They didn’t mean to hurt you — but they did.
And you started changing because of it.
Now they notice… and it’s already different.
USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
“Watch what you eat,” Ushijima says, voice low, neutral. He’s looking at your tray like it’s offended him.
You smile—a practiced, automatic thing—and laugh it off.
“Oh, right. Yeah. Just hungry, I guess.”
He nods. Just once.
And that’s the end of it. To him, anyway.
The next day, you bring a salad. You poke at the lettuce with your plastic fork, chew each bite like penance. He glances at your lunch, says nothing.
The day after, it’s just fruit. You peel a clementine slowly, fingers sticky with juice, and avoid his eyes.
Then you stop bringing your usual snack. The one he used to reach over and steal a bite of without asking. The one that always made him smile—subtly, but still. Now your bag is empty. So are you.
By the fourth day, Tendou corners him by the gym doors.
“Hey, Wakatoshi,” he says, voice too light. “You realize she’s barely eating, right?”
Ushijima blinks. Still, silent. His gaze drifts toward you—sitting against the wall, water bottle untouched, your eyes vacant in a way he can’t quite name.
That evening, practice ends. The sun is low, gym almost empty. You sit alone on the bleachers, staring at nothing, your fingers curling around the hem of your sleeve.
He approaches without a word, sits beside you like it's instinct. In his hands: two onigiri, wrapped carefully.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” he says, eyes on the rice, not you. “I just… I care if you're healthy. Not thinner.”
You don’t respond. Your fingers twitch toward your bag, but fall short. He places one onigiri in your lap, the other in his own hands.
You pick at the rice. Slowly. Cautiously. Like you’ve forgotten how to be hungry.
He doesn’t speak. Just sits with you, quiet, steady. Watching.
There’s guilt in the way his shoulders slope. In the way his chopsticks pause every few bites, waiting to see if you’ll keep going.
You finish half. It’s the most you’ve eaten all week.
He nudges the second one a little closer. Not pushing—just offering.
“Please eat,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “With me.”
And you do.
For a long time, he says nothing else. But his silence is kind now. Careful.
And when he finally looks at you, it’s with eyes that say he’s sorry in all the ways words can’t.
SHIRABU KENJIRO
The words slipped out of Shirabu’s mouth like a diagnosis—clinical, cold, final.
And the worst part?
You weren’t even fighting.
You had just spilled tea on your notes—weeks of lectures and scribbled diagrams now soaked through and curling at the edges. You laughed, a little sheepishly, brushing at the mess with your sleeve. “Well. That’s my sign to take a break, I guess—”
He didn’t laugh.
He stared at the papers like they’d personally offended him.
“You’re not cut out for the kind of future I want.”
You blinked.
“…Future?”
He nodded once, distracted, eyes already flicking back to his laptop. “Medicine’s not for people who lose focus. Who make little mistakes.”
You smiled, like it didn’t sting.
Laughed, like you hadn’t heard that same voice in your own head on bad days.
“Right. Of course.”
That night, you stayed up redoing your notes from scratch.
And the night after that.
And the one after that.
You started waking up before him.
Stopped doodling in the margins of your med books.
Stopped humming when you cooked, because every second needed to be productive.
Coffee became a meal. Sleep became a luxury.
You didn’t complain. Didn’t cry.
Just… shifted. Quietly. Carefully. Willfully.
The version of you Shirabu fell for—the one who teased him while quizzing him on anatomy terms, who wore fuzzy socks to study groups, who once made him a human heart out of Jello just to prove a joke—she was slowly fading.
At first, he liked the change.
The silence. The discipline.
The way your pens were always aligned now.
The way you never interrupted him mid-sentence anymore.
But then…
He noticed.
You never touched him just because anymore.
Never made dumb puns over dinner.
Your shoulders stayed tense even in your sleep.
The music in your world had gone quiet—and he hadn’t realized how much he loved its sound until it disappeared.
One night, he came home late from the library and found you at your desk, fast asleep.
Your glasses were still on.
Your hand was stained with blue ink, fingertips trembling slightly from too much caffeine and too little rest.
There was a cut on your thumb from a broken pen.
Your lips were dry.
You looked pale—drained, like all your color had been slowly siphoned away.
He didn’t say anything. Just stood there, heart sinking.
And when he touched your hand, you didn’t even stir.
He sat down beside you, swallowing guilt like poison.
“I didn’t mean for you to become someone else,” he whispered, the words raw and foreign in his mouth. “I just wanted you with me. I didn’t realize I was asking you to lose yourself.”
His voice cracked.
For the first time in years, he cried.
Quietly.
Beside you.
Because you were still there. Breathing. Trying.
But something in you had cracked.
And he had been the one to make the first fracture.
TSUKISHIMA KEI
That was the last thing he said to you that day.
You had just finished gushing about your favorite show—something about parallel universes and time loops and a sad, smiley villain who reminded you of him (your words, not his).
You were laughing, hands moving, eyes bright.
And he had sighed, leaned back in his chair, and muttered:
“Are you done yet?”
You blinked.
Laughed it off. “Right. Sorry. Got carried away.”
He didn’t respond. Just went back to scrolling.
After that, you didn’t talk about your favorite shows anymore.
Stopped sending him memes.
Stopped rambling in long voice notes that always ended with you laughing at your own jokes.
He noticed, of course. But didn’t say anything.
Yamaguchi did.
“She doesn’t text you stuff anymore, huh?”
Tsukishima scoffed. “Didn’t realize you were tracking my notifications.”
But later that night, alone in his room, he opened your chat.
Scrolled through the silence.
Past the last thing you sent—a meme, three weeks ago. A stupid one, about dinosaurs and headphones. He hadn’t even reacted to it.
The empty space beneath it felt louder than any rant you used to send.
The next day, he walked past a store on the way home and froze.
In the window: a little keychain of your favorite character.
The one you wouldn’t shut up about for two whole weeks.
The one he pretended not to care about but secretly knew the name of.
He bought it.
He didn’t even think. Just… did.
The next morning, he dropped it on your desk before class. No warning. No note.
You blinked, staring at the tiny figure in your hand.
“What’s this for?”
He adjusted his glasses, gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder.
“So you’ll annoy me again.”
You stared at him for a beat, stunned. Then your lips twitched.
You didn’t say anything.
But that night, he got a message.
[you]: i just rewatched episode 8 again and i need you to understand how emotionally devastating that scene was. also this keychain is SO cute i might cry.
He read it three times.
Smiled. Just a little.
(Translation: I forgive you. I missed you too.)
SUNA RINTARO
He had said it offhandedly. Barely looking up from his phone.
You had just sent him a selfie—your hair a little messy, eyes a little dull, but your smile was there. Honest. Tired, maybe. But still you.
And he said:
“You look tired.”
You blinked at the screen, lips twitching in a way that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Then replied,
“Yeah. Been a long day.”
After that, you stopped sending selfies.
Started fixing your hair more before calls.
Wore cooler tones. More neutrals. Nothing bright. Nothing bold.
Started double-checking the lighting. Your angles. Yourself.
One day you joked,
“Better not look tired again, right?”
But your voice was too quiet. The kind that curls at the edge of something fragile.
Atsumu noticed it first.
“She doesn’t send you stuff anymore, huh?”
Suna didn’t answer.
“You told her she looked tired, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. But his thumb froze over your chat.
Unread messages: none.
The last picture you sent had disappeared after twenty-four hours. You didn’t save it.
And you hadn’t sent another since.
The silence in the thread felt heavier than words.
So he stared at his camera for a long second, then sighed and snapped a picture.
No filters. No angles. Just him—messy hair, hoodie hood half-on, eyes barely open.
He sent it with a message:
“This is how I look when I actually look tired.”
“You always look like someone I wanna keep looking at.”
You stared at the screen. Chest aching.
Then, finally:
[you]: you're still bad at words.
[suna]: yeah. but i’m trying.
And he was.
In his own way—awkward, quiet, a little late.
But trying.
(And somehow, that was what mattered most.)
OIKAWA TOORU
You didn’t mean to bother him.
You had only sent three messages.
Short ones. Thoughtful, even.
[you]: hey, u free later?
[you]: you okay? you’ve been quiet today.
[you]: let me know if you need anything. i’ll leave you be. promise.
And then it came.
His reply.
Flat. Dismissive.
Laced with exhaustion and that familiar edge he gets when he’s overwhelmed.
[oikawa]: you’re really needy sometimes.
You stared at the screen for a moment too long.
Then you smiled. The kind of smile you force when people are watching.
“lol sorry. my bad.”
One last message. That was all.
And then you stopped.
You stopped texting first.
Stopped sending him memes you knew would make him laugh.
Stopped double-texting, triple-texting.
Stopped reaching out at all.
You gave him what he seemed to want.
Space.
He noticed by dinner.
By the time the team wrapped up practice, Oikawa was already scrolling through your messages, rereading old ones like a lifeline.
There were no new ones.
No “I miss you.”
No “Goodnight.”
Just… nothing.
He opened your chat three times that night.
Typed. Deleted.
Typed. Deleted again.
What was he even supposed to say?
Iwaizumi noticed the silence too.
“She’s not needy,” he said while they packed up. “You’re just used to being worshipped.”
That stung.
Because it was true.
Oikawa Tooru had always been admired—on the court, online, in every room he walked into.
He thought love looked like attention.
He hadn’t realized until now that he’d treated your warmth like a reflex, not a choice.
Until you took it away.
Until your silence said everything.
So three nights later, he was standing in front of your door.
A hoodie pulled over his head. Hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He looked small. Not in height—but in guilt.
He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
You opened it.
Your eyes were tired. Guarded. The space between you filled with things unsaid.
Oikawa’s voice was low. He didn’t even try to smile.
“…I miss your ‘needy,’” he said.
You blinked, lips parting slightly.
“I miss you.”
Still, you said nothing. Just looked at him like you weren’t sure if this was another performance or the real thing.
“I don’t want space,” he continued. “I want your clingy texts. I want the memes. The constant check-ins. The way you send me random thoughts at midnight.”
He looked down at his shoes.
“I want everything. Even the parts I didn’t appreciate.”
Silence.
Then he looked up, eyes raw.
“I only push away the people I care too much about,” he whispered. “And that’s you.”
It wasn’t poetic.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It was just honest.
For a long moment, you stood there. Then, slowly—quietly—you stepped aside.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He just walked in, shoulders trembling slightly.
You closed the door behind him.
And neither of you said another word.
Because this time, he would show you through presence what he failed to express in words.
He came back.
And he didn’t let go.
SAKUSA KIYOOMI
It was just a bad game.
He was frustrated. Quiet. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.
You knew how he got.
You didn’t say anything.
You just reached out—softly, gently—for his hand.
Not to fix him. Just to say I’m here.
But he pulled back like your touch burned him.
“Don’t touch me right now.”
The words weren’t loud.
They didn’t need to be.
You blinked, hand frozen mid-air. Then you let it drop, your voice a quiet crumble.
“…Sorry.”
That was it.
You stepped back. Gave him space.
And from that day on, you stayed there.
You stopped reaching for him.
Stopped brushing your fingers against his sleeve when you passed by.
Stopped fixing his hair when it curled over his forehead.
Stopped lacing your fingers through his on long walks.
You hesitated now—every time.
Your hands hovered near him, never landing.
And Kiyoomi… didn’t notice.
Not at first.
But Komori did.
He waited until the locker room was empty, then slammed his locker shut louder than necessary.
“You told her not to touch you,” he said, arms crossed. “And now she doesn’t. Happy?”
Kiyoomi blinked, confused.
“She flinched when you brushed her arm, Omi. She flinched. That girl used to hold your hand like it was second nature.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve.
Komori left. Kiyoomi sat down, heart unsettled, brain replaying every tiny moment—your hands curled into your lap, your stiff shoulders, the way your gaze flicked to his fingers then away.
It was true.
You were gone, somehow, even while still beside him.
That night—no, early morning—he couldn’t sleep.
He stared at his phone screen in the dark, thumbs hovering. Then:
[sakusa]: i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to make you feel unwanted.
No typing bubbles appeared.
He didn’t expect them to.
But the next day, he found you outside the gym, hugging your arms to yourself, pretending not to see him.
He walked straight to you.
You looked up, cautious.
He didn’t speak. Not yet.
He just reached forward—and for once, it was him who was shaking—and took your hand. Both of his around yours, like anchoring something fragile.
You looked down at the connection.
Then back at him.
His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
“I want you close,” he said. “Even when I’m upset. Especially then.”
Your lip trembled.
He held your hand tighter.
And in that quiet moment, on the edge of hurt and healing, you let yourself believe him.
Because sometimes, people push away what they need most.
And sometimes, if they’re lucky, they get the chance to hold it again.
KENMA KOZUME
You used to sit beside him.
No words. No noise.
Just quiet company while his fingers danced across the keyboard, headset snug over his ears.
You liked being close.
He never complained—until one night, between matches, he muttered without looking at you:
“You’re kind of distracting when I’m streaming.”
It wasn’t cruel.
It wasn’t sharp.
But it stuck.
You blinked. “Oh.”
And after that… you stopped.
