the shiratorizawa volleyball gym is dead silent, the rest of the team having fled on the early bus before a sudden, violent summer thunderstorm turned the campus paths into rushing rivers. the wind is rattling the heavy glass windows of the locker room.
you’re standing by the benches, rubbing your arms through your uniform blazer to shake off the chill, when ushijima walks out of the shower stall. he’s fully dressed in his white-and-purple tracksuit, his dark hair damp and slightly messy.
he looks at you. he looks at your shivering shoulders. he walks forward with long, heavy strides, stops directly in front of you, and unzips his jacket.
without asking, he reaches out, pulls you forward by the waist, and tucks you directly inside the massive fabric of his track jacket, zipping it halfway back up so you’re physically pinned against his chest. he is radiating an unbelievable, furnace-like heat, his broad torso completely shielding you from the drafty room.
“wakatoshi,” you gasp, your face pressed flat against his collarbone. “you’re huge, i can barely move my arms.”
“movement is unnecessary at this time,” he rumbles, his chest vibrating heavily against your cheek as he wraps his massive arms around the outside of the jacket, locking you into place like a vice. he drops his chin heavily onto the top of your head, his breathing deep and steady. “your body heat is insufficient for this climate. my mass is greater, therefore i’ll regulate your temperature.”
“tendō is going to walk back in here to look for his umbrella,” you mumble, your face burning up against his skin.
“let him,” ushijima says flatly, his grip tightening just a fraction, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of your back to anchor you completely against his heartbeat. “he knows that i’m stubborn. i will not release you until the downpour ceases and your hands are no longer cold. stand still.”
n: for my twin, @forgottensniper forget my follo misspellings, this is a bribe
⤷summary: totally innocent things you do that makes them lose their minds a little
⤷content: fluff, light crack, suggestive undertones??, established relationship
⤷characters: miya osamu, sakusa kiyoomi, ushijima wakatoshi, miya atsumu, kita shinsuke, and tsukishima kei
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ OSAMU MIYA
it’s the sauce again.
you’re perched on the counter in one of his shirts, eating fried chicken with your fingers, and you don’t even notice him watching.
“you’re starin’,” you say, voice muffled with food.
“am not.” he’s absolutely lying.
he’s supposed to be mixing batter, but instead he’s thinking about the way you just licked your thumb clean—slow, absentminded. he grips the whisk tighter.
you tilt your head at him, all innocent eyes and a sauce-stained cheek. “you okay there, chef?”
osamu blinks, turns around, mutters something like “yeah, fine” while trying to look anywhere but you.
he’s not fine. not even close.
you swing your legs and hum as if you haven’t just ruined his entire morning. he swears the next time you sit on his counter like that, he’s confiscating all sauces within a ten-meter radius.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ SAKUSA KIYOOMI
he’s folding laundry when you come in, hair down and messy from sleep.
then you grab a scrunchie, push your hair back, and tie it up.
he swears time slows down. the wrist twist. the tug. the reveal of your neck. he blinks once, twice, and looks away like he just saw something illegal.
“what?” you ask, oblivious.
“nothing.” he’s staring at the wall now. very intently.
you shrug, go back to scrolling your phone, and he’s left pretending that he isn’t imagining pressing his lips right where your pulse beats.
later, you catch him watching you again in the mirror. “you sure it’s nothing?”
he exhales sharply. “you should... wear your hair down less.”
you laugh, because you know exactly what he means.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI
you stretch beside him, arms raised above your head, shirt lifting just enough to show the soft curve of your stomach.
he’s reading, or at least he was. now his book is halfway forgotten.
“tired?” he asks, voice steady, but his eyes have gone a little unfocused.
“just stiff.”
he hums like he didn’t just witness a divine act. you drop your arms, sigh contentedly, and he swallows. he has a thought—something about how delicate you look and how badly he wants to trace the shape of you—but he keeps it to himself.
later, when you fall asleep next to him, curled and warm, he closes the book, presses a kiss to your forehead, and whispers something you don’t quite catch.
it sounds like mine.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ ATSUMU MIYA
you sass him again—hands on hips, that tiny pout, that look.
