Panties? Never heard of her.
Under where? Bold of you to assume there’s anything under there.
“You’re so wrong, it's actually impressive.”
“Wrong?” you echo, raising a brow. “Me? Says the guy who thought dolphins were fish until last year.”
Tsukishima Kei glares at you from across the living room, where he’s lounging with a smug expression and crossed arms. “Mammals can swim, thank you very much. I just forgot they had lungs.”
You snort. “Sure, Einstein.”
He huffs and leans back with that patented Tsukishima arrogance, stretching his long limbs across the couch like he owns both the furniture and the air around him. “You just don’t like losing.”
You tilt your head with mock curiosity. “Oh? So you’re claiming victory now?”
He shrugs. “I mean… yeah. I won. Obviously.”
You give him one slow blink.
Then you sigh, hands up in surrender. “Fine. You win.”
He opens his mouth to deliver what is absolutely going to be a snarky remark—but you cut him off with the real kill shot.
“Want your reward?” you say casually, stepping toward him with the tiniest smirk playing at your lips. “Spoiler alert: I’m not wearing anything underneath.”
The words hang in the air for maybe half a second.
Then he chokes on literally nothing.
“I’m—” His smug smirk falters, the sharp comeback dying instantly on his tongue as his eyes scan your face. “You’re what?”
You step even closer, leaning just enough for him to catch the glint in your eyes. “You heard me.”
“Wait—wait—what?” he sputters, now sitting fully upright, glasses sliding slightly down his nose.
Tsukishima Kei, king of sarcasm, emperor of smugness, is now blinking up at you like you just flipped gravity upside down. He visibly tries to remember the argument—whatever dumb topic it started from—but it’s gone. Vaporized. Erased from his neurons like you hit delete on his entire system.
You lean closer, just slightly. “Still feeling cocky?”
His Adam’s apple bobs. “That’s not fair.”
You laugh. “What? You said you won. I’m just being supportive.”
He gapes for a second, then runs a hand through his hair, trying to compose himself—but it’s no use. His usual cool demeanor is absolutely ruined.
“You’re evil,” he mutters under his breath.
You grin and perch beside him on the couch, your voice sweet and innocent as you ask, “So? Do you want your prize or not?”
Tsukishima clears his throat, avoids your gaze for a second, then mutters, “You can’t just say that and expect me to—”
You cut him off with a whisper, right near his ear: “Kei. I’m serious.”
He turns to you slowly, cheeks slightly flushed, all smugness long abandoned in the wreckage of your sentence. You’ve never seen his expression shift this fast from cocky to completely undone.
“…What were we arguing about again?” he asks, voice low and dry.
You lean back, victorious. “Exactly.”
Rooftop party.
Cool night air, string lights overhead, music playing low. The team mingled with drinks and snacks, while Kageyama leaned against the balcony railing—soda in hand, eyes flicking between conversations.
You spotted him from across the space.
He looked peaceful. Slightly confused.
Probably thinking about milk or how weird the guacamole looked.
So naturally, you decided to mess with him.
You slid up beside him, fingers grazing his arm.
He turned to you instantly, lips parting to greet you, but your lips were already close to his ear.
“Hey,” you whispered smoothly. “I feel the breeze… everywhere.”
“...HUH??” he blurted, far too loudly.
A few people looked over. You waved them off with a laugh.
Kageyama was frozen.
Soda in one hand, wide-eyed, staring at you like you’d just confessed to murder and expected him to help bury the body.
“Wha—You—Did you mean like… what kind of breeze??”
You stepped back, all coy innocence. “The one between buildings. Y’know. Rooftop breeze.”
“You mean—you don’t have—?!” he sputtered, visibly spiraling. “You—are you not wearing—?!”
You just smiled. “I’m gonna go grab more chips.”
And then you walked away.
Just like that.
Leaving him there, short-circuiting with a blush climbing from his neck to his ears.
Followed you to the snack table.
Stood behind you while you talked to Hinata.
