you’re curled up on the couch with the tv on low, feet tucked beneath you and a blanket draped around your legs. the apartment still smells faintly like ocean air and sunscreen.
iida walks in from the hallway, his hair is damp, holding the aftersun cream like it’s something he needs to apologize for.
he hesitates a second before sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, tall even now, posture still impeccable despite the way his shoulders are visibly pink.
he holds up the bottle without looking at you.
“…i think i miscalculated.”
you blink down at him, squinting. “oh no. how bad does it hurt?”
“tolerable,” he says, though he winces slightly as he adjusts. “but definitely not comfortable.”
you lean forward, brushing his hair away to get a better look. his shoulders are definitely sunburnt, and the edge of his back, too. the kind of red that means he’ll be grumbling about his shirt collar all week.
“i thought you re-applied.”
“i intended to,” he says. “but…you went to get your strawberry mojito, and i stayed with our things. and then…i may have fallen asleep.”
you pause. “i saw you sleeping. you looked so peaceful i didn’t want to wake you.”
“that was a grave tactical error.”
“i told you to keep reapplying.”
he groans softly, tilting forward a bit as you start to work the cream into his shoulders. “i had reapplied. just not enough, apparently.”
you hum, smoothing the cool cream over the worst of it. he tenses under your hands at first, then slowly eases into it, his breathing evening out with every pass of your palm.
the show keeps playing in the background — something neither of you are really watching. you move gently across his back, pressing lightly at the sore spots, the aloe scent drifting through the room.
after a while, he speaks, voice lower. “thank you. for letting me rest. and…for this.”
you smile, fingers stilling between his shoulders for a moment. “you’re welcome.”
he leans into your hand just a little. lets out a quiet breath like it’s the first full one he’s taken all evening.
“you can finish your show,” he says, not turning around. “i’ll just stay here. like this.”
you lean forward, kiss the back of his shoulder, and whisper, “fine. but next time — more sunscreen. no naps.”
timeskip!sakusa x f!reader, fluff, slightly suggestive (morning after) but nothing specific/explicit at all
sakusa kiyoomi, msby's #15 and now olympian, cannot believe his fall from grace. the olympics ended just a few days ago, they threw a huge celebration last night (which he honestly really enjoyed), and by some twist of fate—he's here.
he paces around the living room of his hotel suite for half an hour before finally deciding what he needs to do. he never thought he would resort to this, but he figures that desperate times call for desperate measures.
to his surprise, miya atsumu answers the facetime call after just a few rings.
"omiomi!" atsumu greets, "you seemed to have a lot of fun last—"
"i'm about to ask for your advice and if you speak a word of this to anyone, i will end you." kiyoomi says sternly.
"woah, woah, relax man," atsumu says, putting his free hand up in surrender, "what's up?"
no backing out now, kiyoomi thinks.
"so... the party last night..."
"the party, indeed," atsumu smirks, "is this about a certain someone i saw you leave with last night?"
"yes, we slept together." kiyoomi says as calmly as possible, hoping to manage his friend's reaction (even though kiyoomi himself is freaking out internally).
"let's go!" atsumu fist pumps, "hell yeah, man, congratulations! it's about time! you've been crushing on her for forever; i was so close to just locking you two in a room myself—"
"that's not the point," kiyoomi groans.
don't get him wrong, it was definitely the best night of his life, but how does he explain to atsumu that he didn't want things to go like this? he had a whole timeline in his head—take you out on a few dates, kiss you in front of your apartment door, get you flowers and treats from your favorite bakery, go on a couple more dates, and then get into bed together (maybe on the same day that he properly asks you to be his girlfriend). he didn't want things to start with a drunken hookup.
"kiyoomi, hey, you still there?" atsumu says a lot gentler this time, seeing the worry on his friend's usually stoic face.
"i don't want a one-night stand, but i have no idea what she wants. and i'm... scared that that's what she wants."
atsumu has never heard kiyoomi admit his worries like this, not even when they were first recruited for the olympics and the excitement started transforming into nervousness. he knew that you mattered a lot to kiyoomi, and this just solidifies that.
"i mean, it doesn't have to be a one-night stand. you can just talk when she wakes up."
"that's true, but i—" kiyoomi hesitates. going to atsumu for advice was embarrassing enough, but admitting this next part is even worse. he's finally got the blonde to a more serious spot, and he knows his next admission will just bring back the teasing.
"hey, you're kind of starting to scare me," atsumu sighs, "please just spit it out."
kiyoomi says nothing. instead, he braces himself for what's to come.
kiyoomi turns the phone camera and atsumu sees to the hotel's dining room table overflowing with every single breakfast item on the room service menu. in addition to all that, there are even desserts and several cups of juice and coffee.
there's a beat of silence.
and then suddenly, atsumu is practically dying of laughter, "what the fuck, omiomi? what did you do?"
kiyoomi faces the phone back to him, his face a lot redder than a few minutes ago, "i panicked, okay? i figured—you don't have breakfast with your hookups, right?"
"this is breakfast for at least 10 people!"
"i wanted to make sure i got something she liked!"
"don't you already know what she likes?"
"well, i was worried she might be in the mood for something else!" he groans, rubbing his hand across his face. he moves the phone a bit so atsumu can't see how much he's stressing about this.
"she's going to think it's stupid. i just like her so much and i panicked and i just hope she had a good time last night and i feel like she won't take me seriously with this fucking spread but it's not like i can get rid of it and i have no idea if she'll even want to go out with me now and i—"
"just ask her," atsumu says.
"miya, she's asleep and—"
"did you have a good time last night?" atsumu practically shouts, somehow looking past kiyoomi through the phone screen.
"what—"
"a great time, actually," you say.
kiyoomi turns, seeing you leaning against the bedroom door behind him.
"but, i don't kiss and tell, so you should go back to bed," you make your way to kiyoomi, gently placing a hand on his arm, "'cause it looks like this guy and i have a lot to talk about."
atsumu gives a quick goodbye, winking at kiyoomi before hanging up. kiyoomi sets his phone down and turns to completely face you. your hair's still a little messy, you're wearing his shirt—oh wow, you look good in his shirt—and kiyoomi nearly forgets the situation he's in. before he can begin explaining himself, you speak up.
"yes, i've been up for a while. yes, i heard most of that conversation—i think atsumu forgets how loud he is—and," you move closer, wrapping your arms around his neck while his hands find your waist, "yes, i would love to go out with you."
when your words finally register, he feels a stupid grin spread across his face.
"yeah?"
"yeah," you smile up at him, "it's not every day that i get to wake up to a breakfast buffet."
you laugh at the way his cheeks turn pink before he buries his face in the crook of your neck, "did i at least get something you like?"
"well, i like you."
"not what i meant... but i like you, too." he says softly.
"so i've heard," you gently nudge him back so you can look at his face properly, "i believe you like me so much?" you grin.
he groans, "you're never going to let me forget this, huh?"
he’s quiet, timid, doesn’t speak much, and asks all the wrong questions at the wrong time.
he’s not very good at eye contact and a lot of the things he wants to say he feels he can’t say at all either.
(partially due to the feeling that everything he says when he talks to you ends up embarrassing him, and partially due to the fact that talking to you for long periods of time make him tongue tied).
(not that he’d ever admit that).
despite all that though, he does know the basics when it comes to going on dates:
he buys you flowers (and forgets it by his doorway), he opens the car door for you (and apologizes when it almost hits you as he opens it), and he makes dinner reservations at the restaurant you mentioned to him in passing three days ago (he did a good job with this one).
so yes, him being a bad date is not unbeknownst to him. quite the opposite in fact, it’s not only something he knows about himself, but it’s also something that he thinks about all the time.
or at least, all the time ever since he’s met you.
that’s how the two of you end up here — the evening of your first (and probably last) date, sitting on a porch step of an empty building, a bloodied handkerchief filled with crushed up snow pressed against sakusa’s left cheek, and a few missing buttons from your favorite winter coat.
sakusa always knew he was a bad date, but he never thought he would be this bad.
the plan had been simple: get you flowers, open the door for you, drive you to the restaurant you liked. sakusa had this game-plan of his memorized ever since you said yes to him four — now five — days ago.
he wrote it on a piece of paper, step by step, and kept it in his wallet sleeve in case he forgets, he repeated it to himself three times in the mirror this afternoon before he left the house to pick you up, and he said it to himself one last time in the car before texting you that he’d arrived.
he memorized it.
and still, he messed it up.
the streets are empty and the evening is quiet.
“sorry … for this.”
his words feel like they’ve been the first to be spoken all night.
on the snowy concrete just below your feet, there’s a few drops of blood making its presence known loudly against the whiteness of the snow, the drops scatter sporadically, and near it, there’s a button or two from your coat.
you sit next to sakusa on the cold steps, it’s a quiet night, and it’s not snowing anymore, but the soft bed of the cold flurry it left behind made for a beautiful evening.
you let your head fall slightly on his shoulder, “for what?”
you can feel him stiffen immediately under your touch, and he coughs, shy, and looks to the side.
it makes you smile a little bit — his efforts of hiding his expressions — it’s not like you can see him anyway with that big makeshift ice-pack covering his face.
“sorry for the bad date.” he clears his throat, more clearly now, a little louder too, but his tone almost sounds disappointed. “… and sorry for ruining your coat.”
you lift your head up from his shoulder, frowning, and you turn to face him, “it’s not a bad date.”
he doesn’t say anything to that. instead, he keeps his head turned slightly away from you, but his shoulders fall a bit when you move away from him.
“if anything, i should be the one apologizing.” you mutter lowly, “i’m the reason you got hurt.”
sakusa huffs slightly. a second pausing in the air as he refuses to return the look you give him, and finally, he puts down the “ice pack” from his cheek, and looks at you.
his cheek is scratched lightly, nothing too deep, just a red mark that’ll probably resolve itself in a few days, but his lower lip though — the culprit of the blood stained snow — is undeniably busted, still bleeding slightly, and making him wince at the sudden loss of pressure.
“don’t say stupid things.” he tells you, and if it makes him sound cold, he swears he’s not trying to be.
he just doesn’t know what else there is to say.
the truth is — it is a bad date.
he forgot your flowers, almost hit you with the car door, and now, the two of you are missing your dinner reservation because he got himself injured twenty minutes into the night.
it’s not fair, he thinks. half the things he wants to say to you, he can’t. half the things he wants to do, he messes up.
you make him fumble on his words, tongue tied, speechless, literally. you make him write things down on notes so he won’t forget them or practice on bathroom mirrors or worry in his car outside your doorstep.
he is the most capable man in his team, he is the sharpest, the most composed, his teammates and coach all count and look up to him.
but for some reason, one night with you, and it all washes away.
he doesn’t know what to say to you, he forgets things, and he falls face first flat on the hard concrete ground twenty minutes into your first date.
don’t say stupid things.
“you really won’t let me take you to the hospital?” you put your hand on his knee, turning even more to your side so you can face him better.
you have half a mind to put your other hand on his injured cheek but you don’t want to hurt him more than how he already does.