You stopped bringing snacks and dropping soft kisses to his temple when he won.
Stopped curling up next to him.
Stopped humming under your breath or watching from the corner of his screen.
You stayed in your room more.
Quiet. Out of sight.
Invisible.
Kenma didn’t notice at first—too busy adjusting his settings, managing collabs, climbing ranks.
But Kuroo noticed.
Over Discord, mid-game, as Kenma sat in silence between rounds, Kuroo muttered:
“She doesn’t bug you anymore, huh?”
Kenma blinked.
“What?”
“You look kinda lonely now.”
The words landed like a delayed hit.
Kenma glanced to the side—out of instinct—at the space where you used to sit.
Empty.
Still.
He stared longer than he meant to.
His fingers paused over the keys.
The stream kept running. The chat wondered what happened. But Kenma didn’t move.
Later that night, he found himself in front of your door.
A bag of your favorite snacks in hand. Slightly crumpled from how tightly he’d been holding it.
He knocked once. Soft.
You opened the door, eyes tired.
Surprised.
He didn’t speak at first. Just held out the bag.
“…What’s this?” you asked quietly.
“Peace offering.”
Your brow arched. “You said I was distracting.”
He looked down, fingers flexing.
“I know,” he murmured. “I was wrong.”
You stayed quiet.
So he stepped forward, placed the snack gently beside his controller on his desk, then turned back to you.
“Come sit with me?” he asked.
Then, even softer:
“I miss your noise.”
You blinked.
And for the first time in days, your lips curved—just slightly.
He held his hand out toward you.
And this time, when you took it, he didn’t let go.
Not even when the game started.
Not even when chat noticed.
Because he wasn’t playing to win anymore.
He just wanted you back beside him.
Even if you distracted him.
Especially if you did.
MIYA ATSUMU
You hadn’t meant to cry.
You didn’t even realize it was happening—until your voice cracked mid-sentence, and you saw the way Atsumu’s expression tightened, not with concern, but irritation.
“I’m not in the mood for your drama right now.”
It hit like a slammed door.
You blinked once. Twice.
Then you nodded.
"Sorry," you said, voice barely there.
And after that—you stopped.
You stopped venting.
Stopped opening up.
Started smiling too wide, laughing a little too quickly.
"I’m fine."
"Just tired."
"Nothing big."
You said it so much, you almost believed it.
But Atsumu didn’t.
Not at first—he was too wrapped up in training, in pressure, in exhaustion and ego.
But Osamu noticed.
“You broke something, y’know,” he said one night, tossing a towel over Atsumu’s head.
“You might wanna fix it before it stays broken.”
That’s what finally made him pause.
And that’s what led him here—
To the empty gym hallway, where he found you sitting against the wall, knees to your chest, eyes blank.
You didn’t notice him at first.
Didn’t look up.
Didn’t flinch.
He walked over, crouched down, and gently rested his forehead against your shoulder.
“…I’m the drama,” he whispered, voice raw. “Not you.”
You stayed quiet.
He clenched his fists. Loosened them. Then tried again.
“Please don’t hide your feelings from me. Ever.”
Your throat tightened.
You looked away, eyes burning, lip trembling—but still, you said nothing.
So Atsumu pulled you into his arms.
Held you there. Not asking for forgiveness, not rushing it—just there.
“I was stupid,” he mumbled into your hair.
“I was tired and selfish and I made you feel like too much.”
His voice cracked.
“You’re not too much. I was just too stupid to handle someone real.”
You didn’t say anything right away.
But your hands slowly—finally—gripped the back of his jersey.
And that was enough.
Because this time, he wouldn’t let go first.
KITA SHINSUKE
You were tired.
Not just physically, but the kind of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel heavier.
You forgot to do something small — misplanted a row of seedlings in your shared garden, or maybe you overslept and missed breakfast with him.
He didn’t yell.
He never did.
Just that calm, steady voice:
“That’s not very disciplined of you.”
No anger. Just disappointment.
And somehow, that was worse.
It clung to you for days.
You started fixing your posture more, triple-checking tasks, waking up earlier than needed.
No more lazy mornings. No more spontaneous dancing in the rain or lying in the grass just to feel the sun.
You stopped being soft. You started being… correct.
And he noticed.
How your laugh faded.
How your hands trembled when you thought he was watching.
It was Aran who quietly pulled him aside one afternoon.
They were harvesting. The sun was warm. But Kita felt cold at the words:
“She’s not blooming anymore. She’s surviving.”
“You’re so focused on raising standards… you didn’t see her lower herself.”
That night, he found you tending the garden.
The same bed you both built together.
The soil was dry. The petals curled inward. And so were you.
He knelt beside you silently, heart heavy.
“Discipline matters,” he started. “But so does grace. I should’ve given you more of it.”
You didn’t look at him.
Your fingers kept digging gently through the soil.
So he did something rare.
He placed his hand over yours.
Soft. Still. Sure.
“You don’t need to be perfect… to be precious to me.”
Your breath hitched.
And when you finally looked up — eyes glassy, dirt smudged on your cheek —
he smiled, just barely.
“Let’s grow softer things. Together.”
KAGEYAMA TOBIO
You’d tried something new.
Maybe you curled your hair, tried eyeliner, wore that outfit you weren’t sure about but finally had the courage to put on.
You didn’t expect a grand reaction.
But you didn’t expect that either.
“You look weird.”
He didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smirk.
Just said it like a volleyball stat: flat. Unthinking. Unfiltered.
You smiled like it didn’t hurt.
Went to the bathroom that night and wiped it all off.
Told yourself it wasn’t a big deal.
But the next day, you played it safe.
No more makeup.
Neutral clothes.
You toned it down, layer by layer, until it felt like you’d erased something.
And he didn’t even seem to notice.
But others did.
Sugawara asked Kageyama during practice, teasing but genuine:
“What happened to all those selfies she used to send you? I kinda miss the glitter.”
Kageyama blinked.
Paused.
Scrolled through his phone that night.
Through bright lipstick, messy buns, silly filters, captioned doodles.
Gone, now.
He found you that night, seated quietly on the porch or your shared bench near the gym.
“Hey…”
You looked up. Tired. Dull.
He sat beside you, awkward fingers twitching on his knee.
“You’re… not weird. I mean, you are, but like. Not—bad weird. Like… your kind of weird. And I liked that.”
You didn’t respond. Just stared ahead.
So he added, softer this time:
“I’m stupid with words. But I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to disappear.”
You swallowed.
He turned slightly, desperate and clumsy:
“Please don’t change for something dumb I said. I didn’t realize how much I loved… all of that. All of you.”
You turned to him.
Eyes glossy, voice small:
“Then why didn’t you say that sooner?”
He didn’t have an answer.
So instead, he reached into his pocket and held out the phone screen — a selfie of you from a month ago.
“I saved this one. I liked your smile here the most.”
DAICHI SAWAMURA
It was something small.
You tripped on a stair and instinctively, he caught your wrist, pulling you close before you fell.
Someone whistled.
A teammate teased: “Ooh, Daichi, playing knight in shining armor?”
He panicked. Embarrassed. Tried to play it cool.
So he shrugged and muttered,
“She’s not my responsibility.”
Laughed it off.
But your smile didn’t reach your eyes.
You’d never expected him to take responsibility for you.
You weren’t asking to be saved.
But you’d thought — maybe — it was okay to lean. To trust. To fall near him.
After that day, you stopped doing that.
You handled everything alone — even when your hands shook carrying too much, even when your emotions threatened to spill.
No more late-night texts.
No more spontaneous hangouts.
No more quiet moments walking beside him.
You avoided everyone for a while.
Until Suga found you missing again from another group outing and went straight to Daichi.
“She knows she’s not your responsibility, Daichi. She just thought… you gave a damn.”
That silenced him.
That night, he went up to the school rooftop — the place you always went when you needed to breathe.
You were already there, arms wrapped around your knees, eyes on the sky.
He didn’t speak.
Just sat beside you.
Let the silence ache between you both.
Then finally, barely audible:
“I wanted to protect you. Not push you away.”
You didn’t look at him. You just said, hollowly:
“You don’t have to explain. I get it.”
But he shook his head gently.
“No, you don’t. I didn’t say that because I didn’t care. I said it because I was scared of how much I did.”
You blinked, eyes burning.
“You’re not my responsibility,” he whispered again — but this time softer, reverent.
“You’re my person. That’s… different.”
your roommate has been running her mouth to her now ex-boyfriend that you were a nerdy little virgin, and after they broke up you let kuroo find out if she's telling the truth.
starring. kuroo tetsuro x fem!reader
genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kuroo
wc: 9.7k
warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. some themes of exhibitionism (?). cheating. mentions foursome. detailed smut. tit play. oral (f and m!receiving). face sitting. creampie. p in v. pwp (?). kuroo and reader matches each others freaks.
You live in a two-bedroom apartment tucked away in a quieter ward of Tokyo—not too far from the city’s rhythm, but just enough to give you a breather. It's modern, clean, and honestly more space than you need. You could’ve gone solo. The rent was well within your budget, a little indulgent even, but something about sharing the space felt… right. Whether it was a leftover instinct from dorm life or just the quiet knowledge that silence in too many rooms can get heavy over time—you weren’t entirely sure.
Eventually, through a casual coffee catch-up with an old college colleague, you were introduced to someone else who happened to be in the same position: apartment hunting, strapped for time, and looking for something stable. The arrangement was convenient. She seemed easygoing enough, worked long hours like you did, and respected shared space. No red flags, no awkward tension. You didn’t overthink it.
And for a while, everything just... worked. You had your routines—brushing past each other in the kitchen during rushed mornings, the occasional shared takeout dinner in front of the TV, the soft hum of separate lives running parallel. You didn’t hang out much, but you coexisted comfortably. That was enough.
What you hadn’t expected, though, was the shift that happened a few months in. The subtle kind. The kind you wouldn’t notice at first—until a stranger’s shoes started appearing by the door on the weekends, or the low murmur of laughter drifted from her bedroom late at night.
You didn’t care.
She could do whatever she wanted, and it wasn’t your business. When she first told you she was seeing someone—some guy named Kuroo, apparently—you offered nothing more than a nod. They’d been together for a few months, she said. “He might start staying over more. Was that okay?” You told her it was. You didn’t mind. Not really.
Even the nights when the walls failed to hold their secrets didn’t bother you. You’d hear it, sometimes. Soft giggles turning breathy. The rhythmic creak of her bedframe against the wall. The occasional slip of a moan that crawled down the hallway. But it was always distant. Easy enough to ignore. You’d just turn up the volume on your music or pretend your pillow muted everything. It didn’t affect you.
You rarely crossed paths with him.
Work kept you out late, and on most nights, you slipped into the apartment quietly, careful not to wake anyone even when you knew they were still awake. Sometimes you’d see him in passing—a flash of dark hair as he leaned over the sink, his hoodie thrown carelessly over one shoulder. His voice would drift from the other room, low and teasing. But he never really looked at you. Never acknowledged you. And that was fine. You had no interest in making small talk with your roommate’s boyfriend.
He must have thought she lived alone.
And maybe she wanted it that way.
Still, there was something oddly satisfying about the way he lingered in the living room sometimes, eyes drifting over the shelves that lined the far wall. The ones filled with manga spines, collector’s editions, limited-release box sets. Hand-built Lego models positioned with the care of a gallery. You’d catch the subtle pause in his voice when he spoke near them, the shift in his tone from casual to curious.
“This stuff’s cool,” he said once, running a hand along the edge of a display. “Didn’t know you were into Legos.”
You hadn’t been close enough to see her face, but you could hear the disdain wrapped around her reply.
“God, no,” she laughed, that practiced little snort she used when she wanted to sound above something. “That’s my roommate’s. She’s like, a total nerd. Obsessed with comics and kids’ toys and whatever. I let her keep it out here. It’s, like, her thing.”
You stood just out of sight in the hallway, expression unreadable, your bag still slung over your shoulder.
You didn’t say a word. Just turned toward your room, the door clicking shut behind you as her laughter faded into silence.
Let her laugh. Let her act like it was something to be embarrassed about.
Because the way his voice had caught before she answered? You didn’t miss that.
It was subtle—the kind of pause most people wouldn’t think twice about. But you weren’t most people. You caught that split-second hitch in his voice. Like he was expecting someone else to respond. Like he had a different name on his tongue before hers came out. And once you noticed that—everything else started to unravel.
After that, your roommate’s colors started bleeding through her carefully layered persona. The kind of girl you swore you left behind in high school. Pretty, mean, passive-aggressive. The type who needed to feel above someone just to breathe easy.
She liked to act casual, like it was all girl talk. Like she wasn’t trying to sink her claws into your insecurities.
“Kuroo was so good last night,” she would say, eyes glinting as she leaned against the counter, always loud enough for you to hear. “I swear, he knows my body better than I do. He had me pinned—biting, moaning, choking. I couldn’t stop shaking.”
She’d glance at you as she said it. Smirking. Cruel.
“I mean... not that you'd know what that’s like,” she added with a fake laugh, stirring her tea like she hadn’t just thrown acid at your self-worth. “He doesn’t go for girls like you.”