Blocked the wind when you leaned on the railing again.
Offered you his jacket three times.
“Are you cold?”
“Nope.”
“...You sure? You seem cold. You could catch something.”
“Like what, wind flu?”
He pouted, furrowing his brow in full Concerned Boyfriend™ mode.
Finally, you turned and leaned in again, lips brushing his ear.
“You’re cute when you’re panicking.”
He immediately stepped behind you, hands on your shoulders like a security guard.
“I’m not panicking,” he mumbled. “I’m monitoring the breeze.”
You died.
You actually wheeze-laughed.
And for the rest of the night, Kageyama was your quiet, protective, flustered shadow.
Every time the wind blew, he was there.
So was his hoodie. And his judgment.
The car ride was peaceful.
Soft music. Sunset glow. His hand on the gear shift, occasionally brushing your thigh with that signature calm, casual affection.
You were both just chatting about nothing when the light ahead turned red.
He eased to a stop.
The car rumbled lightly in neutral.
You turned to him, tone innocent—too innocent.
“Every bump we hit? I feel everything.”
You looked out the windshield, casual as ever. “Just saying. These leggings aren’t hiding much. And I may or may not have left a layer behind.”
He coughed. Once. Twice.
Choked on pure oxygen.
“…You–you’re serious?” he rasped, looking over at you like you just committed a crime of the best kind.
You turned to him, smiling sweetly. “Mhm. Just figured you should know.”
The light turned green.
He didn’t move.
“Suga,” you prompted gently, amused. “It’s green.”
“...Right,” he said, brain clearly rebooting. “Green. Moving. Yup.”
He hit the gas a little too hard. The car jerked forward—right as the road dipped into one of those annoying city potholes.
You let out a soft “Oof.”
His grip on the steering wheel tightened. Visibly.
“...You felt that one, huh?” he muttered, left eye twitching, voice low.
“Mmm,” you hummed. “Vividly.”
That was it. That was the last straw.
You could feel the way he shifted gears faster than necessary, tension radiating off of him like steam off a kettle.
Then the next light turned red.
He didn’t stop.
VROOM.
Straight through it.
You stared at him, wide-eyed. “Did you just run a red light?!”
“I need to get us off the road before I commit a felony,” he said, very seriously.
You snorted. “A felony??”
“Premeditated murder.” He shot you a look. “Of my sanity.”
You grinned and leaned closer, whispering, “You’re doing so well, baby.”
He inhaled like he was about to pray for strength.
Dinner with the group was going smoothly.
Laughter. Drinks. Storytime chaos.
Kuroo sat beside you at the long table, arm casually slung behind your chair as he sipped on his drink, listening to Bokuto animatedly recount a gym story.
You, on the other hand, were feeling… mischievous.
Your phone lit up in your lap.
You typed quickly.
YN 🧨: I’m not wearing panties.
Sent.
You didn’t even look at him.
Just kept sipping your iced tea like an innocent citizen.
Kuroo’s phone buzzed on the table.
He glanced at the notification and casually lifted it to read the message.
He choked—visibly.
A full, flustered cough-sputter combo as the drink went down the wrong pipe.
“Bro, you good?” Hinata asked from across the table, eyebrows up.
“Y-Yeah,” Kuroo wheezed, pounding his chest once. “Wrong pipe. We’re fine. I’m fine. Totally normal bodily function.”
You turned to him, eyes wide, feigning concern. “Are you okay, babe?”
He glared. Softly.
“You’re going to hell,” he whispered, voice strained and slightly panicked.
You smiled sweetly and popped a piece of grilled meat into your mouth.
His knee bounced under the table like a man on the verge of snapping.
You leaned in, brushing your lips near his ear.
“Wanna guess what I am wearing?”
He turned his head slowly, eyes narrowed.
“Regret,” he muttered. “I’m wearing regret.”
Across the table, Akaashi raised an eyebrow. “You two good?”
Kuroo straightened up, clearing his throat. “Yep. Just... spicy food.”