“it’s not as bad as it looks.” and as he says that, he winces, the gust of wind suddenly hitting his busted lip a testament to his bad luck tonight.
sakusa wants to kick himself, if there ever would be an appropriate time to act cooler than how he actually was, it would definitely not be now.
you don’t look so convinced, but sakusa wouldn’t know, he’s still only limiting himself to looking at you briefly before shifting his glance to something behind you or beside you or above you.
“hm. and it doesn’t hurt?” you cross your arms.
he shakes his head, “no. it doesn’t.” (it does.)
you raise a brow, “and you wouldn’t happen to be lying to me right now so i don’t take you to the emergency room?”
he shakes his head again, “i’m not.” (he is.)
you give him a look.
listen — sakusa already knows that he’s a bad date, but come on! he has been planning on asking you to dinner with him since the first week he’s known you, he’s been worrying about this evening since the second you agreed to it, and he’s been kicking himself in the head ever since the night began.
he’d rather bleed out on this disgustingly dirty porch step than admit that he’s a date so bad he can turn an evening meant for dinner into a night at the emergency room.
he doesn’t want you to think that he can be so bad like that. (is it too soon to ask you out for dinner again?)
you still look frustrated at his answers. but at least, he’s looking at you now.
you let out a big sigh, shoulders falling, and suddenly, you clap your hands together loudly as you straighten up.
“then i have an idea.” you say, and sakusa furrows his brows at the sudden change in the atmosphere.
you give him a prompting grin. “heads or tails.”
and it catches him so off guard, he says aloud, “what?”
you dig for a coin in your coat, “i’ll flip a coin and if it lands on heads, we go to the emergency room, no arguments, no fusses, no nothing.”
he frowns at that.
“but.” you tell him, and your grin gets wider as you show him the dime laid out on your palm, “if it’s tails, we go to my apartment, and i’ll try to fix you up there.”
his frown falls almost immediately into something else.
one night out with you and he’s already bleeding heavily and injured, and now you wanna take him back to your apartment?
were you trying to kill him?
“heads or tails, omi.”
he blinks at your words. and once again, he finds himself saying aloud, “what?”
you shoot him a funny look, your eyebrows slightly raising as your lips curve upward into a crooked smile.
you say, teasing, “if you don’t know; heads is the part of the coin with the head of the person showing on it and tails is the–”
sakusa grumbles loudly, cutting you off mid-sentence, making sure you see him roll his eyes at you, and he nudges you slightly with his foot.
he mutters, albeit under his breath, and he tries to hide it, but you can always tell when he’s smiling, “i know what a goddamned head is.”
you shrug, your grin wider now when you see his mood lighten up a bit.
“do you know what a goddamned tail is?”
sakusa huffs out an amused sigh. the smile on his face a lot more prominent now, and you only wonder slightly if it hurts him when he does it.
his shoulders fall as he’s defeated, “just take me to the emergency room.”
you let out a short laugh and the night doesn’t seem so quiet anymore.
you fall back against his shoulder, “ah, omi, are you just saving the opportunity to be invited into my apartment for our next date?”
there’s a choking sound to be heard in the air.
his face almost feels like it’ll erupt into flames by how casually you just said that, a hot pink hue creeping up from his neck to nose all the way to the tips of his ears. he blames it on the cold, and immediately, he presses the “icepack” back against his cheek.
sakusa stands up suddenly from the porch step, “let’s go now.”
and just like he said, he strides away, faster than what would usually be safe on snow-covered pavement.
“omi, not so fast!” you yell after him, rising from your own seat and following his pace, “you might fall again and hurt the other side of your face and atsumu will think i beat you up on our first date.”
he walks faster.
“i can go to the hospital myself, please don’t follow me.”
“that’s ridiculous! let me take care of you!”
he trips on his feet slightly as you say that and his heart feels like it would’ve fell from his mouth had he not caught himself before falling again.
you really were trying to kill him, weren’t you?
maybe this date doesn’t feel so bad after all.
and, is it too soon if he asks you to come have dinner with him again?
best friend sakusa kiyoomi who comes to pick you up from the party he told you not to go, knowing you’d end up drunk and heartbroken, crying over some guy who isn’t even worth your time or your light.
it’s always the same. you, getting ready while facetiming him, using the small tile of your screen to apply your lip gloss while kiyoomi’s eyes follow the contour of it, imagining his thumb tracing the outlines of your pretty mouth. by now you stopped asking him if he wants to come, already knowing he’s gonna decline. instead he watches you flip through your wardrobe, holding up dress after dress only to end up wearing the one you always go for.
what can he say? it’s a nice dress, it suits you. kiyoomi and you bought it together once, back when you were his plus one for his sister’s wedding and it was out of question he’d bring anyone but you. you’re his best friend. of course he’s gonna bring you to an event where love is being celebrated.
it’s a nice dress. it’s killing him softly.
a few hours later you’re sniffling against his shoulder in the back of a cab, his jacket wrapped around your form. your eyes are closed, a little red and puffy from all the crying, your mascara smudged and your lipstick almost gone. he has a good idea where it went and it lights a fire in the pit of his stomach. kiyoomi got you water and rolled the window down for some air, his hands resting on your thighs because he doesn’t know where else to put them when you cling to his arm like this. if you were his, you’d never have a reason to cry ever again, he thinks. he’d make sure of it.
kiyoomi is patient with you; steadies you as you wobble up the stairs to his apartment because you stubbornly refuse to let him carry you and ignores your huffed protests when he ushers you in the bathroom, sitting you down on the edge of the bathtub to wipe down your makeup for you. he stands there with his arms crossed while you struggle to unzip your dress, waiting until you meekly call out his name. it’s his favorite part, getting to help you out of your clothes–it’s the part where you get all sweet on him, arms wrapped around his neck, muttering his name with such adoration while he slips one of his shirts over you.
“i love you, omi,” you mutter against the crook of his neck, your hands tangling in his curls. this time you don’t protest when he picks you up, melting like molasses against him. the air in the bathroom seems heavier now, charged, or maybe it’s just the fact that it’s 3:57am and you’re both heartbroken for different reasons. “i really love you more than anyone else.”
liar, he thinks, but swallows the word like something bitter. it’s not like him to bite down his tongue but he feels like he could lose you if he really said all the things thundering in his heart. he can never lose you. you’re his whole world, his everything, his one and only. you’re his best friend. it should be enough, getting to hold you like this every other night, drying the tears someone else has caused. he presses a soft kiss against your forehead after you settle down in his bed together. his arm pulls you closer to his side when you wrap around him like cellophane, sticky, tightly, secure.
you’re taking up most of the space again, barely leaving him any room to breathe or to move, but he’s used to it. after all, you’re occupying his heart just the same.
I have a really bad fear of thunder... Lighting, too, but the thunder is the worst part.
We've got a pretty bad storm right now, and while I was hiding under the covers I tried to think, 'How would they react?'
I figured you might have some brain sparks on it.
I feel like all around the five of them would take it seriously and figure out ways to keep you comfortable during the storm!
Xavier would initially be surprised when he sees how scared you get when the first crack of thunder rumbles the sky. He’ll question if you are alright “did it catch you off guard or—“ before he can even finish, another rumble hits and your covering your ears with a small whimper. “—it’s okay, I’m right here.” He stops asking questions immediately, hugging you to his chest and resting his chin on top of your head. He might not be loud enough to fully block out the sound, but he’ll start to hum, turn the tv up a little, even glance around to see if he has some headphones within reach to block out the sound.
Rafayel initially starts to tease you. Though, don’t hold it against him, he thought you just got surprised and reacted in such a way. It’s not until he sees tears gleaming in your eyes as you press your hands to your ears that he realizes it’s a genuine fear. “Hey, hey… it’s okay…” he’s kneeling down beside you, hands moving to touch yours but you only hug them tighter to your head. “You’re scared of the storm?” A feeble nod, and he watches you brace for impact as lightning illuminates his studio. “Why didn’t you say something so—“ but the crack of thunder has you letting out a scared squeak, eyes squeezing shut as he cradles you to his body. “It’s alright, it’ll be over soon. You’ve got me right here with you, yeah?”
Zayne is reminded of your phobia the second the lightning streaks across the sky. Mid-appointment and the two of you lock eyes, Zayne’s heart aching as genuine fear blossoms across your face. “You’ve still got that—“ it’s meant to be sympathetic, a gateway to ask what he can do to help you through this, but the thunder rattles the entire hospital and he watches you flinch and curl in on yourself. Before you can open your eyes, Zayne is scooping you up, hugging you tightly and carrying you over to his couch. “It looks like it will be a short storm, but in the mean time, tell me about your day.” He holds you through it, trying to distract you through the whole thing.
Sylus doesn’t ask any questions, perfectly understanding your reaction to the sudden thunder and deciding not to push you on the subject. Right now, his main objective is comforting you and helping you through the next unknown amount of minutes. “How about this?” Sylus leaves you on the couch briefly, setting a new record on his player and turning it up to max volume. Between the music filling the space and the roaring fireplace, the storm beyond his windows is considerably muffled. Still, he returns to your side and pulls you close, one ear is pressed to his chest, the other is pressed over your ear. He cradles you to his body, humming to add some extra noise and effectively drown out most of the raging storm.
Caleb never forgot your fear, and is more than prepared to get you through it. He can recall from childhood the amount of times he’d find you huddled somewhere, hands pressed to your ears while you sniffle and try and be brave. Yeah, no. You don’t need to be brave when he’s around. He can do that for you. So it’s no shock that at the first flash of lightening, Caleb is slipping some headphones over your head and smiling sweetly. “Just try and take a nap, pip. Relax with me.” A gentle tug and you’re falling into his arms, one of your favorite playlists filling your head with sound and effectively blocking out everything else. A gentle kiss on your forehead and you’re relaxing, when Caleb is around, you really don’t have anything to fear.
The tension between you and Xavier had been building for the past ten minutes. The living room felt smaller with each passing second, the space between you charged with unspoken frustrations. He remained still as always while you gesticulated wildly, your frustration mounting as you paced back and forth.
“You can’t just disappear for hours without telling me, Xavier! I was worried sick!” Your voice cracked on the last word, betraying how genuinely frightened you’d been.
He stood with perfect posture by the window, hands clasped behind his back. “I apologize. I was helping a neighbor downstairs with their computer system. Time escaped me.” The words were perfectly reasonable, delivered in that maddeningly measured tone he always used.
His calm demeanor only fueled your irritation. How could he be so composed when you’d been imagining the worst? Fatal accidents. Hospital rooms. All the terrible possibilities that had played through your mind on repeat.
“That’s not the point!” you snapped, closing the distance between you. “This is the third time this week you’ve vanished without a word. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To call and text and get nothing back?”
Standing this close, you noticed subtle changes in his expression—his eyebrows furrowed slightly and the corner of his mouth turned down just enough to be noticeable. The tiny muscle along his jaw twitched, and you caught the quickening pulse at his neck despite his outward composure. These microexpressions—so small anyone else would miss them—revealed the emotions he struggled to articulate.
“I didn’t intend to cause distress,” he said quietly, and for once, his voice carried a hint of genuine regret. “The repair was more complex than anticipated. The family had lost access to critical medical records.”