You smiled. Calm. Unbothered.
“You’re right,” you said sweetly. “And I’m not interested. That’s fine.”
But inside? You were laughing.
Because she had no idea.
You’d lived that wild, messy, electric kind of life she only pretended to understand. Back in college, you’d had your fair share of boyfriends—and girlfriends. Pretty ones, sweet ones, dangerous ones. The kind who got on their knees just to worship your thighs. Who sucked on your tits like they’d die without the taste. You’d been kissed against dorm walls, fucked in music rooms, devoured in the backseat of a car while your heels dug into fogged-up windows. You’d had people beg to taste you—tongue-deep until your legs shook, until your moans echoed down quiet hallways.
You’d been wild. Reckless. Insatiable. You’d even tried a threesome with a married couple once—just to see if you could make them both fall apart. You did. Twice.
But then you graduated. Got a job. Realigned your priorities. You weren’t that girl anymore—not all the time.
You hung up the stilettos and the lipstick-stained wine glasses. You traded morning-after texts for early meetings. Nights spent tangled in sheets became nights at your desk, fingers flying across a keyboard instead of someone else’s skin.
You retired from the chaos and focused on your career.
But that girl—the one she thought you couldn’t possibly be?
She still lived within you, and she was just waiting to come out and play.
You’d almost forgotten her until that morning. The one where she sat at the kitchen island with bed hair and a proud smile, sipping her coffee like it was just another Tuesday. She didn’t just talk about her night with Kuroo—she dissected it, glorified it, sprinkled it over your morning like sugar in your tea. Not that you asked, but she offered every lurid detail anyway, like you were the best friend she never had and the enemy she always needed. He was so big. He made her gag. She choked a little—laughed as if the memory alone still lingered at the back of her throat.
You didn’t flinch. Not then.
But it didn’t stop. It became a pattern. Whenever Kuroo stayed the night—his shoes by the door, his laugh echoing in the kitchen—she’d find a way to mention it. How her throat was sore. How she could still feel him. How she couldn’t walk straight. All of it tossed out with that lazy grin and self-satisfied tone. At first you told yourself it was just her way—crude, bold, a little drunk on the attention. But something in her voice changed. Something smug. Pointed.
And then came the men who weren’t Kuroo.
You saw one first by accident. You’d woken early for work and padded down the hallway, half-asleep and still rubbing your eyes, only to nearly crash into him outside the bathroom. He was tall, wearing nothing but boxers and looking for a jacket. He blinked at you like you were the one in the wrong hallway. He muttered a soft “morning,” then disappeared into her room.
You didn’t say a word.
But the worst—no, the most unforgettable—happened one humid night when sleep just wouldn’t come. You'd tossed in bed until frustration took over, deciding a warm glass of milk might help settle you down. The hallway was dark, the tiles cool beneath your feet. But the second you turned the corner toward the kitchen, your breath caught.
Her bedroom door was wide open.
You froze.
The sounds were unmistakable—flesh on flesh, low groans, the wet thud of skin colliding with skin. Heavy breathing, slurred moans, and the distinct slap of motion too fast to be just hands. The room reeked of alcohol and sweat. And you saw it all—every obscene detail lit by the dim glow of her desk lamp.
One man was behind her, rhythm sharp and relentless, his hands gripping her waist as she braced herself on shaking arms. Another lay beneath her, her knees braced on either side of him while he thrusted up into her from below, mouth latched to her breasts, tongue circling one nipple then the other like he couldn’t decide which to devour first. And a third—God—the third stood in front of her, hips pumping as she sucked him down, her mouth stretched wide around him, spit slicking her chin and dripping to her collarbone.
You watched as her whole body trembled under the force of it—three men, three directions, all taking turns. Her throat constricted as she took him deeper. Her back arched as the one underneath groaned into her chest. The man behind her pulled her hips back, harder, rougher. She whimpered. Moaned. Her nails scraped the sheets. And when the one in front finally shuddered and came, you saw the spill of it leak past her lips, trailing white down her chin as she let out a breathless laugh—uncaring, uninhibited, completely lost in pleasure.
None of them noticed you.
Not even when you stepped back and nearly knocked over the dish rack in your daze.
You almost laughed.
So much for good sex.
So much for Kuroo not going for girls like you.
You didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, she confronted you in the hallway, freshly showered and still damp, eyes smug with victory. “You saw, didn’t you?”
You didn’t deny it. Just nodded once, softly.
And she beamed—fucking beamed. “I can take three cocks at once,” she said proudly. “Feels good, you know? Having every hole filled at the same time. It’s like—ecstasy. And they even took turns, babe. I lost count of how many times they came. My holes have been filled thrice as much.”
You stared at her, mouth dry, heartbeat unsteady. Her words were half confession, half performance.
And then, as if it were an afterthought, she added, “I wanted you to see it.”
Your brows furrowed. “What?”
“I left the door open on purpose. Thought it might loosen you up. But I figured you wouldn’t join anyway. Those guys probably aren’t into your type.”
You didn’t rise to it. Not yet. “How about Kuroo?”
That made her pause for a second. Just a flicker.
She shrugged. “The dick’s good. But he’s getting clingy. Talking about labels and exclusivity and all that serious shit. I don’t like that.”
Your stomach sank. “You told me it was serious.”
“It wasn’t. Until he thought it was.”
And just like that, she turned away, humming to herself as she made her coffee like she hadn’t just shattered something in the room. Something delicate. Something quiet and private and stupidly hopeful that you didn’t even realize you’d been holding on to.
You never judged her. God knows college has been a blur for you too. You’d partied, drank too much, made your own share of mistakes. But still—something about seeing her like that, twisted and shaking and laughing with a mouthful of someone else, had done something to you.
Maybe it was the betrayal. Maybe it was the performance. Maybe it was that deep, unspoken part of you that had started to care about Kuroo even if you didn’t want to admit it.
But what you never forgot—what stayed carved in your mind, looping over and over like a cruel joke—was the smirk she wore as she wiped cum off her chin and looked toward the door.
She knew.
And you’d never seen her look more pleased.
It was one of those rare, treasured off days—the kind where time stretched and slowed, unbothered by alarms or obligations. You padded out of your room with a fresh mug of coffee and a sealed box in hand: the latest Lego Architecture set you’d been dying to build. The living room was quiet, lit by soft daylight filtering through the sheer curtains, and for once, blissfully yours. Or so you thought.
You settled cross-legged on the rug, carefully opening the box and sorting the pieces into neat color-coded piles across the coffee table. The soft clink of plastic against plastic was meditative, your fingers already moving by muscle memory as you started on the foundation.
Then, the door creaked open.
You glanced up, expecting it to be your roommate stumbling in from a late-morning hangover—or another boy doing the walk of shame. But instead, it was him.
Kuroo Tetsuro.
Hair tousled in every direction, eyes half-lidded with sleep, and wearing nothing but a loose shirt and sweatpants slung far too low on his hips. He blinked at you like you were a hallucination.
“…Shit,” he muttered under his breath before stiffening like he’d been caught stealing.
You raised an eyebrow.
There was a beat of stunned silence before he scrubbed a hand down his face and cleared his throat. “You’re—wait, you're the roommate?” He pointed at you like he couldn’t quite believe it. “You’re her roommate?”
You looked back down at the half-built Lego set and calmly clicked a few pieces together. “Mmm. That’s what it says on the lease.”
Kuroo stared at you, then at the Lego box, then back at you. “Is that—oh my god, is that the Fallingwater set?” His voice pitched up slightly, boyish excitement suddenly blooming on his face.
You blinked, slightly surprised at the sudden shift. “Yeah. Limited edition, too.”
His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t expected from someone who, until now, had only existed in your mind as a tangled mess of sex sounds and sneaky exits.
“I’ve wanted to build that one for months,” he said, stepping closer without even realizing it. “Frank Lloyd Wright is—God. His work is insane. That cantilever design? Pure genius.”
You stared at him for a second, momentarily caught off guard. “You’re into architecture?”
“I’m into Legos,” he corrected with a grin, dropping down to sit a few feet away from you on the floor. “Architecture’s just the gateway drug.”
The way he said it was so earnest, so casually nerdy, that you couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. He didn’t seem to notice he was still inching closer, eyes darting across your sorting piles with the practiced gaze of someone who had done this a hundred times before. His fingers twitched like he wanted to reach for a piece, to help build.
“You’re not usually home,” he added after a second. “She always says you’re working.”
“I usually am,” you replied, not bothering to hide the slight edge in your tone. “Today’s the exception.”
Kuroo paused, then gave you a sheepish look. “Well, I feel kind of dumb. I’ve been talking to your Lego collection like it was hers.”
You glanced at him, amusement tugging at your lips. “So you do talk to the Lego sets.”
“Only the ones that deserve respect,” he shot back easily, gesturing toward your build. “That one? Deserves a round of applause.”
There was a pause—just long enough to realize how quiet the apartment was with only the two of you in it. Just long enough for the tension to crackle faintly in the air, unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
For the first time, you were seeing him as something more than your roommate’s cocky lay. He was still smug. Still smug and way too attractive for his own good—but there was a softness there too, the kind that clung to people who used their brains for more than ego. A surprising amount of dork nestled beneath the devil-may-care smirk. You didn’t know what to do with that just yet.
Still, you couldn’t resist the tease.
“You can help sort, if you wash your hands,” you said, tilting your head.
Kuroo gave you a mock gasp. “You think I’d touch a limited edition set with dirty hands? I’m offended.”
You laughed under your breath as he stood up and headed to the sink, and as the sound of running water filled the space, you glanced back down at the instructions in front of you.
It seemed like, for once, today might actually be interesting.
And maybe—just maybe—so was he.
Eventually, you and Kuroo became close, as he sometimes helped you with your builds if you were free and he happened to be in the apartment.
It was just an innocent hangout since you two shared an interest—nerding out over collectors' sets, comparing mini-figures, debating Marvel versus DC, and even spending quiet evenings building modular LEGO cities in comfortable silence. It was never anything more than shared company, quiet companionship, and a love for plastic bricks and fantasy worlds.
But apparently, that probably hit a nerve with your roommate.
Because a few days later, you came home from work and stepped into the middle of a storm brewing in the living room.
“You always hang out with her now,” your roommate spat, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “Why?”
You froze, one foot just inside the doorway, the other still outside. You blinked at the tension in the air—at the way Kuroo stood across from her, jaw tight, like he hadn’t expected this either.
“She’s cool,” Kuroo said simply, voice calm but edged in confusion. “We like the same stuff. That’s all it is.”
“That’s all it is,” your roommate echoed mockingly, rolling her eyes. “So what, you're into nerds now? You think you're gonna build a little LEGO love story with her?”
Kuroo frowned. “It’s not like that.”
She scoffed, arms flying up in the air. “Bullshit. You’re getting soft. And since we’re airing things out—guess what, Kuroo? I’ve been fucking other people the entire time. Not just one or two.”
You watched from the hallway as she stepped closer, lips curling into a smirk. Like this wasn’t a confession—it was a flex.
“Three guys,” she said, slowly, as if daring him to react. “At the same time. And I liked it.”
She said it proudly. Like there was no shame, no remorse, no thought to how it might hit him.
And it did hit him.
You saw it in the subtle shift of his stance, the way his shoulders pulled back and his jaw clenched. He didn’t yell. He didn’t crumble. But you saw the exact moment it clicked—that he wasn’t just some convenient hookup to her, but completely disposable.
“You’re serious?” he asked, slowly.
She shrugged, unapologetic. “Dead serious. And I don’t get why you’re acting like we were exclusive. I never promised you anything.”
He inhaled sharply through his nose, glancing away like he was trying to keep his temper level. “I just thought we respected each other. I thought you gave a shit. And I thought you and your roommate were friends. That’s why I even talked to her in the first place.”
The room fell uncomfortably silent after that. You felt a sting deep in your chest—for him.
You knew Kuroo wasn’t the type to get attached easily. But he had cared. He wouldn’t have lingered around your coffee table for hours helping you alphabetize your manga, or asked you what your dream Star Wars set was, if he was just killing time between fucks.
And now, he looked like he’d just had the wind knocked out of him.
You didn’t want him to see your face, the way your brows pulled together or how your heart ached with sympathy for him. So, quietly, you backed away from the hallway and slipped into your bedroom, shutting the door behind you before the fight could escalate further.
You didn’t want to hear any more of it—not the insults, not the ego, not the unraveling of something he’d believed was real.
All you could do was sit on your bed, palms pressed to your thighs, and let yourself hurt in silence—for the boy who never deserved to be treated like a backup plan.
After that argument, you never saw much of Kuroo again. You hadn’t asked for his number or any of his socials, and he never asked for yours either. Maybe it was intentional—maybe it wasn’t—but either way, you chalked it up to a chapter that closed before it could fully begin. It was easier that way, wasn’t it? Your roommate moved on fast. So fast that the same night you’d heard her moaning another boy’s name through the thin apartment walls while you buried yourself under a pillow and turned the volume of your anime up louder than usual. You weren’t sure if it was pity or residual anger that lingered in your chest, but either way, you avoided bringing it up.
