genre: haikyuu imagine, fluff
pairing: shoyo hinata x fem!reader
summary: in which you and shoyo throw a party.
notes: project x adjacent.
it starts, like all bad ideas do, over fries.
you’re sitting across from shoyo in the corner booth at that dingy little diner by school—the one that smells like syrup and fryer oil no matter the time of day. it’s monday. the kind of monday where everyone’s already clocked out mentally, waiting for the weekend to come back around to do something stupid. you’re poking at your milkshake with a straw, and he’s halfway through a basket of curly fries when he says it:
“what if we threw a party?”
you look up. blink once. twice. “what?”
he leans in, eyes shining with that dumb shoyo sparkle. “like, project x. but our version. here. this weekend. my mom’s flying to fukuoka friday for her sister’s wedding, and she’s not back until monday. that’s two full days.”
you snort. “you’re insane.”
“c’mon,” he grins, flinging a fry at you. “you know it would be legendary.”
“legendary as in jail time?”
“legendary as in… people will acknowledge us. for once.”
and that part gets you a little. just a little. because it’s true, you and shoyo have spent the past three years as the background of someone else’s story. nobodies in the hall. not cool enough to party, not weird enough to avoid. just… there. always there, together.
you shake your head. “no.”
he tries again at school the next day, whispering across the aisle during chem. you flick your pen at him and tell him to go study. two days later, he catches you during your nightly facetime while you’re taking off your makeup.
“but think about it,” he whines. “just imagine the backyard. music blasting. lights everywhere. freshmen idolizing us and seniors praising us.”
“you could wear that one dress. the black one you pretend you’re not saving.”
you pause mid-wipe. “you’re annoying.”
he beams. “but i’m right.”
he brings it up again while you’re riding bikes past the river trail. he brings snacks, bribes you with pink starbursts, and nearly crashes into a mailbox when you finally say, “fine. but if we get arrested, i’m telling them you drugged me.”
he yells so loud a dog starts barking from someone’s porch.
your “friend group” consists of six people total, and that’s only if you count yachi’s cousin who’s always tagging along. they’re all in when you tell them, but in that way where they’re actually not in at all.
“you guys are going to die via alcohol poisoning or police brutality,” tsukishima says, unimpressed behind his glasses.
“you’re probably gonna burn down the house,” yamaguchi adds helpfully.
“i’d literally rather run drills for two hours than clean up after that,” kageyama grumbles.
yachi looks like she’s about to cry. “what if the cops come? can’t you guys go to jail?”
they all agree it’s a terrible idea. naturally, you and shoyo immediately start planning.
you borrow a fake ID from a sketchy upperclassman who graduated last year and now works at a vape shop. he only agrees after you promise him VIP entry and a whole pizza to himself. shoyo handles the liquor, somehow scoring three kegs, a handle of pink whitney, and a case of twisted teas through a college guy he knows from volleyball camp.
you find speakers from yachi’s older brother, dig christmas lights out of your attic, and spend the night before the party helping shoyo shove his mom’s breakables into a closet and vacuum the couch cushions for the first time since eighth grade.
“are we gonna survive this?” you ask him as you blow up your tenth inflatable pool float for the backyard.
he grins at you from where he’s taping down cords. “nope.”
at 9:17 p.m. there’s only one guy in the kitchen who won’t stop talking about his soundcloud.
you and shoyo exchange a look.
a car pulls up. then two. then eight.
by 10:00, the house is full.
and by 10:30, it’s a fever dream.
the party doesn’t start all at once. it builds.
the lights are already low when you walk back in from checking the front lawn: low and hazy and pulsing blue and pink. there’s a strip of LEDs under the kitchen counter casting a violet hue across the tile like a neon spill. someone’s already spilled something sticky and red across the fridge door. the bass starts to throb.
your body picks it up before your ears do.
it’s thick, pounding, alive. the kind of rhythm that sinks into your chest and stays there, like a second heartbeat. heads are thrown back, arms in the air, someone’s got sunglasses on inside. the living room is packed shoulder-to-shoulder, everyone sweating and moving, pressed up against each other like a collective body.
you push your way through it, lights flashing over your face in stuttering jolts. pink. blue. green. then pink again. someone grabs your hand—shoyo, and you spin into him, laughing. he’s flushed, glowing, damp with sweat, and his mouth is moving but you can’t hear him over the beat.
everything smells like weed and sweat and vodka. it smells like teenage bad decisions and febreze. the music shakes the floor. you can feel the bass in your ribs. someone’s pouring jungle juice into a mop bucket. the bathroom door is locked and someone’s making out against the wall outside it. there’s glitter on the ceiling fan. someone just slid down the stairs on a mattress. the backyard has become a jungle—floaties everywhere, kids in the pool fully clothed, tiki torches lit with someone’s lighter.
you wander past the sliding doors and feel the humid air slap your face. the music is louder out here somehow. maybe it’s just inside you now.
someone high-fives you like they know you. another one yells your name. “this party is absolutely fucking insane.” someone offers you a hit of a pink lemonade geek. you shake your head. your drink’s half gone. or maybe this is your second. or third?
you find shoyo on the back deck, surrounded by upperclassmen. someone’s teaching him how to shotgun with a twisted tea. he looks up, sees you, and the second he does, it’s like the rest of the world drops away.
he shoves the can at some random senior, stumbling toward you through the crowd like you’re the only thing he can see. the back of his neck is flushed a deep pink, his hair messy and sticking up, glitter dusted across his cheekbones from god knows where.
he reaches you, breathless, wide-eyed, like he can’t believe you’re actually real.