“i told you it’s your turn to do the dishes,” you say.
“i’m the breadwinner ‘round here,” he argues dramatically, “shouldn’t have to wash dishes when i’m providin’ for us.”
you stare him down. he cracks first. he always cracks first.
five minutes later, he’s elbow-deep in soap suds, muttering under his breath. you lean against the counter, smug.
“what was that?” you ask sweetly.
“nothin’, sweetheart.”
you hum, start humming a tune as you dry the plates.
he glances up. there it is again—that stupid warmth in his chest that feels like home. he grins, shakes his head.
“ya drive me crazy, ya know that?”
you smirk. “that’s the point.”
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ KITA SHINSUKE
you’re curled up on the couch, oversized sweater sleeves covering your hands, a steaming cup of tea resting in your lap.
he stops in the doorway for a good ten seconds before he moves again.
“you okay?” you ask, smiling softly.
he nods. “you just look… peaceful.”
it’s a small thing, but it hits him every time—the way you exist so gently. the way you make his quiet evenings feel warmer.
he sits beside you, careful, and you shift enough to lean your cheek on his shoulder. he freezes for a moment, then exhales.
“that’s nice,” you mumble, eyes half-closed.
he hums. “yeah. it is.”
he’ll never admit it out loud, but he thinks you might be the most dangerous thing to ever happen to his heart.
. ݁⋆ ۶ৎ ݁ TSUKISHIMA KEI
you’re talking—about something random, probably a meme or a classmate—and your hands are moving all over the place. waving, gesturing, tapping your knuckles on the table when you pause to think.
he’s not listening. not really.
“are you even paying attention?” you ask.
“no,” he says truthfully.
you roll your eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but you’re smiling.
he watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and it’s unfair, honestly, how you can make him feel this unsteady without trying.
when you reach out to poke his cheek, he catches your wrist—not hard, just enough to make you blink up at him.
“you talk too much,” he says, but his voice is softer than usual.
you grin. “and yet, you never tell me to stop.”
he doesn’t reply. just lets go of your hand and goes back to his phone—even though he’s not reading a single word on the screen.
NOTE. contains a bit of alcohol content—though nothing too explicit or anything concerning <33
It always started the same way—kind of like an inside joke that grew wings, feathers, a tab, and Ushijima’s name on the reservation list.
Ushijima never initiated going out drinking with his Schweiden Adlers teammates. In fact, he rarely said anything about it at all. It was always someone else who mentioned it after a game. Always someone else who slung an arm over his shoulder and declared, “C’mon, Ushiwaka, we have to celebrate,” even though Ushijima had never once expressed interest in alcohol, bar food, or drunken conversations.
Still, he always went.
Because it’d be rude if he didn’t at least stay for a few minutes, he thinks.
Sometimes he showed up in his team windbreaker, sometimes in a long, dark gray coat that made him look like a trench-wearing monument of silence. And he never said no, even when the clamor of celebration was already grating at the edges of his patience.
Tonight was one of those nights.
They’d won by the skin of their teeth—an overtime set against a grueling opponent, the kind of match that made even the benchwarmers feel like champions by the end. So of course Heiwajima had started the round-up in the locker room. Hoshiumi had shouted over everyone about their lucky bar down the street, and within twenty minutes, the entire team had found themselves in their regular private suite.
Ushijima sat at the end of the table, his back straight, a glass in front of him filled with alcohol he didn’t particularly like. His teammates were loud and loose and chaotic—laughing at Sokolov trying to arm-wrestle the bar’s bouncer, clapping every time someone dropped a fork, and yelling across the table in at least three different languages.
“A thousand yen says he’ll ask about his wife in twenty minutes,” Hoshiumi said quietly, leaning toward their captain, Hirugami Fukurou.
“You’re giving him way too much credit,” Romero replied, fondly grinning. “He gets wistful around minute twelve.”
“He gets wistful the moment he sits down.”
Ushijima was unmoved. He stared at his drink, took a single sip, and let it rest in his hand. He didn’t participate in the yelling, the toasts, or the story someone was animatedly telling about a missed serve from three seasons ago. He just existed—quietly, stoically—as a satellite to the chaos.