A few months passed. Your job had picked up pace, and while your calendar was often cluttered with deadlines, you managed to put away enough money to indulge yourself a little. Which is why you didn’t even flinch at the entrance fee for the local comic and toy convention—hell, you even treated yourself to priority access, determined to beat the crowd before anyone could swipe that rare LEGO Star Wars Ultimate Collector Series set you’d been eyeing online for weeks. You weren’t sure if it would even be there, but the hope was enough. And if not, there were always manga volumes to haul home, limited prints, and maybe another blind box you didn’t need but would justify with weak logic about resale value.
The place was buzzing with life. Cosplayers brushed past you in elaborate wigs and armor; booths were stacked high with colorful displays; the air smelled like plastic wrap, buttered popcorn, and overpriced takoyaki. Your bag was already a little heavier than it should’ve been—three volumes of a manga you hadn’t even started and two keychains you didn’t need clinked together at your side—but your heart was light. It was a good day. You were in your element. You were happy to be spending money that you earned doing something you didn’t hate. That in itself felt like a win.
You were crouched in front of a display, squinting to read the fine print on the LEGO box tucked in the farthest shelf corner—your prize almost within reach—when a familiar voice slid in from behind you, smooth as ever, but touched with disbelief.
You turned. And just like that, the convention disappeared for a second.
Kuroo stood a few feet away, noticeably overdressed for the venue. His dark button-up was tucked neatly into charcoal slacks, the lanyard from the Japan Volleyball Association still clipped to his belt, a blazer slung casually over one arm. His hair was a little more tamed than the last time you saw him, like he’d just stepped out of a boardroom instead of a crowd full of anime fans and collectors. And yet, his expression—wide-eyed and visibly caught off-guard—was anything but polished.
“…Tetsu?”
He grinned then, that same crooked smile that used to flash your way over unfinished LEGO builds in your living room, the kind that warmed something unguarded in your chest.
“I thought that was you. I’d recognize that laser-focus over a brick set anywhere,” he teased, stepping closer. “You stalking LEGO aisles now?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” you said, glancing pointedly at his outfit. “Did you just come from a funeral or are you here to do tax audits on people’s purchases?”
He laughed, the sound genuine. “Meeting at the JVA ran long. I was supposed to head straight home after, but I saw the convention signs on my way out and figured I’d pop in. Nostalgia, you know? Didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew… especially not you.”
Your smile faltered only slightly, the past nudging its way in. “Yeah… I didn’t think I’d see you again either.”
For a second, neither of you said anything. The noise of the convention carried on—someone shouted about free pins at booth twelve, another person squealed over a celebrity sighting—but in that moment, it was just the two of you, standing shoulder to shoulder in front of a LEGO display that felt like a full circle too ironic to ignore.
“I didn’t get to say sorry,” Kuroo said quietly, his voice softer now, lower. “Back then. I should’ve reached out. But I didn’t even know how.”
“It’s okay,” you said, and maybe you meant it. Maybe part of you still felt the sting of that goodbye-that-wasn’t, but seeing him again like this, in the middle of a day you thought would be just another solo outing, made the ache feel a little more bearable. “You don’t owe me anything.”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, as if trying to read between the lines. And then, with a small smile, he gestured toward the shelf. “So… you finally get it? That LEGO set you’ve been after?”
“Almost. Some guy just bought one before me. I’ve been debating if I should just fight him for it or cry in the corner.”
Kuroo smirked, like it was 3AM again and you were bickering over missing pieces. “I’ll help you strategize. Worst-case scenario, we distract him with a full-blown scene in the Gundam section.”
You laughed, and just like that, the heaviness began to lift. Maybe the past didn’t need to be reopened in full detail. Maybe there was something worth picking up from here instead—on neutral ground, between plastic bricks and overpriced manga—and maybe this time, neither of you would let it slip so easily.
You eventually started spending more time at Kuroo’s apartment—not because it was necessarily more convenient, but because the idea of inviting him over to yours felt layered with complications you weren’t ready to unpack. Your roommate still lived there, and after everything that had transpired—the awkward tension, the quiet spite, the ghost of her moaning someone else’s name just hours after things ended with Kuroo—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel neutral. And you didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of thinking she had any space in whatever it was that you and Kuroo were slowly building now.
He never asked questions. Just unlocked the door, let you in, and cleared space on his coffee table for your snacks and whatever LEGO set he’d been tinkering with that week. It became your quiet ritual. He’d handle the bulk of the instruction booklet while you sorted pieces by color or shape, occasionally bickering about which build deserved priority. You laughed more often than you had in weeks. Kuroo, for all his smug quips and relentless teasing, had a calming presence when he was relaxed like this—lounging in sweats, hair pulled back haphazardly, glasses perched on his nose, and a cup of instant coffee steaming between you.
It was during one of these hangouts—somewhere between building a replica of the Millennium Falcon and reorganizing his manga shelf—that he really started noticing the little things about you.
You wore glasses at his place. Not the contact lenses or styled versions of yourself that the world got to see, but the comfort version—the one with oversized hoodies, your hair tied up, and those thick-rimmed frames slipping down the bridge of your nose every few minutes. You’d wrinkle your nose every time they slid too far, push them back up with a finger, then hunch further into the build like you were preparing for battle. It was absurdly endearing.
Kuroo found himself watching you more than he watched the pieces. The way your brow furrowed in focus, the way your voice softened when you talked about your favorite arcs, how your hands hovered when he got too reckless snapping bricks together.
And the more time he spent with you, the harder it was not to remember all the things your ex-roommate used to say about you.
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time. She’d speak in offhand remarks—half-laughed criticisms and quiet jabs that he hadn’t really questioned. Stuff like, “She’s sweet, but kind of childish, don’t you think?” or “Her room’s full of toys and junk, I don’t know how she lives like that.” It sounded harmless then. Maybe even normal, like the kind of light annoyance roommates always had about each other.
But now, sitting across from you while you earnestly explained the rarity of a certain manga edition you were planning to hunt down next weekend, he realized how misplaced those comments really were.
Your roommate hadn’t been annoyed. She had been dismissive. Cruel, in subtle ways that made him feel gross now that he understood the full picture. Because if this was you—brilliant, expressive, unapologetically passionate—you weren’t someone to mock. You were someone worth watching. Worth listening to. Worth knowing.
Kuroo was starting to think he’d like to know you even better.
And he did.
The more time you spent at his place, the more the line between casual hangouts and something softer, something more intentional, began to blur. It wasn’t sudden—nothing about it was rushed or dramatic—but rather a quiet shift, the kind that unfolds slowly when two people realize they enjoy each other’s company more than they probably should.
It started with the little things.
He began walking you home instead of just waving from the doorway. He'd pick up your favorite snacks without needing to ask. Once, he texted you in the middle of the workday just to share a photo of a new LEGO architecture set he spotted in a store near the JVA office—“Made me think of you,” he’d said.
Then came the first not-quite-date, when he asked if you wanted to grab ramen after a long build session. It wasn’t phrased romantically, but when he held the door open for you with a lopsided grin and a low, “Dinner’s on me,” it lingered like a promise.
After that, it became a quiet pattern—late-night meals, museum dates disguised as “research” for future builds, bookstore strolls where he let you drag him into the manga aisle even though he always ended up walking out with more volumes than you did.
One evening, he surprised you with a black box tied in yellow ribbon, smugly handing it over like he was presenting you with a Nobel prize.
You opened it to find a bouquet of LEGO flowers—intricate, colorful, and painstakingly detailed.
“I figured they wouldn’t die on you,” he said with a small shrug, but his ears flushed red, betraying just how much the gift actually meant.
You smiled so brightly it made his chest ache.
Later that night, you sat side by side on his floor, building each stem and petal piece by piece. Your fingers brushed occasionally, and each time it happened, he didn’t pull away. Neither did you.
And when you were finally finished, the vase of plastic blooms sat proudly by his kitchen window, catching the light like real blossoms might. It stayed there—quiet, permanent, and real in its own way. Just like the two of you were starting to become.
More sets of LEGO flowers bloomed forever in the corner of Kuroo's bookshelf, perched beside a manga box set he'd later surprise you with. Then another. Then a collector's figurine. A special-edition Blu-ray. It became a habit for him—dropping by a shop after work, carrying something that made him think of you. Something you’d gush over while adjusting your glasses or scrunching your nose in delight. Kuroo loved how animated your voice became when you explained the significance of a certain volume or lore from a world he only half-understood but always listened to anyway.
He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you carefully peeled away the plastic wrap, reverent in a way that almost made him jealous of the object in your hands.
“Tetsu, I told you to stop giving me gifts randomly.” you scolded him after he just handed you a new set of Lego figures.
Kuroo shrugs his shoulders and gives you a sheepish smile, “I like giving you gifts just because, okay?”
That went on and on—nights tangled in LEGO instructions and accidental laughs, meals shared over manga discussion, and growing routines that never needed to be spoken aloud. Eventually, he started asking you on actual dates. A quick dinner after helping him with his laundry. A detour to the park after a weekend spent sorting model kits. You never had to ask if it was a date—he made it clear every time he paid, every time he walked you home, every time his fingers lingered at the small of your back.
Then one night, he took you somewhere just a little fancier.
A cozy, tucked-away place with dim lighting and soft music humming underneath clinking silverware. You wore something nice—not over the top, but enough to make Kuroo smile the moment he saw you. He was dressed in a dark button-down shirt, sleeves casually rolled, a silver watch peeking from his wrist. Formal enough to make your heart thump a little harder when he pulled out your chair for you.
You talked—about work, a new LEGO release, some anime remake coming out soon, and halfway through dessert, it slipped out.
“So…what are we?” he asked, fingers absently running along the rim of his wine glass.
You paused, lips parting—but he beat you to it.
“I mean, I already know what I want us to be,” he added, voice quieter, more certain. “I’d just like to know if you feel the same.”
Your heart skipped. You didn’t answer with words—not right away. Instead, your hand slid over his on the table, your thumb brushing his wrist like it had always belonged there. Kuroo’s smile widened, soft and crooked.
That night, after he drove you home, it was meant to end the same way it usually did—warm, unspoken affection lingering in the air, a kiss on the cheek, a casual “see you soon” exchanged in the quiet of the night. Kuroo leaned in like always, one hand still gripping the steering wheel out of habit, his lips brushing against your cheek.
But this time, you didn’t let it end there.
"Stay," you said—softly but with no room for refusal—as your hand curled around the lapel of his coat and tugged him through the door. The click of the lock behind you echoed in the quiet, both of you breathing just a little heavier now.
His brow lifted, slightly amused, but when you reached for him—when you pressed your lips to his without hesitation—Kuroo dropped all pretense. He kissed you back just as fiercely, meeting the pull of your mouth with a hunger that had simmered under the surface for far too long.
You wrapped your arms around his neck as if anchoring yourself there, while his large hands settled on your waist, grounding you. The soft press of your bodies swaying closer felt like gravity had chosen this moment to pull tighter.
His mouth moved down—along the curve of your jaw, then lower to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear. When his lips found your neck, hot and deliberate, you tilted your head back and let out a breathy moan that made something flicker in his chest and spark in his eyes.
"God, you have no idea what you do to me," he murmured into your skin, voice low and gravel-thick with restraint. His hands were already wandering—sweeping over the curve of your waist, tracing the line of your ribs, bunching the fabric of your top like he couldn't decide whether to peel it off slowly or just tear through it and devour you whole.
Then, in one fluid motion, he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. You gasped, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, clinging to him as he carried you through the apartment like he already knew every step of the way. He nudged open the door to your bedroom with his foot and kicked it closed behind him with a soft thud.
“Are you sure about this, darling?” he asked, lips ghosting over your throat, warm breath teasing your skin. His voice was careful, velvet-wrapped concern undercut by the tension thrumming just beneath it.
“Yes,” you whispered without a second thought—breathy, aching, already burning. “Kuroo, yes.”
That was all he needed.
He set you down on the edge of the bed, fingers already working the hem of your top. He tugged it over your head, eyes darkening as more of your skin was revealed to him. “Fuck,” he breathed out, like seeing you undone just for him knocked the wind from his lungs. “You’re unreal.”
You helped him out of his shirt next, palms gliding across his toned chest as if you needed to commit every line, every scar, every warm plane of skin to memory. His pants were next, discarded somewhere along with yours, clothes tossed carelessly onto the floor as your mouths met again in a kiss that was less polite now—more heat than hesitation, more teeth, more tongue, more everything.
When he finally laid you down on the mattress and hovered above you, bare and wanting, the look in his eyes wasn't just lust. It was reverence.
“You're so fucking beautiful,” he said, almost like he was scolding himself for taking this long. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this—about you.”
And then he kissed you again, slower this time, as his hand drifted between your legs—testing the waters, coaxing more of those breathy moans he was already addicted to.
“Gonna take my time with you,” he growled, “because after tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice was thick—low and rough with promise—as his mouth descended onto your chest. Kuroo's lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slow, lazy circles before he sucked hard enough to make your back arch. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers parting your folds before his thumb found your clit with practiced ease, rubbing gentle, teasing circles that made your hips twitch.