Bokuto looked offended. “That wasn’t spicy!”
You just grinned, sipping your drink.
Meanwhile, under the table, Kuroo texted back.
Kuroo 🔥: You're not walking out of this dinner.
The only light in the room came from his monitor.
The clicks of his keyboard echoed rhythmically, headset snug over his ears, golden eyes flicking across the screen. He was deep in it—focused, calm, deadly accurate.
“Alright,” he muttered into his mic. “Going top lane—watch the mid push.”
You padded into the room behind him, quiet as a cat.
Until you weren’t.
You slid onto his lap.
No warning.
Kenma tensed just slightly, hands never leaving his keyboard. “...Hi.”
“Hi,” you said sweetly, snuggling into his chest. “Your chair’s warm.”
“...Mhm. I’ve been sitting for hours.”
You leaned in, whispered near his ear:
“So am I. No underwear, by the way.”
The kill feed lit up in bright red letters.
The Discord chat went feral.
Lev: “BRO?? YOU HAD ULT??”
Yaku: “What happened???”
Kenma: muted mic
You were biting your lip, trying not to cackle. His hand dropped from the mouse as he tilted his head back against the chair, eyes closed in silent internal screaming.
“You good, gamer boy?” you teased.
“...You just sabotaged an entire match,” he mumbled.
You shrugged, toying with the strings of his hoodie. “Blame the breeze. Or lack of layers.”
Kenma opened one eye to look at you. “You sat on me… in nothing??”
He sighed. Then leaned forward slowly, grabbed the mouse again, and switched screens.
“I’m queueing solo this time,” he muttered.
You gasped dramatically. “You’re abandoning me?!”
“No,” he said flatly. “I’m benching you before you get me banned.”
You grinned. “Aww, baby’s mad.”
“Baby’s trying to survive.”
You kissed his cheek and settled more comfortably in his lap.
He didn’t kick you off.
(But his character died again two minutes later.)
You were walking back from the team’s beach training, shoes in hand, sand sticking to your calves and sun still warm on your shoulders.
Ushijima had offered you a piggyback ride because you “looked tired.” (Read: you tripped on a rock 10 minutes ago and stubbed your toe like a warrior.)
So here you were—legs wrapped around his solid frame, hands looped around his shoulders, cheek resting on the back of his neck.
You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered low enough for just him to hear:
“I should’ve told you I’m not wearing anything under this… short.”
Not under your shorts.
Not under your shirt.
Just… short.
Ushijima’s footsteps faltered.
But for him? That was like an earthquake.
His grip under your thighs tightened—not in a rough way, just as if he was trying to make sure his brain didn’t drop you.
“…What do you mean?” he asked plainly.
You smiled innocently. “Take a guess.”
Then—you felt it: the very deliberate stumble.
One step off balance. One dramatic little hitch in his stride.
If you hadn’t been hanging onto his back, you’d have eaten sand.
You blinked. “Did you just… trip?”
“I adjusted,” he said stoically.
You leaned in closer again, lips grazing his ear.
“I can feel your ears turning red.”
“I’m very warm,” he replied flatly.
“You’re very something,” you murmured with a grin.
You could feel his jaw clenching and unclenching ever so slightly. Like he was trying to calculate whether dropping you now would be considered rude or just self-defense.
By the time you reached the tents, he was quiet, slow-moving, and very focused on staring directly ahead.
You slipped off his back, patted his shoulder, and said:
“Thanks for the ride. And the stumble.”
He finally looked down at you, eyes steady but clearly unsure if you were kidding. “You should tell me next time.”
You raised a brow. “That I’m not wearing anything?”
“That you're going to say things like that. While I’m holding you.”
You smirked. “Where’s the fun in that?”
He opened his mouth—then closed it.
And then he walked straight into a volleyball net.
It started out innocent enough. You just needed to fix your lipstick.
