The front door clicks open quietly at 11:42 PM.
You’re already waiting, lights dimmed low, curled up on the couch wearing one of Tooru’s soft grey shirts — the one that hangs just enough to tease your thighs. No bra. No shorts. Just skin, scent, and the knowledge that your husband hasn’t touched you in over a month.
You hear his keys drop into the bowl. Then silence.
“Tooru?” you call softly, rising from the couch.
“...Shit,” he mutters, voice rough and low.
You blink — he’s standing frozen in the hallway, suitcase forgotten beside him, jacket half-off one shoulder. Hair messy, face flushed from the flight, and eyes locked on you. Or rather… the scent of you.
He blinks hard like he’s dizzy. “What… the hell… are you wearing?”
You smile, pretending to be clueless. “This? It’s just your shirt.”
“No,” he rasps, stepping closer. “That smell.”
You tilt your head coyly. “Oh… perfume. You remember the one you got me before you left? The one you said was too ‘dangerous’ to wear in public?”
You see it — that little flicker in his eyes. Lust. Regret. Possession.
He drops everything he’s holding. Literally. Shoes still on. Bag still zipped. He doesn't care.
Oikawa walks straight to you like a man possessed, stops only inches away, his chest rising and falling hard.
“You wore that for me, didn’t you?” he whispers.
You nod slowly, your voice barely audible. “I missed you.”
In a second, his hand is cupping the back of your neck, lips crashing against yours. It’s messy — all teeth and tongue and groaned apologies between kisses. He grabs your waist with both hands, fingers digging into your skin like he’s checking if you’re real.
“I was gonna shower first,” he pants against your lips, breath hot. “I had this whole cute plan to surprise you, take you to bed slow, tell you how beautiful you are—”
You tug his shirt, breaking the kiss. “Then do it slow.”
He stares at you for a beat… then laughs darkly, low and dangerous.
“Oh, baby,” he says, backing you toward the wall. “You knew exactly what you were doing the second you sprayed that shit. You wanted me like this.”
Your back hits the wall and he leans in, burying his face in your neck. He inhales deeply, shuddering.
“This scent—fuck, it’s not fair. I’m jet-lagged, I’m dehydrated, I’m probably dying from airport food, and you hit me with a boss-level debuff like this?”
You giggle, but it’s breathy — he’s already running his hands under the hem of his shirt (your shirt?) and his fingers are dangerously close to finding skin he hasn’t touched in weeks.
“I missed your hands,” you whisper.
He groans, forehead resting against yours. “I missed everything.”
And suddenly, he’s picking you up — one arm under your thighs, the other gripping your back. You squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“You wore my perfume, my shirt, no bra, looking like sin itself, smelling like heaven—what did you expect me to do? Go to bed like a good boy?” he growls.
The bedroom door slams open.
He drops his duffle bag by the door with a grunt.
“Never letting those idiots convince me to run court sprints with them again,” he mutters, already tugging off his hoodie, revealing that sweaty clingy tank top that does things to you it shouldn’t.
You can see the deep stretch of his back, the taut pull of his arms, and the shine of sweat across his collarbones. The man is exhausted. And stupid hot.
You blink.
You stare.
You decide: enough is enough.
You’ve had a little bottle tucked away—something you ordered on a whim and hid like your most sinful secret. A pheromone perfume.
Just a little spritz. Something warm. Sweet. Deep. Something that whispers take me.
You spray it once behind your ears.
Once on your wrists.
And because you’re a menace, once just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
You plop down on the couch like you’re innocent.
You’re not.
Iwaizumi walks past you on the way to the fridge.
Stops.
“…Did you change your shampoo?” he mutters, brow furrowing.
You tilt your head. “Nope.”
He hums like he doesn’t trust you.
Like he shouldn’t.
He opens the fridge. Closes it again without grabbing a single thing.
Then slowly turns back to look at you.
And this time—his gaze is different.
He looks at you like something clicked.
Like he just smelled danger and liked it.
“Babe,” he says, voice already lower, already rough, “what the hell are you wearing?”
“Just something new,” you say, stretching a little on the couch so your thighs press together. “Why?”
You smirk. “Maybe it is.”
You let out a tiny gasp as he pins you to the cushions, strong arms boxing you in, heat radiating from his body like a furnace. “You know I’m sore,” he mutters, voice strained, “and this is how you welcome me home?”
“I was trying to be comforting,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his jaw. “You looked like you needed to be taken care of.”
He groans, like it physically hurts to be this attracted to you while his muscles are aching.
“You’re evil,” he mumbles as his hands slide under your shirt. “That smell—it’s like you’re begging me to lose control.”
