Reader getting asked by haikyuu guys to watch over their pets while running some errands ranting and confessing their whole life to the pet lol not knowing the guys heard her
The room was quiet. A little too quiet.
Y/n sat cross-legged on Hinata’s bed, gently poking at the hamster cage on his nightstand. Inside, a tiny cinnamon-colored fluffball waddled over to the bars, twitching his nose like he knew tea was about to be spilled.
She smiled softly. “Hey, little guy. You probably don’t understand me, but I gotta talk to someone before I explode and eat dry wall.”
The hamster blinked at her. Innocent. Judgement-free. The best kind of therapist.
She sighed, playing with the edge of her sleeve. “Your dad—or whatever Hinata is to you—is kind of… ugh. A lot. You know that, right?”
The hamster tilted his head. A single squeak.
“Exactly,” she said with a weak laugh. “He’s so—so loud. So bright. And he smiles like the sun and gets excited about everything, even vending machines. And it’s annoying. Like… painfully cute. Do you get it?”
Silence. Fluffball stared back.
Y/n leaned in closer, whispering like they were co-conspirators. “I think I’m in trouble. Like, real trouble. I like him. A lot.”
Her face warmed. She hid it behind her hands for a second before peeking at the hamster again. “He gave me strawberry milk the other day and said it reminded him of me because it’s ‘sweet and makes him hyper.’ Who says stuff like that?!”
A rustling sound downstairs made her freeze.
“…If you tell him I said any of this, I swear—”
Hinata stood in the doorway, holding a snack tray and looking way too curious.
Y/n: “NOTHING I WAS JUST—I WAS TALKING TO THE HAMSTER.”
Hinata raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Are you jealous of my pet? Or were you confessing to him?”
“Shoyo I will throw you out the window.”
He laughed—big and bright and so unfair—as he walked over and sat beside her.
The hamster squeaked again.
Hinata smirked. “I think he ships us.”
Y/n side-eyed the giant white bird chilling in its fancy cage like it paid rent. The cockatoo blinked back at her with the smugness of someone who knew all your secrets. Because, apparently, it did.
She leaned in closer, holding a sunflower seed like she was about to make a deal with the mafia. “You better behave today, feathered gremlin.”
The cockatoo took the seed and blinked innocently.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Y/n whispered. “Last week you screamed when I sneezed. You are not slick.”
The bird continued chewing.
Y/n settled onto Asahi’s couch with a sigh. He was out “foraging” a.k.a. getting the bird more organic trail mix from that overpriced pet store. Honestly, she didn’t mind. She got alone time with Mr. Feathers… and the living room that suspiciously always smelled like Asahi’s cologne.
She glanced around, then leaned toward the cage again, whispering like she was about to commit a federal crime.
“Okay, listen,” she said, crossing her arms. “I don’t know why I keep coming here. I mean, yes I do. It’s him. I’m not proud of it. But here I am. Babysitting a judgmental feathery narc just to hang out with a man who probably thinks I’m here for you.”
The cockatoo tilted its head.
“I mean, have you seen him?” she continued, eyes wide. “Tall. Gentle. Looks like a forest god. Carries groceries with one hand like it’s nothing. And when he ties his hair up—OH, don’t get me started on the man bun. I would marry that man bun. Like, officiate a ceremony right now, bird, I swear.”
The cockatoo gave a soft whistle.
Y/n sighed dramatically. “It’s just not fair. He probably sees me as this weird friend of a friend who’s always here mooching off his air conditioning and pretending not to stare at his arms. Arms, bird. Like—who gave him permission?!”
The cockatoo slowly began climbing up its perch.
“Also, for the record,” she added, pointing, “you’re evil. You look like a cute puffball but deep down you’re plotting my downfall. I can feel it in my soul.”
And that’s when it happened.
“SHE THINKS YOU’RE DADDYYYYY.”
The cockatoo strutted across its perch like it had just delivered the winning line of a roast battle.
“HOT MAN WITH JUICE ARMS,” it yelled.
Y/n screamed internally. “STOP—YOU’RE NOT EVEN SUPPOSED TO TALK—”
“I WANNA BITE HIS FOREARMS.”
Y/n clutched the couch cushion like a lifeline. “WHY ARE YOU LIKE THIS?!”
The bird flared its crest, proud and majestic and also the devil.
And then—the door clicked.
Asahi, holding a bag of bird food and a reusable tote full of those coconut water drinks no one liked except him.
“Hey, sorry I took long, they were out of the—”
“I WANT TO SIT ON HIS LAP AND CRY.”
Asahi paused. Mid-step. Eyes wide. Brain buffering.
“WELCOME HOOOOOME, DELICIOUS TREE MAN.”
Asahi dropped the grocery bag.
She slowly turned toward him, face bright red, limbs stiff, voice high-pitched. “I—uh—I DIDN’T TEACH HIM THAT I PROMISE—”
Asahi blinked slowly. “...Delicious tree man?”
Y/n shrieked. “DON’T REPEAT IT—”
The bird screamed, “CRADLE ME LIKE A BABY—OH WAIT THAT’S HER—”
And that was the final straw.
Y/n tripped over the rug trying to run and slammed to the floor in front of Asahi like a fish trying to escape the tank. She lay there. Broken. Defeated. Possibly concussed.
Asahi rushed over, crouching beside her, flustered and awkward and absurdly hot. “Y/n?! Are you okay???”
She groaned into the carpet. “Do you have a bird-size jail cell. I need a moment with your snitch.”
The cockatoo cackled in the background like it was possessed.
Asahi gently helped her sit up, trying not to laugh. “You know… he only repeats things he hears a lot.”
And died internally all over again.
“Oh my god. I’m never showing my face here again,” she muttered.
But Asahi was smiling. Soft. Adoring. Flushed.
“You could,” he said quietly, brushing her hair out of her face, “just say it to me next time.”
The bird chirped in the background, “NOW KISS.”
TIMESKIP! KOUSHI SUGAWARA
Let’s get one thing straight
You didn’t choose to fall in love with Sugawara Koushi.
No, no. That was an ambush.
A tactical, strategic, perfectly executed emotional ambush with bonus dimples.
Not when he smiled like sunshine and smelled like safety and had that gentle but I will assign a pop quiz just to humble you energy that made your heart do cartwheels in a full-blown panic attack.
Yes, a mouse. In a classroom. Living rent-free in a tiny cage next to the window. Named cheese.
Personality: suspiciously nosy and loves chewing through secrets.
You’d been assigned clean-up duty in Suga’s homeroom all week — and by “assigned” you meant you had volunteered with the desperation of someone trying to inhale proximity like oxygen.
On your third consecutive day of "accidentally" staying late to sweep a room that didn’t need sweeping.
And for some reason, you were talking to the mouse again.
“…I’m just saying,” you whispered, gently sliding your fingers through the bars of the cage as cheese’s tiny pink nose twitched. “He should NOT be allowed to smile at students like that. It’s an emotional hazard.”
“And those sleeves?? Rolled up? What does he want me to do, DIE in this room?”
The mouse crawled onto the wheel and started spinning.