“Oh, so you’re suddenly a mechanic or something?” You exhaled sharply, running your hands through your hair. “Just... call next time. Or text. Anything.”
His eyes met yours, searching. “The thought didn’t occur to me. That was... an oversight.”
Something in his admission—the rare acknowledgment of an emotional mistake rather than a logical error—made your frustration shift into something else entirely. You suddenly become aware of how close you were standing, you can faintly smell the subtle scent of his cologne. Your anger was still there, but beneath it stirred something warmer.
Without thinking, you stepped forward, fingers gripping the soft fabric of his hoodie, and pressed your lips firmly against his. For a moment, everything froze—the argument, your racing thoughts, even time itself.
Xavier went completely still, clearly caught off guard by this abrupt change. You felt the slight intake of his breath against your lips, the momentary tension in his shoulders. Then, like ice melting in the sun, he yielded. His shoulders relaxed, and his hands—initially hovering uncertainly—found their way to your waist, steady and warm through the fabric of your shirt.
The kiss lingered longer than you’d intended, your anger dissolving with each passing second. His lips were surprisingly soft, with the faint taste of the mint tea he always drank in the evenings. What had started as impulse deepened into something tender, the physical connection saying everything words had failed to express between you.
When you finally pulled back, his eyes were wider than usual, pupils slightly dilated. Xavier’s carefully composed expression had cracked completely open, revealing vulnerability you only got to see. A flush colored his cheekbones, making him look younger, more boyish.
“What was that for?” he asked, his voice softer than before, slightly breathless in a way that made your heart skip.
“I... I don’t know,” you admitted, equally breathless. “I’m still mad at you, though.” The declaration lacked conviction even to your own ears, and you couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips.
He nodded slowly, thoughtfully, as if processing a complex equation. His thumb traced a gentle circle on your hip where his hand still rested. “I understand your concern,” he said finally, each word carefully chosen. “Next time, I’ll message you.”
You sighed, feeling the last remnants of your anger slipping away. “I just... when I couldn’t reach you, I imagined all these terrible scenarios.” Your forehead dropped against his chest, suddenly exhausted from the emotional whiplash.
“That hadn’t occurred to me, because I usually came back just fine,” he admitted quietly. His arms encircled you fully now, pulling you into an embrace. His heartbeat was steady against your ear, reassuringly present and real.
“Though if this is how our arguments conclude,” he whispered, that subtle teasing tone emerging that only you ever got to hear, “I might be tempted to provoke them more often.”
You smacked his chest lightly, but couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Don’t you dare.”
“Noted,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “Though I make no promises about forgetting the time again. But I will promise to let you know where I am.”
“That’s all I’m asking for,” you whispered against the soft fabric of his hoodie, breathing in his familiar scent. The argument had dissolved, leaving something stronger, more honest in its wake—another layer of understanding between you and this complex, fascinating man you’d fallen for.
𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄
The harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital cast everything in an unflattering glow, including Zayne’s stern expression as he worked on your arm. The sharp antiseptic smell permeated the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood—your blood—that had soaked through your uniform.
“Hold still,” Zayne commanded as he dabbed antiseptic on the gash along your arm. The cool liquid burned against the raw wound, making you inhale sharply.
You winced at the sting but tried to maintain a brave face. “It’s just a scratch,” you said dismissively, though the throbbing told a different story.
His eyes flicked up momentarily from his work, dark with barely contained emotion. “A ‘scratch’ that nearly severed your brachial artery,” he countered, his deft fingers working methodically on the sutures.
You watched his hands as he worked—steady, precise movements born from years of practice. The precision of his gestures contrasted sharply with the tightness around his eyes and the muscle jumping in his jaw. The silence between stitch pulls felt heavier than artillery fire.
“What were you thinking, charging like that without proper clearance?” he finally asked, voice too controlled, too measured to disguise the emotion underneath.
With each stitch, you could feel his conflicting emotions—the methodical doctor warring with the man who clearly cared for you more than he wanted to admit. His eyes remained focused on the wound, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.
“I had intelligence that couldn’t wait,” you defended, though your voice lacked conviction. The pain medication was making it hard to maintain your stubborn front, and his proximity was distracting. Zayne had always been handsome, but there was something about the intensity of his focus, even while angry, that made your pulse quicken in ways that had nothing to do with your injury.
Zayne’s jaw tightened visibly as he reached for the surgical thread again. “Intelligence. Right.” He tied off a stitch with perhaps more force than necessary, making you flinch. His eyes immediately softened with regret for causing additional pain, though his voice remained stern. “And that intelligence was worth risking your life?”
“The mission was—”
“The mission would have failed entirely if you’d bled out in that alley,” he cut in, his voice sharp as a scalpel. “Do you have any idea what it was like—” his voice wavered, “—knowing you’re out there, but not knowing if you’d come out alive?”
The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications. The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment filled the silence, counting the heartbeats where neither of you spoke. You hadn’t considered that perspective—hadn’t thought about Zayne possibly remembering other battlefields where he’d arrived too late.
As he reached to wrap your arm, you noticed the slight tremor in his usually steady hands. It was subtle—anyone else might have missed it—but you knew those hands too well. They had patched you up countless times, had grabbed you out of harm’s way, had steadied you during your hard times. Now they betrayed his composure in a way his disciplined expression never would.
“You could have died,” he said more quietly as he smoothed the bandage over your skin, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary.
Something in his vulnerability made your chest tighten. The walls you’d both maintained through professional necessity suddenly seemed absurd in the face of how close you’d come to never seeing him again. The realization hit you with unexpected force—what if this had been your last interaction? An argument in a sterile hospital room?
Without overthinking it, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his, effectively silencing his lecture. You felt his momentary surprise, the stiffening of his shoulders before something like surrender washed through him. The kiss was gentle, an apology and a reassurance wrapped into one. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours.
For a suspended moment, the hospital, the mission, the injury—everything disappeared except the point where you connected. His hand came up to cradle the side of your face, careful to avoid jostling your injured arm. The professional mask he wore so carefully had slipped entirely away, revealing the vulnerability underneath that only you were trusted to see.
When you pulled back, his expression had transformed. The stern doctor was gone. His breath came slightly faster, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart race.
You gave him your best innocent look, trying to lighten the suddenly charged atmosphere. “Doctor, am I going to make it?”
For a moment, he appeared stunned, lips slightly parted in surprise, a flush rising from beneath the collar of his medical coat. Then he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders visibly releasing. The corner of his mouth twitched upward—not quite a smile, but getting there.
“Your prognosis is favorable,” he murmured. He finished securing the bandage, his touch had gentled considerably. “But I’m prescribing close observation for the next twenty-four hours. My office would be the appropriate location for such monitoring.”
He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then traced a path down to your lips again. This second kiss was different—unhurried and deliberate, carrying promises neither of you had voiced aloud. You felt the last of his anger dissolving.
You smiled against his lips, victory achieved. “If that’s your medical opinion, Doctor.”
“It is,” he said, carefully helping you sit up. His hand lingered at the small of your back, steadying you. “And next time, wait for backup. Please.” The ‘please’ was barely audible, a rare moment of naked vulnerability.
It was a plea from someone who couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.
“I promise,” you said softly, reaching for his hand and giving it a gentle squeeze.
𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋
“Three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and—” Rafayel checked his watch with exaggerated timing, spinning around to face you as you entered his studio, “—fourteen seconds. That’s how long I’ve been waiting.” He threw his hands upward. “Do you know what I could have done in that time? I could have watched Titanic. I could have baked a soufflé—actually, no, three soufflés! I could have learned the basics of Spanish!”
You closed the door behind you, exhaustion evident in your movements. Your muscles ached from the tension of the mission, and your uniform still carried the faint smell of smoke and sweat. The emergency operation had taken everything out of you, but Rafayel was clearly in no mood to be sympathetic.
“I’m sorry, Rafayel. The situation was critical and—”
“Critical enough to not send a single message?” He crossed his arms, leaning against the wall. He paced the room with exaggerated steps, hands gesturing wildly as if conducting an invisible orchestra of grievances. “We had plans. Specific plans that involved a sunset and a dinner reservation that I can’t get back. Do you know how many strings I had to pull? How many favors I called in?”
You dropped your bag with a heavy thud, wincing as your bruised shoulder protested the movement. “Rafayel, please—”
“The restaurant had a two-month waiting list!” He spun again, his silk shirt billowing slightly with the movement. “The chef was going to prepare that ridiculous flaming dessert you like—the one with the sparklers that always makes you smile like a child at a festival.” His voice softened momentarily before hardening again. “I even wore the shirt you like. The one that’s actually uncomfortable but makes my eyes look nice or whatever.”
He wasn’t wrong—the color of the silk did make his eyes look particularly striking, even now as they flashed with indignation. You noticed he’d styled his hair as well, and the realization that he’d put such effort into the evening made your heart twist with guilt.
“There wasn’t time to message anyone,” you explained, sinking onto the couch, too tired to remain standing through his complaints. “The comms were jammed. We barely made it out at all.”
Rafayel narrowed his eyes, studying your face for any sign of deception. “Oh, so it’s technology’s fault now?” He threw his hands up again, accidentally knocking a decorative vase that he caught with surprising reflexes before it could shatter. “Humans and their excuses. Always something or someone else to blame. ‘The sun was in my eyes! The dog ate my homework! The communications were jammed during my super-secret mission!’”
He set the vase down with care despite his agitation—a reminder that for all his dramatic flair, Rafayel was actually quite meticulous. “Next you’ll tell me there were explosions and car chases, like some absurd action movie.”
The accuracy of his sarcastic guess made you hesitate just long enough for his eyes to widen.
“Wait, there were actually explosions? And you’re just walking in here like it’s nothing?” Something flickered across his face—genuine concern breaking through the outrage—before he quickly composed himself again. “Well, that’s... that’s beside the point! The point is I was abandoned. Left to wither away on my own.”
Despite your fatigue, irritation sparked. “I didn’t exactly choose to be ambushed and pinned down for two hours! I wasn’t having fun, Rafayel!”
“And I didn’t choose to sit alone at that ridiculous restaurant while the waiter gave me pitying looks!” he shot back, voice rising as he threw himself into the armchair across from you. “Do you know how humiliating that was? Waiting and waiting while everyone whispered about the poor abandoned man? The maître d’ actually patted my shoulder, like I was some... some tragic figure!”
He ran a hand through his perfectly styled hair, mussing it in a way that somehow made him look even more attractive—an infuriating talent he seemed unaware of. “I ordered wine. I checked my phone approximately nine thousand times. I made up elaborate excuses about my date being a super great hunter called into an emergency mission to save Linkon City.”
The genuine hurt beneath his outrage became suddenly clear. Behind the dramatic gestures and exaggerated language was real pain—the vulnerability of someone who had been genuinely worried.
You rose from the couch, crossing the small space between you. He continued his rant, though his voice lost some of its conviction as you approached.
“And then I had to walk home alone, past all those disgustingly happy couples who—”
You stepped forward, cupping his face in your hands, and pressed your lips firmly against his. You could feel the exact moment his indignation melted, his body language transforming from rigid offense to relieved surrender. For a moment, he remained stiff, clearly determined to hold onto his righteous anger. Then, with a small sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, his arms encircled you, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap.