The venue was loud, the bathroom dimly lit with glowing neon strips, and outside the door, music thumped through the walls from the party Goshiki had dragged you to. He’d been invited by one of the pro teams for some sort of PR event—you weren’t paying attention. Mostly, you were too distracted by how nervous he was, constantly checking if his tie was straight and if his hair was okay (it always was).
He followed you into the bathroom under the assumption it was one of those shared, single-stall types. It wasn’t.
And now here you were, in front of the mirror, casually touching up your lipstick while Goshiki leaned awkwardly against the sink beside you, trying not to look like he was on the verge of a heart attack.
He cleared his throat. “Uh… are you almost done?”
You locked eyes with him in the mirror, slow and deliberate, a glint of mischief in your expression. “Why? Nervous?”
He immediately stiffened. “N–No! I mean—yes! No—I just—we’re not really supposed to be in here together…”
You capped your lipstick, turned slightly, and rested one hand on the edge of the sink. “Tsutomu?”
“Y–Yeah?” He looked at you with the wide, frantic eyes of a man who knew something very bad was about to happen to him.
You leaned closer, eyes locked on his in the mirror, and with the most casual tone you could muster, said:
“Kinda risky not wearing underwear in a place like this, huh?”
The effect was instantaneous.
He visibly short-circuited.
“W–WHAT—?!”
His voice cracked like a middle school choir boy.
“Y–YOU—YOU’RE NOT—?!”
He took a full step away from you like your words had physically struck him. “Y/N—WHAT DO YOU MEAN—?!”
You turned slowly to face him, your lips curling in amusement. “You heard me.”
He backed into the wall like you were a predator and he was the prey. “Are you serious?!”
You tilted your head. “What do you think?”
He made a noise that couldn’t be classified in any known human language. His ears were red. His neck was red. His soulwas probably red.
“I–I–I can’t be here,” he mumbled, looking everywhere except at you. “I’m not mentally strong enough for this kind of situation—!”
You laughed. “Tsutomu, relax. I’m just messing with you.”
He paused, blinking rapidly, like you’d hit him with a bucket of cold water.
You shrugged with a devilish little smile. “Maybe.”
The door to the bathroom suddenly opened and someone stepped in. You and Goshiki froze.
The stranger glanced at both of you, blinked, then slowly backed out and closed the door again.
You turned to Goshiki with a raised brow. “See? Risky.”
His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
And then he muttered, hands covering his face:
“I’m going to die right here in this bathroom.”
You patted his shoulder gently. “At least you’ll die flustered and cute.”
The whole team had gathered for a photo after their practice match—sweaty, loud, and mildly competitive over who got to stand in the back versus the front.
You and Shirabu ended up in the middle, shoulder-to-shoulder, your arm naturally sliding around his waist.
“Alright, everyone smile!” Semi called from behind the phone.
You leaned in close—so close that your lips brushed Shirabu’s ear—and whispered:
“If the flash is strong enough… they might find out I’m not wearing underwear.”
Shirabu looked like a man caught mid-seizure.
Jaw tight. Back unnaturally straight.
Arms glued to his sides like a toy soldier.
You bit your lip to keep from bursting out laughing as the group disbanded, everyone going to look at the preview.
“Oh my god, Shirabu, you look like someone just told you you failed an exam,” Goshiki laughed.
Reon blinked. “Why do you look so… tense?”
“I’m fine,” Shirabu muttered, voice a full octave higher than usual.
You floated in beside him, all fake innocence. “You sure? You look stiff.”
He gave you a look. One that screamed: You did this.
You shrugged, swaying just enough to make his eyes twitch. “I was just trying to make you smile.”
“You tried to give me a heart attack,” he whispered through gritted teeth.
“Same thing,” you said sweetly.
He turned to look at the group again, brows furrowed, clearly overthinking whether the flash really had exposed anything.
“Don’t worry,” you leaned in again, smug. “I’m pretty sure your reaction was the most revealing part.”
He choked. Silently. Like a man dying with dignity.