“Oh, don’t start with me. You live with him. I know you’ve seen it. He keeps adjusting his tie and looking all put-together and vaguely ethereal like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to my central nervous system—"
Something brushed your hand.
cheese was out of the cage.
The little rodent scurried right into your sleeve, like a fuzzy lie detector, and parked itself near your shoulder like it was settling in for the next round of confessions.
You nearly screamed. “YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE—OH MY GOD, GET OUT—”
You froze. Mouse in sleeve. Soul in shambles.
Sugawara peeked in, holding a warm drink and a bag of cheese crackers. “Hey, Y/n, you left your—why do you look like you saw a ghost?”
You smiled with the terror of someone harboring secrets and rodents. “Nope. Totally normal. Nothing’s happening. No crimes here.”
cheese, the demon, began moving.
You flinched. Suga noticed.
“…Are you okay?” he asked, stepping closer with concern blooming on his face.
cheese, sensing your doom, POPPED OUT OF YOUR COLLAR LIKE A HORROR MOVIE JUMPSCARE.
Suga dropped the crackers.
cheese ran straight up his arm and into his hoodie, like this was just another Tuesday.
A moment of stunned silence passed.
“…So,” Sugawara said, still calm as ever, “Did cheese climb into your shirt while you were—what, pouring your soul out to her again?”
You choked. “YOU KNEW???”
He smiled. “You’ve been monologuing at her like a Shakespearean love-struck gremlin for three days. I thought it was cute.”
He picked up the mouse with practiced ease. “She likes you, you know.”
“Oh, I can tell,” you muttered, face fully on fire. “She cuddled my pancreas.”
Suga laughed softly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “She’s got good taste. Just like me.”
“…Wait, are you saying—?”
“I like you, dummy,” he said, grinning. “Why else do you think I keep assigning you mouse duty instead of actual cleaning?”
cheese squeaked like she was tired of carrying this ship alone.
Suga offered the crackers with a wink. “Stay for a snack?”
You loved Yamaguchi Tadashi.
Not in a chill, “aw he’s sweet” kind of way.
You loved him in a stupid, life-ruining, can’t-breathe-when-he-smiles-at-you kind of way. The kind of way that makes you text your friends “he said good morning i am deceased 💀” and then proceed to overanalyze his tone for four business days.
Besides your terminal crush disorder?
His beloved, sacred, unholy frog.
A slimy, smug-looking little demon that lived in a terrarium in Yamaguchi’s room like it paid rent.
Now, were you scared of frogs?
You once cried in 9th grade because a baby toad jumped near your foot.
You saw Kermit and felt genuine anxiety.
So when Yamaguchi asked if you could feed Sir Croak-A-Lot while he and Tsukki were at a training camp for three days?
You should’ve said you were allergic to amphibians. Or Catholic.
But alas. You said, “Sure! No problem :)” because your love was irrational and so was your judgment.
You’re standing four feet from the terrarium with a pair of tongs, shaking like you’re disarming a bomb.
Inside, Sir Croak-A-Lot blinked once. Slowly. Menacingly.
“…Hi,” you whispered. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Let’s keep it that way.”
“Listen,” you said shakily. “I only agreed to this because I love your owner. Like. Deeply. He has pretty eyes and a nice laugh and says ‘thank you’ to vending machines. So if you could just not move while I drop this worm in, that’d be great.”
You leaned closer, whispering like a therapist. “Do you think he knows? That I like him?”
Sir Croak-A-Lot launched halfway across the tank.
And somehow—somehow—knocked over a decorative lamp and landed with your foot stuck under Yamaguchi’s beanbag chair like you were in a live-action episode of FailArmy.
“OH MY GOD,” you gasped. “THIS IS IT. THIS IS HOW I DIE. DEATH BY FROG PANIC.”
And that’s exactly when the front door opened.
“Hey! I’m back early—Tsukki twisted his ankle and—wait, Y/N???”
Yamaguchi dropped his bag at the sight of you lying dramatically on the carpet, tangled in furniture and trauma.
You froze like a raccoon caught raiding the trash.
He blinked. “Are you okay?”
“Define okay,” you wheezed. “Do I have frog-related emotional damage? Yes. Did your amphibious son try to murder me via eye lick and surprise launch? Also yes.”
Yamaguchi covered his mouth, but it was too late. He was laughing. Hard.
“I’M SCARED OF ANYTHING THAT CAN JUMP WITHOUT WARNING AND LOOKS LIKE A WET THUMB.”
You tried to crawl backward. The frog stared at you. Probably plotting.
Yamaguchi, wiping tears from his eyes, finally helped you up.
“You know,” he said softly, “you could’ve just said no.”
You pouted. “I was trying to be brave. For you.”
He tilted his head. “Why for me?”
And there it was. The moment.
You took a deep breath. “Because I like you. Like. Capital-L Like. And I was trying to prove I could survive Frogageddon to be worthy.”
You nodded, ready to leap out the nearest window.
And then Yamaguchi smiled.
That sweet, surprised, glowing kind of smile that made you want to cry in the good way.
“I like you too,” he said. “Even if you’re scared of Sir Croak-A-Lot.”
You whispered, “Don’t say his name. He can hear you.”
Yamaguchi laughed again, bright and golden.
“Okay, okay,” he said. “Let’s go get ice cream. You’ve earned it.”
You blinked. “What about your frog?”
He smirked. “He’s already heard all your secrets. I think he approves.”
You glared at the terrarium.
You swore he was smiling.
You were house-sitting for Kita while he was at his grandmother’s for the weekend. Just two days. Easy.
Feed the plants. Water the dog.
Wait, no. Feed the dog. Water the plants. Right.
You sat cross-legged on the tatami floor, staring into the eyes of Maru, his perfectly polite, unbothered Shiba Inu, who sat like a loaf of judgment on the rug.
“So,” you began, cracking open a bag of dog treats like it was a therapy session, “you ever just… fall in love with your best friend and then try to play it cool but everything about them makes you spiral?”
“You know what I mean, right?” you continued. “Like, his hands? Always clean. Nails trimmed. Washes rice properly. Says ‘thank you’ to cashiers. Pet a cat once and the cat followed him for two blocks.”
You threw your hands up. “I am but a feral raccoon next to his divine, Shiba-like serenity.”
Maru gave a soft "boof" and placed a paw gently on your leg.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “I feel seen.”
You sighed and fell dramatically backwards onto the floor. “He probably doesn’t even know I like him. He probably just thinks I like his dog. Which, like, yes, Maru, you’re perfect—but I would walk barefoot across a LEGO swamp for that man.”
Kita Shinsuke was standing at the door.
He had come home early. With dog food. And mochi. And a quiet hope that maybe you’d still be there when he got back.
What he didn’t expect was to walk into a full-blown emotional TED Talk, starring you and his emotionally grounded dog.
He stood frozen for a second. Processing. Emotionally buffering.
And then Maru turned to him. Tail wagged once. Loudly.
You sat up and blinked. “Did—did your dog just betray me?”
Kita cleared his throat gently, holding up the bag of mochi like it could protect him. “I came home early.”