You arch your back, let him feel the way your body responds to his touch. “That’s because I am.”
His mouth crashes into yours, hot and needy, and the second your hips shift, he curses under his breath.
“You can’t just walk around smelling like that. Not unless you’re ready to deal with the consequences.”
“Guess you’ll have to punish me then, Hajime.”
He groans again—louder this time—before lifting you effortlessly into his arms.
It’s been hours.
Still no words.
He’s planted on the couch, jaw tight, gaze fixed on nothing.
Not scrolling. Not gaming. Not watching.
Just... sulking. Brooding. Breathing in irritation.
You sit on the bed, watching him from across the room. The air feels thick with everything unsaid. And the silence?
Colder than the AC.
You knew he was upset.
The way he walked in, shoes kicked off without a word, keys dropped with too much force.
The way he wouldn’t look at you—
Not when you asked about dinner.
Not when you leaned in to press a kiss to his temple.
You didn’t even know what exactly made him mad.
But you felt the ache in your chest. The hollow in your throat.
And lower, where the ache turned into something else.
Need. Desperation.
For him. For his voice. His warmth. His hands.
Your fingers curl around the small bottle tucked in your drawer. A gift you’d been saving.
A pheromone perfume.
The name written in elegant script: “One Spritz, One Night to Remember.”
You spritz it once behind your ears.
Once on your collarbone.
And once right between your thighs—low and hidden, just for you.
Then, silently, you cross the room.
You lean against the doorway, arms crossed under your chest.
And you wait.
Then he shifts—subtle, but telling.
You walk past him slowly, deliberately, letting the scent trail behind you like a ribbon in the wind. His eyes follow.
His jaw clenches again. But this time, differently.
You pause near the window, pretending to check your phone.
You hear him stand.
But you feel him there—hovering close, heat radiating off his body, breaths growing heavier.
"You wearing something?" His voice is low, rough. Suspicious.
He steps in closer. “Smells like trouble.”
You tilt your head. “Are you still mad?”
Then, voice strained: “Yes.”
You press your back gently to his chest. “Even if I said I missed you?”
He inhales. Slow. Deep.
And then his hands are on your hips, gripping tight.
"You don’t fight fair," he mutters into your neck. His voice—already hoarse with restraint.
“I wasn’t trying to.”
You shift your hips back just slightly—barely enough to press into him.
His breath hitches.
Silence again. But this time, it’s heavy. Charged. Trembling.
Then he says, almost a whisper:
“You really want me that bad?”
You nod. “I always want you.”
A long breath.
His fingers slide under your shirt, tracing your skin like he’s trying to remember every inch.
"Then let me remind you what happens when you play dirty, baby."
You gasp—
As he turns you around, backs you into the wall, and finally, finally—
kisses you like the silence never existed.
The click click click of Kenma’s controller has been nonstop since 9 a.m. It’s now... almost 8 p.m.
He’s in his gaming chair, hood up, headset on, mumbling into the mic with that focused scowl that makes him look ten times more dangerous than he is.
You peek into the room. He hasn’t eaten the lunch you brought earlier. Or the tea. Or the snack tray.
You disappear into the bedroom for two minutes and come back with a plan: no words, no warning — just your softest, most sinful loungewear… and a little spritz of that dangerous perfume. The one Kenma said was “distracting” last time.
So you step closer — quiet, innocent — and lean over his shoulder, pretending to look at his screen.
“Still playing?” you say sweetly.
That’s when he smells it.
His fingers twitch on the controller. His thumb slips. His character falls off the map and dies instantly.
You blink innocently. “Oops. Was that me?”
He turns his head slowly. His golden eyes drag across your body, pausing at your bare shoulder, then your thighs, then your collarbone... then he inhales. Once. Twice.
And his brain just—blue screens.
“Are you wearing that perfume again?” he asks, voice cracking slightly.
You shrug, smirking. “Maybe.”
Kenma slowly sets the controller down. Like it’s physically painful to let go of it. He stares at you for a few more seconds — completely silent — until he speaks again.
“I need you to leave the room.”
“Because if you don’t, I’m going to do something that’ll make me miss my tournament.”
You giggle. “So pause it.”
Kenma lets out a slow exhale through his nose. You can see the moment his willpower evaporates. He rips off the headset, tosses it on the desk, and stands up.
And now he’s the one walking toward you.
“That perfume should be illegal,” he mumbles, backing you up against the wall. “And you know exactly what you’re doing.”
He’s quiet. But the look in his eyes? That’s not quiet at all.
“I haven’t touched you in three days,” he whispers, nose brushing against your cheek, “and you walk in here smelling like that?”
