oops-ed

the quiet chuckle and relieved smile that you’d silently give after staring at him—indicating that whatever ridiculous thing he did was the first thing to leave a positive impression on your tiresome day.

the way that, even with the amount of times you’ve complained about him being ‘dirty’, you were always the first one to throw yourself onto his sweaty figure after every game, hugging him regardless of whether he had won or not.

the light kiss that you’d plant on his forehead whenever you left his hold, purposely not putting too much pressure so as to not wake him—and how you’d slightly panic when he’d grumble to himself even just a little bit.

and if anyone were to tell him that there would be so much more realizations about you and your ways of showing love, he would’ve felt like less of an idiot in the long run.

so much things became clearer to him.

the way his baby picture was the main picture in your wallet.

the way your onigiri started to ‘coincidentally’ taste exactly how osamu’s did—just how atsumu liked it.

the way his favourite toothpaste suddenly became your toothpaste after he once commented how he didn’t like the taste of your old one.

the way how, when once passing by a room in your house, the sound effects of the video game he had excitedly introduced to you was suddenly being heard, despite the fact that you both had to stop playing the other day because of how bad you were.

and how you were oddly decent at it the next day when you told him you wanted to “try playing a second time”.

honestly? this wasn’t even the whole of it. not even close.

if there was ever something atsumu regretted within the course of your relationship, it was the fact that he was once in the belief that it was solely him ‘putting in the effort’.

there was never a need to question your love.

not at all, not ever.

and atsumu made it an everyday vow to make sure you would never doubt, either.

— “i love you.”

“eh?”

“what? i love you.”

“that was random.”

“can’t i profess my love?”

“we’re quite literally in an insurance office…?”

“so?”

“…”

“i love you too.”

made this in honour of the fl’s whose display of love is never talked abt by the fandom bc the ml overshadows them 🙏🏽

guys are u tired of me making atsumu imagines yes or no (don’t say yes pleas)

a/n: someone invent moisturizer for my throat please

tags: @akaashiit, @blythmourning, @bakugosgrenade, @bookworm-center, @levisotakugf, @wellitseugi, @badtzmai, @returntothefae, @noyamlv, @charukii, @amisuh, @z9mbo, @showhay, @wowbyselene, @heavybit3rr, @kotarosangel, @kpopmultistans, @girlwithanattitude, @eclipsedivan, @imgonnashartmyself, @listentothemelody00, @dearestelsie, @qrxswan, @immortalblazethief,, @wave2cal, @tdntu0, @s1ckntw1st3d, @imagoodwriter, @haniipie, @venusdreamr, @st3rdust7, @cwinxclub, @superswagboi05, @creamelon, @xyyyulat, @catgvrl, @shookykookie30, @tchmiya, @https-kasley, @katsukisser, @a2m-saranghae, @miismelater, @sunnysideupx5, @juhonarrt

- He knows how to make you question your own memory of events. Never in a way that’s obvious — just subtle enough that you start to wonder if you really are too sensitive.

- He never yells. He wins with calmness. You’ll raise your voice, and he’ll sigh, all patient disappointment, until you feel childish for even trying.

- When he’s distant, he becomes strategically unavailable. He leaves texts on read, cancels plans with half-hearted apologies — just enough to make you chase him again.

- If you ever pull away, he’ll suddenly flood you with attention. “I’ve just been so busy, babe. You know how I get. Don’t shut me out, okay?” It’s a pendulum that keeps you off-balance.

- His apologies sound sincere. His words are precise. He’ll even cry sometimes — not because he feels it, but because he knows it’ll reset the game.

- He thinks control equals care. If he’s always the one leading, fixing, teaching — then he’s indispensable. He can’t be left behind if you need him to function.

- Deep down, he believes love is a negotiation. Someone always has to have the upper hand. And he intends for it to be him.

⸻

THE RATIONALIZATION:

You were trying to explain how you felt to him—again. It wasn’t like he understood, he understood perfectly well. It was the way he was dismissive, the patronizing way he spoke to you, almost like you were a child.

“I just wish you’d tell me when you’re not coming home. It’s—it’s not hard, Tetsu.”

He exhaled slowly, eyes on his phone. “You know how many times I’ve told you I lose track of time at the office? It’s not personal—I just don’t have time to talk to you all the time.”

“I didn’t say that—I don’t need you to talk to me all the time. And it feels personal when you say it like that and you disappear for hours. All I wanted was a text. You can’t say that and except me not to be upset.”

He looked up then, one brow lifting. “I don’t think this is anything to get upset about. It’s childish, we’re both adults.” He sighed at you, walking away from you knowing you’d follow him. “Maybe that’s why this feels so personal to you. I don’t have time for anything else when I’m working, I thought of all people you’d understand. Don’t start an argument over nothing.”

You blinked, heat rising in your face. “I’m not—I’m not making things up for the sake of start an argument.” You trailed behind him, tripping over your footsteps. “I’m not being childish, I’m asking you to just communicate with me—“

“I didn’t say you were starting an argument. I’m saying that you just… interpreting things wrong. You do that often.”

Your face twisted, confused. “But you said—you literally just said that I was—“

He smiled. It was gentle. Too gentle. You felt the argument dissolve in your throat, leaving only guilt behind.

He reached out and brushed your wrist with his thumb. “Hey. Don’t overthink it, yeah? You’re fine. We’re fine.”

You nodded, even though something in you whispered you weren’t.

⸻

THE WITHDRAWAL:

The silence came in phases. It wasn’t something that happened over night, it’s was dragged out, painful and impossible to understand. It started with fewer texts, then shorter replies that didn’t aid in the overall lack in communication. Whenever you brought it up, he dismissed it like it was nothing, like it didn’t matter to him.