Your soul flew out the window and knocked over three houseplants on the way.
“So,” he said, still calm as ever. “You’d walk across a LEGO swamp for me?”
You choked. “I was having a moment with your dog.”
Kita stepped forward, placed the mochi on the table, and gently sat next to you. Maru climbed into his lap like this was all very normal.
“I like you too,” he said, looking you straight in the eyes with his calm samurai energy. “I was hoping you'd say something. I just didn’t think it would be to Maru.”
“…Your dog is emotionally available,” you whispered, near tears.
Kita smiled softly. “He’s a good listener. But I’m here now.”
You nodded. “Okay. Cool. Casual. Normal.”
Then you fell backwards again.
You didn’t expect to become a ferret mom.
At Suna Rintaro’s apartment. Again. Babysitting Tofu the demon noodle who loved you more than life itself.
“Tofu,” you said flatly, as you tried to pry him out of your hoodie. “Personal space is a concept. Have you considered learning it?”
Right between your boobs.
Like it was his God-given right.
You choked. “Tofu, PLEASE—”
He chirped again, did a little death roll (like a dolphin but pervier), and went limp. Fully. Asleep.
Dead center of your chest.
You sat there, frozen, like someone had just shoved a warm tube sock filled with judgment down your shirt.
“Why are you like this?” you whispered. “You don’t even know me like that.”
Because this wasn’t the first time.
The first time was three weeks ago, when Suna left you alone in his room for five minutes, and Tofu took it as a green light to commit chest-based crimes.
Tofu: *insert ferret into boob crevice like USB into a port*
You had tried pushing him away.
He bit your pinky and squeaked in betrayal.
You had tried wearing tight shirts.
He dug through the neckhole like a horny mole.
You had tried explaining to Suna that this was technically harassment.
Suna? Had the nerve to smirk and go,
“Damn. Guess he has good taste.”
And Suna… Suna had just walked back in the room.
“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe like a man in a shampoo commercial, “should I be jealous?”
You shot him a look. “Control your ferret.”
He snorted. “He’s his own man.”
You flailed, trying to scoop the gremlin out of your hoodie, but Tofu clung tighter, squeaking in protest like you were trying to rip him from his soulmate.
“Rin,” you groaned. “He’s making muffins on my sternum.”
Suna, now sitting beside you, casually popped open the chips and leaned over to look.
Tofu chirped softly in his sleep.
“…Yeah, he’s definitely in love with you,” Suna said, crunching loudly.
“I am NOT about to be second place to your emotionally needy lint roller.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he replied, eyeing how red your face was. “You let him do that a *lot*.”
He held up a chip like a peace offering. “C’mon. Admit it. You like him.”
Did you say that OUT LOUD?!
Suna slowly turned his head, one brow raised.
“…Sorry?” he said, too calm.
You swallowed. “I said. I like you. Not just your ferret. Although he is—um—very warm.”
Tofu chose that moment to roll over and kick his leg out like he was dreaming of tax evasion.
“You know,” he muttered, voice lower, almost teasing, “I was gonna wait. Say something later.”
“But watching you get dominated by a noodle rodent in HD kind of forced my hand.”
“Am I?” he smirked. “Or are you just embarrassed your cleavage is his new studio apartment?”
You punched him in the arm.
“…For the record,” he murmured, voice softer now, “I like you too.”
Tofu squeaked again in his sleep.
You sighed. “This is gonna be such a weird love story to explain to our kids.”
The bird screamed louder.
It flapped into the air like a flying megaphone, doing loop-de-loops and whistling the Jaws theme song, while you dodged for your life and yelled,
“ATSUMU, WHY IS YOUR BIRD CATCALLING ME?!”
From the kitchen, he casually called back,
“Oh, yeah, that’s just Cap’n. He likes ya.”
Cap’n, short for Captain Miya, had perched on the curtain rod now, head cocked like a sassy little pirate.
He whistled again.
Twice.
You narrowed your eyes.
“…Did he just do the ‘two whistle flirt’ from TikTok?”
“Yup,” Atsumu grinned, walking in with snacks. “Taught him that m’self.”
You stared at the cockatiel.
He winked.
HE WINKED.
From then on, every time you came over, Cap’n Miya acted up.
He would land on your shoulder like he owned the place, try to nest in your hair, and once—once!—bit Atsumu on the nose when he tried to sit too close to you on the couch.
“Is your bird jealous of you?” you asked.
Atsumu blinked. “Honestly? I think he wants t’fight me for ya.”
Cap’n screeched from the top of the bookshelf and then proceeded to yell
“BACK OFF! BACK OFF! MINE!!”
Your jaw dropped. “WHAT DID HE JUST SAY?”
Atsumu laughed so hard he dropped his cup noodles.
The problem is…
you started talking to Cap’n like he was your therapist.
Like—full sit-down sessions.
“Do you think Atsumu flirts with everyone or just me?”
Cap’n Miya, fluffing up dramatically and turning his head upside down:
You blinked. “Birds… birds can’t stomp.”
Cap’n literally stomped again.
“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU.”
You shrieked and ran into the bathroom.
From outside, muffled through the door, you heard:
“KISSY KISSY! MWAH MWAH~”
You clutched your head and whispered to yourself,
“Why do I feel like I’m being bullied by a sentient feather duster.”
The final straw was when Atsumu came home early while you were babysitting the bird.
You didn’t know he was there.
So you were sitting cross-legged on the floor, nose-to-beak with Captain Miya, whispering like a deranged villain in a Disney spin-off
“Listen here, you feathered narc. If you repeat one more thing about my feelings for your stupid hot owner, I will personally turn you into an overpriced pillow from Etsy.”
That voice did not come from the bird.
You turned your head so slowly, it might’ve cracked your spine.
There stood Atsumu, gym bag half-zipped, one eyebrow raised, towel over his shoulder, hair damp from shower sweat and god probably—
“Did… did ya just threaten t’commit war crimes on my bird?”
Cap’n Miya, little devil that he was, launched himself from the couch, fluttered dramatically into the air like a WWE entrance, and screamed at the top of his lungs:
“KISSY KISSY~!!! MWAH MWAH—”
Your soul left your body.
Your brain short-circuited.
Your dignity? Deceased.
You backed into the corner like a cornered raccoon, muttering, “Okay I can explain—”
But Atsumu didn’t laugh this time.
That dangerous, cocky grin that made you regret every time you told yourself he wasn’t your type.
Took three steps forward.
You tried to speak—
“I– okay– I– it’s not—”
But he cut you off by gently moving your hand off the bird, brushing your cheek with his knuckles, and leaning in close enough that you could smell the orange Gatorade on his breath.
“Shoulda told me sooner,” he whispered.
Then—
Right there.
Soft. Warm. Just a little bit smug.
Captain Miya exploded into a cacophony of squawks and whistles like a drunk DJ mashing buttons in excitement.
“WOOOOOOOOO~!!”
“Y/N’S GOT A BOYFRIEND! Y/N’S GOT A BOYFRIEND!”
You groaned into Atsumu’s chest.
“Can we put him in bird jail now.”