You smile. “Guess I missed you.”
Kenma leans in close, lips grazing your ear.
He picks you up — no strength training, no warm-up, just pure gamer rage turned into boyfriend strength — and carries you out of the room like it’s a mission.
The door slams shut behind you both.
Somewhere, his game is still on.
But Kenma’s already playing something way better.
You and Kuroo haven’t spoken in two days.
Two days of passing each other in the kitchen like strangers. Two days of closed doors, cold silences, and clipped replies. Two days since that argument about something stupid — a small thing that spiraled into a storm.
He was mad. You were mad. But now? You’re just… aching.
You miss him. The kind of miss that crawls under your skin, that makes your chest feel too tight and your sheets too cold. The kind of miss that builds in your stomach, low and heavy and needy.
Your pride's still wounded, but your desire? It's louder.
You grab the bottle from your nightstand. The one labeled “Do not wear when mad at me. -Kuroo”. You smirk.
The scent blooms around you — warm, sweet, addicting. Like sugar and heat and secrets whispered in the dark.
You pad softly into the living room. He’s on the couch, reading a book. Barefoot, hair tied loosely, glasses low on his nose. The sleeves of his hoodie pushed up just enough to show his forearms — the ones you haven't touched in 48 torturous hours.
You stand in the doorway.
Kuroo doesn’t say a word — doesn’t even look directly at you at first. But you see the shift. The subtle inhale. The way his fingers pause on the page.
You take a slow step forward. “Still mad at me?”
His eyes flicker up to yours. Cool. Guarded.
“…What the hell is that?” he mutters, voice rough.
You blink, innocent. “Perfume.”
He closes the book slowly. Very slowly. Like he's trying to keep himself calm.
“I know that one. You wore it the night we—”
He cuts himself off. His eyes darken.
“You’re cheating,” he accuses.
You shrug, walking past him — just slow enough for him to catch another wave of your scent. His eyes follow your every step.
You lean over the coffee table, reaching for a glass you don’t actually need. Your shirt lifts a little. Your skin glows. That perfume lingers in the air like a curse.
When you turn, he’s already behind you.
“You think you can wear that after ignoring me for two days?” he says, voice low, like a growl.
You look up at him. “I wasn’t ignoring you. You were ignoring me.”
“I was setting a boundary.”
“Well,” you whisper, placing a hand gently on his chest, “I’m breaking it.”
You feel it — the tension between you both, all that unsaid apology and all that bottled up want. His hands twitch at his sides, trying to behave. But you smell too good. You look too soft. And that damn ache inside him has only gotten worse every hour.
“You’re playing dirty,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “You know what that perfume does to me.”
“Then don’t be mad,” you whisper. “Come back to bed.”
Kuroo exhales hard — like he’s giving up a fight he never wanted to win.
“Bed?” he echoes, grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him. “No. I’m gonna remind you on this couch why you don’t pick fights you can’t finish.”
You weren’t trying to manipulate him.
You just… missed him.
Keiji had been stretched thin lately — long hours at the office, deadlines that bled into dinner, shoulders that carried too much weight. He was still warm with you. Still gentle. Still loving. But physically?
He hadn’t touched you in days.
Every night ended the same way — him sighing into the pillow beside you, muttering a sleepy, “Not tonight, I’m exhausted,” before pulling you close and passing out.
And you understood. You really did.
But understanding didn’t stop the ache.
Didn’t stop the way you started waking up wanting.
Didn’t stop your body from craving the way he used to hold you — like every part of you was worth worshiping.
So tonight, you reach for the small amber bottle tucked in the back of your drawer. You bought it on a whim, weeks ago, after reading reviews that said things like “My man couldn’t keep his hands off me” and “I wore this and now I’m pregnant.”
You hadn’t touched it since.
You spritz it once on your neck. Once at the curve of your thigh. Once behind your ear. It's warm and soft — like sugar melting on skin, with a hint of something darker beneath it.
You change into your comfiest tank top and shorts — nothing suspicious. Nothing loud. Just you.
You walk into the living room where Keiji’s typing away at his laptop, glasses low on his nose, hair falling into his eyes.
He looks up when you enter. His eyes flicker over you briefly — then again, slower.
“You smell… different,” he murmurs.
Your heart skips.
“Do I?”
He sniffs subtly, his fingers hovering above the keys. Then pauses entirely.
“Yeah. It’s nice. Really nice.”
You shrug casually, plopping onto the couch beside him. “Just trying something new.”
He nods slowly, gaze lingering a little longer than usual. Then goes back to typing.
For five seconds.
You feel the weight of his stare before you look up. His eyes are darker now, unreadable. You shift slightly, and the air moves — carrying that scent to him again.