The kiss tasted faintly of the expensive wine he’d mentioned—he hadn’t been exaggerating about waiting at the restaurant, at least. His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle despite his earlier theatrics, cradling your head as if you were something precious he’d feared losing.
When you pulled away, his pout remained, though considerably less convincing. His lips, slightly reddened from the kiss, contradicted his attempt at maintaining his anger. His fingers traced your cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicted his dramatic words—the clearest sign that you’d been forgiven, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it.
“This changes nothing,” he mumbled, even as his fingers gently traced patterns on your back, discovering and carefully avoiding the spots where you’d been injured. “I’m still upset.”
“I know,” you acknowledged softly, resting your forehead against his. “And I really am sorry about dinner. I know how much trouble you went through to arrange it.”
“You should be,” he huffed, but then rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your face. “Do you have any idea how worried I was? The things I imagined? You could have been hurt or—” He stopped himself, swallowing hard.
“I’m okay,” you assured him, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “A few bruises, nothing serious.”
His eyes searched yours, seeing through the minimization. His hand found the tender spot on your shoulder that you’d been trying to hide, his touch feather-light. “Liar,” he said softly, with none of his earlier accusations. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s part of the job,” you reminded him gently. “But I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
“A job that consistently interrupts my meticulously planned romantic gestures,” he complained, but his voice had lost its edge. His fingers moved from your shoulder to your neck, then to your face, as if reassuring himself that you were really there, whole and safe. “But I suppose I’m glad you weren’t permanently damaged. That would have been extremely inconvenient for my future plans.”
𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒
“You seem distracted today,” Sylus remarked, watching you from across his office room in the Onychinus’s base. His voice carried that peculiar blend of observation and judgment that never failed to set your teeth on edge. “Something troubling that brilliant mind of yours?”
You’d been on edge all morning, his casual observations hitting every nerve. The mission report in front of you blurred as you tried to focus on anything besides his piercing gaze from across the room. Each time he passed behind your chair, you could feel his presence like electricity, deliberately invading your space as if testing your limits.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you replied tersely, gripping your pen tighter.
“Clearly.” His lips curled into that infuriating smirk that made you want to either slap him or— No. You refused to follow that train of thought. “That’s why you’ve been glaring daggers at the same report for twenty minutes. Fascinating reading material, is it?”
“I’m concentrating.” You made a show of turning the page, though you hadn’t absorbed a single word from the previous one.
“On setting it ablaze with your eyes, perhaps?” He chuckled, the sound rich and smooth like aged whiskey—a sound that would be pleasant in any other context, from any other person. He pushed away from his ornate desk, crossing the room with that grace that seemed to define his every movement. “Come now, sweetie. You know I can see right through you.”
Your grip tightened on your pen until your knuckles whitened. Today, his typical banter felt like sandpaper on raw skin. The weight of the failed mission hung heavy on your shoulders—a mission he’d asked you to accompany him. The subtle way his eyes had followed you since your return suggested he knew exactly how it had gone wrong, and was simply waiting for you to admit it.
The mission had been stressful enough without his commentary, and you’d specifically chosen to work in his office for the quiet atmosphere, not the running commentary. The irony wasn’t lost on you—seeking peace in the devil’s lair—but the alternative was the bustling common areas where questions about the mission would be impossible to avoid.
“Perhaps it’s the negotiations?” he continued, leaning against your desk, invading your personal space with calculated precision. The subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive and custom-made, no doubt—wrapped around you like an unwelcome embrace. “Your strategy was... unconventional. Though I must say, watching you attempt to outmaneuver your opponent was quite entertaining. Like watching a chess novice challenge a grandmaster.”
His words struck with precision, targeting exactly where you felt most vulnerable. The negotiations had fallen apart spectacularly, though not for lack of preparation on your part. Sylus had blamed it on a few of his henchmen, he’ll deal with them later for forgetting to mention some details that caused you to stress yourself out.
“Or maybe it’s that little encounter with one of my rivals the day before yesterday?” he pressed on, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that forced you to incline toward him despite yourself. “I heard of how that meeting concluded.”
That was the breaking point. The pen in your hand snapped, ink staining your fingers like evidence of a crime. In one fluid motion, you stood from your chair, the sudden movement causing Sylus to straighten, a flash of surprise crossing his features before his customary smirk returned.
“Would you just—” The words caught in your throat, frustration making it impossible to articulate exactly what you wanted from him. Silence? An apology? Some acknowledgment that he’d set you up to fail although it’s not entirely his fault?
Instead of finishing your sentence, you grabbed his perfectly pressed collar and yanked him down, crushing your lips against his. It wasn’t gentle or sweet—it was pure frustration translated into action, teeth clashing, fingers gripping fabric tight enough to wrinkle the expensive material.
The stunned widening of his eyes gave you a flash of satisfaction—finally something had caught the ever-composed Sylus off-guard. For a heartbeat, he remained completely still, his usual grace abandoned in genuine surprise. Then his hand moved to the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he responded with unexpected intensity.
What had started as an impulsive act of defiance quickly transformed into something more. The kiss deepened, his other hand finding the small of your back, drawing you closer with surprising strength. Heat bloomed where his fingers pressed, spreading through your body like wildfire. The taste of him—bitter coffee and something sweeter underneath—was intoxicating in the worst possible way.
When you broke away, breathless and disoriented, you glared up at him. “Shut. Up.”
For perhaps the first time this week, Sylus appeared genuinely caught off balance. His usual perfect composure had slipped, collar askew, a hint of color high on his sharp cheekbones. Something flashed in his eyes—surprise, certainly, but also something darker, more intense that made your pulse quicken despite yourself.
Rather than appearing offended, Sylus looked thoroughly entertained once he recovered, eyes gleaming with intrigue. He straightened slowly, adjusting his collar that drew attention to his long fingers.
“Well,” he murmured, voice slightly rougher than his usual polished tones, “that’s certainly one way to request silence.” His tongue darted out to touch his lower lip briefly, as if sampling the taste you’d left there. “Effective, if unorthodox.”
But true to your demand, he didn’t speak further. Instead, he returned to his chaise lounge across the room, picking up his own work with an amused expression that should have infuriated you but somehow didn’t.
The silence stretched between you, no longer suffocating. You returned to your report, finding it suddenly easier to focus with Sylus’s voice no longer needling at your concentration. Occasionally, you felt his gaze on you, but whenever you glanced up, he was seemingly absorbed in his own work, though the ghost of a smile played around his lips.
After you’d made significant progress through the stack of files, a steaming cup of your favorite tea appeared at your elbow without warning. The delicate china cup—part of an antique set Sylus guarded jealously—was filled with the precise shade and aroma that you preferred, complete with the exact amount of honey you favored.
When you looked up questioningly, Sylus merely raised an eyebrow, as if to say, ‘See? I can be helpful when not talking.’ His smirk had softened around the edges, a truce offering in the form of perfectly brewed tea.
Despite yourself, you felt a smile tugging at your lips. You raised the cup in silent acknowledgment, a momentary peace established in the aftermath of that impulsive kiss.
As you sipped the tea—prepared exactly as you liked it, proving he’d been paying far more attention than you’d given him credit for—you wondered which one of you had actually won this particular skirmish. Based on the satisfied gleam in his eye whenever he glanced your way, Sylus clearly thought he had the upper hand.
But as the afternoon wore on in productive silence, punctuated only by the occasional meaningful glance, you weren’t entirely sure you’d lost either.
𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁
The drive back to Caleb’s apartment was suffocating with silence. Rain streaked across the windshield, city lights blurring into watery halos as he navigated the evening trafficking Skyhaven. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel, jaw set in that way that meant he was holding back words—a dam of frustration ready to break at any moment.
You stared out the passenger window, your reflection ghostly against the glass, unable to look at him directly. You’d avoided him for three days after the mission went sideways. Three days of ducking into supply closets when you heard his footsteps in the corridor, of swapping shifts with anyone willing, of ignoring the increasingly terse messages on your comm unit. It wasn’t rational—you knew that—but facing him after your mistake in the field felt impossible.
The car stopped at a red light, engine humming. Raindrops raced down the window, merging and separating like the strategies you should have coordinated better during the operation. In the reflection of the glass, you could see Caleb’s profile—strong jaw tensed, eyes fixed straight ahead, the small scar above his eyebrow more pronounced in the harsh street lighting.
Neither of you had spoken since he’d found you in the briefing room, simply saying “We need to talk” in that Colonel voice that brooked no argument. Now, pulling into the parking space at his building, you still hadn’t found the words to bridge the chasm between you.
He unlocked his door, letting you enter first. The familiarity of his place—the orderly bookshelves, the single plant you’d given him that somehow thrived despite his frequent absences, the subtle scent of coffee and cologne he wore—made your chest ache with a complicated emotion. You couldn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead around the room—everything in its place except for the emotions threatening to spill over between you.
The moment the door closed behind you with a soft click, the tension broke.
“Three days,” he stated, voice unnervingly calm as he set his keys in the exact same spot they always occupied on the entryway table. “No communications, dodging my calls, switching shifts.” Each offense listed with the precision of military charges being read.
You shrugged, aiming for casual while removing your jacket, though your hands betrayed you with a slight tremor. “I’ve been busy.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you,” he said, stepping closer, the controlled anger in his voice making it lower than usual. “Never has.” He moved into your space, not touching you but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the rain on his uniform mingling with his cologne. “I know exactly what you’re doing. Running away because you think I blame you for what happened.”
Your breath caught. Of course he’d figured it out—he always did. Caleb could read encryptions and enemy movements with uncanny accuracy, but his ability to decode your thoughts sometimes felt even more disarming.
“People could have died because of my call,” you whispered, finally voicing the fear that had been haunting you for days. Your hands clenched and unclenched at your sides, the phantom feeling of your weapon during that critical moment when everything had gone wrong.
“But they didn’t,” he countered. His voice remained firm but had lost some of its edge. “The team is safe. The mission objectives were achieved, if not in the way we planned.”
“That’s not the point,” you argued, finally meeting his gaze. The intensity there nearly made you step back. “I ignored direct orders—your orders. I put everyone at risk because I thought I knew better.”
“You made a judgment call in the field,” he corrected, running a hand through his rain-dampened hair. The gesture, so uncharacteristically nervous for him, revealed just how deeply the situation had affected him, too. “What I can’t accept is you avoiding me afterward. Avoiding the team. Avoiding the debrief where we could have addressed what happened.”
“And avoiding me doesn’t change what happened or help us prevent it next time,” he continued, his voice softening. “The team needs you. I need—” He stopped, seeming to catch himself. “The mission requires all officers and you, Miss Hunter, to be present for debriefing. That’s protocol.”
The retreat behind protocol stung worse than his anger. The distance he was deliberately placing between you—falling back on rank and procedure—felt like a physical wound. The intensity in his eyes was too much to bear.
Before he could continue his lecture, before he could retreat further behind the wall of Colonel, you surged forward, grasping his collar and pulling him down into a desperate kiss. The kiss was both surrender and defiance—an apology you couldn’t voice and a desperate plea to move past the wall building between you.