And then there was nothing at all.

You asked him one night, “Did I do something? I’ve been trying to talk to you about this but you just…won’t talk to me?”

He glanced over from his desk, glasses low on his nose. “You’re always asking if you did something wrong. I’d you did, I would’ve let you know. You know that. So why are you still asking?”

“Because you’ve been cold lately.”

He sighed. “I just… don’t have the energy to reassure you that we’re good every day. You need to be able to trust me even when I’m sitting here in silence.”

You swallowed the hurt. “Okay.”

He gave a small smile — approving, relieved. “Good. That’s my girl.”

That night, you lay awake beside him, staring at the faint blue light of his phone. You wondered who he was texting when he turned away from you to answer.

⸻

THE SOFT GASLIGHT:

He found your half-written message on your phone. The one to your friend. The one that started with, “I don’t think he loves me anymore.”

When you came home, he was waiting. Calm, composed, holding your phone up in accusation.

“Wanna explain this to me?”

Your stomach dropped as you tossed your keys onto the table. “You went through my phone? When did even take my phone? I thought I had it in my—“

He tilted his head. “Interesting that that’s your first concern.”

“I was just—just venting, I was—“

“You what? You think I don’t love you?” he asked quietly, his voice trembling — perfectly measured heartbreak. “After everything I do for you? Are you serious?”

You opened your mouth, but the words tangled.

He laughed then, bitter. “Guess I can’t even trust you to keep things between us. You tell everyone our issues except for me, right?”

“How am I supposed to fix things between us if you don’t trust me with your feelings.” And you didn’t trust him with your feelings, everytime you tried to talk to him, he shut you down and dismissed the issue all together.

You cried, apologizing for something you didn’t even fully understand. He pulled you into his chest, murmuring, “It’s fine, baby. I get it…I just need you to be better. I need you to trust me.”

And you did. Again.

⸻

THE RESET:

After every storm came the calm. The part that made it impossible to leave. You would fight, bawl your eyes out and beg for him to forgive you, and somehow end up back in his arms, tangled in the sheets of your bed moaning his name. It was a cycle. Fight. Fuck. Forgive. Repeat.

He cooked dinner that night—a rare sentiment, but not unheard of. There was music, soft and familiar jazz that he seemed to play every time his blood was boiling. It kept him calm, level headed so he could work on formulating the mind games he would play later. He poured your wine first, smiled from across the table like nothing had ever happened between you, like you weren’t crying, begging for forgiveness only moments ago.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said. “You okay?”

You nodded. You’d learned to lie efficiently.

He reached across and brushed your knuckles with his fingers. “You know I hate it when we fight. You’re the best thing in my life. You know that, right?”

You nodded again. He smiled wider, leaning back like he’d just solved a problem.

And in that moment — that warm, glowing, normal moment — you almost believed him.

⸻

✦ Reflection — Kuroo Tetsurō

Loving Kuroo felt like taking a class you could never pass. Every conversation was a test, every silence a pop quiz you hadn’t studied for. He made you sharper, but only because you learned to anticipate his next move, to phrase your feelings like evidence in a debate.

He didn’t scream, didn’t always threaten you, but he was calculated, everything he said deliberate and thought out. He just reasoned you into submission. You stopped trusting your instincts, stopped listening to how he made you feel and started trusting his explanations and justifications instead. And the cruelest part? He probably thought he was helping—teaching you to be “stronger,” “less reactive,” “more logical,” and “less needy.”

When you finally left him, he didn’t chase you. He didn’t want to. He just said, “I hope you figure yourself out,” like it was a gift.

And maybe it was, in the end.

⸻

✦ OIKAWA TŌRU — the perfectionist & the destroyer

Headcanons:

- Oikawa builds his world out of performance. Everything must look effortless: his smile, his game, his love. Beneath that polish is a constant low-grade panic that someone will see how fragile it all is.

- He falls fast, but it’s not love—it’s the relief of being adored by someone who seems worthy of maintaining. Your attention becomes proof that he’s winning in the game of what he thinks is love, what he thinks is admiration.

- He keeps score without realising it. The compliments, favours, affection—it’s all tallied and organized to maintain his ego. When you don’t match his energy, he withholds his and completely withdrawals from you as a form of punishment.

- Jealousy isn’t loud with him; it doesn’t need to be because it’s disguised as incessant teasing. “Oh, so he makes you laugh like that?” He says it with a grin that makes you question if he’s kidding. “I thought I was the only one who made you laugh like that.” When you tease him back about the possibility of him being jealous, he snaps at you, accuses you of doing this on purpose to make him angry.

- He punishes you emotionally by disappearing. Its not dramatic—he doesn’t want it to be. He wants it to be slow, painful, the agonizingly slow fade of unread messages and one-word replies until you apologise for things you didn’t do.

- Every apology he gives is immaculate, it’s a prepared, calculated response that’s filled with heartfelt words, tear stained eyes, the promise of self-improvement. He means it while he says it, which is what makes it convincing. What he doesn’t do is follow through with his actions—and he doesn’t care to.

- When you cry, try to reason with him about being mistreated, he looks absolutely devastated—and he is. When you forgive him, he looks relieved that his performance has paid off. The cycle comforts him; it means you still care enough to chase after him, even when he’s being cruel.

- He tells himself he’s doing his best. And he is. The tragedy is that his best is still built on fear and insecurity—fear that love means nothing without performance—and insecurity that no one will love him if he isn’t putting on the best performance known to man. No one knows the real him, not even Oikawa himself. He has zero sense of self identity.