He closes his laptop without a word.
“…Come here,” he says, voice low.
“I don’t know.” He swallows. “I just— I want you close.”
You move into his lap, surprised but not resisting. His hands rest on your thighs, sliding up slowly, like he's testing the waters.
“God, you smell like…” He trails off, nose brushing your neck. “Like sin.”
“No.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another, slower. “No, I’m really not.”
You feel him harden beneath you. His breath turns shallow. His hands grow bolder.
“I thought you were tired,” you whisper.
“I was. Now I’m not. What is that scent?”
You smile to yourself. “Just something I’ve been saving.”
He groans, burying his face in your neck.
“You’ve been walking around with this weapon and not using it? That’s cruel.”
You tangle your fingers in his hair, tilting his face up. “Think of it as a science experiment.”
He kisses you like he’s been waiting all week — like the past few days never existed, like his body just rememberedexactly how much it missed yours.
You're tucked under the sheets, his arm heavy over your waist, his breathing deep and even.
“…Hey,” he murmurs, lips ghosting your shoulder. “Whatever that was… wear it again. Please.”
You grin in the dark. “Not tired anymore?”
He chuckles sleepily. “Exhausted. But satisfied.”
You lean back into him, heart full.
Not bad for an experiment.
He bursts through the door like a storm.
“BABY! I’M HOME!”
Training with MSBY ran long, and Bokuto’s shirt is clinging to every inch of his muscle-packed frame, hair messy from a long day of spikes and sweat.
You peek from the kitchen, playing it casual.
“Welcome back, Kou. Good practice?”
He nods eagerly, bounding over. “Mmhmm! I was thinking about you the whole time, you know?”
You hum, trying not to look smug.
Because you? You had a plan.
Before he arrived, you spritzed just a little bit of that scent — that soft, warm, vanilla-spice thing that clings to the skin like honey and heat. You know how scent gets to him.
You lean in to kiss his cheek and—
His breath hitches.
“…Whoa.” He blinks. “What is that?”
You blink innocently. “What?”
He leans in again, nose twitching. “That smell! You smell like… mmnngh—like sugar. Like heaven. Like something I wanna—” He cuts himself off and grabs you by the waist, eyes wide. “C’mere. I need to cuddle. Right now.”
You giggle as he tugs you onto his lap on the couch, legs straddling his thighs.
You settle in his hold, your back pressed to his chest. But then—
His hips jerk up.
Once.
“Ah—!”
“…Oops,” he says, voice breathless.
You turn to look at him, but he’s already burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“‘M sorry—! I didn’t mean to—! You just—! It’s the smell, baby!”
You feel him whimper, clutching your hips tighter.
“Wh-why do you smell like that? It’s not fair… You’re being unfair…”
You laugh, breath shaky now, because you feel how unfair it’s getting.
“Didn’t mean to,” you tease. “Just missed you.”
He lets out a broken sound.
“I missed you too, but—ngh—you’re gonna make me lose it, sweetheart…”
His breath is hot against your skin as he rocks his hips up again, helpless this time. You gasp, clutching his forearms.
“You didn’t even warn me,” he whines. “You smell so good, and now I’m—!” He pants, voice muffled against your shoulder. “Now I’m so hard and you’re on my lap and I don’t think I can cuddle anymore…”
You shiver, your smirk crumbling fast. “Then what do you wanna do, Kou?”
He pulls back to look at you. His eyes are wide, pupils blown, face flushed.
“…I wanna ruin cuddle time.”
You’ve always been the one to make the first move.
When it came to kisses, to touches, to taking things a little further under the covers.
Wakatoshi never minded it. He loved holding you. He loved your affection. He was gentle, patient, loyal—
Too loyal, sometimes.
Loyal to routine.
To recovery hours.
To eight hours of sleep.
You’re sitting on the couch next to him, in the oversized jersey he gave you, freshly showered and looking like sin on legs, and what’s he doing?
You scoot closer. “Toshi.”
You kiss his cheek. He smiles and puts his hand on your knee.
…That’s it.
That’s the move. That’s the entire move.
You squint at him.
He doesn’t get it. He never does.
He always thinks it’s cuddle time.
Like soft music and dim lights and you being all over him just means “quality bonding”.
So tonight, you’re done trying the soft approach.
You pad over to the dresser and pick up the bottle.
It’s a stupid perfume. A joke gift from a friend.
Labeled in loopy cursive font:
“1 Spritz = 1 Baby Bump.”
You spritz it once on your neck.
And walk back to the couch.
Wakatoshi looks up, blinking slowly.