For a heartbeat, he remained rigid, hands stiff at his sides. Then, like ice thawing, he responded, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other wrapped around your waist, drawing you flush against him. The rain had chilled his lips, but they quickly warmed against yours, the taste of something uniquely him making your heart race.
What had begun as impulse deepened into something more profound. His fingers tangled in your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss. The carefully maintained distance of the past days dissolved with each passing second, replaced by an urgency that spoke of relief and lingering fear—fear that the rift between you might have been permanent.
When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, his expression had transformed. The stern Colonel was gone, replaced by just Caleb—your Caleb—with unguarded emotion in his eyes. His shoulders relaxed for what felt like the first time in days.
“Don’t be mad at me like that...” you whispered. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart where your bodies pressed together.
His expression had softened even more, he could never stay mad at you for long, not when you looked at him like this.
“That won’t work every time,” he murmured, though the smile playing at his lips suggested otherwise. His thumb traced gentle circles at the small of your back.
“Seems to be working now,” you replied, relieved to see the anger dissipating like morning fog. You pressed your forehead against his chest, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow to its usual steady rhythm.
Caleb sighed, one hand still tangled in your hair, gently massaging your scalp in that way he knew always calmed you. The rain continued to patter against the windows. “You know why I was angry, don’t you?” he asked quietly, his voice rumbling through his chest against your ear.
You nodded slightly. “Because I disobeyed a direct order.”
“No,” he said, pulling back just enough to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Because you disappeared afterward. Because for three days, I didn’t know if you were okay—not physically, but here.” He tapped gently at your temple. “Missions go wrong. Plans fall apart. That’s the nature of what we do. But we process it together.”
“I thought you’d be disappointed in me.”
“I was disappointed you didn’t trust me enough to face me,” he corrected, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “We’re partners in this, in all of it. The good calls and the bad ones.”
“I promise,” you whispered. “No more running. No matter what happens, we face it together.”
Something in your tone must have convinced him, because the last traces of tension left his body. He pressed his lips to your forehead, the gesture tender in a way that made your heart ache.
“Good,” he murmured against your skin. “Because the next time you go dark on me for three days, I’m sending the entire squadron to find you.”
After five hours of writing with plenty of breaks (read: procrastination and distraction), and I finally finished my longest scenario yet. This ended up being one of my favorites, as I truly enjoyed the writing process and got completely carried away.
when azumane asahi knelt in front of you like that, you couldn't wait for the day when he'd ask to marry you.
he hadn't yet bound his hair back, so it was cascading down to his shoulders in beautiful locks, tucked behind his ear. he hadn't yet put his glasses on, too, allowing you study his strong eyebrows, the curve of his nose, the slight dimple in his right cheek as his teeth absentmindedly held quilting pins between his lips, his shadowed jaw.
"stand straight, baby," he mumbled, his voice deep and slightly raspy, sleep still clinging to his baritone.
"sorry."
he removed the pins from his mouth, before pressing a chaste kiss to your clothed knee in lieu of replying; his hands quick and nimble as they folded the hem of your too long pants, securing them. his fingers brushing your ankle felt like a love confession, and the care with which he looked up to you to ask you whether you wanted the material to be longer was a promise to always mind your needs.
"it's perfect like that."
"mhm, you can take 'em off, then," he gave you a smile, crooked and lopsided and so very gentle, it hurt your heart, "it'll just take a mo'."
your hand found the scruff of his cheek and like instinct, he leaned into your touch, his eyes fluttering close, eyelashes long and pretty as they brushed against the apple of his cheeks. his large hands found the back of your legs, roaming to hold your flesh, the span of his fingers covering you with warmth.
"it's gonna be cold, though," you stepped up closer to his body heat and his cheek found your thigh, fingers squeezing.
asahi's voice rumbled against your skin, "you can wait in bed until i'm done, baby."
when you gave your okay, his hold on you tightened around your legs and then he was hoisting you up, his biceps bulging, arms strong as he carried you to your bed. one hand of his let go and found your nape, secure, warm, his other arm wandered up when he laid you on his side, his scent surrounding you as he leaned over you to settle you in properly.
"won't take long, alright?" he murmured against your mouth, breath warm, hands finding the seam of your pants to tug them down, "at least i'll try not to. okay, okay, one last kiss— hmm, no, changed my mind, give me another."
when you finally let go of him, lips swollen and hot, he smoothed out the fabric of your pants with a dopey smile, and you buried your face into his pillow, wrapped tightly with the blanket, inhaling deeply.
“kei, do you ever think about how strange it is that we've never fought?” you ask, limbs tangled with his as you cuddle on his bed.
it’s 10:03 PM and you’re doing your best to fight against the chilling, icy atmosphere of tsukishima’s room. for some reason, he likes to sleep like a vampire.
“do you want to?” he offers with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. tsukki doesn’t even open his eyes when he responds, too sleepy to entertain another one of your late night overthinking sessions.
“no,” you say calmly, “but we’ve been together for 7 months. we must either be like, the greatest couple of all time or the exact opposite.”
you feel his chest rise and deflate against your head as he lets an overly dramatic sigh.
you knew tsukishima kei wasn’t one for pda. hell, it was one of the things you loved about him. he knew how to make you feel loved without having to scream it to the world.
like that one time on one of your first dates, when you had accidentally fallen asleep on the soft grass of the park while waiting for his weekend practice to end. you woke up with a hand massaging your scalp.
“how long have you been waiting there?” you giggle, rising from your slumber as you rub your eyes awake. he pulls away, casually avoiding your gaze. “why didn’t you wake me?”
kei only shrugs, “you looked peaceful.”
or that other time you got sick for a week and couldn’t make it to school, so he immediately visited you as soon as you got better and brought his backpack with him.
“i got two copies of all the homeworks due next week, so you don’t have to ask the teachers for them.” he unpacks his notes and fishes out two pens from his bag before turning to you. “come, i’ll teach you everything you missed.”
your teachers praised you for how responsible you were, and told you how much they appreciated that you took the initiative to study.
yeah, you totally did that.
or like right now, and all the other nights you’ve spent at his place. because unbeknownst to you, tsukishima kei sets up his bedroom every single time you visit. he tidies up, cleaning even spots that you would never think to look at. but most importantly, and tsukishima knows this routine by heart, he turns the a/c to the highest setting so you’d be forced to cuddle against him underneath his sheets.
“the former,” is all replies with, and you scoff, rolling your eyes.
“but seriously though. how lucky are we to never have fought even after seven months.”
tsukki sighs again, before reluctantly revealing, “we don’t fight because i make it a point to always agree with you.”
you’re taken aback by his words, sitting up slightly as you look him in the eyes, though his are still closed as he tries to focus on sleeping.
“...huh?”
“idiot,” he teases. maybe he thinks calling you names will cover up for how unbelievably sweet he’s being right now, “why would i want to argue with you?” he shifts, trying to subtly move his face away so you don’t see him fully.
“but i can’t always have my way, you know. a relationship should be 50/50, right?”
“not ours.” he presses your head back against his chest, and you hear his heartbeat fasten a little. “you’re the boss.”
BONUS: “and you’ve never paid in your life anyway. you don’t believe in that 50/50 bullshit.” “hey!” “i don’t even know what your wallet looks like.”
Of course you charmed Hinata first, always matching his energetic and early morning greetings. Although the wing spiker was also easy to impress and even easier to like so it wasn’t too surprising.
Similarly, Sakusa wasn’t that shocked when Bokuto became putty in your hands. He always perked up like a little flower whenever you’d shower him with praise, your tone sincere but words firm; never going as far as to baby him but helping to get him back up when he dramatically fell down.
Atsumu did take a bit longer than he had anticipated to come around. At first he was acting like a high schooler with a crush, avoiding you at all costs until you offhandley mentioned having lived abroad. Afterwards, he became the most smitten.
Despite all your newfound connections, you had kept your distance from Sakusa, which he preferred and appreciated. During the brief moments you two did interact you always kept it professional, offering a polite greeting followed up by helpful advice. There was no pressure to become fast friends and you were really good at your job, having been handpicked by Iwaizumi himself.
While he did come to silently admire your professionalism, and Iwaizumi-seal-of-approval, he still found your ability to seamlessly switch gears between him and his teammates to be a bit…off-putting.
How was it that you could get along with him and Atsumu? It was unprecedented and you were also the newest addition to the team, so he couldn’t help himself from questioning your authenticity.
“Hinata-san is always so lively, huh?”
Sakusa paused upon hearing your voice, not wanting to intrude on you and Iwaizumi’s private conversation about his teammate. While he’d normally mind his business he couldn’t help but stand still for a moment to find out what you really thought behind the scenes.
“I guess you could say that.” Iwaizumi responded, having known the ginger longer than he had worked with him.
Sakusa slightly frowned at his tone, assuming you had broken your professional streak and were engaging in petty gossip. Of course you had been faking all those cheerful greetings, just as he had-
“Well, I like it.” Your clear voice interrupted his thoughts, tone firm as if challenging Iwaizumi’s previous comment and his own negative thoughts.
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding, feeling a brief sense of relief wash over him before he felt shame slowly replace it. What the hell was he doing eavesdropping for and why did he feel guilty? It’s not like being a people person absolved you of anything.
-
Weeks later during your first ever team meeting, and Sakusa’s umpteenth, you catch him off guard yet again as their power-hungry assistant coach goes to make the same tired comment about Bokuto’s inconsistency.
“You’re just not very reliable during high-pressure moments.”
Glancing over to look at his teammate, he could already see his two-toned hair begin to droop when suddenly your hand shot up and all eyes turned to look at you.
Your expression was calm but your eyes were glazed over with purpose, so unafraid it almost seemed like this was your umpteenth meeting.
“Bokuto-san has always been someone who performs best when he’s supported. I’ve seen firsthand how well he steps up under pressure when he’s in the right headspace, and that’s something we can easily help him with.” You speak up, voice firm but polite.
Glancing over at his teammate again he can see the tip of his hair now standing tall, his amber eyes filling with overdramatic tears as he tried to start bounding towards you, barely held back by Atsumu and Hinata who knew better than to disturb a team meeting.
The tension in the room, despite Bokuto’s incessant wailing, was thick. Even though you were both assistants, you were younger which meant the assistant coach was technically your senior, and he had taken your comment as direct disrespect. Thankfully, Iwaizumi came to the rescue, not only agreeing with your point but adding a few of his own to de-escalate the situation.
Afterwards, Sakusa couldn’t help but keep glancing over at you during the rest of the meeting. The smallest part of him even hoping to catch your eye which surprises him.
Why would he ever want such a thing?
-
It’s their first big home game and nothing is going right for Atsumu. Sakusa can tell by the sloppy passes and frustrated grunts during rotations. Everyone was bound to have an off-game, it was human nature. Except Atsumu was anything but human— or at least he pretended to be.
Bokuto’s ‘don’t minds’ and Hinata’s ‘next times’ fell upon deaf ears as the setter finally began to crack. Before he could blow up on court the whistle was blown and a timeout was called.
The blond angrily made his way to the bench, brushing off his teammates encouragement as he sat down with his eyes locked onto the floor. He put his hands on his knees as he breathed heavily, clearly lost in thought over his minor but costly mistakes.