“Tetsu,” you whimpered, threading your fingers through his dark, unruly hair, tugging just enough to draw a low moan from him.
Kuroo glanced up, eyes half-lidded but gleaming. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice vibrating against your skin. “Keep saying my name like that.”
You gasped as his fingers pressed in deeper, sliding along your slick heat, fingertips curling just right—just enough to make your thighs tremble and your breath catch.
He sucked on your other breast, taking his time, leaving red blooms along your skin like a trail he’d follow again later. The slow, wet sounds of his mouth on your tits mixed with the obscene slick of his fingers fucking you open, setting your nerves alight.
“Tetsu—fuck, I can’t—” you choked out, hips stuttering beneath his touch.
“Yes, you can,” Kuroo whispered, lips ghosting over your nipple before he kissed the swell of your breast. “You’re doing so good for me.”
He pulled back just slightly, lifting his head to watch you unravel for him—your body flushed, eyes glassy, chest heaving with every broken breath.
“Taste yourself, baby,” he said, bringing his glistening fingers up to your lips. You parted them instantly, moaning as he pushed them past your tongue. His groan was almost feral. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”
When he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. He cradled your head in his hand, the other already stroking his cock as he lined himself up at your entrance.
“Tell me you want this,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me.”
“I want you, Tetsu,” you breathed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “All of you. I’m yours.”
Kuroo didn’t hesitate. With a low groan, he pushed inside—slow and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he bottomed out.
“Fuck,” he cursed, jaw clenching. “You feel… fuck, you feel like heaven.”
And when he started to move—thrusting slow, deliberate, grinding deep—you knew you’d never want anyone else. Not when Kuroo made you feel like this.
Each stroke was intentional, like he was mapping your body with every inch of his. One hand anchored beneath your thigh, fingers pressing into the soft underside, while the other stayed between your bodies, lazily circling your clit in time with the slow grind of his hips. The sounds he drew from you were loud, raw, almost embarrassing if they weren’t so fucking honest. You didn’t care. Not when Kuroo was whispering filth in your ear, kissing along your neck like he was claiming you with every mark.
“You feel that?” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “That’s me. That’s all me, baby.”
When your back arched and your nails raked down his spine, Kuroo groaned—low and guttural, like the sight of you unraveling under him was too much to handle.
To say the least, Kuroo was obsessed with you in bed. He didn't expect someone so quiet, so soft-spoken and unbothered with drama, to be this wild and insatiable behind closed doors. Sometimes his stamina was off the charts—athlete-built and fueled by ego—but even he could admit: fuck, he couldn’t always keep up with you.
It drove him crazy in the best way.
You were demanding in all the right places. Greedy with your kisses, shameless when you rode him like you needed him deeper than physically possible, and vocal when you came, screaming his name like a prayer and a curse. Every time he thought he had you figured out, you flipped the script.
Kuroo used to think he was the one with the upper hand. He wasn't.
Your roommate—back when she and Kuroo were still trying whatever you’d call that—once mentioned you in passing. They were cuddling on your couch, legs tangled up in each other, when she scoffed and said, “She’s probably a virgin. You’ve seen her room, right? It’s full of Legos and manga. All that nerd shit? She’s definitely never been touched.”
He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, just hummed and nodded, though something about the certainty in her tone stuck with him.
Months later, when things with your roommate fizzled and Kuroo found himself in your bed, tangled in your sheets and catching his breath after your second round, he brought it up.
“She said you were probably a virgin,” he told you, laughing, head resting on your stomach.
You had chuckled, brushing your fingers through his messy hair.
“Yeah?” you replied, eyes gleaming. “Tell that to the guys I had in college. I practically broke one of them.”
You weren’t lying.
You proved it to him that same night. Straddling his face with that lazy smile and those goddamn glasses sliding down your nose. You rode him like you’d been waiting to prove a point and holy hell, Kuroo swore he saw the light. You had him pinned, hips grinding, thighs squeezing around his head like a vice, and he welcomed it. Happily. Drowning in your slick, drunk on your moans, Kuroo didn’t even care if he suffocated in your thighs that night.
He’d die a happy man.
You were so hot like that—uninhibited, filthy, hungry for him. And god, you looked so damn good when you sucked him off still wearing your glasses. Hair all messy from his fingers, mouth slick and eyes daring him to look away. He couldn’t. Not when your tongue ran along his shaft like you were savoring every inch. Not when you moaned around him like he was your favorite flavor.
“Fuck, baby,” Kuroo had groaned, head tilted back. “You’re gonna kill me.”
And you? You just smirked.
“I’ll make it worth your while.” He didn’t doubt it.
Kuroo had been ruined for anyone else after that.
The moment you rode him in his home office, shirt half-unbuttoned, your hands gripping the back of his chair, hair falling into your eyes and mouth hanging open when you moaned his name—Tetsurou—like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.
He never wanted to let you go anymore.
If he could marry you right then and there—naked, sweaty, your panties dangling from his desk lamp—he would’ve gotten down on one knee without a ring. Just a promise. Just you and him.
But you deserved something better. Probably something by the ocean. A quiet, golden beach proposal with the sound of waves behind you and a little velvet box tucked behind one of his science joke t-shirts. Yeah. That’d be perfect. He’d plan that out eventually.
Still, your little dates didn’t slow down.
Lego-building marathons in his living room, your legs tangled across his lap as you bickered about which minifig was better. Cuddles during movie nights where you wore his college volleyball hoodie and snuck popcorn from his bowl. Quiet mornings when you stayed over, sipping coffee and flipping through manga in nothing but your panties and his button-down shirt.
You called it simple. He called it everything.
Kuroo kept giving you things. His love language wasn’t subtle.
Whenever you were at your apartment, a box would show up. Your favorite snacks. A collector’s edition manga you mentioned only once. That limited-edition Ninjago set you joked about. Sometimes he even had them delivered while you were out—just so he could text,
"Check your doorstep, sweetheart."
And when you opened the door, it was there. Sometimes with a post-it that read, "Build this with me tonight?"
And you always did. The second you stepped inside his apartment—his real home, now that you’d practically claimed it with your spare toothbrush and the fluffy slippers he bought for you—there’d be a new set waiting on the table. Or a volume laid neatly beside your favorite spot on the couch.
You would groan playfully, “Tetsu, this is too much…”
But your eyes always sparkled. And that was all he ever needed to see.
Kuroo wasn’t a man of restraint when it came to spoiling you. He liked seeing your expression when you tore the wrapping off. He liiked hearing your happy little gasps. And he especially liked the way you thanked him—sweet kisses at first, and then crawling into his lap and grinding down until his hands gripped your thighs, his voice rasping near your ear.
"Fuck, sweetheart. Is this how you're gonna thank me every time I buy you something?"
You always gave him cuddles… or him fucking you in return.
Neither of you would have it any other way.
Most of your dates happened right there in his apartment. It was your little world. The walls full of bookshelves, scattered Lego creations proudly displayed beside framed photos of his team. Your favorite blanket always draped over his couch, because he swore it smelled like you. You’d both start watching something—some superhero rewatch, some obscure Netflix docuseries—and end up tangled on the couch, kisses turning sloppy, laughter breaking into gasps as he dragged you under him.
It was always his apartment. His couch. His bed. His office. You bent over his desk, your nails scratching at the surface as he fucked you from behind. Or on his kitchen counter, panties pushed aside as he held your thighs apart and groaned against your neck.
"You’re fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart," he’d whisper against your skin. "Can’t believe you’re mine."
And you—smirking, breathless, always ready to drive him wild—would moan out, “I’m all yours, darling.”
That was the thing about you two. No matter where, no matter what—it was always just the two of you. A little domestic chaos, a little nerdy fun, and a whole lot of love.
Kuroo Tetsuro was ruined for anyone else.
And truthfully, he liked it that way.
He liked waking up in his apartment with your leg tangled with his. He liked how your shampoo clung to his pillows and how your glasses sat on his kitchen island beside your empty mug. He liked carrying you to bed when you fell asleep on the couch with a LEGO brick half-built in your hand. He liked that you left things behind—your books, your socks, your presence.
Kuroo Tetsuro had turned his apartment into a second home for you, and he didn’t even realize it until one afternoon when you opened a drawer in his bathroom and found your toothbrush, your hair ties, and your lip balm already waiting. It felt easy with him—domestic. Warm. Comfortable. Real.
But last night, he needed more than domestic.
He’d just come back from a grueling business trip—seven days without you. Seven days of restless sleep, ignored hotel breakfasts, and staring at unread messages while stuck in JVA meetings that ran longer than necessary.
And the second he saw your text, “Door’s open. I’m still up.”
He didn’t go home.
He went to your apartment instead. And the second he walked in and saw you in your oversized sleep shirt and those thick-rimmed glasses you forgot you were wearing—his restraint snapped.
He took you right there in your bedroom.
On the bed. Then again on the floor. And once more with your thighs trembling on the edge of your desk as his name broke from your throat in loud, obscene cries you couldn’t muffle even if you tried.
Kuroo always had a thing for your glasses. Something about the way you looked up at him while you were on your knees, eyes blown out, lips stretched around him, lenses fogging up while you sucked him deep like you missed the taste of him as much as he missed the heat of your body. And he always loved how you let him fuck you in them—wanted it even—telling him how dirty it made you feel when his cum splattered your lenses or dripped down your chin as he kissed you hungrily after.
And last night?
He made you wear them the entire time. Told you he’d missed seeing your pretty face get ruined while they were still on.
So yeah, Kuroo made good on every lost second from that trip. Filled you so many times you couldn’t remember if your name or his was the last thing you said before passing out. Your inner thighs ached. Your sheets were still crumpled with drying stains. And you still felt the wet, pulsing mess between your legs as you stood in the kitchen making breakfast the next morning, robe half-open, neck blooming with hickeys.
He had left early for another JVA morning call—but not before kissing your forehead and stuffing you full one last time in the shower.
But of course—unfortunately for you—your roommate had heard everything.
At first, she brushed it off. You weren’t exactly loud usually, and she assumed you were probably a virgin or celibate by choice. But when she heard your voice—unfiltered, breathless, begging—moaning “Tetsu!” like a prayer answered through gritted teeth and slick skin, it made her stomach churn.
And it was the final straw when his voice echoed in return.
Moaning your name.
Groaning about how tight you were. How much he missed your pussy. How pretty you looked taking every drop.
It made her snap.
So when you entered the living room that morning, holding your travel mug and your bag slung over your shoulder, she was already there—arms crossed, face sour, passive-aggressive aura bleeding into the walls.
“How long has that been going on?” she asked without looking at you.
You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just sipped your coffee.
“Define that.”
Her nostrils flared. “Don’t play dumb.”
You leaned against the counter, hair still wet from the shower, smirking slightly.
“If you mean Tetsuro—last night was just making up for lost time,” you said airily. “He missed me. So did my thighs, apparently.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Funny. That’s not what you said when you told me all about your foursome while dating him,” you replied, tilting your head. “One behind, one underneath, and one shoving it down your throat, right? You left the bedroom door open just so I’d see. Said you were trying to prove a point. What point was that again?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. Scoffed. “That doesn’t mean you get to snake away my ex.”
Your grin widened—sharp, knowing.
“Sweetheart, you cheated on him constantly. I just didn’t say anything because, frankly, it wasn’t my relationship to mourn.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s probably just using you to get back at me. You really think Kuroo Tetsuro would go for you? You said it yourself—he’s a career man. And you—well, look at you.”
You took another sip from your mug. Unbothered. Your petty meter had barely lifted.
“You told me he wouldn’t fuck someone who wore glasses. Now he asks me to keep them on. Funny how things change.”
She scoffed again, louder this time. “You’re seriously going to act like I wasn’t the best sex he ever had?”
“I don’t have to act. I know he’d disagree,” you replied, voice sugar-sweet. “Besides, we were just friends at first. You remember that, don’t you? He liked my LEGO builds. We bonded over manga. I still have the first limited edition he gifted me. First of many.”
“I knew something was up when he started hanging out with you more. You’re not even his type.”
“He said I’m exactly his type,” you said softly. “Smart. Funny. Loyal. And, apparently, really good at taking his cock.”
That was the one that hit.
Her eyes narrowed. “Just because you finally lost your virginity doesn’t mean you’re special.”
You laughed, really laughed, and set your mug down.
“Oh, sweetie. I’ve had a wild sex life in college. I just toned it down to focus on work. Tetsu just brought it back out. And then some. He fucks me in every corner of his apartment. Did he ever do that with you? Kitchen table? Floor? Balcony during rush hour?”
She didn’t answer.
“Didn’t think so,” you murmured.
“You’re lying.”
You stepped forward and whispered like it was a secret.
“He came in me three times last night,” you said casually. “Told me he missed seeing it drip out. Even helped push it back in.”
Her face twisted.
You raised your brows. “But if you want, I can play you the voice memo he sent me last month. He had his cock in his hand and couldn’t stop moaning my name. It’s really quite romantic.”
“Bitch.”
You tilted your head. “Always have been. Just quieter about it.”