“…You look like you want something.”
He tilts his head, trying to figure it out. “You want to cuddle?”
You deadpan.
Then sit on his lap. Face to face.
He stills. “You have me.”
“No, Toshi. I want you to pin me to this couch and remind me you’re not just the strongest in volleyball.”
A silence.
He blinks again.
Then, a pause—
A very long one.
You watch it hit him in slow motion.
His hands on your waist grip tighter. His eyes scan your face. Then your legs. Then your neck.
Then his jaw clenches.
“This is because of the perfume?” he asks.
You sigh, dramatic. “Toshi, this has been building for weeks. But yes. The perfume helped.”
He picks you up like you weigh nothing and walks to the bedroom.
“Wait—Toshi—what are you—”
“If one spritz equals one baby bump,” he says calmly, “we should test the claim.”
“Accurately. Scientifically. Repeatedly.”
Two hours later, you’re sprawled on the bed, breathless.
Wakatoshi sits beside you, rubbing your thigh gently.
“…Should we try two spritzes next time?”
Shirabu’s been busy.
Like won’t-look-up-from-his-laptop busy.
“Not now, I’m reviewing a case study” busy.
Grumbling at 2AM in the dark like a sexy, pissed off raccoon busy.
And you’ve been patient. Really, you have.
But you’ve been walking around this house in cute pajamas, brushing past him with your soft little “oops” bumps, and what does he do?
Nothing.
Maybe a glance. A grunt. The bare minimum.
So today?
You choose violence.
A tiny spritz of “Soft Siren” behind your ears and on the inside of your thighs. It’s floral, sweet, and just a little feral.
He walks past you once in the hallway.
Pauses.
Walks back.
Sniffs the air.
“…Did you change your body wash?” he asks suspiciously.
He narrows his eyes. “You smell different.”
You lean closer, whispering, “Do I?”
The silence is tense.
You can practically see the vein in his forehead twitching as he stiffens, ears turning red.
“I’m working,” he grits out, retreating to the bedroom where his laptop lives.
The smell is in his brain now, tangled in all his smart little synapses. And when you pass by the door again, he doesn’t say a word—but he follows you this time.
“Kenjirou,” you tease over your shoulder, “do you need something?”
You feel him grab your wrist.
He turns you around, eyes dark.
“What the hell did you spray on yourself?”
You smirk. “Why? You like it?”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “I can’t think straight. I’m trying to work and you’re walking around like—like—”
“…Like you want something.”
You tug him by the collar of his wrinkled scrub top.
“I do. But I’ve been waiting. Waiting for you to stop choosing your laptop over me.”
Then you’re being shoved gently—but firmly—against the nearest wall.
“You really had to wear that smell on today of all days?”
You tilt your head. “Bad timing?”
He kisses you hard, hands roaming your sides like he’s starved. And maybe he is. Maybe you both are.
Laptop forgotten. Case study closed.
Tonight, Doctor Shirabu’s new patient is you, and he’s taking his time.
It’s the same routine every night.
Door opens.
Shoes kick off.
Bag flops.
“Hi, I’m home,” he mutters, already yawning.
You peek from the hallway.
Goshiki’s drenched in sweat, skin flushed, hair messy from practice, shirt clinging to his back. And yet—he’s still stupidly cute. Exhausted, a little pouty, and already collapsing onto the couch face first.
“Dinner’s in the fridge,” you say softly, padding over.
“Mmhmm. Thank you,” he mumbles into a throw pillow. “Just five minutes. I swear. Then I’ll reheat it…”
You sigh. You love him.
But damn it, you’re not dating a nap gremlin.
You’re dating a powerful, kind-hearted, hot athlete—and it’s been days since you’ve had anything more than a sleepy forehead kiss.
A dab behind the ears.
One on your wrists.
And because you’re mean, one spritz just under the hem of your oversized shirt.
“Mmm… What’s that smell?” he mumbles, lifting his head slightly. “You smell... different.”
You kneel beside him, brushing hair from his face. “Do you like it?”
“…It’s really nice. Kinda sweet. Makes my chest feel funny. Like…”
He blinks at you.
“…Why are you looking at me like that?”
“…Like you’re about to eat me alive.”
You just smile, soft and slow, and whisper, “Only if you ask nicely.”
He freezes.
The tips of his ears go pink.
“…Wait. Are you—are you—”
“You’re always tired, baby,” you coo, gently stroking his arm. “Always coming home drained. But I want you. All of you. Right now.”
He swallows hard. “I-I can still eat first—”
You straddle him.
His mouth opens.
No words come out.