Atsumu laughed. “Nah, babe, I owe him one. He’s the best wingman I ever had.”
The bird fluffed up, preened himself proudly, and screamed:
“YOU’RE WELCOME, LOSERS!!!”
You didn’t think Osamu would leave you alone with his cat.
You’d dropped by to bring him lunch at his onigiri shop, only for him to shove his keys into your hand with a casual “Can ya check on Tuna? He gets cranky if he misses his 3PM nap snack.”
Sprawled on Osamu’s couch.
With a large, judgmental, biscuit-making cat rhythmically kneading your chest like it owed him money.
“Dude,” you muttered, glancing down at the fluffy orange menace. “That is not sourdough. Chill.”
Tuna, the certified loaf, just stared up at you with his half-lidded judgmental eyes and kept kneading.
Right on your boobs. Unbothered. Unapologetic. Purring like a damn engine.
You were frozen. This was NOT what you signed up for when you agreed to babysit a “sleepy little guy.”
“I’m gonna start charging rent,” you warned, hand hovering above his head. “You’re getting way too comfy on my chest. That’s premium real estate.”
Tuna blinked slowly. Then—
You went still. He went still.
“Bro,” you whispered. “You did not just—”
Just enough that one single toe bean dipped into your mouth.
You sat straight up, flailing, almost throwing the cat off the couch in the chaos.
“WHY. WHY DID YOU PUT YOUR PAW IN MY MOUTH?! ARE YOU OKAY?? AM I OKAY?? ARE WE DATING NOW???”
Still on your chest. Still purring. Like he knew.
Like he was about to ruin your life with one meow.
And that was when Osamu walked in.
Bag of groceries in one hand. Keys in the other. Stopped dead in the doorway.
Then turned to Osamu and let out the longest meow you’d ever heard. Like he was filing a report.
“...What’s goin’ on here?” Osamu asked slowly, eyes narrowing.
You sat there, hand mid-air, cat still ON YOUR CHEST, guilty as hell, toe bean residue probably still on your tongue, and said:
“…This is not what it looks like.”
“Y’let Tuna put his paw in yer mouth, and I’m the one who gets flirty accusations?”
You spluttered. “It was involuntary mouth-to-paw contact!”
“Oh, sure,” he said, setting the bag down, strolling toward you. “Next thing I know, ya tell me ya kissed him goodnight and shared a milkshake.”
“Tuna’s a menace,” you whispered, as Tuna began biscuit-making again on your chest like a smug fluffy dictator.
“Yeah, well,” Osamu said, now inches from you. “You’re the one lettin’ him feel you up.”
You glared. “That’s it. Both of you are getting neutered.”
Osamu just laughed and leaned down, brushing your cheek with his lips. “You’re cute when you’re panicked.”
“Don’t. Encourage. The cat.”
Brrrrt, Tuna purred, snuggling deeper into your chest.
“Just a few hours,” Aran had said, tossing you Sunny’s leash with a lazy grin. “He’s super chill. Loves cuddles, snacks, and sunbathing on the floor. You’ll be fine.”
Because Aran always said things like that — smooth, casual, confident — with that deep voice and warm smile that made you want to believe everything was gonna be okay.
But everything was not okay.
You lasted exactly 3.5 minutes before you realized you were babysitting a golden retriever version of a frat boy.
Sunny — fluffy, golden, tail wagging at light speed — greeted you by jumping straight into your arms like a literal missile, smothering your face in wet, overly enthusiastic kisses. He then proceeded to run full-speed into a wall, bounce off, and happily bring you one of Aran’s used gym socks like it was the crown jewels.
“...You’re insane,” you told him.
You tried to calm him down. You really tried.
You gave him treats. He swallowed them whole.
You played fetch. He brought back a shoe from someone else’s doorstep.
You gave him water. He drank it… then sneezed directly into your mouth.
“Jesus Christ, Sunny—can you please chill?!”
No. Instead, when you bent over to pick up the sock he left under the coffee table, you felt it.That terrible pressure.
That cursed THUMP-THUMP rhythm on your leg.
You froze. Time stopped. The room fell silent. Eye twitched.
Sunny. HUMPING. YOUR. LEG.
Like it was the love of his life and this was the final scene of The Notebook.
You shook your leg. He held on tighter.
You screamed. He wagged his tail *faster*.
Aran strolled in with a plate of sliced mango like he was walking out of a damn cooking show. “Everything alri—HOLY SHIT—SUNNY!! DOWN”
Sunny paused… and let out the most sinful, unholy moan you've ever heard in your life.
“HE MOANED. ARAN, YOUR DOG JUST MOANED.”
“He’s… expressive,” Aran offered weakly.
“I—I didn’t think he’d do this to you.”
“Why?! Because I don’t have a leg worth humping?”
“NO—wait, what? Noooo, baby girl—your leg is prime—wait, no, shit, I didn’t mean it like that—”
While Aran was busy fumbling over his words and dying from secondhand embarrassment, Sunny had the audacity to plop his butt on the floor, tongue out, tail wagging, as if to say “Round 2?”
You glared at him. “You’re going to dog jail.”
Later, once you’d locked Sunny in the bathroom for some *alone time* and Aran had recovered enough to look you in the eye again, you sat beside him on the couch, both slightly traumatized.
“…He really likes you,” Aran mumbled.
You side-eyed him. “If your version of like involves my thigh being emotionally and physically violated, I’m good.”
Aran chuckled, rubbing his hand down his face. “I’m sorry. He’s never like this. I swear.”
You crossed your arms, fake-pouting. “And yet I’ve become the object of his lust.”
He bit back a grin, leaning a little closer. “He’s got good taste.”
You blinked. “…Are you flirting with me while your dog is humping the air behind the door?”
Aran glanced at the bathroom. “He’s just… excited for us. He ships it.”
You snorted. “I hate you.”
You were babysitting **TonTon**, Ushijima Wakatoshi’s beloved pet tortoise, while he was out at volleyball practice.
He had texted you instructions like "feed him at 4 PM" and "make sure he doesn’t try to climb the stairs." Which, okay, fair, but also why did TonTon have a vibe like he would climb the stairs out of pure spite?
So now you were sitting on Ushijima’s floor, mid-spiral, holding a leaf of lettuce like it was a mic and TonTon was your therapist.
“Okay, listen, TonTon,” you said solemnly, watching the tortoise blink in that ancient, judgmental way. “I know you probably don't care, but I have to say it somewhere or I’ll explode and end up in jail for stealing this man’s hoodie.”
TonTon chewed slowly. Menacingly.
“I have a crush on your dad.”
You immediately winced. “Wait, no—not your dad. Your owner. Not that he’s a daddy—oh my god what am I saying?”
You laid flat on the floor. TonTon just kept chewing like the elderly soul he was, showing zero mercy.
“I mean, look at him, TonTon,” you sighed dramatically, lettuce still in hand. “He’s calm. Grounded. Looks like he could crush someone emotionally and physically. And that one time he said my name during roll call? I had to sit down. Sit. Down.”
You fed TonTon another piece of lettuce like you were bribing him to forget everything.
