into the lace of your underwear. 

“Don’t be a flirt,” you scrunch your nose, “I feel gross.” 

He squeezes your hip, “I’m gross too.” 

You give him a look. 

He gives you one back. 

If Hajime had the words, he’d tell you you’re the furthest thing from gross, making him breakfast in his clothes and that pretty black number you know drives him up-the-wall crazy.

This is the stuff of his dreams. 

But then you give him those eyes, and you know just as well he’s weak to that too. So he sighs, loosening his grip so you can slip away. 

“I’ll make you eggs!” he calls out as you disappear into the bedroom. 

Your breakfast spread for him is set up on the counter, the chocolate heart pancake on the pan the last needed addition to complete everything. It’s sweet, how you prepared a full-on chocolate feast for him: hot chocolate with chocolate heart pancakes, and butter also in the shape of a heart. The tulips he’d gotten you rest prettily inside the vase he remembers from your first anniversary pottery date.

He feels especially sentimental today taking everything in, noticing how the mug that holds your half-finished coffee matches the one that holds his hot chocolate. 

In the little over two years that you’ve been together, you’ve assimilated yourself into his space so naturally that it feels like you’ve always just been here—that it feels right how all your chips fill up the entire bottom shelf of his pantry because you love snacking on them whenever, wherever.

He cracks in two eggs. 

The throw on his couch matches the pillows all because of you, and bottles of your daily vitamins sit perfectly beside all his supplements in the spice-rack turned morning-essentials-rack (one of your so-called organization hacks). 

The pan sizzles, edges of the eggs turning crisp—just how you like it (lately, it’s how he’s been liking it too). 

When you step out of the bedroom, Hajime’s begun plating your food, pouring in another batch of coffee and preparing a bowl of fruits. 

(Today, it’s strawberries—one of your favorites. He made sure to stock up on that for today.) 

Hajime thinks he’s built a pretty solid life for himself—

He prides himself on his routine and the stability of his day-to-day: the mornings, with you raiding his closet and stealing his clothes; the late afternoons, when he picks you up from work and you crash his place because it’s begun to feel so much more like home. 

The evenings cap the day off perfectly, with you tucked under his chin and your leg slung over his hip. It’s too warm, but you get cold easily and he doesn’t mind the warmth when you’re pressed up skin-to-skin. 

And when he sees you in his sweatshirt—the one paired with the sweatpants he’s wearing right now, he smirks knowingly, setting down the utensils with a dopey smile on his face. 

This is good. 

—his life that you now also fit into. 

“Sorry you had to prep the rest,” you pad towards the counter, taking a seat on the stool as he waves it off and sits beside you, “thank you.” 

Without even a word, there’s a painkiller sitting on the palm of his hand, open and waiting for you already. 

You stare at him, puppy-dog eyes and everything, pouting as your fingertips graze his, “I love you.” 

He laughs, rolling his eyes jokingly as he hands you a glass of water, his cheeks already dusted peach.

Shyness still hits him when you’re so vocal like this, but Hajime has known he’s loved you since that day at some outdoor concert you dragged him into. The forecast was gloomy but you’d insisted it was an experience he shouldn’t miss, so he agreed—packed an umbrella and wore a jacket with a hood even, just in case. 

But there you were, in the middle of the downpour, dancing under the rain, and when you’d beckoned him closer, you had that same look on your face. 

“Love you too,” he whispers against your forehead, pressing his lips against it, “happy Valentine’s Day, babe.” 

Breakfasts with the two of you are usually rushed, but work for him today isn’t until noon and you have an entire day off to pack for a two-week business trip you’re set to leave for tomorrow.

So, this is nice. You both have time.  

You’re talking about all sorts of things—some work gossip, that nice old lady who lives a few units down from him; there’s the whole itinerary for your business trip too—meeting here, meeting there. An extra hour to kill to maybe sightsee. Evenings are usually free, and so on. 

But as he’s chewing on half of the chocolate heart pancake, he just can’t, for the life of him, stop thinking. 