“I missed you,” you whisper against his neck, letting the perfume do its work. “I’ve been patient. But tonight, you’re not allowed to nap until I’m done.”
He makes a high-pitched noise and grips your thighs.
“Oh my God. Okay. Okay! I—I’m awake. I’m up. I’m here.”
“Good.”
Ten minutes later:
He’s whispering apologies mid-thrust like
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier,”
“You smell so good I can’t think straight,”
and
“I’m gonna cry this is better than any nap.”
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
You just… opened the coop door to help.
Just a little peek. Just to feed them real quick.
Feathers flying. Beaks pecking.
And Shinsuke chasing every single chicken around the yard under the burning sun.
Hat tipped back. Shirt sticking to his skin.
Silent. Stoic.
But absolutely, definitely pissed.
You tried to apologize—he didn’t snap, didn’t yell. He never did.
But the way he walked past you afterward, wordless, sweaty, and slamming the hose down next to the coop?
So now you’re inside, peeking out the window like a guilty little gremlin, watching the love of your life simmer in silence.
And maybe it’s the heat.
Maybe it’s the guilt.
Or maybe it’s just that you miss him—the way he grabs your hips with those farm-calloused hands, the way he moans your name like it’s a hymn.
So you dig through your drawer.
Pheromone perfume.
A risky little thing you’d been saving.
The tag?
“Fix Cluck-Ups With One Spritz.”
You laugh softly to yourself as you spray once to your neck, once over your chest, and one more, just beneath the waistband of your shorts.
Then? You wait. Sitting on the kitchen counter, pretending to drink water. Innocent. Almost.
He walks in minutes later.
Hair damp from rinsing off the dirt. Shirt clinging. Eyes tired. Lips pressed thin.
He doesn't speak. He just wipes his face with a towel and lets out a low, tired breath.
“I ain’t mad,” he mutters. “Just tired.”
Then you see it—
His nose scrunches. Subtle. Curious.
He stops drying his hair.
Looks at you, still holding the towel.
Eyes drop to your collarbone.
“…You wearin’ somethin’?”
“Just thought I’d clean up a little. For you.”
Your voice is sweet. Too sweet.
“Smells… good.”
His voice dips. He lingers in the doorway, jaw clenching.
You hop off the counter, walking past him just slow enough for the scent to follow. You feel his eyes on you, heavy and distracted.
He doesn’t move until you pause in the hallway and turn over your shoulder.
“You sure you’re just tired?”
It’s a whisper. A challenge.
He’s in front of you in three slow steps. His hands find your hips. His forehead rests against yours.
“You’re trouble,” he breathes. “Even after you let the damn chickens out.”
“No,” he says. “But I’m still tired…”
“…So you better do most of the work.”
The second he walks through the door, he groans.
Not a dramatic, whining kind of groan.
No.
A Suna groan.
Deep. Flat. Laced with exhaustion and "I hate being alive after work" energy.
“Food?” he mumbles, not even making eye contact, tossing his bag near the shoe rack.
His voice is gruff, scratchy from not talking the entire commute home.
Looking entirely too calm.
Wearing that.
The perfume.
The one tucked away behind your other bottles, labeled almost too cheekily:
“Dinner Can Wait.”
Just three little spritzes—
One behind your ear,
One over your chest,
One on the waistband of your lounge shorts.
It’s warm in the apartment. The smell’s lingering like a ghost.
Sweet.
Soft.
Sinful.
He pauses halfway through yawning.
His eyes narrow.
Head tilts just slightly.
Still tired, but now? Suspicious.
“Why does it smell like…” he squints, sniffing the air like a confused alley cat, “…whatever this is?”
You simply walk past him toward the couch, brushing against his arm as you go.
And his whole body stills like he’s buffering.
He blinks. Once. Twice.
Turns his head slightly to track your movement.
“…You definitely did something.”
You flop onto the couch, lazily patting the cushion beside you.
Suna doesn’t move for a second. Just watches.
And then you see it—that moment his tired, sleepy face slowly morphs into something darker.
Lower-lidded eyes. A slow lick of his lips. A deep sigh through his nose.
“…You know I came home tired and hungry,” he mutters, approaching.
You raise an eyebrow, smile coy.
He kneels on the couch, hands planted on either side of your thighs. His nose hovers just above your shoulder, breath hot against your skin.
“…Now I’m just hungry,” he says flatly, eyes dark. “But not for food.”
His mouth is on your neck before you can say a word.
Slow kisses. Lazily teasing, like he’s got all night.
Your fingers tangle in his hair and you feel him grin against your skin.
“You planned this,” he mumbles.
“You’re cruel,” he says, voice low as his hand slides beneath your waistband.