“I’m losing it,” you mumbled. “Your dad—I mean, Ushijima—touched my shoulder once and I accidentally said ‘thank you’ like he handed me money.”
TonTon moved exactly one inch closer.
You stared at him, horrified. “Are you approaching me with judgment?”
There he was. Ushijima. Home early. Towering. Holding a bag of lettuce like some divine, stoic salad god.
You and TonTon locked eyes like two criminals caught red-handed in the middle of a crime scene.
“I forgot my water bottle,” Ushijima said calmly. Then.. “Did you just say you have a crush on me?”
You considered becoming a tortoise. Right then and there. Crawling into a shell and disappearing for eternity.
TonTon chose violence and let out a crunchy CHOMP of betrayal.
Ushijima blinked. “TonTon only eats when he’s calm. He seems very calm.”
You were dying. Dying inside. “He’s… uh… really emotionally stable.”
“I know,” Ushijima said, now kneeling down to give TonTon a little pat. “Just like you.”
Your brain blue-screened.
“Yes,” he said seriously. “You’re calm. Like a warm day. Sometimes unpredictable. But grounded. I like that.”
“I have to go,” Ushijima said, rising. “But… we can talk later. If you want.”
As the door shut behind him again, you turned to TonTon.
TonTon blinked. Took another bite of lettuce.
You were once a self-respecting human being.
Monty the albino corn snake. Monty the slither noodle. Monty, who lived in a bougie glass tank in Tendo Satori’s room, complete with heat lamps, fake leaves, and a decorative log that looked suspiciously judgmental.
You hadn’t planned on trauma-dumping your entire romantic dilemma to a reptile. But here you were. Again. Sitting cross-legged on Tendo’s floor, babysitting Monty while Tendo ran to get snacks. And Monty was just staring. Unblinking. All-knowing.
“You know,” you said casually, resting your chin in your palm. “I feel like I’m losing it.”
Monty slithered halfway out of his log. A subtle movement. A threat.
“Don’t give me that look,” you said, narrowing your eyes. “You’re not better than me just because you don’t pay taxes.”
Monty flicked his tongue.
You scoffed. “Okay, that was uncalled for.”
There was silence. The kind of silence that made you self-reflect.
“…Fine. I might like Tendo. A little. Like, an appropriate amount. Maybe. It’s not like I doodled our initials on my math notes or anything—” You paused. “Okay, I did. But just once.”
Monty moved closer to the glass.
You glared at him. “Do you have something to say? Huh? You wanna fight me, snakeboy?”
“Oh my god, you’re judging me.”
“FINE! I think he’s cool, okay?! With his stupid long legs and his weird laugh and the way he remembers everyone’s birthdays even though no one asked?? And he makes the best popcorn and he lets me pick the movies even though I always choose psychological thrillers that mess us both up emotionally???”
Monty flicked his tongue again. A soundless “uh-huh.”
You sighed, lying flat on the floor in defeat. “He has no idea. I am a vault. A secret-holding fortress. A professional actor.”
Monty slithered into his water bowl and just stared at you through the water like a ghost from a horror movie.
“…Okay, you know what? That’s fair.”
You flinched and sat up so fast your spine cracked like bubble wrap.
Tendo peeked in, holding two bags of chips and a bottle of soda. “You two bonding again?”
You panicked. “WHO’S BONDING? I DON’T EVEN KNOW THIS SNAKE.”
Tendo blinked. “You literally named him ‘Monty Python’ last week.”
You froze. “I—Right. Yeah. Sorry. Just… rehearsing.”
“For a play. Called *‘Snake Secrets and Stupid Feelings.’* It’s experimental.”
Tendo chuckled and walked in, setting the snacks down beside you. “You’re weird.”
You shrugged, still flustered. “Takes one to know one.”
He looked at you for a beat, and then… smiled. The soft kind. Not the chaotic grin. Not the teasing smirk. The kind that made your stomach do a full Olympic gymnastics routine.
“You know Monty likes you, right?” he said, sitting beside you.
You snorted. “What, did he text you or something?”
Tendo shrugged. “Sort of. He only comes out of his log when you talk. Usually he ignores people. Including me.”
You blinked. “Wait. He’s listening?!”
Tendo grinned. “Oh yeah. He knows everything.”
Monty slowly curled into a spiral. Very smug. Very I told you so.
You turned back to Tendou. “Does Monty also know I like you?”
Tendo’s eyes sparkled. “I did.”
He leaned closer. “Monty’s been telling me everything.”
You pointed at the tank. “You’re telling me you’ve been using your snake as an emotional surveillance device?!”
Tendo laughed so hard he nearly dropped the chips. “You’re just mad he exposed you.”
You stood up dramatically. “I CAN’T BELIEVE I CONFESSED TO A COLD-BLOODED BETRAYER.”
Tendou grabbed your wrist gently and pulled you back down. “If it helps… Monty also told me I should make a move.”
You stared. “What kind of psychic snake is he?!”
Tendou leaned in. “The kind that gets you a date.”
Monty blinked. One. Slow. Judgy. Blink.
Akaashi said he’d only be gone ten minutes.
Ten minutes to grab new ink refills and a croissant. Totally harmless. Totally innocent.
Except for the part where he left you alone in his apartment.
His floppy-eared menace of a rabbit. Who blinked like a disappointed grandma and stomped like an angry roommate whenever you dared to lie in his sacred presence.
You sat on the floor, legs criss-crossed, glaring at the bunny who was currently chewing hay like he knew your whole emotional backstory.
“Okay, so maybe I used to like Akaashi,” you whispered like it was a crime. “But that was, like, two crushes ago. Old news.”
Shigure’s foot hit the floor like a gavel. You flinched.
“I’m serious! It’s just—he’s too polite. Too soft-spoken. Like a sexy ghost librarian. I don’t even like that type anymore.”
“…Okay fine, maybe I still think about his hands when I can’t sleep—”
“SHIGURE, I’M LITERALLY BEGGING YOU TO STOP JUDGING ME.”
The rabbit paused. Tilted his fluffy head. Judgmental silence.
You groaned and collapsed backward on the carpet.
“It’s not my fault, okay? He always smells like fresh paper and morally sound decisions. He writes poetry for fun. I found a haiku about tea in his notebook once and I haven’t known peace since.”
Shigure hopped over and sat on your chest like he was claiming your sins.
“You don’t understand,” you continued, eyes wild now. “Yesterday he adjusted his glasses and I blacked out. I looked up and suddenly I had seventeen wedding boards on Pinterest—”
“...Should I be concerned?”
Your soul left your body.
Akaashi was standing in the doorway. Holding a small paper bag. And his wallet. And the knowledge that you were a walking, talking, simping disaster.
“I forgot my—” he paused, eyes scanning the scene: you on the floor, his rabbit pinning you down like a fluffy demon, and the look of spiritual regret on your face.
“…what did I walk in on?”
Shigure hopped off you with the grace of a betrayer. Akaashi raised one brow.
“I—I—was—” you sat up, brain buffering, “talking to your rabbit. Like a normal person.”