⸻

ADORATION FROM A FAR:

You met him when you were working as a sports journalist. He was training, day after day, night after night spent in the gym putting in hard work into honing is talents. He noticed you from the corner of his eye, he’d seen you pacing the track that overlooked the court, clipboard in hand, writing something down as you observed him. Sweat was still slick on his neck when he approached you, tossing a tepee k over his shoulder with a hand on his hip. That cheeky grin of his was too bright for how tired he looked.

“Do you know what it’s like to have someone watch you for weeks without even saying hello? ” he asked you, totally Intrigued by you.

You laughed. “I didn’t think it was necessary to say hello just yet.“

“Well you’re writing an article about me for sports illustrated, are you not? The least you could do is get to know me a little better,” he said, eyes on you instead of the court. “You already know my name, let’s start with yours.”

And from that moment, you were absolutely smitten with him. Oikawa Tooru, one of the best volleyball players of his generation, very quickly turned into a what you thought was just a hookup, to becoming your boyfriend practically over night.

He was sprawled out on your couch one evening, legs spread wide like an invitation as he stared at you instead of watching the tv. “You know, I noticed you the second you walked through the doors. It was hard to not notice you.”

You laughed turning to him. “Did you really?” Your eyebrows rose in amusement. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

He looked to the tv, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “I saw a beautiful woman and thought ‘Damn. She definitely has a boyfriend. There’s no way in hell that I would have a chance with her.’” He said, his tone playful and sweet. “For the first time, I’m glad I was wrong.”

“You could have anyone in the world. You have so many fans—why not date one of them?”

“I mean—what’s the fun in dating someone who already knows everything about you?” He shrugged, rolling his eyes. “You didn’t know anything about me—I’ve never felt so nervous to have someone watching me.” His hand found yours, his thumb stroking over your knuckles softly, endearingly. “None of this matters if you’re not watching me. My fans don’t matter, the money, the fame. All I want is to see you in the crowd, I don’t need anyone else.”

You thought it was romantic, the way he spoke, the way he looked at you like you were suddenly his whole world when you were thrust into his life only two months ago. You didn’t realise it was the start of something possessive—how he’d begin obsessively checking if you were at his games, how your absence would feel like betrayal if you couldn’t make it to a game, how his ability to play was affected by your presence all together.

You didn’t realize how much of a mistake you made until he made front page on the latest sports newsletter. You’d missed his game. It wasn’t intentional, it was work related. He was searching for you incessantly in the crowd, panicking because he couldn’t see you, his insecurity boiling inside of him like rage. He’d snapped in the middle of the game, screaming at the referee, threatening his teammates and storming off the court before anyone could ask him what was wrong.

⸻

CONTROL TROUGH GUILT:

He caught you laughing with a coworker outside of a café once. It happened after work on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. You had plans to meet him at the gym after practice was over so you could go to dinner together— but you seem to conveniently leave out that you had plans with somebody else. Somebody that wasn’t him.

You weren’t even a block away from the gym, only about a ten minute walk past the train station. You promised him that you’d be on time—but five minutes too late meant the end of the world to him. He pulled into the parking lot too quickly, dangerously as he parked with a loud screech. He sat in his car, sun glasses pulled over his eyes, nostrils flared, seething like a wild animal, hands gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles as he watched you carefully. You had laughed at something your coworker said, walking side by side with coffees in hand before you gave him a friendly hug to say goodbye.

His blood was boiling and his chest felt tight like he could fucking scream. No one else deserved your attention the way he did, and it made him nauseous to know that you were with another man instead of him. He was the reason you hadn’t shown up to the gym where he sat waiting for you, flowers in hand, excited for the date he had planned. You with someone else—it didn’t matter that he was a coworker, you were with someone who wasn’t him.

When you glanced over your shoulder and caught sight of his car, you were too excited to question his odd behavior. You didn’t tell him that you were going to a café to meet your coworker, you didn’t think it was necessary. You didn’t question how he found you, how he knew where you were, and you really should have.

When you approached his car, he waved excitedly, approaching the passenger side door. When you got in his car, you’d kissed him softly on the lips, his hand shot out to grab your neck, pulling you closer to him as he eyed your coworker from across the parking lot with a glare that spoke louder than any words.

“Hey…did I do something? You’re never like this.” you asked.

He smiled—tight, brittle. “No. I’m just thinking about how happy you looked with him. I wish I could make you laugh like that lately.”

“What?” You laughed, offhandedly, confused at why he would say such a thing. “What do you mean? I’m sorry—I-I’m just confused as to why you’d say something like that.”

He was silent for a moment, eyes drifting away from yours and focusing on anything else.

“Tooru…I really enjoy the time I have with you. I’m sorry if I made you feel like I don’t value the time we have, or if I made you feel like I don’t care—“

You started to protest, but he shook his head, eyes on the road. “Don’t apologise. It’s not your fault I’m not… enough for you right now. I understand.”

That single line turned the air heavy. You didn’t panic, you were just taken off guard. He’d given you the silent treatment as you sat in the parking lot, and somehow or another you convinced him to come over to your apartment so you could talk things out. You spent the rest of the night trying to convince him he was more than enough for you, that you were happy with him. But by the time you reached your apartment, you were the one apologizing to him.

⸻

THE WITHDRAWAL:

For a week he was polite—almost too aware of the way he spoke to you, the way he acted when he was around you. He wasn’t cold—he was just polite. Every message he sent you was punctuated correctly, every kiss on the cheek was quick and distant and felt like it lacked genuine connection.

You had invited him over to your apartment to spend the night, hoping to lighten the mood by cooking him

dinner and spending the evening watching the show he’d started recently. You weren’t oblivious to the changes in his behavior, you were genuinely trying to cheer him up and maybe talk to him about what was going on.