Even though the setter was a pain in Sakusa’s ass, he would never deny his skill when it came to the sport. He was annoyingly prideful but he had every right to be when it came to his precision and control during games. Any time he couldn’t show off these assets, his meltdowns were inevitable.
As such, Sakusa simply swipes the sweat from his brow while glancing over at his aggravated teammate from the sidelines. He knows it’s better to leave him alone to collect himself.
Just as he think this, there, from the corner of his eye, he sees you walking over to them. You stand right in front of Atsumu and he can tell the whole team is holding their breath as they wait for you to say something.
Over-the-top encouragement was a guaranteed way to piss Atsumu off, and also the go-to for inexperienced trainers. Sakusa can’t help but feel a little bad for you when the blond finally glances up at you, his eyebrows knit tightly and mouth parted as if ready to tell you off.
Before he can say anything you kneel down slightly to meet him at eye level, voice steady but soft enough for only him to hear as you speak. From his spot on the court, Sakusa couldn’t hear what you were saying but he does notice something strange: Atsumu is actually listening to you.
A few moments pass and you stand back up, offering him a small nod before going to stand at the sidelines. The setter isn’t staring at the ground anymore and the previous frown on his face has eased up. Whatever it is you had said, it had clearly resonated with him.
A few points later, Atsumu delivers a perfect set to Hinata who spikes the ball and wins them the rally. After, the blond turns back to look at you in the sidelines, flashing you a smile Sakusa had never seen before.
It’s not the annoying grin he puts on for fans or the one he’s practiced for pictures, but something more real and subdued: a token of appreciation.
When Sakusa catches the exchange he feels stupid. Really stupid. You were genuine and true and he was a pessimistic asshole. At least, that’s what it felt like the world was telling him as the rest of the match goes smoothly. Never once during it do you bring any more attention to yourself, despite having been the one to break through to their setter.
Later, during their time in the locker room and after having won, Sakusa overhears Bokuto ask Atsumu what you had said to him. Normally, Sakusa would be in and out, repulsed by the environment and wanting to avoid these sort of post-match conversations all together. This time though he stayed put, taking his time to pack his things.
Why did he even care?
“Nothin’ that hasn’t been said before.” Atsumu responded simply, and Sakusa can’t rationalize why he feels a pang of disappointment when everyone but him seems to know what that means.
He knows you had probably gotten closer to his other teammates, while he himself could count the amount of times you had spoken to him on one hand. But were you really that much closer to everyone else but him?
After he had seen the moment shared between you and Atsumu, he had silently accepted defeat. There was no need to gauge for your reactions anymore. He decided then and there that he could finally let it go. You weren’t like any of the trainers before, you were better in every way and then some.
But now, knowing that he had missed out on whatever magic you seemed to carry, he felt more on edge than he had waiting for you to fail.
He stuffs the rest of the things in his bag unceremoniously, clicking his tongue in annoyance and unintentionally gaining the attention of Hinata who gives him a curious look.
“You’re not really that close to Iwaizumi jr. are you, Sakusa?” The ginger asked, simply making a harmless observation but landing a critical blow on whatever remained of the spiker’s composure. Honestly, Sakusa should’ve told him to stop calling you that ridiculous nickname but instead, all he could muster was a head shake ‘no’ before leaving.
-
The next few days during practice, Sakusa still can’t keep his eyes off you. Now without any judgement to cloud his mind, he’s started noticing things he hadn’t before.
Like how your hair always seemed shine when you would stand by Iwaizumi during morning meetings. Or how you smelled when you walked by, clean but never overpowering.
He feels like a creep for being able to pick up on it but he manages to convince himself he’s still merely observing, making sure you’re doing well for the good of the team.
Over time he discovers that if he gets you to meet his gaze you’ll tense up when your eyes meet his own, with you quickly feigning ignorance afterwards as you look anywhere but him.
Your subtle antics were starting to become a bit too endearing for his peace of mind. And before he knew it, getting you to meet his gaze became like a game of sorts. He felt a little evil at times but nothing excited him more than to see someone who was usually so composed, become so flustered.
You weren’t a serious person per say, he had overhead you cracking jokes even he found himself nose exhaling at. But you also weren’t so easily swayed. Hinata’s friendliness and Bokuto’s frequent touches usually went unnoticed by you. Even Atsumu’s blatant flirting left you unfazed (despite some of the lines making even Sakusa’s stomach flutter…).
So why was a little eye contact making you so nervous? He knows he can be an intimidating guy but he also can’t help himself from letting his thoughts drift to more interesting possibilities.
What if he made you nervous for…different reasons?
That thought alone led to a week of sleepless nights. He remembers the whole ordeal well because he had terrible eye bags. Or at least terrible enough for you to leave energy packets near his water bottle, neatly boxed and sanitized to his liking.
Yet again you kept him thinking of you without even saying so much as a word to him.
How cruel.
After that incident, all of his thoughts drift back to you, with his eyes now unconsciously following suit. He felt a little ashamed at times, given that you were just an innocent bystander who had gotten caught up in his uncharacteristically messy emotions. The two of you weren’t even friends.
You were a stranger, charming and capable yes— but still a stranger. He was only seeing you through a rose-colored lens, he rationalized, having heard nothing but high praises from his peers. You definitely had your own germs and quirks he’d find annoying, a danger to his very way of life.
But if he was being honest with himself, truly honest, you had your own gravitational pull. A sort-of welcome weight that went directly against his usual sound logic and reason.
He only truly noticed it when he saw the way you lit up talking to anyone and everyone. That’s when he thinks he’s starting to get it, to get you.
The patience and passion you have for the sport that rivaled his own. He could see it in the hours you put in and the minute details you remembered, things that made you stronger and infinitely better than anyone before you.
Your quick wit was also a nice addition but these were things he didn’t even get to experience, but merely yearn for from the sidelines for almost a year before he feels himself finally begin to give into your weight.
The old rickety dwellings of his heart creak at the thought of welcoming in someone new. There’s a part of him that shudders at the thought of making room for another person, having spent his entire life trying to put space between him and the world.
Relationships with his teammates were a given, an unwritten rule in the countless contracts he had signed throughout his career. He could deal with people if it meant he got to play volleyball.
This, you, were different though. There was no need to pursue anything outside of daily niceties, simple hellos and goodbyes. You had given him the space to, the chance to live his life without another person’s germs to deal with.
But he didn’t want that, he hated that. He also haged that you had made the choice for him before getting to know him, even though you had only done so because you did get to know him through Iwaizumi. He feels stupid when he really thinks about it; how his feelings were just one big paradox.
If nothing was going to make sense, then there was no need to be logical. At least that’s what he decides when he catches himself searching for you during public events, never once actually spotting you among the crowds.
And it shouldn’t have been that surprising given your role, things he would have normally taken into account being such a rational guy. But all he can focus on for the rest of night is the disappointment he feels, and the heavy ache in his chest. It should’ve irritated him, should’ve made him push you further away but instead it left him wanting more.
Yes. He wanted more, even if it came at the cost of social interaction. If you were going to keep him up at night and occupy his thoughts 24/7, it was better to break his own rules than lose his mind thinking about you. And, if you were going to keep your distance, then maybe he’d to be the one to close the gap.
-
Whatever you were in the middle of writing down is suddenly forgotten when you feel his gaze on you again. It’s getting heavier each time, lingering longer, more insistent. It made it a bit difficult to focus on your work, especially when it was practically non-stop now.
Sakusa was an observer, that much was clear from the day you met him. He was a lot more laidback than the trio you had become well-acquainted with, preferring to stay back with Meian or Inunaki.
You never minded his gaze, noticing how his eyes closely followed anybody from his teammates to coaches. Except just like him you were also an observer, immediately picking up on his increased glances.
In the beginning it felt like he was judging you, gaze passive and discerning. There was no real interest behind it past cold calculation. Despite the heaviness, it was bearable then. You weren’t a stranger to doubts and Sakusa was just another person to prove wrong.
Except, his eyes on you feel different now: they’re searching, watching and impossible to ignore.
The first few times you had pretended not to notice despite the way his eyes burned into you, as if studying you. It made it harder to focus on the clipboard in front of you, your racing heart thrumming loudly in your ears. Why was he looking at you?
You kept telling yourself that you didn’t care, that you were imagining it, and that it didn’t matter either way.
But it did matter.
You had been trying so hard to convince yourself it didn’t, that Sakusa was just another player—albeit a more complicated one—and that whatever you were feeling were just misplaced nerves.
After all, you were surrounded by men like him all the time: strong, talented, and painfully good-looking. Bokuto’s infectious enthusiasm and Atsumu’s flirtatious antics didn’t make your pulse quicken. Even Hinata, with his boyish charm and relentless optimism, didn’t throw you off like this. So why Sakusa? What was it about him that had you so unsteady?
Perhaps it was the way he stood apart from the others, always watching from the sidelines, but never fully engaging unless he had to. He kept his cards close to his chest, making him difficult to understand and even harder to approach. His sharp jaw and dark eyes definitely didn’t help to ease your nerves either.
Honestly, it was a bit frustrating how much he was affecting you. Half the time you couldn’t even see his entire face but when you did, you’d always have to take your lunch then and there to collect yourself in the break room.
You had been so careful to respect his boundaries, so determined to keep things strictly professional, and yet here you were—practically stumbling under the weight of his gaze.
What made it even worse was the fact that he knew. He had to know, didn’t he? You weren’t that great at hiding it, despite your best efforts. It felt like every time he looked at you, he was waiting for you to slip up, to betray some part of yourself you’d rather keep hidden.
Despite this, you wanted him to acknowledge the tension that had been building between you for months now. Because at least if he said something, you’d know where you stood. You could finally stop playing eye tag, stop wondering what he thought of you, and stop second-guessing yourself every time his eyes lingered a little too long.
Except you doubted he’d ever comment on his effect on you and a part of you honestly preferred to live your life without him ever saying anything about it. Perhaps you were overthinking it, and there was a logical explanation waiting to be revealed.
Like your hair being messy or how he found what you thought was thoughtfulness to be overbearing. You were someone who usually prided themselves on their people skills but Sakusa had left you utterly perplexed. It was well-known he was a complicated person but this was way beyond your scope.
Normally, he would stare from afar but this time he was approaching towards you, and quickly. You turned your head to meet his obsidian eyes and flash him a friendly smile, doing your best to ignore the nauseating way your stomach flipped and heart squeezed.
What why what—
“Do you need something, Sakusa-san?” You ask, putting on a brave face despite your crumbling composure.
It wasn’t the first time you had said his name but it was the first time he noticed how sweet it sounded coming from you. It was like even your voice was attentive, carefully curling around the syllables of his name.
“Do you have a handkerchief I could borrow?”
You immediately freeze at his question, eyebrows almost knitting together in confusion before your expression turned neutral again, remnants of hesitation still evident in your eyes.
What the fuck.
From the first day you had met Sakusa, you had also learned another thing about him; he was a germaphobe on the extreme end of the spectrum. Iwaizumi had warned you to steer clear of his belongings and ‘let him come to you’.