She let out an angry shriek before stomping back to her room and slamming the door hard enough to rattle the coat hooks.
You took another sip from your mug and hummed under your breath.
Toned down? Maybe. But this?
This was your victory lap.
And you hadn’t even told her yet about the time Kuroo made you cum just from sucking on your tits while you rode his thigh—glasses on, mouth wet, his hand around your throat as he whispered that he wanted to keep you forever.
content warnings: p in v sex, reader referred to as "girl" as in "pretty girl", caregiver kink, breeding kink, creampie, thigh riding, virginity kink, corruption kink, praise kink, d/s elements, impact play, titty sucking, guided masturbation
ushijima gets painfully hard taking care of you. he loves how dependent you become for every little thing - how your eyes get so sweet and gentle when you thank him for all he does for you. when he's cooking soup for you, his brain is a million miles away, off fantasizing about you fluttering around his fingers, your voice a hoarse whimper against the thick column of his neck. he doesn't care if you can feed yourself - he wants to see you willingly open your mouth when he tells you to, wants to make sure you have a belly full of nutrients before he parts your legs and noses between your folds. "it's good to have an orgasm when you're not feeling well. everyone knows that, my love."
sakusa has a breeding kink because of the ownership, the mess, the sheer fucking risk. you had a pregnancy scare once and it bricked him up instantly. now every time he's fucking you, he's promising to knock you up, smiling to himself when you clench and groan around him. he stuffs you full of cum and then fingers it back into you, fingertips expertly rubbing along the walls he's just coated white with his seed. you're a mess of his making, painted in his cum and soon to be swollen with his child.
daichi isn't stupid—he sees the way you look at him, virgin eyes all sweet and trusting when you tell him that you want him to be your first, that you trust him. he wishes he could ignore the possessive desire to take your virginity, to corrupt you so completely that no other man can ever lay claim to you in the way that he has. but he can't, not when you're whimpering in his lap, legs draped on other side of his thigh, swollen pussy beating in time with his heartbeat as he bounces you up and down. "i know, i know," he soothes. "feels real good, doesn't it, angel?"
oikawa is the sloppiest pussydrunk simp to ever exist. the second he's inside of you, he's moaning and whimpering, barely able to stop himself from praising you. "oh fuck baby -- my pretty baby, you feel so good. you're mine, right honey? all fucking mine?" he can barely control himself; the velvety suck of your walls along his cock feels unreal. "wish you knew how good you feel -- it's impossible not to fuck you full, sweet girl." he buries his face in your neck, hips erratic in rhythm, thighs flexing with every thrust. "please let me cum inside you, baby, please." his fingers dig into your skin when he feels you tighten around him. "oh fuck, right there? is that where you need me?"
kageyama lets you use him like a dildo - legs tied apart and your panties stuffed in his mouth. he's uncharacteristically noisy in his pleasure, grunting and groaning every time you shift your hips. "you like being used like this, don't you?" you smirk down at him. "mr. big strong volleyball player just wants his pretty dick wet." but all he's thinking about is the sheer athleticism of your thighs, how beautiful you look with sweat dripping down your face and in between your tits, and how desperately, violently, he needs you to let him cum.
tsukishima loves to fight and fuck. nothing gets this man harder than someone who goes toe to toe with him. what he didn't expect was how much he wants you to smack him across the mouth when he finally slides inside of you, how much he wants you to tell him he's not fucking you well enough. "slap me," he says. you flash the nastiest smirk before your palm rings across the side of his face. his cock twitches. "yeah. do that shit again, baby."
kuroo loves how smart you are; one of his favorite things to do is lay between your thighs and listen to you read to him, his face squished into your tummy and his arms wrapped around your hips. he loves it so much that your reading sessions often turn into him lazily licking between your folds for hours. a command for you to keep reading rumbles from his throat whenever your focus wavers, when the swirl of his tongue through your wet heat bucks your hips off the bed. "who said you could stop?" he pulls away from your clit. "i'm really interested in learning more about mycology, baby."
best friend!suna takes your "getting your tits sucked on can't feel that good" personally. he tells you it's a shame that no one's ever made you feel good like that, that you should make sure you don't like it before you entirely discard the practice. "plenty of people have sucked on my tits," you tell him. "none of them were me," he replies, all serious calm mixed with arrogant intent. you know you're fucked when he squeezes the heft of a breast in his palm, teeth scraping over your nipple. you arch into his touch. "see? the little princess just needed special treatment."
kenma is amazing at guided masturbation. he doesn't have the best game in person, but behind a keyboard, he's a master. his instructions for you are always slow and methodical, a careful exploration of the erogenous zones he knows drive you wild. you're so obedient, too, sending him voice clips when he tells you to, your pretty voice on display as you finger yourself slowly. his final message reads: please show me how pretty you look rn, along with a picture of his flushed face, leaking cock in his hand.
You’ve just gotten cozy in bed when your husband tells you, “You’re hot.”
“Thank you?” you replied, confused. “I’m not really in the mood tonight, though…”
Iwaizumi looked at you as if you’d grown another head. His brows are drawn together, mirroring your confusion.
“What? No, love, you’re hot.”
“I know I’m hot, Haji. You told me. And I told you I’m not in the mood.”
He sighed. “Hot-hot. You have a fever.”
“Oh?” You put a hand on your neck, feeling the temperature a lot warmer than usual. “Oh.”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“How’d you know?”
He shuffled around your bedroom, going through the cabinets that had extra blankets, medicine, and a thermometer he kept in your nightstand. Iwaizumi sat next to you, the bed dipping under his weight.
“You’re quieter than usual,” he answered eventually.
“That’s it? That’s not even—mmph!”
You could only glare at your husband when he unceremoniously gives you the thermometer.
“Rude. Is this how you treat your wife? That is ill?”
Iwaizumi chuckled. “Sorry, sorry. I forgot to tell you.” He offered you the blankets and pressed a soft kiss to the back of your hand to show that he truly was sorry. You’re not sure if you want to believe him given that cheeky smile on his face. “Be right back. I’ll make you something warm and get some water.”
“But we just had dinner—”
“Just a little hot soup? Please?”
“But I just brushed my teeth, Haji.”
“I’ll help you brush your teeth after.”
You stared at him. There was no way you could win this argument. Iwaizumi was quite stubborn when he wanted to be.
“Fine. I want egg drop soup, though.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
-
You’re about to fall asleep when Iwaizumi pulls you closer to him, murmuring, “You okay?”
“Mmh. Feels like it’s going to come down on me t’morrow.”
He shifted slightly, kissing your temple. “Weekend tomorrow. I’ll take care of you.”
You smiled, nodding along. Having a husband who could tell that you were about to fall ill just from the subtle tell-tale signs was a blessing.
ʚ♡ɞฺ main m.list ྀིᨯ — cw. fluff, established relationship, post timeskip duh kids ages range in 1-6 at max, characters included: iwaizumi, oikawa, kuroo, atsumu, osamu, sakusa, kageyama, hinata, ushijima, bokuto
iwaizumi subconsciously rubs his thumb on your son's back when he taps his chest, asking for his lion plushie that your husband had forgotten, stuck in the bag you had brought whenever it was a day you'd go out with your son.
"and i would like to thank my-" - "papa!" the smaller version of himself basically pulling at his tie while he tries to answer properly. he'd stay perfectly in control though, just to set the scene.
he just tickles the little guy until he stops fussing, at least until he finishes the question. "god, the little man is incredibly eager today, aren't you?" the athlete walks over to your on the sides, escorted by a few bodyguards as you take the hazelnut-headed baby from his arms.
oikawa happily introduces both him and his little girl before answering a few questions. whether those questions are about his gameplay or hi personal life, he answers whatever he can. what people find most adorable is how identical the grin on his daughter face was to his own.
"ah, my spouse? they're actually sitting over there- no i'm not going to point so no one crowds them." the same enthusiasm you fell in love with made you sigh while a few of his teammates stand nearby to bodyguard you in a way.
"dada! wanna say hi to mama/papa!" - "go wave, sweetie, they're right there!"
kuroo has his carbon copy sat on his lap, the little boy having hidden his face for a while in his father's vest, you questioned if it was really a good time to show the world he had a child- well, that's before you knew that crow jr. was just fast asleep.
"ah you know kids, they sleep easy, a luxury i wish i could still have." - "da... i wan' mama/papa..." tugging at the hem of his clothes, you could feel your heart warm when the microphone picked up your son's words.
"we can go to 'em later, okay?" - "huuungry..."
atsumu was getting interviewed right after a game, getting caught offguard, he didn't have time to put his girls down. the older girl being two years more than the smaller girl, one stood and one sat respectively. at least that's the stance he took after tossing them both into the air at least thrice.
"ha? oh! ohohohoh- yeah, these are my kids! just the prettiest in the whole world, aren't they?" placing a kiss on both of their heads, "clearly they take after their mother/father, yeah?"
you could only feel your face heat up hours later when you're rewatching the interview for yourself. "what're ya blushin' 'bout?? was tellin' them the truth!"
osamu gladly introduced the twins you had blessed him with, the two boys that were finally revealed at onigiri miya; helping their father out with work and serving customers with the smile osamu only offered to the love of his life, you.
"mmhhmm, yeah, my boys are amazin' at everythin', aren't they? learned from the best, and look like the best. me and their mother/father respectively."
"'samu, you were so sweet up there but you know damn well they learned how to help you because i pushed them to?" - "yeah yeah. don't take all the credit, beautiful."
sakusa keeps his distance by himself, and it only worsens when his little girl is in the vicinity of cameras, and lights when he finally gets out the locker room post-game. despite the eyerolls and such, he really isn't gonna be a man above flexing about how pretty his little girl is.
"of course she is my daughter, beautiful and much more bearable than you all." is all he really gets out before leaving the limelight to go back to where the two of you were.
"wow, really wouldn't give them a chance?" you smoothly slid a smoothie into his freehand for him and the young lady to share; said little lady already reaching out for the shaved flavored ice. "god, you really want people to know about our life or what?" - "was just joking, 'omi!"
kageyama is... well both him and his barely one year old toddler didn't like the amount of questions being asked, and yearned only for one thing left; to go back to the arms of mama/papa...
"i- yes, she is my daught- no she hasn't been enrol... i..." the little girl looks up at him and blinks anticipatedly, as if telepathically communicatin with her father, she starts to fake a loud cry that successfully gets him out of the spotlight.
"aw is my baby- oh, she's already okay? i thought she was crying?" - "oh you know things babe, i'm just a great dad." he places a kiss onto the little girl's head that makes her babble happily.
hinata, one moment was tossing her up into the air, next thing five journalists and three cameramen are already in his face, asking whose child is it... well, they had the same orange hair... who else's kid would this be?
"uh, yeah, she's my kid. she, and my beautiful partner are my inspiration during matches yes." - "dada! i want hooome!!"
he reluctantly answered only the questions that concerned the games for the next five minutes before coming back to you. "jeez, so many interviewers, huh?" - "okay, mr. popular, our daughter seems hungry."
ushijima is on stage, mic and everything as per usual, but this time the cameras weren't really focused too much on him, rather on the little girl that grasped his jacket's collar with amazement. whispering little words that the mic would pick up, people couldn't help but 'aww' at her!
"yes, the match was very beneficial for the growth of our team." - "ba... pa... papa..." would echo silently right behind the athelete's firm words, he probably couldn't see it, but you could easily spot how easily the crowd faltered at the hands of your daughter.
holding your son's hand, you walk over to your husband as he comes back, "seems like someone's talkative tonight." - "i believe so, our daughter likes the press."
bokuto was pulled onto a stage to talk about his most recent match and how his fake spike came up as an option in his mind. be surprised but i believe he'd be the kind to answer while catering to his daughter. sitting on his lap while he had a large hand around her small body.
"yes! that spike- god it just, you should know... sweetheart, don't eat that; the adrenaline an athlete experiences during a match makes your brain work overtime! and- baby, you know your mother/father is gonna kill me for this-"
long story short he's kinda got it under his control until he realizes 'yooo im a good dad while answering questions professionally'.
It's hard not to notice how Iwaizumi gets flustered when Mattsun brings up cock warming. You have to know what he's thinking about.
HAJIME IWAIZUMI X FEM!READER | roommates to lovers, smut (mdni), cock warming, fingering, piv, light choking, creampie, praise, casual hookups, 3.8k words. | Read on A03.
"Have you ever tried it?"
Iwaizumi glances up. You're lounging on the couch, wearing your favourite sleep set. The one he secretly hates, because the straps have a tendency to slide off your shoulders when you're unaware.
"Tried what?"
Your lips curl into a grin. Mattsun and Makki left less than ten minutes ago, and you're already smiling like you're up to no good. Sometimes Iwaizumi secretly wishes you had a third roommate. Maybe that would create some needed space, maybe it could soothe some of the electric tension between you. He's not sure he understands the inexplicable change between you that's been growing these last couple of months, but he doesn't want to ruin your friendship.
And at the end of the day, he knows he doesn't actually want a third roommate. He likes that he's the one who gets to see you sleepy and slow in the morning, cranky in the evening. That he gets to cook you meals when you're too tired to do it yourself. He doesn't want to share any of it.