Later, Semi uploaded the picture to the team group chat with the caption:
"Great pic! Except Shirabu looks like he’s about to report a war crime."
Akaashi Keiji stood quietly in the fantasy section of your favorite local bookstore, one hand delicately holding a paperback while the other adjusted his glasses. His brows were slightly furrowed as he read the blurb.
“Time portals… betrayal… a cursed blade… hmm.”
You watched him from a step behind, amused. The man could write sonnets about emotionally tortured wizards but would completely short-circuit if you sent a slightly flirty text. And yet, he was unfairly attractive in a cozy, bookish kind of way—hair slightly tousled, hoodie sleeves pushed up, expression calm and focused.
Akaashi Keiji, lover of books and calm mornings.
You, lover of chaos and this very specific moment.
So you leaned in, close enough that your breath grazed his shoulder, and gently tugged the sleeve of his hoodie.
He glanced at you. “Hmm?”
You smiled sweetly. “The real plot twist?”
You paused.
Then, with the most casual, deadpan tone you could manage:
“No panties.”
It took exactly one second for the words to register.
His eyes widened.
Then blinked.
Then darted down, just for a millisecond—and then immediately shot back up, as if even looking lower was a sin.
“You—” he started, then stopped. His voice cracked slightly, which made it even better. “You’re not serious.”
You tilted your head innocently. “Am I not?”
His jaw clenched, a visible effort to keep composure. He placed the fantasy book back on the shelf with an impressively controlled motion. Too controlled.
“…We’re in public,” he muttered under his breath, glancing around like someone might pop out from behind a shelf and arrest him for having a thought.
You pretended to consider that. “Mm. So?”
His eyes flicked toward the giant Romance sign overhead. You could see the internal struggle.
“I came in here for dragons,” he whispered, like he was negotiating with a hostage-taker, “not psychological warfare.”
You grinned. “You came in here with me.”
He let out a sharp breath and rubbed a hand over his face. “That’s on me. That’s… completely on me.”
A small child ran past, holding a glittery book about unicorns. A passing couple chuckled at something in the self-help aisle. And there Akaashi stood—stoic, composed, visibly losing the battle against his own imagination.
You nudged him. “So? Still want the fantasy novel? Or are you suddenly more into… romance?”
He looked at you. Really looked.
Eyes narrowed, lips pressed together, color still in his cheeks.
Then, quietly:
You smirked. “Thought so.”
It was supposed to be wholesome.
A backyard trampoline.
A sunny day.
You. Him. Lighthearted jumps and laughter.
That is—until you landed weird, bounced high, and laughed, breathless.
“Whoa—okay,” you giggled, cheeks flushed as you adjusted your shirt and tried to sit. “Every jump is like Russian roulette for my dignity.”
You gave him a wicked little grin, steadying yourself on the elastic. “No underwear, Kou. One wrong bounce and someone’s gonna see the promised land.”
He landed. Hard. On his knees.
His hands flailed, eyes wide and darting like he was scanning the skies for a satellite camera. “YOU—ARE YOU CRAZY?! THIS IS A TRAMPOLINE. TRAMP-O-LINE. THERE’S GRAVITY DEFYING PHYSICS INVOLVED—”
You bit your lip to hold in your laughter as he crawled over like some overprotective volleyball dad and gently forced you to sit. “Sit. SIT DOWN RIGHT NOW. NO MORE BOUNCING. THIS IS A SAFETY HAZARD. FOR YOU. FOR ME. FOR THE NEIGHBORHOOD.”
You blinked up at him. “So you’re saying… my dignity is a public health concern?”
“YES.” He hissed, whisper-yelling now. “I have a reputation. I can’t be the guy who got his girlfriend banned from trampolines because she—BECAUSE—”
“Because I air drop my shame?”
You were wheezing. His ears were red. His entire face was red. His hair looked frazzled like even it was stressed out.
“KOU!” you mocked lightly, “You good? You look like you just got hit with a serve to the soul.”