Except, of course, they all knew he was waiting.
He always was.
There was a pattern to the transformation. First, he’d sit there like stone. Then he’d blink a little more slowly. His brows would draw together—not in anger, but in vague confusion, like he was lost in a thought he couldn’t solve. His fingers would move against his glass, not to drink but to fidget, just a little.
And then…
“Has anyone seen my phone?” Ushijima asked, barely louder than the buzz of conversation.
Hoshiumi slid it across the table immediately. “Right here, Ushiwaka. Sorry! We took a few pictures here and there.”
“Thank you.”
He looked down at the screen. It was still lit with the last message from you from earlier that day: Good luck, baby. Don’t forget to stretch your left shoulder. He’d never replied—he never did, not when he was already in headspace—but now, he stared at it like it was the only thing tethering him to reality.
“You want to text her?” Hoshiumi asks, lightly teasing, which Ushijima didn’t catch onto.
Ushijima didn’t answer. He opened the thread and typed a few letters. Deleted them. Typed something else. Backspaced. Then just stared.
And then finally: “She hasn’t replied.”
His teammates laughed.
“There it is!”
“It’s only been seventeen minutes! I win!”
“No, you cheated. I said ten, and he didn’t even check his phone until minute twelve!”
“Shh, shh, look at him—he’s pouting.”
“Wait, is this the pout phase? I thought that came after the silent brooding phase.”
“Technically we’re entering pout-brood overlap. It’s a dangerous time.”
Ushijima didn’t argue. He simply set the phone down again and folded his hands in front of him. Kageyama leaned over.
“You want me to call her for you, Ushijima-san?”
Ah, yes. Kageyama was too nice for his own good. Trying to enhance his socialization and trying to lessen his awkwardness with his teammates when the conversation didn’t revolve around volleyball.
Ushijima nodded. Just once. Immediately. “Yes.”
...
“Amazing! He’s not even trying to hide it.”
“Can you imagine being that in love?”
“He just wants his wife. Look at him. He’s a whole sad poem in one sitting.”
“She’s gonna get here, and he’s gonna light up like a lantern.”
“May this love run me over.”
Kageyama stood and walked a few paces away from the table, already dialing your number. Meanwhile, the others watched Ushijima sip his drink again—not because he wanted it, but because it gave his hands something to do. His eyes were glued to the screen even though no new notifications had appeared.
Romero leaned in conspiratorially to Hirugami. “Do you think she talks to him in, like, soft tones? Calls him ‘baby’ and stuff?”
“I think so,” he shrugs. “I think they’re sweet like that.”
“Aw, young love.”
The teasing continued, but it softened. Because underneath the jokes and the laughs was a sort of awe.
Their teammate—so serious, so focused, so unreadable on court—was completely and utterly soft when it came to his wife. Not in a loud way. Not in any way that could be easily teased, really. It was quiet. Heavy. Real.
When Kageyama returned, he had a pleased expression. “She’s on her way. Said she just got off work and is driving over.”
Ushijima gave another slow blink.
“Thank you.”
Kageyama nods. Somehow they manage to have conversations even if they just continue nodding to each other.
As soon as Kageyama said it, his phone buzzed with a new message. He didn’t even need to open it. He could tell by the way his entire body relaxed by a single, barely noticeable degree.
Sorry, hun. Just got off work. Are you okay?
He replied.
I’m okay. I miss you.
And then he set the phone down and folded his hands again, this time with more calm. More certainty. You were coming. That was all he needed to know.
The others noticed the shift immediately.
“He smiled.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“He did! Don’t argue with me; I saw it. It was micro. But it counted.”
“He’s already halfway out the door with his heart.”
“Watch, the second she walks through that door, he’ll go full puppy mode.”
Sure enough, fifteen minutes later, the door opened. A gust of cold air followed you inside, along with the soft jingle of the bar’s entrance bell. You spotted them easily—your eyes landing on Ushijima before anything else. And his entire body seemed to change shape.