“Mm,” Akaashi nodded slowly. “Normal people confess how much they love my hands… to my rabbit.”
You slapped your hands over your face. “Please delete me.”
“Can’t,” he said, too calmly. “You’re my favorite file.”
Shigure stomped again. Probably in approval.
You considered throwing yourself out the window. But then Akaashi walked over and offered you a second croissant.
You blinked. “You brought me food?”
“Well,” he said, smiling ever-so-slightly, “it seemed you were having a dramatic meltdown in my absence. I thought carbs might help.”
The bunny sat between you two.
Like a chaperone. Or a smug wingman.
You both pretended not to be flustered. Shigure knew better.
Bokuto was out buying mango slices.
Why? Because Mango, his actual lovebird, threw a tantrum when he ran out yesterday. Screamed bloody murder. Flung seed. Launched herself off the curtain rod in dramatic betrayal. Bokuto nearly cried from guilt.
Which left you…
Alone.
In his room.
With Mango.
Who was currently clinging to your shirt like her tiny bird life depended on it.
You poked her gently. “I know you can’t talk. But we need to have a conversation about boundaries.”
Mango squawked. Then shoved her beak under your chin like, Affection now, clown.
You sighed, carefully scratching the top of her head. “This is all your fault. You and your bird dad. With his ridiculous arms and his sparkly eyes and the fact that he smells like coconut and competence—like who let him DO that?”
Mango, uninterested in your emotional spiral, was now climbing up your sleeve like a parrot ninja.
You continued, helpless, “He’s always like, ‘Heeeeyyyy~ Y/N!’ like he doesn’t know that I need five to ten business days to recover. He complimented my shoelaces yesterday. Shoelaces. I thought about it for four hours.”
Not just any scream.
A direct, judgmental shriek.
Bird-language for: “OH MY GOD GET A GRIP.”
“DON’T JUDGE ME,” you hissed. “YOU DON’T KNOW MY LIFE.”
Mango took off.
FLYING.
Circling the room like a feathery drone of chaos, knocking over a water bottle, a sock, and what might have been a protein bar. She landed dramatically on Bokuto’s desk, fluffed up like a warlord, and made direct, soul-piercing eye contact.
A tiny lovebird foot came down in what can only be described as pure condemnation.
“EXCUSE ME???” you shouted. “Did you just… JUDGE-STOMP?”
She stomped again.
Then leapt into the air and did what can only be described as an aerial backflip, landed on your head, and BURIED HER WHOLE FACE IN YOUR HAIR.
It was a duet of horror and mutual betrayal.
“I AM NOT IN LOVE,” you shrieked at her. “YOU’RE JUST TOO CUTE AND YOUR DAD IS TOO LOUD AND HOT, THAT’S NOT THE SAME THING.”
Mango flopped over dramatically on your head like a Disney princess fainting on a balcony.
You were about to start a full-on debate with this bird when the door opened.
“Hey, I’m back! They had the good mangoes—”
Bokuto stopped.
Stared.
At you.
On the floor.
Hair fluffed. Face red. With his lovebird currently nuzzling your cheek like she’d claimed you in a sacred mating ritual.
“…She likes you more than she likes me,” he said, grinning.
“I don’t know what happened,” you whispered, internally sobbing. “She screamed. I screamed. There was stomping.”
Bokuto crossed the room in two long strides and offered you his hand, eyes crinkled with amusement. “She only does that when she’s really comfortable. Or when she senses crush energy.”
You took his hand in defeat. “Crush energy isn’t real.”
Mango screeched from your shoulder.
Bokuto: “That was her saying ‘liar.’”
You: “I hate this household.”
Bokuto: “So when’s the wedding? I’ll let her be the ring bearer.”
You: considering becoming a nun
You were once a normal person.
That was before Iwaizumi Hajime’s bearded dragon entered your life like a scaly, sunlamp-worshipping therapist with side-eyes sharper than a knife set.
You didn’t intend to talk to the reptile. But here you were. Again. Sitting on Iwaizumi’s couch while he ran to the pet shop for “crickets and calcium powder,” whatever that meant, and you were left with Spike — his little dinosaur son who blinked once every two business days and looked at you like you weren’t good enough for his dad.
“Okay, look,” you muttered, leaning forward on the couch, staring into his soulless yellow lizard eyes. “I know we don’t talk often, but I need to get this off my chest.”
Spike just stood there, basking under his heat lamp like the sun god he thought he was.
You sighed. “Do you think he likes me?”
You scooted a little closer. “Because like… he lets me sit in his spot on the couch. You know the one. The little dent where his butt lives.”
Spike did a very slow blink.
“That’s boyfriend behavior, right?”
“Okay, maybe not. But he also gave me one of his hoodies once. Said it smelled like ‘gym and regret’ but I didn’t mind. I wore it for three days straight. Is that love?”
Spike turned his head just slightly to the left.
You gasped. “So it’s NOT love?! Are you telling me I’m delusional?!”
Spike raised one claw and rested it on his rock.
“…Don’t you dare judge me, scaly god. You don’t even pay rent.”
At that, Spike opened his mouth. Not a hiss. Not a squeak. Just an empty void of judgment.
You stood up. “You know what? No. I’m tired of living in fear of you. You’re not better than me. You eat bugs for breakfast.”
“...Okay. I didn’t mean that. You’re a very respectable reptile. Please don’t curse me.”
Spike turned away like you were beneath him.
You sat back down, defeated. “Fine. Maybe I’m projecting. Maybe I do like Iwaizumi. Maybe I imagine what our kids would look like. They’d be ripped and have moral integrity. That’s terrifying but beautiful.”
Spike looked back at you.
“…You’ve known this whole time, haven’t you?”
You jumped like you got caught cheating on a math test.
Iwaizumi walked in, holding a bag of groceries and one suspiciously specific bouquet of your favorite flowers. “Hey,” he said, walking over. “You good? Look like you saw a ghost.”
You laughed nervously. “Haha, no, not at all, I was just talking to Spike about taxes.”
Iwaizumi paused. “You… were talking to my lizard about taxes.”
“Yup. GDP. Inflation. The whole shebang.”
He raised an eyebrow, glancing at Spike. “You told her, didn’t you?”
You blinked. “Told me what?”
Iwaizumi walked over, leaned down… and pressed the flowers into your hands. “That I like you.”
Spike crawled onto his basking rock and nodded.
“WHAT IN THE DISNEY PIXAR—” you screamed, nearly throwing the flowers and falling off the couch.
Iwaizumi caught you with one arm, totally casual. “Told you he liked you. He doesn’t nod for just anyone.”
You looked between Iwaizumi and his judgmental dragon. “So you’re telling me… I confessed my situationship brain rot to a magical, semi-psychic bearded lizard… and he’s been your wingman this whole time?”
Spike licked his own eyeball.
Iwaizumi chuckled. “So… dinner? I made yakisoba.”
“Also...you talk to Spike about me?!”
You blinked. “That’s unhinged.”
Iwaizumi smirked. “So are you.”
You swore you weren’t scared of dogs.
But this—this was not a dog.