You remember cracking a joke that he was kind of like a cat but Iwaizumi hadn’t laughed, or even smiled for that matter.
“Well, no, cause cats eventually warm up to you.”
You waved it off awkwardly before changing the topic, silently making a mental note of Sakusa’s habits. You didn’t mind having to accommodate to him or the fact you wouldn’t be able to get close to him period. This was your job after all, you’d respect any and every boundary of your new teammates.
So why, why was he standing right in front of you, close enough to where if either of you reached out your arms you’d touch, asking for something so…unclean. You blinked up at him, head still reeling at having been so caught off guard.
It was a well-known fact Sakusa would rather be caught dead than use anyone else’s, so he can’t even feel offended at your stunned reaction. If anything, he feels embarrassed that this is the only way he could think of getting closer to you.
You feel your spine tingle as his scent invades your senses. There was an expected cleanliness to it but behind that was a hint of sweat; salty but inviting like the sea. Normally you’d gag at the smell but the fact that it was Sakusa made it gratifying. You manage to hold yourself back from taking in a deeper breath and getting fired for sexual harassment.
You only realize you’ve failed to say anything for too long when he suddenly cleared his throat, now mortified from your earlier gaping. You let out a string of apologies, stumbling over your words as you hastily make way to the bench where you had set your things, looking over your shoulder to make sure he was following you.
Despite seeing you in this flustered state constantly, it never failed to make him feel excited. You never acted this way with other team members, never threw them such coy looks. But even if that was true, he was still himself.
Aside from the excitement of being around you, he was also nervous. Completely unsure of what he would do when he was forced to take what he asked for. Even though he was interested in you he was also not about to get over years of ingrained habits like it was nothing.
When you went to hand him the cloth, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly in surprise. You had his exact brand and style of handkerchief. He could have sworn you used a different brand, having seen you offer all his other teammates a checkered red and white one.
“I haven’t used it for anyone else or even myself yet, so,” you said, voice the least confident he had ever heard it. He knew you were well-acquainted with his germaphobic tendencies but thinking about how you had been holding onto something like this, for him, was almost too much to process.
He stared down at you, expression hardened as he remained unmoving. Your hand remained outstretched to offer him the cloth, still neatly pressed in the packaging. Had you been observing him as much as he had been observing you? If so, he had never noticed your keen eyes on him.
“This brand,” he started, unsure of what he wanted to say.
‘This brand…is my favorite?’ Stupid.
‘This brand…is the best.’ God what is he, Hinata?
‘This brand…isn’t what you normally use.’ Absolutely not.
“I saw you using one like it once and so I tried them out.” You stated, unknowingly saving him with your shy confession.
“What did you think?” He asked, refusing to let your first real conversation end despite the awkward pauses and stiff flow.
At his question there was a sudden beat of silence, your eyes scanning over his face with an unreadable expression. He felt his heart stutter in his chest at your gaze, wanting to run away and hide before you could find whatever you were looking for.
On your end, you were taking your time to admire his features up close. He was handsome, moisturized skin and matching lips. His eyebrows were well-maintained, and you felt your hand twitch at sight of duo moles above his right one; fingers longing to trace over each one individually.
If this was going to be one of your only conversations with Sakusa, and the closest you’d ever get to him, you wanted to savor it despite the tense atmosphere.
“You have a good eye.” You complimented, voice so sweet and honest it made him smile, a small one that he followed with an amused exhale.
At the rare sight you gave him your own unique expression, eyebrows knitting together with a pretty red tint blooming across your cheekbones. Your eyes were searching his own for some sort of explanation, as if you had read him wrong but when he let his smile fully reach his eyes your blush only grew deeper.
Sakusa wasn’t some sort of alien, he smiled when he felt like it just like anyone else, and between knowing you noticed him and having you compliment him, he just couldn’t help himself.
“Thanks, you have a good eye too.” He said, eyes twinkling with some sort of double-meaning that you didn’t quite pick up, evident in the way you cocked your head to the side.
Maybe you hadn’t noticed him the way in the same way he noticed you.
He waved his last statement off, opting instead to take the package from your hand, making sure your fingers touched despite your best efforts to avoid it. He felt himself tingle at the brief skin-to-skin contact, eyes meeting yours as if to say ‘that was on purpose’.
“I’ll be sure to return this.” He states in his usual cool tone as you remained in a bit of a daze, cheeks still slightly flushed with your mouth pulled into a tight line.
He had never seen you show any of the other guys such a vulnerable expression and he felt his chest swell with pride at the thought. The blush on your cheeks was fading faster by the second as you morphed back into the team’s pretty but above all, professional athletic trainer he had grown fond of.
“You can keep it, I bought it just for you.” You admitted, your voice once again brimming with newfound confidence as you bowed slightly.
Now it was Sakusa’s turn to be stunned. He had not expected you to be so honest. This brand was expensive and the store was out of the way. Had he really been worth the trouble?
The piercing sound of a loud whistle and squeaking of sneakers cut your exchange short. Without saying anything he met your eyes again with an intensity you finally understood the meaning of. At least enough to not look away this time, firmly holding his gaze despite the weak feeling in your knees and loud beating of your heart.
A few moments passed between the two of you, eyes locked onto one another’s in a silent confirmation of sorts, an unspoken I see you. After no more than a couple seconds he gave you a small thanks and wave goodbye. As he approached his teammates he felt himself wanting to look back at you, at your eyes more specifically. He always thought the way you looked away when he stared was a little amusing but having you finally hold his gaze knocked the breath out of his lungs.
Had he been looking at you that intensely? He pressed his lips together tightly as the image of your glossy eyes staring into his own flashed in his mind. Before he could think about it any further he remembered the brand new handkerchief in his hand, gripping it slightly before deciding to pocket it, having no real intention to use it then it there.
It had been a gift after all, and a thoughtful one at that. He’d have to save it for some special occasion, just like he’d also have to get you to look at him like that again.
sylus understands your hesitancy to make yourself vulnerable, but he also can't stand to see you unfulfilled. the first couple times he catches you staring at his lips, he offers nothing but lazy blinks and slow smirks, challenging you to come to him first. but when you look away in uncertainty one too many times, seemingly content to watch your own desires slip away as long as it saves you from embarrassment, he saunters toward you, maintaining eye contact all the way. placing one hand on your hip and the other on your chin, he bends to capture your lips with his, making you stumble with his intensity. his grip on you only tightens when he breaks the kiss, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he tugs you toward his lips. when you lose your balance and fall into his embrace, you realize his game: he’s making you kiss him first
zayne empathizes with your shyness and hesitancy, afraid to so much as look at you the wrong way in case he offends you. since you’re both too frozen in overthought to make the first move, you don’t become intimate as quickly as most couples, trading physical closeness for emotional understanding. when he walks you to your door after a visit to the bakery, he leaves you with a warm goodnight hug, and you both assume the other is satisfied. only when you think he’s asleep on the sofa one evening and press a fond kiss to his cheek does he realize you share his private desires. the next day, after stoically psyching himself up for 20 minutes, he finds you in the kitchen and kisses you deeply, a pink tinge on his cheeks when he pulls away
caleb wants you to kiss him first—or at least ask him to kiss you—but what if you won’t? he needs to know that you want him—that you’ll willingly give him the privilege of kissing you—so he gives you a few pushes in the right direction. he teases you with heated glances and not-so-accidental touches until you walk up to him, dumb with desire. when you stare up at him helplessly, he settles a large hand on your waist and hovers over your mouth, giving you the chance to push him away. when you don’t, he leans in slowly, tantalizingly, as if wanting to drive home the fact that you’re letting this happen to you—letting him claim your mouth in a slow, consuming kiss. this way, maybe, just maybe, you’ll find the courage to take what you want from him next time—if you let him taste you, there’s no need to be shy anymore, right?
you know rafayel, so you know he would be upset if you expected him to initiate everything—would it kill you to show a little interest in him? that said, you also know that initiating things isn’t really your thing. so, you find a trick that works like a charm: you goad him into kissing you. you’re comfortable enough with kisses to other places—anywhere but the lips—so you adorn his cheeks and neck with soft, chaste kisses until he’s riled up and flushed, his breath coming out in soft pants from the pleasure of feeling wanted. when you pull away, he chases your touch, and all it takes is an innocent giggle from you before he’s pinning you down and stealing your breath away, his tongue tangling with yours in passion and power.
xavier is confused and a bit discouraged when he realizes you never initiate—he thinks you just don’t want to kiss him. one afternoon, you find him sulking in bed, huddled under his comforter with the lights off. worried he’s sick or hurt, you ask what’s wrong, and he gives you 4 pouty non-answers before finally giving in. you can feel your face heat and gut tangle in guilt when he questions if you ever want to kiss him, and with one hand stroking his hair, you confess that you’re simply too shy to kiss him first. he responds with a blink and a whispered “so you do like me, then?”, and when you nod, he tackles you at the speed of light, pressing kisses all over your face before finally claiming your lips
a/n: anon who asked me if i’d ever write for zayne and i hinted at later this week this is not what i was talking about don’t worry, just an impromptu writing exercise to convince myself i’m not washed. also while this technically counts for xavier and raf i’m the least familiar with their cards so idk if/when i can write anything much longer than this for them (love them tho)
A gentle knock on the bedroom door made you look up from your book. It wasn’t new that your husband asked for permission to enter this way and you had long stopped to tell him that it wasn’t necessary and he was always welcome in your space.
“Yes, honey?”, you called and his head poked in.
“Darling, can we talk?”
Your heart jolted at his serious tone. Trying to not jump to any conclusions, you sat up a little with your back against the headboard, nervously smoothing out the blanket over your chubby tummy to have something to do other than panic and nodded, making him come in and sit at the foot of the bed, a notepad and pen in his hand.
His eyes flickered to the book you’d closed in your lap, “You like these stories.”
It wasn’t a question, so you quickly hummed in agreement for him to continue.
“I know that the male character is very desirable to you and I also understand that you possibly prefer him over me, since I have been too busy to pay the right amount of attention to you lately.”
“Oh! Honey, no! That’s not-“
“Don’t worry, darling, I got your hints.”
“My… my hints?”, you asked carefully.
“You’ve been reading one of these books every one to two days now. I must have neglected you a lot. I’m sorry.”
“But you didn’t!”
He set the pen on the notepad and held your confused gaze.
“This… “shadow daddy”…”
“-where did you learn that term?”
“What does he do that I don’t?”
And with a mixture of horror and hysterical amusement you realized, he wasn’t accusatory, but waiting for an actual list.
characters: Kita, Ushijima, Kageyama, Aone, lowkey Kenma, your stoic fave
a/n: inspired by this reel and thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for the addition of “the hints” xD
"You look... nice." Tobio's slowly trail down your form. His cheeks are pink, but his tone is harsh, almost... like a question?
"Thank you?" You ask back, slipping out of your shoes. "I've bought new trousers. It's hard to find good ones, most of them make my ass look fat."
"It is fat," Tobio points out, almost going cross-eyed as he tries to look both at you and your behind at the same time. "It's nice."
You stop, one hand in your purse, and stare at him.
"Tobio?"
"Yes?"