He stood up—not quickly, but instantly, with a kind of gravity no one else in the room had.
You smiled as you approached, slipping out of your coat and brushing off the cold that nipped your nose softly. “Hi, love,” you greeted softly. “You ready to go?”
“Yes,” Ushijima said, already reaching for his jacket.
As he shrugged it on, you turned to the table. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble?”
Hoshiumi leaned on the table with a grin. “[Name], your husband is the definition of ‘not trouble.’ We’re just grateful you came to collect him before he sighed himself into the carpet.”
“Tell them what he said!” someone shouted.
“He asked if anyone had seen his phone like it was a national emergency.”
“And he didn’t pout—he brooded. Like a man out of a romantic novel.”
“I think I did,” Ushijima just nodded at their comments about him.
He then stood by quietly, waiting for you to finish your goodbyes. When you looped your arm through his, he leaned ever so slightly toward you.
As they left, Romero raised his glass.
“To [Name]’s husband,” he declared. The table cheered.
Outside, as you two walked toward the car, you glanced up at him, fingers tightening around his arm.
“You really okay?” you asked.
He hummed. Then, in that low, steady voice only you ever got to hear, it softened—
“I missed you,” he said again. “They were loud. I wanted to see you very much.”
You smiled and gave his arm a firm, loving squeeze. “Well. I’m here now.”
Self indulgent thoughts about ushijima’s large hands.
ft. ushijima x y/n ◞♡
cw ! slightly suggestive
͏͏boyfriend!ushijima whose large hands splay over your side when he wants to pass by, always finding your waist even when there’s enough space for him to slip through.
“Toshi, can you grab the tomato sauce from the cabinet?”
“Of course.”
You don’t even have time to prepare before his cold fingers slide across your stomach, thumbs brushing over your hip bones as he reaches past you. The pot in your hands wobbles, nearly tipping into the sink, as heat rushes to your face.
He tilts his head down at you, voice low, “You okay, baby?”
(You’re not.)
boyfriend!ushijima whose large fingers find your face when he doesn't have your full attention.
You’re scrolling through your TikTok feed when he calls your name. “Did you hear me?”
“Mhm,” you hum, still not looking up.
Moments , his hand is on your face, fingers spanning your cheek, thumb pressing lightly against your jaw. He turns your head toward him with a careful grip until your eyes meet his.
“Now you're listening,” he says simply. (hell yea I am)
You swallow hard, phone forgotten as you meet his olive eyed stare.
boyfriend!ushijima whose hands hook beneath your thighs when he picks you up like it’s effortless.
You sharply gasp in surprise when your feet suddenly leave the ground, his hands firm and steady on the backs of your thighs. He lifts you with no effort, your arms instinctively looping around his shoulders.
“Toshi! what are you doing?”
His gaze doesn’t waver, calm as ever. “Carrying you.”
Your breath stutters as his fingers flex against your skin, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the curve beneath you.
He draws his eyebrows together in confusion. “Is this uncomfortable?”
It’s not. (at least not in the way he's thinking)
boyfriend!ushijima whose hand closes around your wrist when you try to walk out after an argument.
Your voice is still sharp in the air when you turn toward the door, anger burning a hole though your chest. But before you can reach the handle, his fingers wrap firmly around your wrist, halting you mid-step.
His hand is so large it nearly swallows yours whole, grip unyielding but never hurtful. You tug once, twice, but he doesn’t let go.
"Toshi let go of me, I cant do this right now."
“Don’t leave.” His voice is steady, but there’s something raw beneath it. His thumb brushes once against your pulse, the faintest tremor in the gesture.
You don’t look back, not wanting to give in without a proper apology.
Still, you stop pulling. (And that’s enough for him.)
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'.
warnings: implied female reader in one ss but otherwise gender neutral, message screenshots, random character mix, use of pet names, quick post (not really this was over the span of a few days,) ooc?
notes: thank you for the likes on my last 2 posts (tokyo revengers and yakuza) :) im making a introductory / pinned post soon, let me know any feedback in inbox .✦ ݁˖
Wakatoshi didn’t understand enough social cues to be a jealous man, but if that opposing setter said one more time that you, his wife, were obviously interested in him because you were kind enough to roll a ball back in his direction he might just throw a bench at him. Or at least send a spike right into his smug face.