This was a 4-pound puff of chaos with beady eyes, trust issues, and an attitude worse than your ex.
Her mission? Terrorize anyone who gets too close to Oikawa Tooru.
Her target? You. Always. Without mercy.
You were currently sitting on Oikawa’s couch, legs tucked neatly under you like someone preparing for a war crime, as Princess sat just one cushion away — staring you down like she knew your deepest sins.
Loud. Piercing. Condescending.
“Stop judging me,” you muttered, glaring at her. “I haven’t even touched him.”
Princess growled softly, like she knew that was a lie.
You crossed your arms. “I mean—okay. Maybe I look at him. Occasionally. With longing. But like, who doesn’t?”
Princess blinked. You were pretty sure it was sarcastic.
You scooted an inch away. She scooted an inch closer.
“Oh my god,” you whispered. “He trained you to hate me, didn’t he?”
She barked again, and you could feel the judgment radiating from her tiny, furry soul.
“Alright, fine! I like him, okay? Happy now? I like your stupid perfect owner with his stupid perfect face and his stupid little hair flips and his STUPID little wink when he wins at Mario Kart even though he’s CHEATING—”
“Is she threatening you again?” came a familiar voice from the hallway.
Oikawa casually walked into the living room, holding a bowl of popcorn and two sodas. He raised an eyebrow as he caught the tail end of your emotional meltdown.
“Wait, back up,” he said slowly, placing the snacks down. “Did you just call me perfect?”
Princess barked so violently she fell off the couch.
Oikawa laughed. “Wow, sold out by a dog. That’s rough.”
“She’s a traitor!” you yelled. “I’ve done nothing but feed her organic duck jerky and talk about how fluffy she is and she BETRAYED ME.”
He shrugged and plopped down beside you, grinning like a man who had just won an emotional lottery. “Well, I mean, Princess has high standards. She hates everyone. You should feel honored.”
You pointed at the tiny beast, now curled on your leg like she hadn’t just tried to destroy your life. “She literally growled at me when I complimented your volleyball highlight reel.”
“She BIT ME WHEN I SAID I LIKE YOUR SMILE.”
“She’s a wingdog,” Oikawa said smoothly. “And she’s working overtime.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but paused.
He smirked. “You confessed to my dog, Y/n. Loudly. For three separate visits in a row.”
“She doesn’t speak English!!”
He leaned closer. “But I do.”
You panicked. “Forget everything you just heard—”
You and Princess both turned to him.
“…You do?” you whispered.
He nodded. “Duh. But I had to make sure *my daughter* approved.”
Oikawa scratched her chin. “She says yes. But also that you need to stop lying about my Mario Kart skills.”
You gasped. “YOU’RE STILL A CHEATER.”
He shrugged. “I cheat with style.”
Princess barked in agreement.
You stared at the two of them — a beautiful, chaotic man and his demon dog daughter.
The first thing you noticed was the size.
Kyōtani’s rottweiler, Kiba, was less of a dog and more of a small horse. Muscles like a linebacker. A jaw like a bear trap. Eyes that said, “I’ve done some things. And I’d do them again.”
You stood at the door, holding the leash Kyōtani had just handed you, heart pounding.
“You sure he’s friendly?” you asked, eyeing Kiba, who was staring at you like you were either prey or his new mom.
Kyōtani blinked, utterly unbothered. “Yeah. He likes you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “He’s growling.”
“That’s his love language.”
Kiba, beside him, let out a low rumbly *gruff*… and licked his lips.
To be fair, Kiba didn’t attack you.
Nope. What he did instead?
Like a tank-sized shadow with a possessive streak.
You went to the kitchen? Click-clack — he followed.
Sat on the couch? Whomp — his head was on your lap.
Went to the bathroom? Scratch-scratch-scratch — your personal bouncer was outside the door like, “You good in there, princess?”
It was cute, in an I’m-a-little-afraid-he’ll-eat-me kind of way.
You peeked out of the hallway. “Kentarō… your dog keeps watching me like he wants to marry me or maul me. Or both.”
Kyōtani, lounging shirtless on the floor doing pushups (because of course he was), just shrugged. “He’s protective.”
“…So is he gonna let me leave? Or nah?”
“Nope,” Kyōtani said without looking up. “You live here now.”
Later that night, you tried to chill on the couch and maybe binge some trash TV.
Kiba climbed up beside you like he paid rent.
Then, without warning, he planted his whole body on your lap, head under your chin, grumbling and nuzzling. Like, “Pet me. Praise me. I own you.”
“He’s… affectionate,” you said slowly, patting Kiba awkwardly as he snorted against your chest.
Kyōtani looked up from his phone, watching the two of you with that unreadable face of his — and then… smirked. Just a tiny one. Dangerous.
“He doesn’t do that with anyone else.”
Then, Kiba did something terrible.
He made a noise — like a low, dramatic sigh — and gently shoved his entire snout between your thighs.
“YOUR DOG JUST WENT FACE-FIRST INTO THE TRIANGLE OF SIN—”
“SNIFFING WHAT—THE MEANING OF LIFE?!”
You tried to push Kiba back, but he just grumbled, adjusted, and fell asleep with his whole body weighing down your legs and his chin casually resting on your upper thigh like it was a goddamn pillow.
“Great,” you muttered. “He’s crushing my femurs. I’m never walking again.”
Kyōtani got up, walked over, leaned down—and gave your cheek a light kiss.
You blinked. “What was that for?”
He shrugged. “Kiba claimed you. So I’m claiming you back.”
You stared at him, brain rebooting.
Kiba let out a satisfied grunt in his sleep.
And from that moment on, you weren’t sure who was scarier
Kyōtani, his jealous rottweiler, or how much you liked both.
You were terrified the first time Sakusa introduced you to his cat.
No fur. All wrinkles. Piercing, judgy stare.
It was like meeting the ghost of a rich widow’s ex-husband who died under *mysterious circumstances*.
“This is Hairball, ironic, I know ” Sakusa had said, like the creature hadn’t just hissed at you from its silk blanket throne.
Now you were at Sakusa’s apartment, laid back on his couch in a hoodie and shorts, with a completely naked, wrinkled, and slightly moist sphynx cat draped across your chest like a dramatic scarf.
Hairball, the emotionally unstable hairless gremlin, was aggressively purring—because you were giving him little chin scratches and whispering sweet nothings like
“Don’t worry, baby. I’d never let Omi cut your nailbeds too short again. That was emotional damage.”
Hairball purred louder, his alien-looking body vibrating like an angry cell phone. You were his safe space now. His chosen.
“Yeah, yeah. I know you hate that lavender shampoo. It makes you smell like a haunted grandma. I said go for the cucumber melon one, but did Omi listen? Nooooo—”
You yelped—literally yelped—and whipped around.
Sakusa stood in the hallway with two mugs of tea and a very flat expression.
You hadn’t even heard him come in.
Then back at you, still pinned by a naked cat whose eyes were smug now.
“…Are you gossiping with my cat?” Sakusa asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously.
You immediately panicked. “NO. No. I was just—ventilating. Verbally. It’s a self-soothing technique. Therapists recommend it.”