“there you are,” he says, and you can barely hear him over the bass rattling the deck.
you laugh, half-drunk and warm all over, and he just stares for a second, blinking like he’s trying to commit you to memory. your skin, your hair under the pink and blue lights, your mouth curved in a smile just for him.
he reaches out, hands hesitating for a split second before settling low on your waist, fingers splaying out like he’s scared you’ll disappear.
his touch is hot. through your shirt, it feels like he’s burning right through you.
“you’re so pretty right now,” he murmurs, voice rough and messy with everything he’s feeling.
you laugh a little under your breath, heart thudding painfully hard against your ribs. “you’re so drunk.”
“doesn’t mean it’s not true,” he says, almost stubbornly.
his hands tighten a little on your waist. he’s close enough that you can smell him: sweet alcohol, faint chlorine, something a little sharp like boyish deodorant and sweat. close enough that every time the bass hits, your bodies bump together, just a little.
he leans in, forehead nearly brushing yours, eyes a little glassy. “surprised you didn’t go find ichimura or whatever. he’s here, right?”
he pouts, and it’s honestly a little ridiculous how adorable he looks. “you know. that guy you dated for like, a second.”
you snort, bumping his chest lightly with your hand. “i dated him for like, a month in ninth grade, and no. i’m not looking for him.”
he raises an eyebrow, fake-offended. “oh. sorry. thought maybe you had a thing for guys who think being on JV is a personality trait.”
you laugh, full-belly, real, and his face softens immediately, like he could live off the sound.
“besides,” you say, smile fading into something smaller, more real, “i like someone else.”
his grip on your waist falters for a second. “who?”
your heart stutters. for a second, the whole world feels like it tilts sideways.
his voice is so earnest, so impossibly hopeful, it knocks the air right out of you.
you tilt your head a little, pretending to think, dragging it out just to see the way his brows scrunch and his lips part, waiting, like he’s hanging off the edge of a cliff.
you press up on your toes, hands sliding up his chest to hook around the back of his neck, pulling him down into you.
his lips crash into yours like he’s been holding back for years and finally couldn’t anymore.
he’s warm. and desperate. and so, so soft.
his mouth moves against yours hungrily, a little clumsy, like he can’t decide if he wants to kiss you slow or devour you whole. your fingers tangle into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and you feel him shiver under your touch.
he kisses you like he’s trying to memorize everything, like if he kisses you hard enough, you’ll never be able to leave him behind.
his hands move too, sliding up from your waist to your ribs, tentative, reverent, like he’s scared he’s dreaming you. when your teeth catch lightly on his bottom lip, he lets out a tiny, desperate sound from the back of his throat, like a whimper he didn’t mean to make—and it sends heat rushing through your whole body.
you deepen the kiss without thinking, pressing closer, until there’s no space left between you. your whole body buzzes, high on the moment, the heat, the bass thumping through the wooden deck under your feet.
when you finally pull back, gasping slightly, he chases after you with a soft, broken sound, eyes fluttering open slow and dazed.
his lips are red and swollen, glinting wet under the neon pink lights. he looks wrecked. completely wrecked. by you.
he sways forward again instinctively like he can’t help it, forehead falling against yours, his breath mixing with yours in the humid air.
“was that—” he starts, voice cracking.
you smile, a little drunk, a lot in love. “yeah.”
his smile splits his face, messy and huge and all teeth.
“cool,” he breathes out, like it’s the only word he can remember.
you squeeze his hand, grounding both of you. he squeezes back, so hard it almost hurts.
behind you, someone yells about the pool, and another person drops a speaker into the deep end. the party is still spinning out of control around you, sirens in the distance, the smell of smoke somewhere in the air, but you barely notice.
because shoyo hinata just kissed you like you’re the only person who’s ever mattered.
and nothing else even comes close.
the cops come at 1:48 a.m.
someone runs across the neighbor’s roof. a flamingo float ends up in the street. someone throws another speaker into the pool like it wronged them.
you and shoyo hide in the laundry room, giggling under a pile of towels, whispering about how dead you’re going to be.
because this night, the chaos, the lights, the mess, the kiss—it’s yours.
and they’ll never forget your names.