“Yeah,” he groans. “And now I’m gonna eat first before dinner gets cold.”
“…Dinner is already cold.”
Osamu had just been teasing him. As he always does.
Something about the way Atsumu talks when he’s flustered. The way his ears turn pink when you call him pretty. The way he—quote unquote—moans dramatically when he stretches.
You laughed.
A little too hard.
Leaned into Osamu’s shoulder, even clapped once.
You’re sitting on the couch with a very obviously sulking Atsumu curled up beside you—arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to burn a hole through the carpet.
Every so often, he glances your way.
He tchs, looks away again.
You nudge his thigh with yours. “Still mad?”
You hum softly and lean forward, spritzing the perfume you’d been saving for emergencies like this.
A warm, sweet, heady scent—the kind that always makes Atsumu stutter and blink slow.
It hits him before you even sit back.
“…What’s that,” he asks flatly, eyes flicking to your shoulder.
“Dunno,” you shrug, feigning innocence.
His nose twitches.
He tries to pretend he’s not already shifting closer, but it’s laughably obvious.
“I said I dunno,” you repeat, biting back a smirk. “Why, is it bothering you?”
He turns fully toward you, now sitting cross-legged like a child ready to argue.
“Ya laughin’ that hard at Samu was already insultin’, but now yer gonna seduce me when I’m vulnerable?!”
“You’re sulking, not vulnerable.”
You try not to laugh again. Really, you do. But the pout on his face, the scrunch of his brows, the genuine wounded pride—it’s too much.
And he sees it. The twitch at the corner of your lips.
“Yer unbelievable,” he mutters, standing. “I’m goin’ to bed—”
But before he can leave, you pull him down by the wrist, guiding him right into your lap.
He startles, blush creeping over his ears. “Wha—what’re ya doin’?!”
“Claiming my right to apologize.”
He swallows hard. Because now that he’s straddling you, with his nose buried in the crook of your neck, his whole resolveis cracking.
“…You do smell real nice though,” he mumbles.
You run your hands up his back, slowly. “Mhm.”
“Like… like somethin’ dangerous.”
“Like I should forgive you but also maybe punish you a little.”
“I mean… just to make it even,” he says, leaning closer, lips brushing your ear. “So I don’t get laughed at again.”
You hum. “And what kind of punishment are we talking about?”
His hands slip under your shirt, grip hungry.
“I’m thinkin’…” he growls, voice husky, “a long night of me provin’ I’m no joke.”
In fact, you were absolutely sure it was your onigiri. You’d seen it on the plate, sitting there with zero post-it notes, zero name labels, zero indicators of “DO NOT TOUCH, THIS IS SAMU’S.” So how were you supposed to know it was hiscarefully-crafted, expertly-seasoned, emotionally-attached, lovingly-made snack?
Now Osamu Miya was standing in the middle of the kitchen, devastated like you’d just told him the rice cooker broke permanently and he could never make another onigiri again.
“…You didn’t,” he said, voice low.
“I didn’t what?” you blinked innocently, lips still dusted with leftover rice.
He pointed to the now-empty plate. “That was mine.”
“Oh?” he scoffed, dramatically grabbing his chest like he was in emotional pain. “I made that for me after my shift. I had a whole mouth fantasy planned and everything.”
“—You thought wrong.” His voice was so dry, it could’ve cooked the next batch of rice by itself. He was already sulking, back turned, grabbing ingredients to make another one, each motion full of silent judgment and petty betrayal. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe I live with a thief.”
You bit your lip to hold back a smile. Because… yeah, okay, you did feel guilty. But also?
Sulky Samu was kind of adorable.
His pout was prominent, hair messy from work, sleeves pushed up his toned forearms as he grabbed fresh seaweed and furikake. Still grumbling. Still muttering dramatic things like “don’t even got a lock on the fridge” and “betrayed by the one I love.”
You quietly turned and walked up the stairs.
“Yeah, run away from your crimes!” he called after you.
But you weren’t fleeing. No. You had a plan.
Because earlier that week, you bought something—something new, something… experimental. A sweet, warm, subtle perfume that lingered like temptation. Vanilla and sandalwood, musky but soft, almost edible.
The bottle had been sitting on your vanity, untouched, waiting for the perfect moment.
And if now wasn’t the perfect moment to pull out the big guns, then when?
You spritzed once—just enough. Behind your ears, down your neck, one across your chest. You let it sink into your skin like you meant trouble.
Then padded downstairs again, heart thudding a little.
He was still at the counter, shaping the fresh onigiri with slightly more force than necessary.
You walked up behind him silently, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing yourself against his back. “’M sorry, Samu.”