Hairball looked Sakusa dead in the eyes and let out a single, long hiss.
Sakusa blinked. “Did you just get kissed before me. By my cat.”
“I—I didn’t ask for it!” you squeaked.
“Is that why you’re stroking his little gremlin belly and calling him your precious wart baby?”
Your jaw dropped. “I didn’t call him—!!”
“Oh, you did,” Sakusa said flatly, walking over and setting the mugs down.
Hairball stretched across you like the most dramatic runway model alive, paw smacking your boob like he paid rent there.
“You’ve officially become the only person he lets touch him,” he muttered, almost bitterly.
You blinked. “Wait. Really?”
He narrowed his eyes. “He bit my aunt. Twice. He refuses to sleep next to me unless I put a heated towel down first. But you—he lets you stick your face in his belly folds and call him ‘my little wrinkly ass wart.’”
You coughed, trying not to laugh. “You heard that?”
Sakusa just gave you a look.
“You’re jealous,” you accused, grinning.
“I am not jealous of a cat.”
Hairball sneezed in Sakusa’s direction.
“...Okay, maybe a little,” he muttered.
You patted the space beside you. “Come cuddle with us, Omi.”
“You can be the big spoon.”
“You can be the little spoon.”
“I’m going to burn that hoodie if it smells like cat.”
Hairball meowed sweetly and patted your cheek with a wrinkly paw.
You smirked. “You’re just mad he got to second base before you.”
But five minutes later, guess who joined you on the couch with a clean towel so hairball wouldn't touch him directly?
Being roommates with Kuroo Tetsuro wasn’t bad.
Sure, he left hair gel on the sink and his dirty socks migrated to places no socks should be — like the microwave. But otherwise? Chill dude. Paid bills on time. Didn’t hog the bathroom. Made bomb curry.
A sleek, smug black cat named Tetsu who was, quite literally, his twin in feline form: sharp eyes, mysterious vibes, and a talent for making people feel like they were the pet.
Y/n didn’t mind him. Until this day.
“Kuroo,” she called from the kitchen, already regretting everything. “Your little demon just knocked over the tampon box again. WHY is that his favorite toy?!”
From his room: “He respects your womanhood.”
She groaned, then froze as she spotted something.
Laundry basket. Top layer. Lacy underwear.
“No. Nope. Don’t even think abou—HEY!”
He lunged like a perverted shadow gremlin, grabbed a black lace thong like it was the last Horcrux, and bolted under the couch with a speed that could shame Olympic sprinters.
Cue Y/n on her knees, arm deep under the couch, bargaining with a feline underwear thief while waving a piece of rotisserie chicken like a hostage negotiator.
Later, she collapsed dramatically on the couch, flinging an arm over her eyes. Tetsu, satisfied with the chaos he’d unleashed, hopped onto her chest like he owned the lease.
“Yeah, yeah. Go ahead. Sit on your throne, you fluffy war criminal,” she mumbled.
Another paw. Gentle. Testing. Then—boop. Toe bean to mouth.
“PPPFFFTTT—TETSU, YOU NASTY—”
She choked, flailing, as the little bastard slid deeper into her cleavage like it was a heated blanket, tucked in with the confidence of a man who paid rent.
“Oh my god—you’re not even subtle. This is harassment.”
Then, just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, she felt a tug.
His tiny claw had hooked her camisole strap and was gently trying to pull it down.
“Are you trying to undress me?! ARE YOU A PEEPING TOM IN A CAT COSTUME?!”
“NO. STOP THAT. YOU CANNOT SEDUCE ME FOR FUNSIES.”
She was too stunned to fight. The camisole shifted slightly, and Tetsu nuzzled closer with a little sigh like this was just a Monday for him.
And that’s when Kuroo walked in.
The door opened mid-camisole-tug, mid-purr.
“Hey, I just got back from the groce—”
Y/n. On the couch. Camisole half-yanked down, cheeks red, hair messy.
His cat? Kneading her chest like it was artisanal sourdough.
Kuroo: “...I leave you alone with my son for ten minutes and you let him motorboat you?”
Lea: “I DIDN’T LET HIM—HE TOUCHED MY MOUTH AND STARTED UNDRESSING ME—”
Kuroo: “...Was it mutual?”
“WHAT THE HELL—KUROO, GET YOUR PERVERT CAT OFF MY BOOBS!”
But Kuroo just set down the groceries and laughed so hard he had to lean on the counter.
“He likes you,” he said between wheezes. “He only gets freaky with people he trusts.”
“That’s how I show trust too.”
When Aone said, “You can meet my pig,”
you did not think he meant a literal pig.
Not like…"Haha my dog eats like a pig!"
This was a full-bodied, pink, snorting, cloven-hoofed, emotionally co-dependent mini pig named Yuki.
Mini, as in "not farm size," but absolutely not emotionally mini because this pig?
At first it was kind of cute.
Yuki trotted over, sniffed your leg, and immediately collapsed on your foot like,
"This is mine now. I’ve claimed you."
Aone just blinked and nodded.
“That means she trusts you,” he said.
Yuki was not here for a casual fling.
Yuki was in it for eternity.
You couldn’t sit without her flopping next to you.
You couldn’t walk without her trotting behind you like a shadow.
She screamed—squealed like a banshee—when you went into the kitchen without her.
And the real problem started when you tried to pee.
“Aone,” you whispered, trapped in the bathroom as Yuki oinked aggressively from the other side of the door, “She’s breathing under the crack. I can see her snout.”
You heard his deep, quiet voice from the hallway.
“She doesn’t like closed doors.”
“She’s THUMPING on the door.”
“She thinks you’re trapped.”
But before Aone could come save you—the door opened.
Yuki headbutted her way in like a battering ram.
She trotted in, made DIRECT eye contact, then promptly sat on your foot again.
While you were still peeing.
Yuki oinked with satisfaction.
From then on, you had no peace.
Yuki followed you around Aone’s house like a little judgmental ghost, occasionally making low snorting sounds like she was taking notes on your sins.
At one point, you caught her trying to climb onto Aone’s bed after you’d already sat on it.
She flopped between you both and let out a sound that somehow said
Aone just sighed and gave her a gentle pat.
“She’s never like this with anyone else.”
“I feel like I’m being held hostage by Peppa Pig.”
The day came when you had to leave.
You were at the door, hugging Aone goodbye (the best 3-second hug of your life), when you heard a sound from behind:
With wide, glistening, dramatic pig eyes.
She let out a long, slow, tragic oink.
You knelt down. “Yuki, I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise—”
flopped over. Belly up. Arms out.
Like she had died of heartbreak.
You gasped. “Is she okay?!”
“She’s guilt-tripping you,” Aone said calmly, already holding her treat jar.
He tossed her a banana chip. Yuki IMMEDIATELY sprang to life and snatched it from mid-air like nothing happened.
She knew what she was doing
You still came back the next day.
Because you were pretty sure this pig would hunt you down if you didn’t.
AHH GOOD LORD I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS DFNTLY ENJOYED ASAHI AND SUNA'S PART