"Are you trying to flirt?"
He jerks his face away, but you've seen enough of the nervous blush covering every spare inch of his usually pale skin.
"Forget about it!" He barks as he stomps off, your giggling the only sound in the empty hallway.
-
Now
"Oh," Tobio grabs your belly with both hands and kneads it like it's dough. "You put on some weight."
You groan and laugh at the same time. It tickles, after all. "Why do you have to point it out all the time?"
"Because you're so soft and I love you?" He reluctantly lets go of you when you shimmy your hips around and offers you the pair of jeans you'd tried to slip in minutes ago. "I'll buy you new ones if these don't fit anymore, you know?"
"That's not the point," you argue, struggling with the button at the top. "I like these pants."
"I like your belly more," Tobio slides his hand below the waistband of your pants and tickles your skin. "Look how confined it is. It wants out."
You laugh at his silliness. "When did you get so good at flirting?" You ask, pulling him in for a kiss.
"I'm just speaking my mind," he points out. "You just happen to like it, I think. Hoshiumi said I sound like a moron when I'm talking to you."
"See? That's why Hoshiumi's still single."
-
Receiving Gifts
Then
"Tobio?" He freezes in the doorway. "Yes?"
"Did you leave something in my office?"
"Maybe?"
You hold up the package. "Is there a reason you bought me a sample package of lip balms?"
"You said you lose them all the time," he defends himself, shoulders pulled up to his ears. "So I bought you enough that you have one everywhere I go."
"That's really sweet of you," you look down at the present for half a second. "But a 48 piece pack?"
He panics, you can see it in his face, the widening of his pupils and the stiffness in his arms.
"Should I have bought more?"
-
Now
"Tobio?"
"Yes?" He dips his head out of the bathroom door, half of his face shaved, the other half covered in shaving cream. "You called?"
"There's a package on the kitchen table."
"Oh," he nods. "Just a little something I got you."
You eye him curiously before you open the package with a kitchen knife. Inside is something oddly shaped inside a few rolls of bubble wrap. By the time you finally take off the last layer, Tobio has slid up behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, his left hand softly caressing your belly.
"It's a guy," you point out. "Sitting."
"It's not just any guy," Tobio points out. "This was handmade and designed by me. It was a hard decision, too, but I think we got it right in the end."
You lift the small figurine up to get a closer look. You know that black hair and those blue eyes, that frown on his face and the way he stretches.
"You designed me a figurine of yourself?"
"Yes," Tobio grins proudly. "Look," he takes the figurine from you and sets it next to the stove, pulls out a ladle and lets it rest on little Tobio's stretched out legs. "This guy makes kitchen helper figurines. Ushijima bought lots of stuff from him and I asked if he could model a figurine after me. This way, I'll always be helping you in the kitchen."
You're still struggling for words when he turns, insecurity slowly bleeding into his demeanour. "Did you want someone else? I thought of buying you the one that keeps the lid from closing, because you like giving me steam facials and it would have been funny, but that one was harder to model after me, so-"
"Tobio," you reach out and sling your arms around him, press your face against his shoulder. "I love it. Thank you."
He smiles, just a little one, but one that's true to himself. "Thank God. I already ordered a second one that looks like you. You're paying for it though, so it's your present to me."
-
Acts of Service
Then
Hurried steps follow you down the hallway. You turn, surprised to find Tobio running after you.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes," he pants, grabbing the bag hanging off your shoulder. "I said I'd help you carry it."
"Oh, but it's not that heavy."
"Not the point," he accidentally knocks his hip into yours as he moves, blushing to the tips of his ears as he does so. "Where are you headed?"
"To my car. Are you sure you wanna go outside right now? You're sweaty and it's cold out. I don't want you to get cold."
"I'll be fine. Can I carry anything else for you?"
"You know I'm not sick, right? Or unable to lift weights in any shape or form."
"Right," Tobio nods. "But I'm strong?" He phrases it like a question. "And I want to help you where I can."
You stare up at him, your heart beating a little out of the loop, sloshing around your chest as if waiting for new instructions.
"You don't need to help me," you insist once more, your voice a little weaker than before. "But thank you."
Tobio smiles and leads you out onto the parking lot, pulls you a little closer when you shiver in the cold.
He's out sick the rest of the week, but you don't think he minds it much.
Not when you're at his place every day before and after work, feeding him soup and measuring his temperature with a kiss against his forehead.
-
Now
You can hear the vacuum from where you're scrubbing the shower, the sound almost loud enough to drown out the audiobook in your ears.
You're old enough now to have your very own cleaning routine, but that doesn't mean you like doing it.
Half an hour later, the bathroom is clean and you put away the supplies before you walk out, all the while stretching your sore back.
The vacuum has been tucked away again, but you hear Tobio's voice from the kitchen, the way he struggles to pronounce the Italian words from his own audiobook.
"Ciao. Ciao." He jumps when you sneak up to him, curl your hands around his chest and press your face against his back.
"You're done yet?" You ask, leaning into him with all your weight.
"Almost," he huffs out laughing. "The oven is a mess."
"We can do it another day."
"No, I'm committed now."
"But I'm hungry," you whine. "And we can clean the stupid oven after we have Dinner."
"I already ordered food," Tobio argues. "Might as well get this done until it arrives. You can-"
"No," you insist, feeling stubborn. "Don't make me clean another thing."
"I wanted to offer a seat at the table where you can check my pronunciation, but if you have a better idea..."
"Table it is."
-
Quality time
Then
"And then you jump," Tobio explains, swallowing anxiously. "Did you get that?"
"Uhuh," you inspect your nails for a second, before deciding to speak. "Look, I like spending time with you, but do you really need to train today?"
Tobio falters. "No?" He asks. "Why?"
"Is there a reason why you brought me here for our date then?"
"Well," he fiddles with the ball in his hands, shy again. "I like spending time with you."
"Me too."
"And this is something I know," he explains, looking around the deserted gym. He doesn't need to explain that it makes him feel safe. You've seen it.
"Right," you nod, swallow against the knot in your throat. "How about we do something you know for an hour and then something I know next?"
Tobio nods, clearly relieved. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care what we're doing."
He blushes when you don't react, struck by the softness of his accidental confession. "Did I say something wrong?"
-
Now
Tobio drops like a stone into your lap and he groans so loudly you almost miss the conversation on TV.
"Long day?"
"No," he pouts, "but I missed you. Why do they let you go earlier when I have to stay in longer?"
"Because I'm not their star setter?" You ask, gently threading your hands through his hair. "Hungry?"
"Yeah," he huffs out a breath and closes his eyes. "But I wanna stay like this a little while longer. What are we watching?"
"Well, I was watching a rerun of Friends. You wanna join? Or we can put on a match."
"Friends is fine," he lifts one hand to circle your wrist, tugging it down just enough to press a kiss into the palm of your hand. "As long as I'm with you, I don't care what we're watching."
You coo at his softness and lean down to kiss the tip of his nose, only to tease him right after.
"I'll remember that the next time we're fighting over the remote."
-
Physical touch
Then
"You should go back inside," you insist, "It's freezing."
"It's fine," Tobio presses through chattering teeth, his sweaty jersey barely a shield against the cold. "It's not even that cold."
You look up at him, your bag over his shoulder, his arms crossed confidently in front of his chest.
"Do you like me, Tobio?" You ask, and even though it feels a little silly, given everything he's done and said, it still feels necessary to be voiced.
He swallows, blueberry eyes locked in on you, and then he nods.
"So much," he breathes out. "That I never know what to do with my hands when you're around. O-or what to say. You're the prettiest, smartest, nicest, coolest girl I've ever met and I know I'm just... me, but if there's anything I can do, anything, I will, I-"
"You could kiss me," you interrupt him, your heart beating in your throat, your fingertips, your toes. "If you want."
His lips are cold and his eyes are wide open, and you think, not for the first time, that there's an ocean of warmth hiding in these blue depths. He takes your hands in his, squeezes them one, two, three times and kisses you again, clumsy and eagerly, and so much in love.
And then he sneezes.
-
Now
"Morning," Tobio presses a kiss against your shoulderblade and sinks into you, his chest pressed against your back so that you can feel his heartbeat. "I need to go for a jog."
"Mhm," you make, half awake and already in love with him, the gentle way he wakes you every single day. "I'm not joining you."
"Shame," he leans in to kiss the shell of your ear, the soft skin behind it, the nape of your neck and the corner of your mouth.
"One more for the road?" He asks, sounding more awake than you ever could be at this early hour, and you turn your head a little so you can squint at him, can offer him all of your mouth and not just a corner.
Later, after you've fallen back asleep, he will kiss you again, taste like toothpaste and smell like aftershave, and you'll try your best to pull him back into bed, to fall back asleep in his arms. Rarely does it ever work. But he'll always stay a little while longer, just to touch you, just to breathe you in.
Sakusa worried a lot about your first period while in a relationship with him. He was never particularly naturally coddling, his hands were usually cold, and he was practically married to his routine. Things like this sometimes made him wonder if he could be a good boyfriend for you, but you sent him so many sad emojis that he promised to at least stop by your apartment on the way home.
He stood in line at the supermarket with a balanced mix of good and good for you. This meant chocolates, fruits, hot cocoa, and medical drinks. His heavy, nervous breaths dampened the mask on his face, and his eyes constantly ran over the stuff in his basket to try to think of anything he was missing.
“Kiiiiyoooooomiiiiiiiii!” you squealed happily and ran towards him at full speed, dressed up in his most comfortable hoodie and some sweatpants that were so old and torn you couldn’t remember where you got them from.
Sakusa looked up in surprise, holding his hands out so you wouldn’t reach him. “I haven’t showered yet!”
You snuck past his arms when he stopped fighting it, forcing your cheek against his chest in a squish. “I’m so happy you came.”
And Sakusa could almost cry. Was that really all it took to make you happy? “You haven’t even seen what I got you yet,” he mumbled, cheeks flushing at the endearing look in your eyes.
“You brought my boyfriend safely to my place. Thank you for your service.”
You grabbed the reusable grocery bag from him so he could finally take his shoes off and come inside.
“You even got fresh fruits!” he heard you screech from the kitchen. His pulse slowed to match yours as he finally settled into the air of your appreciation, figuring that he would at least do his best for as long as you’d let him.
After his shower, Sakusa spent minutes with his hands under the faucet, letting warm water wrinkle his skin until it turned red. He didn’t want to startle you with his cold hands.
Imagine his surprise when you easily cuddled up against him on the couch with two hot water bottles resting against your stomach. He pouted without even meaning to, awkwardly trying to adjust in a way he imagined might make you more comfortable.
Tilting your head up, your eyebrows were furrowed to mirror his concern. “Are you comfortable?”
“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” he admitted.
“I’m not injured, babe. But craving cuddles, so get comfortable because we’re staying here the rest of the day.”
Sakusa mentally checked his calendar, but you quickly interrupted him by snuggling into his side and adjusting the hot water bottles before finally relaxing.
His schedule was cleared. Sakusa was on period duty.
masterlist
/tagging @cottonlemonade because she's great and encourages my writing a lot<3
discoholicmusic
annaxmalina
dededos
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
izzy806