He paused mid-shape, shoulders tense.
“…Did you put on perfume just to apologize?” he asked warily.
He turned slightly, eyes narrowing. “Why do you smell like a warm dessert with bad intentions?”
“Because I’m sorry?” you offered with a little smile against his shirt.
Then back at your hands wrapped around his waist.
Then back to your lips ghosting against his hoodie.
“Maybe,” you whispered, tilting your head so your nose brushed the shell of his ear. “But you love me.”
“You smell like you should come with a warning label,” he muttered.
“I do,” you murmured, kissing behind his ear. “It says: One spritz = kitchen counter incident.”
“If I burn this rice, you’re makin’ the next batch.”
“If I burn the kitchen, it’s your fault for being so hot when you pout.”
That earned you a look. But he still turned the stove off.
And without saying a word, he picked you up—effortlessly, like he’d been waiting for the excuse—planted you on the counter, and stepped between your legs.
“You smell like sin,” he muttered, forehead resting against yours.
“And you smell like you wanna kiss me.”
Hungry, sweet, slow. One hand bracing the counter, the other sliding behind your waist, pulling you closer until the scent of vanilla and warmth wrapped around both of you like heat. You felt his lips twitch against yours.
“Y’know what?” he whispered. “I forgive you.”
“No. For making me fall even harder when I was tryin’ to stay mad.”
It had been a long practice.
He wasn’t even in a bad mood. Just... tired. Muscles aching, hoodie damp with sweat, mask still slung under his chin as he unlocked the front door, duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Kiyoomi stepped into the quiet of your shared home, intent on showering, stretching, maybe scrubbing himself down three times like usual before even thinking about touching you.
“Welcome home,” your voice called from the kitchen, soft and warm.
Except he stopped mid-step. Eyelids flickering. Nose twitching.
It wasn’t food. Wasn’t candles. Wasn’t his detergent or yours. It was you.
Soft, sweet. Sultry. Almost intoxicating. Like a honeyed whisper, rich musk and vanilla with the tiniest hint of spice—comforting, warm, dangerous. A scent that crawled under his skin and curled low in his stomach.
You poked your head out to smile at him. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared.
His eyes trailed from your face down to your oversized shirt—his shirt, hanging loosely around your thighs—and back up again. He could tell by the look on your face that you knew what you’d done.
He shifted his duffle bag. Cleared his throat.
You tilted your head. “You sure? You look like you’re struggling.”
He swallowed hard. That scent. It was in the air. On your neck. Clinging to you. Begging him to lean in. To bite. To ruin. His self-control teetered on a wire-thin thread.
“Shower,” he repeated tightly. “Then maybe.”
You were teasing. Cruel. Smiling like you weren’t singlehandedly destroying every wall he put up.
He brushed past you—barely—but not before pausing to inhale, deeply, right near your neck. A near-growl bubbled in his throat, low and quiet. His eyes closed for one breath. One shaky, drawn-out inhale. Then he pulled back.
“Don’t move,” he muttered.
And then he sprinted to the bathroom.
You blinked after him, hearing the rush of water a moment later. You’d never seen Kiyoomi hustle like that. Ever.
You were about to check on him when the door to the bathroom opened.
And there he was—hair still wet, hoodie replaced by a fitted black tee, sweatpants low on his hips, barefoot, eyes dark and sharp as blades.
You straightened, startled. “You okay—?”
“I didn’t last a minute in the shower,” he said plainly, walking toward you with slow, sure steps. “I kept smelling you.”
“Had to take a cold one.”
“And I still came out hard.”
Your mouth parted slightly. “Kiyoomi—”
He reached you in two long strides.
Hands on your waist. Back pressing to the counter. His scent now clashed and tangled with yours—mint and soap and pure hunger.
“You think you’re funny?” he asked, voice low. “Spraying that on and walking around my house like that?”
His hands squeezed your hips.
“Smelling like you wanna be devoured?”
You let out a breathless sound.
Kiyoomi leaned in, pressing his nose to your neck again—right where you’d spritzed. He groaned. Actually groaned. His lips ghosted your skin, then dipped to your collarbone. “You smell dangerous.”
You smiled faintly. “Is that bad?”
He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. And for a second, the restraint cracked.
“No,” he murmured. “But it means I’m not letting you out of this kitchen until you smell like me instead.”
And when he kissed you—deep, firm, filled with every bit of tension he’d held back since he walked in—you knew damn well that perfume bottle had officially entered your emergency-use-only drawer.
Because whatever it was, whatever magic it carried—
You’d just discovered Kiyoomi Sakusa’s ultimate weakness.
And he was going to make you pay for it.