Hoshiumi had gotten increasingly impatient and at last yelled his name, making the ace look up - or… well, down - at this teammate.
“What are you glaring at?”
With a tense jaw, Wakatoshi only nodded curtly towards the guy who didn’t seem to get the hint.
What? Was the Ushijima jersey not enough for that guy to back off? Or the kiss that you had blown to him, your husband, earlier? Or your wedding ring? He felt his hand ball into a fist as he saw you politely nodding along while the guy openly ogled your pudgy curves with a hungry grin. Wakatoshi knew you could handle yourself. But he really really really wished you’d let him step in for you.
“What are we talking about?” Hinata joined his teammates at the net, turning readily in the direction the other two were already facing.
“I dunno.”, Hoshiumi shrugged, following the line of sight of his fellow ace to land on the rival setter who did not seem to No for an answer. When he put two and two together he let out a quiet “Ew.”
“Come on, Shoyo, let’s warm up. - Huh?” Atsumu halted next to Hinata, then crossed his arms and joined the staring at the other side of the court when no one reacted, quietly trying to figure out if they were collectively having a stroke or were posing for a picture. Just in case of the latter, he popped his hip.
Bokuto bounded over, Sakusa in tow. “Hey! Coach says we should be moving!”, Bokuto called while Sakusa took one look at Wakatoshi, another across the net, and understood why his friend seemed so tense. Utilizing his years of experience in judging people he began to scowl at the setter’s back.
One after the other, the national team joined the wall of players at the net, some more for the vibes than for solidarity, and before long the power of their stares prompted the setter to turn around, finally taking his attention off you.
Confused at their intensity he looked left and then right, subtly checking who they were zeroing in on so hard, but with a cold shudder he had to realize the team was staring at him.
Hoshiumi took it upon himself to fix this very solvable problem, as the other guy apparently didn’t understand what was happening.
“That’s his wife!”, he yelled, voice twice as big as his body, as he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at Wakatoshi.
As if touching a hot plate the setter sprang back, bowed several times in apology to both you and the other team and scrammed.
Hoshiumi looked up at Wakatoshi. “Can we warm up now?”
a/n: Kageyama would take it as the greatest personal offense that it was the setter of all people.
Massive thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for brainstorming this one so hard and coming up with the ending for it.
ushijima feels like he can’t get to you fast enough.
the final whistle has barely echoed through the gym when his eyes find you in the stands—already standing, already smiling, like you’ve been waiting for this moment just as long as he has. the crowd is loud, people moving everywhere, teammates clapping him on his back, but none of it registers because you’re the only thing he’s moving towards.
your face lights up when you see him heading your way, and you start weaving through the edge of the court. he meets you halfway, and before he can say anything—before he can think of anything worth saying—you throw your arms around his neck.
he grunts softly as he catches you, big hands steadying your waist like you’re the most natural thing he’s ever held. you hug him tight, nose buried in the damp crook of his neck, all sunshine and love and joy that you know he doesn’t quite know what to do with.
“you were so good,” you whisper, pulling back just enough so you can look him in the eye. “like, stupidly good. i was yelling so much i think my throat gave up on me.”
ushijima blinks, dazed from the affection, but there’s something warm flickering behind his eyes.
“you yell even when i’m bad,” he says.
“that’s because i love you either way,” you reply without missing a beat, and press your mouth to his like it’s instinct, like it’s something you’ve wanted to do since his first serve of the match. it’s a little clumsy, but it makes his hands grip your waist just a little tighter.
when you finally pull away, noses bumping, he blinks again, flushed and terribly in love. the faintest curve tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“i thought you didn’t like to be so… public,” he says, voice low.
“i don’t,” you say, pecking his lips again, “but i’ll make an exception for you.”
ushijima kisses you again, and thinks, you’re mine. you’re my exception, too.
a/n yet another repost. tagging @lumissandbox because. heh. 🤩