"You know," you say, grin turning wicked. Iwaizumi rakes his brain, trying to figure out what you're talking about. He runs through the things you talked about, Mattsun and the funeral home, Makki being unemployed and broke, Oikawa's game last week, something about your shitty ex-boyfriend—
Oh.
The new girl Mattsun has been hooking up with.
"Cock warming," you say, giggling. Like you're reading his mind, realising exactly what he's thinking right now. He knows you saw. Saw the way his cheeks grew flushed at the conversation. Saw the way he avoided eye contact, while Makki was too distracted with teasing Mattsun.
"There's no way it can be that good," he'd said. Mattsun had leaned back against the couch and smiled lazily, the way he always does, the way Iwaizumi knows makes girls fawn over him.
Iwaizumi hadn't added anything to the conversation, hoping to stay clear of any suspicion. Apparently, that wasn't enough, because when he'd looked at you, you were already looking back. Smiling, in that way that meant your mind was going a thousand miles per hour. Planning. Scheming.
Your tiny tank top slipping off your shoulder all the while.
"Hajiii," you sing-song. His eyes dart towards his bedroom, hoping to escape, and you notice, your eyes narrowing at him. "C'mere,"
You pat the spot next to you on the couch as you sit up. He obliges, because what else can he do? When you're sitting there, hair slightly dishevelled from when Makki ruffled it on his way out, looking so, so sweet.
"Wanna try it?"
Your voice is syrupy sweet, dripping honey and temptation. You're halfway crawling into his lap, one of your hands placed on his thigh. Iwaizumi swallows.
"We shouldn't," he says, and it makes you pout, pushing further. You lean in, and he can smell your perfume now, something sweet and flowery.
You're always flirting with him, but this. This is something different, something heavier. There's no deniable plausibility here, no light teasing.
Iwaizumi will admit that he's always secretly basked in the affection you'd reward him. He's used to girls fawning over Oikawa, or making out with Mattsun at parties, or going on dates with Makki. But you. You've always danced around him, making him feel special. Lightheaded.
"Hajime," you pout, drawing him out of his thoughts. "Why not?"
He swallows again, throat feeling dry. Why not?
You're fully straddling him now, sinking into his lap.
Why not?
Wrapping your arms around your neck, you're looking down at him, still smiling.
"Have you ever tried it?" you whisper, while you play with the hairs at the back of his neck. Poor Iwaizumi has to hold back a groan as he closes his eyes.
"No."
"Do you wanna?"
You know you're being bold. But you've been holding back for so long. Who can blame you for finally breaking when you've been watching him squirm around all night?
"It could be fun. We could put on a movie or something," you say, and you grind your hips into his experimentally. Your grin widens when you feel that he's already half hard. His hands fly to your hips, holding you still as he takes a deep breath.
You can see the turmoil in his brown eyes, feel the storm rising in him.
"Okay," he says, releasing your hips.
The look on your face is victorious, and you move your hands down, squeezing his shoulders in excitement.
"I pick the movie," he manages to bite out, and you nod eagerly, hands flying down to the waistband of his shorts.
"Sure, Haji, whatever you want," you murmur, focused on the new objective at hand. Iwaizumi grabs your hands, placing them behind your back. You look down at him, frowning. Finally gaining some footing, Iwaizumi tuts at you, shaking his head.
"Let me pick a movie first," he murmurs. He keeps your hands where they are, with one big hand on your wrists, while he leans over you, grabbing the TV remote off the coffee table. He leans back on the couch again, casually opening Netflix. You stare, dumbly, waiting for the next instruction.
The thing you've always liked about Iwaizumi is that he doesn't let you get away with any of your antics. With Oikawa, it's a constant game of who'll back down first, of who can get away with the most. Mattsun is largely unaffected apart from the times when he'll tag along to help you torment the others. Makki is so easy to tease that it's not even funny.
When it comes to Iwaizumi, he's steady. It's always annoyed you a bit. When he's with Oikawa, it's like it's second nature for him to get riled up. But as soon as it comes to you, he's like a rock. He never lets your antics reach him. Not even the outrageous sleep sets you'll wear or the innocent cuddling when you're having sleepovers.
It's fun.
But now that he's finally given in, you don't know what to do.
"Go grab your blanket," Iwaizumi murmurs into your ear. It takes a few seconds before you spring into action, shuffling towards your bedroom. You quickly grab it, before checking yourself in your mirror before you head back to the living room.
Your face feels hot, and you fix your hair.
This is Hajime. Your Hajime. The guy you've known since you were fifteen, the guy who used to buy you sodas from the vending machine before class and save you from Oikawa's relentless teasing all the time. The guy you moved in with three years ago when you moved to Tokyo.
Because it's cheaper. And easier. And it's nice to have a friend in the apartment, to rant to and cook dinner with.
The guy you've been flirting with for as long as you can remember. Under the guise that it's friendly. And fun. And that there's definitely nothing more to it.
"Did you fall in there?"
"No!"
You pad back into the living room, blanket wrapped around you. Iwaizumi has already picked a movie. You think it's a comedy, judging by the look of it. He raises a brow at you, and you smile as you make your way back to the couch.
"Hi," you say, and he smiles back, patting his thigh.
"C'mere," he says, echoing your own words from earlier, and you oblige instantly, this time settling with your back against his chest. He lets you get comfortable, and you pull the blanket over you. The movie is already starting, but you're not paying attention.
Not when Iwaizumi smells so good.
"Why are you so nervous all of a sudden?" he asks, and one of his hands finds your hip underneath the blanket, making soothing circles with his thumb.
"I'm not nervous," you protest, and you feel him chuckle beneath you, clearly not believing you.
"Right."
A beat.
"We don't have to do this if you don't want to."
He's giving you an out. A last chance to take it back, to not change your friendship into whatever this is. But even then, you know this has been a long time coming. You'd be an idiot to try to stop it.
"No, I want to," you say.
"We can just watch the movie."
"Hajime."
There's a warning in your tone, telling him not to worry anymore. You feel him relaxing, finally, and he grunts, settling into the couch at last. His hand not on your hip roams your side, before he settles on your tit, squeezing your soft skin.
"Okay, baby."
He flicks your nipple through the fabric of your top, and you gasp, squirming. You feel the bulge beneath your ass, and it makes you a little dizzy to know you have this effect on him.
You try to focus on the movie. A girl is screaming at her roommate, throwing things at her. There's a weird-looking dog. Iwaizumi's hand on your hip dips underneath the waistband of your shorts.
"Proper stretching is important," he says, cupping your pussy over your panties. "To prevent injury."
It makes you giggle, the way he speaks like you're one of his athletes. He keeps playing with your nipple while he thumbs your clit with his other hand, applying dull stimulation. You gasp softly, spreading your legs to give him more access.
You don't need to look behind you to know he's smiling. Especially when he dips his fingers into your underwear, stroking your folds and finding you soaking already. He spreads your arousal over your folds, still not giving you any real relief.
The roommates are in their principal's office. She's telling some other story, something about a real nightmare roomie.
"Did you seriously pick a movie about bad roommates?" you ask, and Iwaizumi presses his lips to your throat, planting a wet kiss there.
"It seemed appropriate."
"Excuse me, I am not a bad room— Oh,"
You're interrupted when he presses a finger inside you, testing the waters. When you melt into his embrace, he adds another finger, slowly working you open. It's easy when you're already so aroused, feeling like you've been ready ever since you saw his reaction to your friends discussing cock warming hours ago.
"You sure?"
"Uh-huh," you answer, too distracted to form proper words. He curls his fingers, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan.
"Not even when you wear these shirts," He pulls your shirt down, as if making a point, exposing your tits to the cold air of your living room. "Constantly one bad move away from flashing me?"
"I'd say that's just philanthropy,"
He laughs, surprised. Moving your hair to the side, he kisses your throat again.
The main character in the movie is at a summer camp now. Desperately trying to make friends and failing.
Iwaizumi adds a third finger, and you squirm, getting used to the pressure. He palms your clit to help you, and you bite your lip. Even through your shorts and the blanket, you can hear the sounds of how wet you are, as he keeps a steady pace.
"Hajime," you gasp, feeling your orgasm already building. Iwaizumi seems to feel it too, with the way your warm walls flutter around his fingers. He removes his fingers from your pussy, bringing them to his mouth and tasting. He hums at the taste.
You watch over your shoulder, mouth agape. He grins, though his cheeks are flushed, betraying his otherwise calm demeanour. He plays with the waistband of your shorts.
"Take these off."
With his help, you shimmy off both your shorts and underwear, leaving you wearing nothing but a tank top and your fuzzy socks. Iwaizumi guides you forward with a hand on your back, so he can pull his cock out of his pants with the other.
You go to look over your shoulder, wanting to see, but he grabs your chin and points you towards the TV instead. The girl in the movie has made a friend now, and they're rooming together.
You hear the slick sounds of him stroking his cock, and then he taps your ass. With a pout, you straddle his legs properly and sit up so he can position himself at your entrance.
He slowly guides you back on his cock, and you whine at the stretch, still watching the movie, despite being unsure what the plot even is. The girl is angry because her roomie is messy, you're pretty sure. Your vision swims, and you find it hard to focus on anything at all.
"Ease up, baby," Iwaizumi bites out, and you try your best to relax as you sink down further.
Iwaizumi is big. Big and thick, and when your ass finally meets the back of his thighs again, it feels like he's in your throat. He makes you lean back, and you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut. He holds you tight by your hips, keeping your squirming to a minimum as you get used to the intrusion.
Finally, you feel like your pussy is getting used to the fullness, and you relax slightly, leaning entirely on his chest. He rubs soothing circles in your hips, resting his head on your shoulder.
"Good girl,"
He laughs when you clench, as he wraps his arms around you. You feel dizzy, warm all over. A light sweat is starting to form on your forehead, and you grip his arm.
The girls in the movie are at a party, all of them wearing a white top and a pair of jeans. Iwaizumi laughs into your ear, deep and warm.
"They look just like one of Mattsun's girlfriends," he states, and you slap his arm.
"Don't talk about Mattsun's girls when your dick is inside of me," you bite back, and he presses down on your stomach in response, making you moan out.
"You have Mattsun's girl to thank for this, don't you?" he teases, and you roll your eyes. When you don't say anything back, he hums, and you both settle into a comfortable silence.
It lasts about five minutes.
The main character is talking a guy, who you think might be her love interest, in a kitchen.
You can't focus.
It's too hard. It feels like all of your nerve endings are on fire, your pussy growing more and more sensitive with each agonising minute that passes.
You want him to move. To fuck you.
Iwaizumi has the patience of a saint. Maybe it's from the years of diligent volleyball practice every day after school, maybe it's from constantly keeping your three other best friends behaviour in check.
Whatever it is, it's certainly going to be your downfall.
He keeps you still in his lap, the only torturous friction you get being when he laughs at the movie. The movie that's really not that funny.
"Haji," you ask, with trembling lips.
When he doesn't reply, you squirm. That makes him take a deep breath, and he squeezes you in warning when you clench down on him.
"It's too much," you complain. Your mind is swimming, eyes going glassy. The only thing you can think about is getting fucked.
Preferably hard.
"You're being so good," he replies. He rocks into you slightly, making you whine. "You can keep being nice for me, right?"
"No," you say, shaking your head.
"This was your idea." Iwaizumi chuckles. His breath feels hot on your throat, only making your mind even fuzzier.
"I changed my mind."
"We can stop if you want to."
The hands on your hips start to push you away.
"No, please, no, no, no,—" you panic, digging your hands into his thighs as you lean back in his lap. The slight friction makes you moan, squeezing your eyes shut.
"But you changed your mind?" he asks. His voice is teasing, but there's a slight strain there.
Looking over your shoulder, you meet his gaze, batting your eyelashes the way that always works with Makki when you want to steal his snacks. Iwaizumi smiles, taking in the pout on your lips, the pretty way your brows furrow.
You look so cute.
So cute, he wants to squeeze you.
"Hajime,"
There's a lilt to your voice, a saccharine sweetness. The one Iwaizumi has always had a weakness for, even if you don't notice it yourself.
"Yeah?" he breathes. He nods, and you nod along, mirroring him.
"We could do something else instead," you say. He feels you clench down again. Your pussy is so hot and wet, it makes him groan. He thinks he'd do anything you asked of him right now.
The movie is long forgotten now. You're unsure if the roommates are still even friends at this point.
"What do you wanna do?" he asks, and when you lean down to kiss him, he moans, leaning into the kiss. He grabs your chin, angling you so he can kiss you better, moaning into your mouth.
The angle is slightly uncomfortable, and you pull away with a pout, like it's somehow Iwaizumi's fault. He groans, head falling back, when you sit up, his cock leaving your warmth with a slick sound.
You turn around so you're facing him, promptly sitting down in his lap again. It makes you both moan again when he reenters your slick heat. You run your fingers through his hair, tugging on the short locks.
"How are you gonna watch the movie now?" Iwaizumi smiles, taking you in. He must admit, it's better this way. When he can see your every expression, the way you're panting slightly. His gaze drops down to where you're connected. The sight makes his jaw slack, and he can't help but bring his thumb down to your clit, circling the bud slowly.