But he said no. He didn’t know on why he couldn’t or wouldn’t come over, he just simply said no. You didn’t mean to pry, but a wave of guilt washed over you and you couldn’t help but ask if you could call him.

When he answered the phone, he was curt, he seemed robotic and distant, like he didn’t really care to have a conversation with you. Beyond almost treated the phone call like it was an inconvenience to him.

When you finally asked what was wrong, he said, “Nothing. I just figured you needed some space.”

You said you didn’t. “Why would I need space? I don’t understand why you would think I needed space, my love.”

You heard him clear his throat from the other end of the phone. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe I’m reading into things too much. I just figured I’d give you time to realize what you have.”

You realised he’d already decided how you felt; you were just catching on to his behavior, the way he pulled away when he was jealous, the way he wanted you to work for his affections. The way he created a physical distance between the two of you felt like someone driving a knife into your chest. It was hard for you to fathom why he would be behaving such a way, if he wanted to fix things so badly why couldn’t he just talk to you?

⸻

THE RESET:

When he got tired of playing mind games with you, and when he got tired of dragging out arguments, he’d show up to your apartment unannounced, dressed in the finest clothes he owned with a playful smile, a smile that otherwise would’ve said he was excited to see you. He always came with flowers in one hand, the other already reaching for you, waiting to grab you by the waist and pull you flush against him like he was about to take you away and give you the best night of your life.

And he would. He always had suites booked at some of the finest hotels in Japan, he liked to book expensive trips that you otherwise couldn’t take on your own. And he spoiled you without a second thought. He offered to buy you designer bags, jewelry, and would even offer to pay to maintain your appearance. Every single grand gesture was just a performance meant to keep you around a little bit longer

“I hate when we’re like this,” he whispered against your hair after a night of very passionate, raw, intense sex, his lips brushing your ears softly in a way that said that he wanted more from you than he would ever admit. “I get scared, I get distant because I’m afraid to lose you. When I mess up, I don’t go about it in the right way. You know me.”

And you did. That was the problem. His voice cracked at all the right moments, his arms trembled just enough to make you believe that what he was saying was real, it was vulnerable and true to how he really felt.

For a while you both pretended the slate was clean. That everything between you, everything that happened was nothing but a misunderstanding. He promised you that he would change, that everything that ever happened between you wouldn’t ever happen again. But it was a cycle, and he didn’t care that it was. He didn’t care that your relationship felt like a game, even when it felt like a game that he couldn’t win. And his mind as long as you were with him, he was winning.

⸻

✦ Reflection — Oikawa Tooru

Loving Oikawa felt like chasing sunlight through glass: beautiful until you noticed the shards of glass that had shattered long ago.

He never meant to hurt you; he just didn’t know another way to keep you close. Every apology was a rehearsal, every reunion a premiere to a show that you already knew the ending to. You learned to read the script by heart, felt every word like a scar worn on your fragile heart. Things were never right—and he needed them to be right. But no matter how many times he tried, he still couldn’t get his lines right.

He drags everyone down with him, and he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing it. His biggest fear is being alone for the rest of his life, he can’t handle not being in the spotlight, he can’t handle not being the center of someone’s world. That’s why when you left him it absolutely shattered him.

⸻

✦ IWAIZUMI HAJIME — the unintentional aggressor

Headcanons:

- Iwaizumi’s toxicity grows out of protection that has no boundaries and caring too much to the point where he loses control of himself entirely. He wants you to be safe, wants you in a steady environment and space that won’t compromise your happiness, and the longer he loves you, the more convinced he becomes that he is the only one who can guarantee that.

- He worries constantly to the point where it’s an unhealthy obsession. In the early stages of your relationship, when things were just kicking off, he was very sweet and sincere with the way he cared for you. “Text me when you get home.” And “let me know if you need anything. I’m only a call away.” But as the relationship progresses, when things start to get intimate and real, it becomes a checklist of where you are, who you’re with, and what time you’ll be back.

- He used to offer his help sweetly, sometimes without having to be asked. He was perfect; he always knew what to do, always knew how to take care of you, always knew what you needed. But it soon turns into him treating you like you’re incapable of doing things on your own—claiming that he’s “just looking out for you”.

- He starts speaking for you in social situations, giving you no room to express yourself, leaving you no room to stand on your own. He starts breaking down how you talk to other men, jealously bleeding through every criticism. “Why’d you look at him like that?” And “you can’t be so nice to people—they’ll get the wrong idea and then I’ll have to deal with it.”

- Then he started to get rid of your things, clothes he didn’t approve of, clothes that he said were too revealing. He starts criticizing the way you touch your hair, the way you do your makeup. He’s trying to strip your identity.

- He says, “I just want to take care of you,” and “I’m trying to make sure that you’re not putting yourself in certain situations,” and he won’t elaborate. Ever. But what he really means is, I can’t relax unless I’m in total control of you.

- When you make independent plans, he gets tense. “You don’t need to prove anything,” he’ll say, masking his discomfort as reassurance. “Why don’t you want me to come with you?”

- His anger burns out quickly when you fight—not wanting you to be afraid or run away from him. The aftermath is where things get interesting—the afterglow after makeup sex, resting his chin on your shoulder, hovering as you scroll through your phone. He wants to see what your doing, constant checking to see if you’re doing anything that might set him off. It’s overbearing in a silent, patronizing way. The way he kisses down your shoulder, eyes peering over your shoulder with a narrowed gaze, fingers gripping you tighter and tighter—it all makes you feel suffocated.

- He measures affection and intimacy in responsibility. The more he does for you, the more you owe him, even if he never says it out loud. He won’t make it painfully obvious, but he’ll hold the expectation that everything he does for you, no matter how grand or minuscule, is grounds for a sexual reward.