He clutched his heart. “You can’t say things like that when I’m already airborne. My brain was three seconds from leaving my body.”
You snorted. “But wasn’t it fun?”
“…Yes. But at what cost.”
Eventually, he lay flat on the trampoline, face to the sky, muttering something about needing to pray for strength.
You just smiled, crawled over, and kissed his cheek.
“I’ll wear shorts next time,” you whispered.
He blinked up at you, dazed. “Make them tight.”
You both burst out laughing.
You were halfway into a seated forward fold on your yoga mat, groaning at the tightness in your hamstrings. Iwaizumi knelt behind you, his strong hands gently adjusting your hips for proper posture.
“Babe, you’re rounding your back again,” he said, voice calm and patient—trainer mode activated.
“I’m trying,” you mumbled, reaching toward your toes. “I think my legs hate me.”
He chuckled, warm and low in your ear. “Nah, they’re just tight. Breathe into it, I’ve got you.”
His hands slid down to guide your waist—firm but careful, professional, respectful.
And that’s when you dropped the grenade.
Calm. Casual. Deadpan:
“You’re adjusting someone who’s currently free-balling, by the way.”
Silence.
A very long silence.
His hands froze. Like statue-mode froze.
You could feel the moment it registered in his brain—processing… processing…
“…You’re what now?” he said, voice suspiciously high for a guy who usually sounds like a gym coach with a god complex.
You tilted your head back to look at him. “You heard me.”
His mouth opened, then shut. Then again.
“I—what—why would you—”
He ran a hand down his face. “What kind of psycho tells someone that while stretching?!”
You grinned. “What kind of boyfriend positions himself directly behind their partner without checking the underwear situation first?”
His eye twitched. “Because I trusted you were decent!”
You wiggled your hips slightly, just to watch him short-circuit harder. “Define decent.”
You fully collapsed into laughter, and he got up, hands on his hips, pacing a little like a man who needed to reset his entire reality.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “I was focused on helping you stretch—on spinal alignment—and you’re out here living like a menace to society.”
You sat up, still giggling. “Technically, I’m living like a menace to you.”
He looked down at you, eyes dark and full of warning.
“You better hope your legs stay tight,” he said slowly, “because when I’m done with you, you’re not walking straight for the rest of the week.”
You blinked. “…Wow. That escalated.”
He cracked his neck like a man about to go feral. “Oh, you wanna talk about escalation, free-ballin’ freak?”
It was supposed to be a chill gym session.
Leg day. Headphones in. World out.
Kyōtani was in his zone—hood up, jaw set, sweat dripping down his temple as he spotted you from behind while you did squats.
“Back straight,” he mumbled under his breath, watching you lower down again. “Good.”
You were focused too—or so he thought—until you paused mid-squat, tugged at the waistband of your leggings, and turned your head just slightly over your shoulder.
“Wanna guess what I forgot to wear?”
You winked. “Here’s a hint. Starts with ‘u’ and ends with ‘nderwear.’”
The sound of his water bottle thunking to the floor was instant.
You bit your lip, standing up slowly from the squat, back arching slightly more than necessary. “Feels kinda breezy, y’know?”
Not at your butt (for once). Not at your face.
Just... blank. Blue screen of death.
The man was buffering like a dial-up modem.
“You serious?” he muttered, throat dry.
“Deadly,” you replied innocently, grabbing your water bottle while he stood there, stock-still like a statue sculpted by pure panic and lust.
He finally dragged a hand down his face. “We’re in public.”
You leaned in, standing on tiptoes to whisper in his ear: “That’s what makes it fun.”
His jaw clenched. His fists clenched. Every single muscle in his body clenched.
“...You’re walking home,” he growled.
You blinked. “We live together—”
You smiled. “So, leg press next?”
He didn’t answer. He just walked off toward the weights section like he was about to lift an entire bench press rack into the sun.
You called after him sweetly, “Don’t forget to hydrate, babe!”
He didn’t turn around.
Just raised a single middle finger in the air.
