Timeskip Mattsukawa X [name] with a med degree who tried to specialize in autopsies.????
(P.s. I haven’t researched enough abt autopsies and overall everything so it might be factually incorrect don’t come after me plz)
“You’re kidding me…I got summoned to court as a witness”
You groan while clutching the paper.
It wasn’t like you did anything wrong it was that your very first independent and last autopsy was a murdered victim
“Hm…that’s the same day I have another cremation to help out with”
“Different things-“ you smack the curly haired male with the paper “You just hate having to go through the whole process- I have to sit through an entire trial and later get questioned about my medical legitimacy.”
“Well do you want me to accompany you then?”
“Did you not just tell me you had a scheduled client?”
local grocery store cashier!makki who flirts with you every time you come in despite the wedding ring on your finger, he’s goofy and charming but you are very happily married so the next time you need to pick something up you make your husband mattsun come with you and to your surprise makki flirts with him just as much if not more than he does with you without even missing a beat
💬 7 🔁 9 ❤️ 156 · athletic trainer Iwaizumi Hajime who has a crush on the sweetest girl. Hed never tell her though, hes just happy to be by
part two <3 I’ll probably post the full fic on here today/tomorrow :3
Iwaizumi is fuming. Never has there been such a blatant disrespect for his personal life! It’s been years since Iwaizumi has punched someone but it looks like that timeline is about to be cut short.
Mattsun sits across from him at the table, fiddling with the toy which Iwaizumi knows exactly what that’s doing. He gulps hard, trying not to give anything away.
“Why do you even need something like this anyway? Arent you fucking that girl you’re always around? What’s ‘er name again?”
Iwaizumi makes a swipe for the toy but Mattsun moves quicker. “Give it back.”
“This thing is nice. Firm texture, soft insides, feels like it’s— real.”
Iwaizumi goes pale from the insinuation. Does he know? No way he knows, but the glimmer in Mattsun’s eyes say different.
They bicker with Mattsun offering his services as a wingman and Iwaizumi who tells him to piss off but the conversation is cut short when Mattsun gives him an ultimatum.
So that’s how Mattsun ends up at your door while you peer over Iwaizumi’s shoulder. “He’s here to…help. He knows how to fix your problem.”
“Names Issei.” He cocks his head, leaning back while his eyes rake over you.
You’re nervous, but you’re so desperate to get rid of this sensation that you naively admit you’ll do anything to fix it.
“It’s simple, doll. Iwaizumi over here just has to out-fuck it.”
So you get on all fours, exposing yourself to your most trusted friend while he tries but fails to suppress the pink on his cheeks.
He shudders as he sinks his cock in you. It feels just like the toy but ten thousand times better. He’s so consumed on the idea that he’s “making love” to you that he completely forgets he has an audience…that is until-
“Cmon, how are you gonna fuck it out of her when you’re moving like my 80 year old grandpa?”
And as much as Iwaizumi wants to be a saint, he is only a man. He starts fucking you like the starved man he is. He’s living out his dream. Everything couldn’t be more perfect until he catches Mattsun moving out of the corner of his eye.
He sees Mattsun bring the toy to his tip. “What the hell are you doing?” He mouths, but Mattsun only nudges his head towards his friend, signaling him to keep going.
“I-iwa! Something feels weird! Oh god! S-something’s wrong!” But it doesn’t stop the odd sensation of another inch stuffing you full.
“I can’t! I-iwa wait! I’m gonna break! Please!”
Instead, Mattsun answers. “No can do, Princess. He’s gotta out-fuck it, remember?” And Iwaizumi watches in horror as he pulls the toy out to his tip, only to slam it down against his abdomen.
Morally, Iwaizumi knows it wrong, but the devil on his shoulder is telling him that your pussy hasn’t stopped clenching and you’re more than wet enough to accommodate.
So the two chase their individual highs, one driven by adrenaline and thrill and the other by passion.
You’re sobbing into the bedsheets, mumbling nonsense that’s muffled by the soaked sheets underneath you.
Stars flood your vision and all you can hear is the obscene squelches of your own pussy that’s slightly muted by an overwhelming ringing. You cant even tell which dick is Iwaizumi’s anymore, not when each climax turns your brain more and more into putty.