- He genuinely believes he’s doing the right thing; that’s what makes the dynamic so tight and suffocating. He doesn’t consider himself a misogynist, he just believes in gender roles. He wants to be the dominant, blue collar, provider and protector that you need. He wants you to wait for him when he comes home, shower with him, give into his needs, and take care of homely things while he’s hard at work making sure you’re safe and loved in the only way he knows how; through control.

⸻

MEETING HIM / HIS INITIAL OBSESSION:

You met him at a mutual friend’s party. The music throbbed softly in the background, the scent of drinks and perfume mingling in the air. He was laughing with his buddies, a little drunk, leaning against the kitchen counter, and something about the ease of his presence made you relax.

He offered to get you a drink. “You look tired,” he said softly, handing you the cup. “Didn’t eat enough today?”

You smiled politely. “I’m fine.” But then you laughed, breathless and amused by how he read you like a book. “I promise I’m okay.”

“No, really. I can tell,” he said, eyes locking on yours in a way that made your stomach flutter. “Just let me make sure you’re good. Wanna get outta here and grab a quick bite? It’s on me.”

You laughed as he held your hand, dragging you through the crowd and out his car. You laughed, shaking your head at your impulsiveness as you followed a stranger to his car all because he offered to take you to this diner he was excited about. What was the harm in grabbing a bite to eat with a total stranger that you’d only just met an hour ago?

He followed through with his promise and took you to the diner on the corner, one where couples shared a milkshake from across the table, one where late night conversations were too intimate, too raw and real under the dim lamplight. You shared a burger and he let you steal as many fries as you wanted as he watched you, looking at how effortlessly gorgeous you looked after a long night of partying, talking about anything and everything mindlessly.

You talked for a few hours at the diner until the owner decided to close up in the early hours in the morning. You stayed in the parking lot leaning against his car, looking up at the stars and laughing about something he said. It was oddly romantic for just meeting someone, but it was also comforting in a way. You’d never felt so comfortable talking to anyone and you already felt like you knew him. After a night of impulsive decisions and long conversations, you exchanged numbers.

And that was the start of something you couldn’t begin to imagine.

⸻

THE SLOW CREEP OF CONTROL:

It felt caring at first.

He was charming and a gentleman, but he always seemed concerned for you. It seemed that the rare impulsive decision you made on the night you met, the one that led you to eventually becoming his girlfriend, had branded itself into his mind.

That decision was a constant reminder to him: “If I were anyone else, she could’ve ended up with some creep. Or worse.”

You didn’t realize that this small concern would soon become constant monitoring, a complete violation of your privacy, always needing to know who you spoke to, what you ate, what time you went home.

Within weeks of meeting each other, you started casually dating. He was picking you up after outings with your friends “just to be safe,” and of course you bragged about him to your friends—how could you not? He was strong, protective, attractive, great in bed, and he was a gentleman. He always offered to accompany you on errands, walking with you late at night to the 7/11 down the street from your apartment. He lived nearby he said, whether that was true or not, you didn’t care—at least not at the time.

There was a time when be walked you to your car, he lingered a little too close, his hand brushing yours when handing you your purse that he offered to carry. His touch was gentle, light, almost casual in nature —but the weight behind it, the way he seemed to measure your reactions, sent a shiver through you. At the time, it felt thrilling, like being noticed by someone so in-tune with you—but the tiny seed of unease had already been planted.

Several weeks into your relationship with him, when he finally asked you to be his girlfriend after two months the of causally seeing eachother, he starts “helping” you with tasks that you could do yourself.

At first, you genuinely thought he was just being respectful. He’d always offered to help you in any way he could, holding doors open without thought, carrying groceries into your apartment, even doing maintenance on your car so you didn’t have to see a mechanic.

“Here, let me take that,” he’d said, taking the knife from your hand while you prepped dinner at your kitchen counter. “Seriously, I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I’ll handle it. Just sit down, relax a bit, yeah?”

You laugh, brushing it off. But over time, these small acts of kindness stripped away your independence. Any time you sat up from the couch, he would stand up first and get you what you needed. Any time you mentioned going to the grocery store, or simply running errands, he’d already done everything for you.

You invited him over one night for no particular reason. He was laid on across your bed, sweatpants hanging enticingly low on his hips, scrolling through his phone as he listened to you yap from within your closet, clothes flying behind you onto the floor. He shifted on the bed, trying to grab your attention so you would come lay with him, hoping that he could take you right then.

Instead, you kept talking, launching clothes left and right in piles on the floor.

“I just don’t know what to keep and what to get rid of. I want new clothes but like, I already have too many.”

You invited him over simply for company, he thought you wanted to fuck. You were going through your closet, trying to decide what to get rid of. You were in the middle of talking his ear off when he stood up from your bed, padded over to you with a look in his eye before he leaned over your body, his hands on your hips in a way that made your heart race.

“Well then let me help you, baby.” What you didn’t expect was for him to rearrange your closet, removing outfits he deemed inappropriate. “I just want you to look nice…you know, just for me,” he says softly, eyes flicking to you for reaction. “Don’t need anymore wandering eyes.”

At first, you very ignorantly thought it wasn’t that big of a deal. Later, you notice you’d began choosing your clothes based on avoiding his anger rather than your own taste. Any time you wore something that showed too much skin, showed too much cleavage, he made you take it off and he yelled at you in a fit of rage. He would grumble under his breath, shove his hands into his pockets and tap his foot in irritation as he waited to approve what you changed into. You started to second-guessing every outfit you had, every word you said, every smile you gave to someone else.