Kita doesn’t scare easily.
Ghosts?
Zombies?
Creepy kids in cornfields?
He watches them like documentaries. Calm. Straight-faced. Occasionally sipping his tea like it’s not the exorcism of someone’s soul onscreen.
You're a menace. Not because you’re scared—but because you’re unhinged.
Another jumpscare flashes—a loud bang and a distorted figure lunging straight at the screen.
You jump and clutch his arm dramatically. “OH MY GOD—”
He glances at you. “You okay?”
You blink at him, wide-eyed.
“That almost made me remember I’m commando.”
Kita Shinsuke.exe has stopped functioning.
His eyes go blank.
One slow blink.
Then another.
You look over at him with mock innocence. “What?”
You shrug. “I like to be comfy during scary movies.”
He looks at the TV.
Then back at you.
Then down at the shared blanket.
Then back to the TV. But he's not watching it anymore. That ghost can scream all it wants—he’s fighting for his life.
“I—” he clears his throat, face doing its best to remain neutral. “You know this is a horror movie, right? Not… not thatkind of film.”
You nudge his knee with a grin. “Scares me into new awareness.”
He exhales through his nose like he’s doing deep breathing exercises. “You’re gonna send me to an early grave.”
“Want me to get up and grab us snacks? Maybe do a stretch or two—”
You’re dying laughing now, while he sits upright like someone just told him to recite a prayer before the next scene. His ears are turning red. His neck too. Maybe even his soul.
“Shinsuke,” you say sweetly, “you don’t seem scared anymore.”
“I’m not,” he replies, voice strained. “I’m deeply, profoundly stressed.”
You cuddle into his side, smug. “Want to switch to a romcom?”
He shakes his head. “No. I need something worse. I need psychological torment. I need something so scary it rewires my brain and makes me forget what you said.”
Osamu prided himself on two things:
His ability to stay calm under pressure—unlike some hot-headed twin he could name.
But right now, both of those things were hanging on by a thread.
You’d been lounging around his apartment all afternoon, half-watching TV while he moved around the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed, soft humming leaving his lips as he stirred the pot of pasta.
He was in his element—focused, relaxed, domestic. He didn’t even hear you padding over behind him.
So when your arms wrapped around his waist and your cheek pressed against his back, he just let out a soft, amused exhale.
“Well hey there,” he murmured, voice low and affectionate. “What’s this for?”
You hummed, pressing a little kiss between his shoulder blades. “Just wanted a hug.”
He smiled, turning the stove knob slightly lower. “Dinner’s almost done. Ya hungry already?”
You rested your chin on his shoulder and whispered sweetly:
“You know what’s not in the oven?”
He paused, wooden spoon hovering mid-stir. “…Hm?”
There was a moment of complete silence.
No sizzling. No stirring. Just Osamu.exe has stopped responding.
You smirked against his back. “You heard me.”
He turned just enough to look at you, eyes flicking down to your oversized shirt—and just barely refraining from verifying anything with his hands.
“Yer not serious,” he said slowly.
You gave him your most innocent look. “Am I not?”
He blinked. Then again. His ears started to go pink.
And that’s when it hit him: the smell.
The pasta.
He spun back around and scrambled to yank the pot off the stove, muttering curses under his breath. The noodles were now somewhere between mushy regret and culinary sin.
You bit back a laugh as he stared into the pot like it had personally betrayed him.
He let out a frustrated sigh, setting it in the sink. “Y’know, I take my pasta seriously.”
You leaned against the counter, smug. “I take my undergarments seriously.”
He shot you a look—part flustered, part amused, and a whole lotta dangerous.
“You wanna play that game, sweetheart?” he said, voice low now, accent curling around the syllables.
You just smiled sweetly. “Do I ever not?”
There was a pause.
Then he wiped his hands on a towel, slowly.
Turned toward you.
You blinked. “Postponed? What about—”
“I’ll make ya new pasta later. Right now?”
He took a deliberate step forward.