By the end of the night, you’re passed out and tucked into bed while Mattsun hands the toy over. “So, what are you gonna do with it?”
Iwaizumi stares down at the toy. He hadn’t even thought that far.
the first time you come solely by grinding on mattsun’s thigh, the energy between you desperate and heady, you’re so embarrassed about it the next morning that you can’t even look him in the eyes…and i think he likes that, likes the way he sees the blood rise to your cheeks every time you glance at him—so much so that later that morning he drags you over to the couch and makes you do it again and again and again
“didn’t you and oikawa sleep together?” kunimi’s sister leans across the table, with the curiosity people get when they’re a few drinks in and too comfortable in old company. “could’ve sworn you told me so.”
you roll the stem of your glass between your fingers, watching the ring it leaves on the table. “did i?” you say, voice even. “i don’t know, you tell me.”
mattsun’s arm comes to rest along the back of your chair. iwa’s knee bumps yours under the table.
she grins, visibly delighted to have gotten your attention. “i just thought— i mean, that’s what everyone thought!” she defends.
you smile, polite, and catch iwaizumi’s eye in your peripheral. you give mattsun’s thigh a gentle squeeze, not missing the smirk he hides with a sip of his drink. “well, people think and say things all the time.”
400 selfies, one (1) matsukawa issei, and you—unaware, unbothered, and suddenly the internet’s favorite couple.
wc: 1.3k, request
w: a bit stalkerish ??
it’s a normal wednesday, you’re just trying to buy a melon pan. that’s it. no cosmic alignment, no dramatic slow-mo, no birds chirping in b minor. just you, your hoodie with the little frog on the pocket, and the gentle hum of the convenience store freezer. you’re humming along to whatever generic pop song is leaking from the ceiling speakers, completely oblivious to the fact that matsukawa is currently crouched behind a stack of cup noodles like a very tall, very lovesick raccoon.
he’s got his phone angled just right, chin tilted like he’s about to drop the most fire selfie of the century. the flash is off (he’s not a monster), but the way he’s biting his lip in concentration makes the old lady by the tofu glance over twice. he snaps the photo. then another. then ten more in rapid succession, each one with you in the background—blurry, mid-bite, reaching for the last strawberry milk like it owes you money.
by the time you’ve paid and left, he’s already posted three of them on instagram with the caption:
“me and bae grabbing midnight snacks she doesn’t know we’re dating yet but that’s okay, i’m patient 💯”
the comments are immediate.
makki: bro that’s the girl from the library you’ve been stalking since october
mattsun: observing
iwa: you need jesus and a hobby
mattsun: i have a hobby. it’s her.
𓏵
you find out a week later when your friend sends you a screenshot and says, “uh, isn’t this you?”
it’s a mirror selfie matsukawa took in the school hallway. he’s got his arm slung around the air next to him, like he’s holding someone invisible. in the background, you’re tying your shoe. the caption reads:
“date day :) she’s shy so she’s pretending not to see me 🥺👉👈”
you stare at it for a full minute. you zoom in. you zoom out. you consider the possibility that you’ve been hallucinating your entire life and this is actually a very elaborate coma dream involving bread and a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept since 2009.
you do know him. kind of. matsukawa issei: volleyball guy, permanent bedhead, walks like he’s always halfway through a nap. you’ve had three conversations with him, all of them about the vending machine’s tendency to eat your change. once, he gave you his pudding because you looked sad. you’d thought it was a kindness. now you realize it was a courtship ritual.
you go to his instagram. it’s a museum. a shrine. a documentary.
400 photos. 400. all taken over the course of four months. all with you somewhere in the frame.
you in the library, asleep on a pile of chemistry notes.
you at the bus stop, holding an umbrella with a duck handle.
you laughing at something on your phone, mouth wide open, eyes crinkled like you’re made of sunshine and marshmallow fluff.
every single one is captioned like you’re the love of his life and he’s just waiting for you to notice.
“she wore yellow today. i almost died.”
“she dropped her pen and i picked it up. she said thanks. i said anytime. we’re basically married now.”