He started commenting on the way you did your hair, the way you did your makeup—regardless of how much or how little you wore. He started being condescending whenever you spoke to anyone else. “You’re too friendly with people,” he murmured one night, brushing your hair behind your ear. “People are gonna get the wrong idea. I don’t wanna have to deal with that. I can’t have you acting like that.”

Each small “correction” he made towards anything you did felt like being suffocated, like you couldn’t even think without hearing his voice first. And there was a tightness creeping in your chest, a whisper that maybe you’re not allowed to exist entirely as yourself anymore.

⸻

THE EXPLOSION:

One night, you met a coworker for dinner to discuss marketing tactics for an upcoming project. Nothing happened, it was simply a dinner meant to discuss your careers and how to improve on your strategies. You asked Iwaizumi to pick you up instead of walking back to your apartment. He watched you from the parking lot, waiting, his head leaned against the headrest, taking hits from his vape to calm his nerves, knee bouncing in anticipation, shaking the car slightly.

You were standing outside with your coworker, talking about work, making small talk to catch each other up on your personal lives. Iwaizumi was seething, anger boiling over until he threw open the car door, stepping out with an angry huff. He slammed the door, shaky hands smoothing over his hoodie before he made a beeline through the parking lot towards you.

You heard his footsteps approaching all too quickly, eyes widening before you smiled awkwardly. “Oh! Oh my god. I didn’t know you were already here,” You said before turning to your coworker, gesturing toward Iwaizumi, “Umm, sorry this is Hajime, my boyfriend.“

Your coworker nodded polity and said hello, holding out a hand for him to shake. He just stared at it, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans with his neck craned back in suspicion. He glared at your coworker and your smile dropped, you could feel your heartbeat constrict in your chest, your coworker, looking at you awkwardly before casually saying good night

When you get home, you invite him upstairs to talk. He was quiet following you to the elevator, and when he got to your apartment, he started pacing. Eyes sharp. Hands gripping the edge of the counter as he finally grounded himself. The hum of the refrigerator seemed deafening in the tense silence.

“Why were you talking to him like that?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Do you know how the fuck that looks?”

“It’s just…I don’t understand why you’re upset, Hajime. He’s my coworker—he’s married and he has like, three kids. Like, I-I just don’t understand what the hell your issue—” you stammer, heart hammering.

“My issue?!” he snaps, the control you never realized he had tightening around your chest. “You’re telling me you don’t understand how this looks—you being with another man at night? You can’t just…I can’t have you acting like that. You don’t understand how easy it is for someone to take advantage of you.”

“Take advantage of me?! He’s my goddamn coworker—“

You try to reason, to explain your intent. He interrupts, voice rising. “Don’t fucking argue. I know what’s best for you and that’s it! I just…I can’t stand the thought of you putting yourself out there like that. You don’t see it, the way that other men look at you—but I fucking do.”

He comes closer, so close that you can feel the heat of his body pressing toward you. You can smell the faint scent of his cologne, his aftershave, the sweat from pacing, and it makes your stomach twist. The way he towers over you, his voice firm yet trembling, making you question your own judgment, your own innocence.

By the end of the night, you’re sobbing, an absolute mess, apologizing for something you didn’t do. He pulls you close, resting his chin on your shoulder, fingers gripping your arm a little too tight. “I just want to take care of you. I just want to keep you safe.” he whispers. And in that suffocating warmth, you forgive him.

⸻

THE AFTERGLOW / SUFFOCATION:

Morning comes, and he’s already moved through the apartment before you can even wake up. He has your coffee poured perfectly, he has your vitamins and supplements laid out on the counter, your workout clothes are laid out, even your breakfast is prepared. The sun slices across the wood floor, illuminating the space he’s prepped to fit your routine perfectly. He sits on the couch in anticipation, waiting for you to wake up.

When you skip your routine, he doesn’t scold you—but his hurt looks sharper than anger. He puts in effort to make sure that you maintain your lifestyle, that you’re taken care of, and when you go off schedule—it feels like a personal attack on him.

“I just want you to be healthy,” he says softly, watching you eat, eyes narrowing slightly when you reach for your phone. “Don’t you trust me?”

You nod, even though your chest feels tight. The subtle misogyny lingers: you’re not just cared for, you’re expected to comply, to submit to his control quietly. His affection comes packaged with oversight, and you start questioning whether your independence is allowed at all.

When he leans over your shoulder, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingers on your wrist, tracing the veins just so—there’s a possessive weight to it. You feel watched, monitored, wrapped in warmth that’s slowly becoming too tight to breathe in. And yet, the softness in his eyes, the steady heartbeat against yours, the murmured “I just want what’s best,” keeps you tethered.

⸻

✦ Reflection — Iwaizumi Hajime

Loving Iwaizumi felt like being wrapped in warmth that slowly became a weight you couldn’t shrug off. At first, it was protection, concern, devotion—the kind of love that makes you feel safe. But over time, you realized that safety came at a cost: your choices, your routines, your very sense of self.

He never meant to cage you on purpose. He never meant to shout at you. He only built walls brick by brick, layer by layer, telling himself—and you—that it was for your good. Each act of care carried a quiet expectation, each gesture a subtle claim on your autonomy. You stopped questioning him, stopped thinking you could exist fully outside of him, and somewhere along the way, you forgot the shape of freedom.

His hands, his words, his eyes—they didn’t just protect you, they measured you, molded you, tethered you. You learned to live inside the orbit he drew, small and compliant, so that the warmth of his arms didn’t crush you completely. And yet, even knowing how tight those walls had grown, you stayed, drawn to the comfort and the obsession, the intensity of a love that burned so hot it left you scorched and wanting more.