The more he hears about your schedule for the upcoming weeks, the more he’s realizing that this is the longest time you’ll be apart.

And he wonders, what’s that gonna be like? 

Most of your clothes will be gone from his dresser, his bathroom counter half-empty without all your skincare. No overheating at night without your arm wrapped firmly around his spine. Just one mug during breakfast, not two, and only a single pair of green fuzzy slippers pacing around the rooms. 

It’ll be a little like how it was before you.

And he hates how that’s even a possibility.  

He takes a sip from his mug.

“So, Oikawa’s taking me out on a date. Is that okay with you?” you lean against your palm, elbow supported on the counter. 

He nods, humming as he sets down the hot chocolate. 

“Hajime.” you hide your smile. 

He snaps out of it, “Hm?” 

“So you’re okay with me going on a date with Oikawa?” 

His knee-jerk scowl is much more like it. 

“That fucker asked you out?” 

You laugh, shaking your head while taking his hand to interlace your fingers with his, “Just seeing if you were listening.” 

A pause, then a squeeze. 

“Wanna tell me what you’re thinking?” 

He tilts his head slightly; one look at you and you draw it all out of him. There’s something about this—breakfasts in his kitchen, with you wearing his clothes and the morning light streaming in. You share a joke or two (or five), a few teasing touches here and there, the mood relaxed and just overwhelmingly nice. 

Hajime is so authentically himself when he’s with you that he doesn’t want anyone else knowing the parts of him that you do—

Everyone would be surprised to find that his typically uptight self is surprisingly funny when he’s let loose; he’s made you laugh a good number of times to prove it, too. 

The boys would never let him live it down if they saw him peach-faced at the tiniest bit of your affection; and they’ll tease him for eternity if they find out that the reason he taps out so early during ‘boys’ nights’ is because he still gets so excited to cuddle in bed with you. 

This is the kind of day-to-day he wants, and he knows you’re the key to all of it. 

—so, Hajime chooses you, much like he’s chosen the mornings. 

“Move in with me,” he tells you simply, two fields of olive green sincerity. 

The words flow out of him with an intensity uninhibited, something you don’t get from him very often. Your expression shifts, breath on hold and—

“When you get back.” he follows up quickly, giving you space to consider it first, “What do you think?” 

All logic is telling him he should be nervous, that this is the defining moment of another goal he’s been working his ass off to reach, but somehow, with his hand in yours, this feels easy. Comfortable in all the good ways because loving you has always been just that. 

“Sex last night was that good, huh?” 

And this—there’s never been a problem with this too. 

He snorts, cheeks turning a deep peach. 

“Just realizing that mornings don’t feel the same without you,” he admits, pulling you closer. You hop off the stool and inch closer, standing between his legs as he rests his hands on your lower back.  

“Flirt.” you scrunch your nose, squeezing his waist. 

You say that, but he sees how your smile reaches your eyes; how it glosses over when you catch his gaze. 

“Okay, muscle boy,” your hands settle on his shoulders, fingers splayed out over every dip and curve, “better do all the moving then. Want all my stuff here by the time I get back.” 

.

And he does—

When you get back, he’s contacted his landlord to get you on the lease. Your clothes are all in his (or now your?) apartment, some still in boxes but the essentials already organized in the closet now split to house both of your things. 

There’re pieces of you everywhere now, not just touches like a person half-there. A lot of the big furniture is still at your place, but that’s really just because he wants to leave that part up to you. 

—after all, it’s your home now too.

thank you notes: @augustinewrites for loving hajime as much as i do 🥹 lights down low used to be a normal soft song for me before, now it belongs to him bc of u + @soumies @mysugu bc this is kinda really so self-shippy and every time i think of seiwa i think of you both 🥺 + @ktsumu for requesting this! i know it only slightly follows the prompt but i hope you enjoy my spin on it anyway 🥺

a/n: i don't think any amount of fic can express how much i love him 🥹 but i hope this comes close 🥹

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