“she sneezed and i said bless you. she said thank you. i said i’d die for you. she didn’t hear the last part but i meant it.”
you’re not sure whether to be flattered or file a restraining order. both feel valid. but then you see the one from yesterday:
“day 127. she smiled at me. not the polite one. the real one. i felt it in my spleen.”
and something in your chest goes soft. like a warm rice ball left in your pocket. like a secret you didn’t know you were keeping.
𓏵
the next day, you look for him.
you’re not even subtle. you loiter outside the gym like a victorian ghost with unfinished business. you’ve got a granola bar in your pocket and a speech in your head that starts with “so i saw your instagram” and ends with “do you want to maybe take a selfie with me knowingly?”
he shows up exactly when you expect him to—slouching, hoodie half-zipped, hair doing that thing where it looks like he just rolled out of a wind tunnel. he sees you. he freezes. like a deer in headlights. like a man who’s just realized his browser history is now public.
you hold up your phone. “so. 400 photos, huh?”
he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “i can explain.”
“okay.”
“…i like you. like, like like you. like, if liking you was a sport, i’d have olympic medals and a sponsorship from gatorade.”
you blink. “that’s… a lot of metaphors.”
“i’ve had time to think about them,” he says, sheepish. “you’re in my brain 24/7. you’re like a screensaver. but, like, emotional.”
you laugh. you can’t help it. it bubbles out of you like soda. “you’re such a weirdo.”
“your weirdo?” he offers, hopeful and cringe and so earnest it makes your teeth ache.
you step closer. “only if you promise to ask before you take my picture next time.”
he lights up like you just handed him the moon on a stick. “deal. can i take one now?”
you roll your eyes, but you’re already leaning in. “make it cute. i have standards.”
he takes it. you’re both blurry and laughing and your foreheads are touching. he posts it immediately with the caption:
“she knows now. she’s smiling. i’m gonna cry into my pillow for three weeks straight.”
𓏵
after that, it’s worse. in the best way.
he holds your hand like it’s made of glass and dynamite. he brings you melon pan every morning. he learns your coffee order and writes it on his arm in sharpie so he doesn’t forget. he starts sitting next to you in the library and asks before he takes your picture. sometimes you take them together, your faces squished cheek-to-cheek, his smile so wide it looks like it hurts.
you find out he’s been keeping a list of things you like. not in a creepy spreadsheet way—more like little notes folded into his wallet.
“she hates the smell of this but loves this one.”
“she always sneezes twice. never once. never three times. exactly two.”
“she hums when she’s happy. it’s always off-key but it’s my favorite song.”
you kiss him for the first time behind the vending machines. it’s awkward and too wet and your nose bumps his, but he makes this sound—like a sigh and a gasp and a prayer all at once—and then he crumples. like you just unplugged him. he presses his face into your neck and whispers, “i’m so glad you exist.”
you whisper back, “me too.”
𓏵
six months later, he still takes photos. but now you’re looking at the camera. at him.
you’re in the foreground, stealing his hoodie, wearing his socks, asleep on his chest with your mouth open.
the captions change.
“she’s my person. like, legally. i have receipts.”
“she drooled on my shirt and i didn’t even flinch. that’s growth.”
“i asked her to marry me. she said ‘ask me again when we’re not in a grocery store.’ i’m gonna ask in a bakery next. she loves croissants.”
you’re not just in the background anymore. you’re in everything. his lock screen, his home screen, his wallet photo, his future.
he still photobombs strangers’ pictures if you’re in them, but now he runs back to you like a kid who just got away with stealing candy. “did you see? i ruined their photo. it’s art. it’s our art.”
you kiss the top of his head. “you’re ridiculous.”
he grins, sharp and soft and yours. “only for you.”
and you believe him. because you’ve seen the 400 photos. because you’ve read every caption. because he looked at you like you were the sun long before you ever looked back.
I know i just gave you a long list for that oikawa fic but. Bestow upon us a matsukawa fluff as well IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT AND HAVE TIME. MWAH. Im gonna disappear now🥹
hi twin 😛 i shall bestow matsukawa fluff for you <3