Loving him was suffocating and intoxicating in equal measure. You understood only too late that the line between care and control is fragile, and the person who claims to protect you the most is often the one shaping the life you thought was yours.

⸻

✦ ATSUMU MIYA — the volatile heartbreaker

Headcanons:

- Falls too fast, loves too hard: Atsumu’s intensity is immediate from the moment you meet him. He’s a lover boy at heart, always falling for the wrong girl, always being the one who gets broken up with, always the one who gets left behind in tears. But when he meets you, it feels like his entire world has to revolve around you—you’re the center of his universe for the second your eyes meet, and he’s convinced you’re his soulmate.

- When he’s invested, it’s all consuming. His interest in you is far beyond infatuation—and it completely destroys him. He can’t get you out of his head, the way you look, the way your perfume smells, the way you look at him in no particular way. Everything you do means something to him—even if it’s nothing worth noting. He texts you any chance he gets, needing constant communication with you.

- He almost always calls you after a long day at practice. He fave times you in the shower so you can watch him, he wants to show off at any chance he gets to impress you. He’ll lay in bed late at night in a hoodie, propped up on his elbow as he watches you over FaceTime, a smile on his lips, laughing at something you said.

- He almost always falls asleep with you on FaceTime and it’s sweet, that’s what you thought anyway. He wants to be a part of your routine, slowly weaving himself into the parts of your daily life whenever and wherever he can.

- He teases you in a way that’s charming and makes you laugh, he’s relentless and needs to give you all of his attention. There’s no slow burn to the way he loves, he’s all fire at once and it’s overwhelming and completely suffocating.

- Mood swings / whiplash: He’s emotional—not in the way that’s productive and endearing; he’s destructive, one moment he’s playful and charming, the next he’s sulking, overtly jealous, possessive, or cold and distant. The shifts in his mood are unpredictable and emotionally exhausting. He refuses to acknowledge his behavior until you validate him—no matter how abusive and toxic his behavior might be. He won’t take any accountability until he gets pity or an apology from you for something you didn’t do.

- Attention-driven arguments: He thrives off of picking fights with you over small things just to test if you care enough to chase after him, defend yourself, or reassure him in any way that satisfies him. The fights are less about the topic and more about gauging your emotional loyalty for him.

- He wants to see how far you’re willing to go to prove that you care about him, that he’s the only one you love. These kinds of fights—no matter how brutal—almost always end up with the two of you having sex. He uses sex as a reward system, it’s just another way to prove your loyalty to him, to reassure him that he’s the only one that gets to see you vulnerable.

- He has the ugliest mean streak; he’s possessive of you and he has the worst jealousy you’ve ever seen. When he gets set off, there’s no stopping him. He’s prone to starting fights—especially when he’s drunk. He thinks he’s defending your honor but he’s humiliating you by causing a scene.

- He thrives off the adrenaline of physical fighting similar to how he thrives off the chaos of starting emotional fights with you.

- He excuses his behavior by saying it’s because he “cares about ya,” and “I’m defending ya, baby, why doesn’t ya see that?” but he’s suffocating and he’s out of line—he just doesn’t see it like that. He doesn’t like your attention being directed elsewhere and he reacts like it’s a threat.

- He’s defensive and his ego can’t handle criticism. Any and all criticism from you feels like an attack—especially when you’re trying to be independent. He can’t handle it—he feels like you don’t care about him anymore, he assumes you’re about to breakup with him, that you’re seeing someone else behind his back.

- He lashes out emotionally, he’s aggressive and unstable, screaming and yelling, sometimes he cries because he can’t keep it together. Even if he apologizes immediately after, there’s insecurity scratches at him, tears him apart and everything falls apart all over again. None of your fights are productive or ever truly get resolved because his trust issues and insecurities are so bad.

- He views relationships like a transaction, there’s always a push and pull of energy depending on what mood he’s in. He’ll ignore you for hours just to provoke you, he’ll wallow in self pity and listen to sad music just to see if you come to him, trying to figure out what you did.

- He’ll show other women attention when he wants to make you jealous—jealousy to him shows that you care and that you’re upset that he’s not giving you his full, undivided attention. He would never cheat—oh god no, he couldn’t fathom it.

- When you confront him, he resolves the issue quickly with reassurance, dismissing his poor behavior and then floods you with affection and charm—leaving you exhausted, dizzy, and emotionally attached.

- He doesn’t know how to apologize. His way of apologizing comes in bursts—text storms, showing up at your apartment in the middle of an argument, dramatic gestures like sending flowers to your workplace, planning surprise parties, etc.

- You never know if it’s real remorse or an attempt to reset the emotional scale that he offset intentionally. He loves you, that you’re sure of. But his love masquerades as wild obsession driven by fear of being abandoned.

- Self-justifying love: He convinces himself that every manipulation, every fight he starts with careful consideration, every time you chase after him, every time he chases after you, is proof that he loves you. He tries to be stable, he tries to be the man you can depend on for everything, but he’s so unstable and emotionally abusive that you have no choice but to choose yourself.

⸻

THE INITIAL SPARK / HIS OBSESSION:

He met you at a charity event his team was sponsoring. You were all dressed up, black pinstripe button up tucked into your black slacks that hugged you just right. The way your hips swayed when you walked had him in a trance. He was passing out flyers—or we was supposed to. His jaw dropped and his eyes followed you instead. You were totally out of his league—or that’s what he said to you later, grinning like it was a compliment.

You’d laughed at something one of his teammates said, and that was what got him. That was it. Your laugh became his favorite sound before he even knew your name.