"I'm watching something more fun."
Your voice is whiny, but you're smiling. You grind your hips into his hand, and he feels you clench when the tip of his cock hits somewhere deep inside you.
"Is that so?"
"You're very handsome, Hajime,"
"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to me," Iwaizumi says, breathless. You're gathering speed now, but you're still just grinding against him. It's a sweet kinda torture, the way he can feel your pussy pulsing around him, yet you're barely moving.
"That's not true," you object. You kiss him again, only a peck, letting him chase you. "I tell you nice things all the time."
"You question my patience all the time," he responds. He tangles his hand in your hair, holding you still as he ghosts his lips over yours. Your breaths mingle, and you moan into his mouth.
"Like right now, you mean?" you ask, and he nods, before he kisses you again. Firmly.
It's nice. It's nice to run your fingers through his hair and hear his little groans when you tuck hard enough. It's nice how warm and big his hand is on the back of your head. It's nice to feel the firm and steady pulse of his cock inside of you, lighting up all your sensitive nerve endings.
Iwaizumi is nice.
He's more than nice, but your head feels empty, unable to find another word, filled with nothing but the feeling of Iwaizumi's tongue against your own, as he kisses you silly.
"Fuck me, Haji," you whisper when he pulls away for air, and he chuckles, shaking his head.
"You're the one who wanted to change activities," he replies. "You do it,"
He leans back and pats your thighs. You glare.
"I'm the one who suggested movie night in the first place."
Iwaizumi raises a brow at you.
"Movie night?" he teases. You nod, attempting to be the picture perfect of innocence. "This is your version of movie night?"
He motions to where he's still buried inside of you. Where you're dripping, staining his joggers. Hopefully, you haven't stained the couch. Yet.
"Yes."
"Well, I picked the movie. So it's your turn to pick something now"
Something akin to determination washes over your expression. You put your hands on his chest, and slowly you start going up and down. You moan in unison, and your brow pinches as you start to ride him.
The slick sound fills your living room, and you pant, your thighs already beginning to burn. Iwaizumi notices. Because of course he does.
"Your form is—"
"Do not comment on my form," you cut him off, digging your nails into his chest.
"I was gonna tell you it's good." His eyes drop down to your tits, and the smug look on his face is worse than any comment. It only fuels your fire. You ignore the ache, doubling down as you start to ride him harder. You move your hands up, wrapping them around his neck. You don't press, just keep them there, and his jaw falls slack, eyes going lidded.
"Fuck," he says, nodding. He puts his hand over one of yours, and he moans when you press down lightly on his throat. You feel him twitch inside you, and it makes you smile.
"Haji, you gonna come, ah, just from me choking you?" you tease and, he laughs, voice soft, like he's out of breath.
"I'm gonna come from how good you look bouncing on my cock like that," he replies, without missing a beat, and the admission makes you falter. He whines when your knee slips, and before you can think, his hands are on your hips, guiding you up and down.
He does it like it's nothing, muscles tensing deliciously with each push and pull. You collapse onto his chest, moving your hands to his shoulders. He doesn't seem to take notice, too focused on the way you're clenching around his cock.
It doesn't take long for you to feel your orgasm start to build like that, not when he's hitting all the right spots, while telling you how pretty you look taking him. You barely get to warn him before it creeps up on you, making your toes curl as warm pleasure burns through you.
He moans, voice turning pitchy as he follows right after you, pulling you flush against him as he finishes inside, filling your cunt to the brim. It makes you whimper, and you rest your head on his chest. Your eyelids feel heavy as you both take a few minutes to collect yourselves. You listen to the way Iwaizumi's heartbeat slows as he comes down.
He runs his hands up and down your back, occasionally pressing into sore spots.
"You have a muscle knot here," he eventually says, pressing into a spot right between your shoulder blades. You yelp, twitching in his lap. Cum spills out from your sore pussy, dripping down his balls. "Are you doing the exercises I taught you?"
"Hajime!" you scold, getting off his lap. You grab your panties from somewhere on the floor, putting them on and stomping towards your room. Iwaizumi watches the way the insides of your thighs glisten with his cum.
"I was just asking," he says, putting his still half-hard cock back in his pants as he follows you. "Also, you should really go pee—"
desc;; MDNI, post-time skip, bestfriends 2 lovers, multiple orgasms, finger fucking, soft dom suna, afab!reader, not prof read, rin had a crush on you ever since… so he decides to shoot his shot! , p in v , vaginal sex, squirting, bsf!sunarin → bf!sunarin
AN;; trying something new :) expect mistakes or spelling errors wc: 884
.𖥔 ݁ ˖๋ ࣭
• bestfriend!suna has heard you complain about it for months. every time the topic of sex comes up during your late-night calls or when you’re chilling at his place after his ejp raijin practices, you sigh and say the same thing everytime. “no one’s ever been able to make me squirt. they all tap out or get tired before it even gets close.”
he’s usually half-laying on the couch scrolling through his phone with that signature lazy smirk, but this time he actually looks up, eyes narrowing with interest.
“bet i could,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.
you laugh in his face. “yeah right, rin. you’re my best friend, not some sex god.”
• bestfriend!suna just raises an eyebrow, setting his phone down. “i’m serious. give me one night. if i can’t make you squirt, i’ll get ya anything you want. but if i do…” his smirk turns sharper, “you admit i’m better than every guy you’ve ever let touch you.”
you thought he was joking.
he wasn’t.
.𖥔
two nights later you’re in his apartment after one of his games, still buzzing from watching him dominate on court. weell… one teasing conversation turns into a full blwown makeout session on his couch, and before you know it he has you pinned to his bed, long fingers already buried deep inside you.
• bestfriend!suna is annoyingly good. he takes his time, curling those stupidly long fingers against that spongy spot inside you while his thumb circles your clit with lazy precision. his hazel eyes stay locked on your face the entire time.
“told you,” he murmurs, voice low and smug as he speeds up. “you’re already soaking my hand,”
you’re stubborn, still trying to deny it even as your thighs start shaking. but rintaro just leans down, lips brushing your ear.
“let go. i know you can squirt for me, pretty girl.”
• bestfriend!suna doesn’t stop when you cum the first time. he keeps fucking you with his fingers through it, palm pressing firm against your clit, curling harder, faster, wet obscene sounds filling the room as he forces you higher.
“c’mon pretty girl… give it to me.”
your second orgasm hits harder. your back arches clean off the bed and you squirt all over his hand and wrist, soaking his forearm and the sheets beneath you. the sound you make is broken and shocked. suna’s eyes darken with satisfaction.
“there we go,” he breathes, looking way too proud of himself. “fucking knew you could.”
his fingers out slowly, savoring the way your walls flutter around them. he doesn’t rush. instead, he leans down and kisses you deep as he lines himself up, pressing the head of his cock against your soaked entrance.
• bestfriend!suna fucks you through three more orgasms that night, making you squirt two more times — once while you’re riding him, and once when he has your legs pushed back to your chest, pounding deep and relentless.
every time you soak his cock and stomach, suna lets out this low, warm chuckle, almost like he can’t believe how good you feel. his thumb keeps gently circling your swollen clit, eyes half-lidded as he watches you fall apart with pure adoration.
“look at you…” he murmurs between slow, deep thrusts, sweat slipping down his messy brown hair. “so beautiful like this. i’ve got you, baby. just let go for me.”
when he finally cums, he buries himself to the hilt, groaning softly against your neck as he fills you up, hips twitching with every pulse. his voice is rough but gentle when he whispers,
“all mine… only me from now on, kay?”
you’re a trembling, soaked mess underneath him, sheets completely ruined, thighs sticky with both of you. all you can do is weakly smack his shoulder, trying to catch your breath.
“told you i could,” he whispers,
.𖥔
• bestfriend!suna made good on his bet. after that night he didn’t even give you a chance to pretend it was a one-time thing. the next morning you woke up to him already scrolling through his phone next to you, arm slung over your waist like it belonged there.
“morning, squirt,” he said with that lazy smirk, not even looking up. you threw a pillow at his head.
• annoying boyfriend!suna is literally the worst (and best) thing that’s ever happened to you. he went from your stupid best friend who sent you dumb texts at 3am to the guy who now texts you “thinking about how pretty you look when you’re crying on my dick” while you’re in a work meeting.
• annoying boyfriend!suna is obsessed with making you squirt now that he knows he can. he turns it into a game. movie night? his hand is in your panties the whole time. lazy sudnay morning? he eats you out until the sheets are ruined and you’re pushing his head away because you can’t take anymore.
“rin— rinnie i can’t—”
“you can. don’t be dramatic. give me one more.”
• annoying boyfriend!suna is ridiculously clingy in the most infuriating way. he’ll lay on top of you after sex, still buried inside you, refusing to pull out while he scrolls through his phone and occasionally thrusts lazily just to hear you whine.
— “do i really need to be shirtless for this?” hajime asks gruffly, sitting neatly on your dorm floor as you write on a piece of tape, godzilla t-shirt tossed unceremoniously on your bed.
your anatomy exam is coming up, and you’ve been studying like your career depends on it (spoiler alert: it does), but you’ve been going batshit crazy just staring at your notes. so what better way to get off the books than to hang out with your boyfriend?
“yes,” you reply, placing ‘pectoralis major’ on his chest. “it wouldn’t work the same if you had a shirt on. active recall, visual learning, and such.” “right,” he mutters, brow furrowed as he watches you. “so…?” “so, flex your deltoid,” you demand. “c’mon, haji. this is important.” he flexes his shoulder obediently, looking away as you stick another label on his body.
you’re kind of surprised hajime agreed to this in the first place; though honestly, you really didn’t give him much of an explanation, simply texting him, “come to my dorm @ 10pm,” with no further instructions. you laughed when he called at 9:42 saying he was at the building, having to hold it in as you led your bright-eyed boyfriend into your room.
“you will be to blame if i don’t pass this,” you tell him, revelling in the slight twitch of his body as you slide a finger over his skin to pat down the adhesive. “right. can’t have that,” he says under his breath. you snicker. despite his reluctance, he’s not angry. maybe just disappointed. you’re not worried, though. he’d get what he came for soon enough.
sneaking a glance at him, you quickly scribble ‘teres minor’ on another scrap of tape. hajime’s ears are bright red, but his bottom lip is pursed up and his jaw is tight. tell-tale signs of his enjoyment.
“i know you’re a little embarrassed, but i need you to lift your arm up for me,” you tell him sweetly, tape hanging from your fingertips. hajime lets out a flustered grumble in reply, dim light highlighting hard planes of muscle as he accedes.
“it’s kind of itchy,” he says, after a moment. “well, it’s tape,” you answer matter-of-factly, pasting ‘frontalis’ on his forehead, then look at him doubtfully. “also, you need to stop scowling. you look cute when you’re not scowling.” “‘m not scowling,” hajime says under his breath, but his eyebrows relax immediately. you bite the inside of your cheek. cute.
another couple minutes pass by as you continue to stick labels on him, humming a tune while you treat your poor boyfriend like a whiteboard.
“...how long will this take?” hajime asks, stiffly, two pieces of tape hanging off the hollows of his cheekbones. you stretch out, making a big show of checking the clock on the wall. it’s almost midnight. “i’m basically done,” you reply. “i’m not going over the accessory muscles.”
hajime tilts his head, narrowing his eyes knowingly at you. “yeah, just wanna know, so i’m not peeling gemellus inferior out of my butt tomorrow,” he remarks wryly. you mirror his expression, enthused. “hah. i forgot you know this already.”
hajime pinches your inner thigh playfully. it doesn’t hurt—he could never hurt you—but you yelp anyway, more tickled than anything. “hey, i’m pretty smart, you know,” he reminds you, smoothing over the subtle sting with a callused thumb.
you scoot over towards him, running your hand down the label reading ‘rectus femoris.’ “i know you’re pretty smart,” you say, gaze locked on his, “otherwise i wouldn’t allow you to be sitting shirtless on my floor.” you pull, and the screech of tape being taken off skin is the only sound in the room for a second.
the sudden dilation of his pupils makes you laugh through your nose. “oh, that’s all,” hajime says lightly, body hot under your touch. “because i’m smart.” “and muscular,” you add, leaning over him as he sits back on his forearms, watching you intently. “mm, that’s part of it?” he asks, voice just breathless enough to make your stomach tighten.
“yeah,” you murmur, hooking a fingernail under ‘external oblique.’ your eyes drop to his bare chest, then drag back up to his face as you smile. “do you take a makeout session as gratuity for your model work?”
hajime swallows, his jaw fluttering. a blush blooms over his cheeks and he rolls his eyes. “that’s what i thought you called me here for,” he mumbles, warm hand coming up to rest on the curve of your lower back as you giggle. “c’mere.”
he peppers your face with soft kisses, leaving wet marks. your laughter fills the small room when you feel something sticky on your cheek.
“haji, i can’t take you serious with that stuff on your face!” “take it off, then!”
hello. folks. birfday post 4 me and him cuz we junebugs like dat