“You’re goin’ in the oven instead.”
You choked on your laughter. “OSAMU—”
The music was loud.
The lights? Blinding.
The crowd? Wild.
But nothing—nothing—could’ve prepared Miya Atsumu for you.
You were swaying beside him, eyes lit up from stage lights and bass, both hands in the air. The beat dropped, and the floor practically vibrated under your feet. Atsumu, in his element, had one arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close whenever someone got too near.
Everything was perfect. His kind of chaos. Until you leaned up, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and yelled over the music—
“No panties in this crowd.”
He blacked out for a second.
Like—not literally—but his body paused. Mid-groove. Brain buffering. Vision dimmed.
You just leaned back like you said nothing. Bopping to the next beat, like you hadn’t just ended his life with one line.
He turned to you slowly, eyes wide, mouth parted. “HUH?”
You winked. Didn’t repeat it. Just let it marinate.
He stumbled. Actually stumbled. Missed the drop. Forgot where he was.
His hand gripped your waist tighter. “Are ya—are ya messin’ with me? Or did ya actually just say—”
You only shrugged, raising an eyebrow, lips curved like you held the world’s most dangerous secret.
“Jesus christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
The music blared on. The crowd screamed as the next verse hit. And Atsumu?
He stared at you like you were made of pure sin. Like you were sent from hell just to ruin his night in the best way.
“Why would ya tell me that here? In public? In a mosh pit of people?” he yelled, exasperated—but his voice cracked.
“Just wanted to see if you’d survive the set,” you said sweetly.
His ears turned red. Neck too. He adjusted his shirt for no reason—like modesty even mattered now. His eyes kept flicking down, then to the crowd, then back to you.
He leaned in close, trying to regain control. “If ya think I ain’t thinkin’ about throwin’ ya over my shoulder and leavin’ this concert right now, yer wrong.”
You grinned. “But the encore hasn’t even started.”
You burst out laughing while he groaned into your shoulder, hiding his face, clutching you like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.
For the rest of the concert, he didn’t let you out of arm’s reach.
Every time you moved your hips, he nearly malfunctioned.
Every time you looked at him with that grin, he almost lost the beat again.
Let’s just say… he was feral to the rhythm of regret.
He’s lying on his bed, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, FaceTiming you after a long day of practice.
Your voice calms him. Your laugh centers him. Your face on the screen? His favorite view.
He’s even smiling. Actual smiling. Sakusa Kiyoomi. Smiling.
You’re just talking about your day. Something about a weird barista and a pigeon that wouldn’t move from your car’s hood. He’s half-listening—more focused on the way you keep shifting on your bed, phone propped up a little low, camera angled slightly upward.
“Is your phone sliding?” he asks, adjusting his own.
You blink. “Hmm? Oh, no. I just didn’t feel like holding it up.”
He nods slowly. “Okay… just don’t drop it like last time.”
You smirk, leaning forward just a touch. “Speaking of dropping things…”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
You tilt the camera just enough—just enough to suggest more skin than fabric.
“I’d stand up, but I don’t want to flash you,” you say, voice so casual it should be illegal. Then, with a tilt of your head and an evil little smile:
“I forgot underwear today.”
Phone: gone.
FaceTime: angled at his ceiling now.
You: laughing way too hard.
You hear muffled shuffling, a curse, maybe a whispered prayer.
Then his face appears again, close-up and very red.
“You did that on purpose.”
His hand rakes through his curls. “You’re—unbelievable.”
You grin like the devil. “You’re welcome.”
He groans, tilting his head back. “I’m never FaceTiming you without a warning label again.”
“You gonna write one for me?”
“Yeah,” he mutters. “Hazardous content. May cause cardiac arrest over Wi-Fi.”
You giggle. “Still love me though?”
His eyes flicker to the screen. Even flustered, his voice softens. “Unfortunately. Very much.”
You didn’t end the call early that night.
But he did keep the phone at eye level the entire time after that.