When he approached you, he was all charm with a smirk on his lips and boyish overconfidence. “Ya don’t belong here, at least not lookin’ like that you don’t.” he said, eyes raking over your figure with a quiet deliberation . “So tell me, what’s a girl like you doin’ here?”

You rolled your eyes, amused. “You don’t even know me.” You laughed, god, you laughed at what he said. “I thought I’d come check out any job opportunities.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. “Oh, I might not know ya now, but trust me, I’ll get to know ya. Just gimme some time.”

He slipped you a flyer, one that he was passing out earlier. It was a job advertisement. The team was recruiting a new marketing manager.

You got to know him in time, the job application he’d given you was accepted immediately with an interview. And he got to know you like the back of his hand in a matter of weeks.

He learned how you took your coffee, how you hated small talk, how you chewed on your lip when you were deep in thought. He remembered the songs you hummed when you were nervous. You didn’t realize he’d memorized everything about you until it was too late.

From the the moment he asked you out, your phone never stopped lighting up with his messages — selfies from the locker room, texts that said god I miss ya already, ya looked so good today, I can’t get ya out of my damn head woman, ya thinking about me too, right?

And of course you were thinking of him—because how could you not? He made you feel like the most fascinating thing in his orbit, he woke up every day excited to see you. You mistook his obsession for adoration. You thought being seen that deeply by someone was love.

It wasn’t. It was possession dressed up as devotion.

⸻

UNPREDICTABLE TEMPER:

The music was too loud and the room too warm, laughter bouncing off the walls in fractured bursts. Atsumu’s hand had been on your waist all night—tight, possessive, reminding everyone you were his.

Then it happened. Someone brushed past, said something harmless to you, but Atsumu froze. You felt his body lock beneath your palm and he snapped his neck behind you, eyes wild and full of animalistic rage. His voice dropped low, that edge you’d learned to fear threading through it.

“What did you just say?”

The other guy blinked, confused, smiling like it was a joke. “Uhh…sorry man—I didn’t know she was with you.” Atsumu wasn’t smiling. His shoulders squared and he stood up straight, the muscle in his jaw tensing, eyes gone cold and void of anything but rage.

You tried to pull him back. “Atsumu, please—”

He didn’t hear you—didn’t hear anything. His ears were ringing. The music seemed to thin around him, the air pulled tight as wire about to snap. The guy stepped back, muttering something under his breath, and Atsumu moved forward with a wild laugh leaving his lips, his eyes blown impossibly wide and feral.

People were watching now. You caught the look on their faces—half entertained, half wary of what was about to unfold. Your heart was hammering in your chest and you felt sick.

“Baby,” you said again, fingers clutching his sleeve. “Please, I’m begging, please just stop. It’s not worth it.”

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, breathing sharp through his nose like he’d just ran a marathon. For a second you thought he might keep going anyway, thought he wouldn’t tackle the guy to the ground in a heartbeat. Then he blinked, seemed to realize where he was, and the mask cracked.

He muttered something—“Yeah, whatever”—and turned away, dragging you with him.

Outside, the cold hit his skin and the anger broke into something else: guilt, shame, a tremor in his hand as he ran it through his hair.

“I didn’t mean to scare ya, baby I’m sorry, I really am.” he said, voice rough. “He shouldn’t’ve looked at you like that.”

You wanted to say he hadn’t looked at you at all, that it was in Atsumu’s head, but the words stuck. The night felt too fragile, too close to snapping.

He reached for you, whispering apologies into your hair as he held you tight against his chest until the sound of his heartbeat slowed. You stayed still, breathing him in, wondering how long before it happened again.

⸻

FIRST FIGHT / PUSH & PULL:

It started with something small, it always did. You had just moved in with each other. It happened over dinner when your phone screen lit up, a text from an old friend came across your screen. He craned his neck, eyes looking down to your phone in an instant.

“Who’s that?” Atsumu asked, tone too casual to be real.

“Just someone from my old job,” you said, trying not to tense.

His fork clinked against his plate. “He texts ya at night often?”

You sighed. “It’s not like that.”

His nose twitched and he exhaled a sharp breath, eyes locked on yours, almost like he was trying to read between the lines of what you said.

He leaned back, arms crossed, staring at you like you’d just confessed to a crime. “I just think it’s weird, is all. Ya wouldn’t like it if I did that, right?”

“It’s not the same—”

“Course it’s the fuckin’ same,” he snapped, voice sharp. “Why’re ya defending him?”

You blinked, shocked. “Because…I think you’re overreacting. We’re work friends.”

He laughed then, but it wasn’t funny. It was hollow and cruel, echoing off the walls. “Yeah? Ya really think I’m overreacting? Maybe ya just like the attention.”

The fight spun out fast—it was out of control, accusations were thrown in your face before you could even speak, he stood over the table, pointing down at you in humiliation, tears ran down your face, his voice was raised, borderline screaming at you, heartache bleeding into every word he spoke. By the time it ended, he was sitting on the edge of your shared bed, breathing hard, his ears burning red, chest felt like it was about to explode, his hands shaking from the adrenaline.

“I just… I don’t wanna lose ya,” he muttered, eyes glassy. “Everyone always leaves. I don’t want this to end the same way.”

You hated how fast your anger died at that. You hated how quickly pity replaced it. You knelt in front of him, cupping his face, whispering, “I’m not leaving, I don’t want to leave. I love you.”

He smiled through the mess of it, that boyish grin that could undo you with ease. “Knew ya wouldn’t.”

And you hated that he was right.

⸻

THE GUILT TRIPPING / MOOD SWINGS:

You had never fought like that before. You had never seen him so angry, never heard the way he sounded when he yelled. And it scared you. It shattered something inside of you that you couldn’t name, a dull ache burning in your chest every time you took a deep breath—and of course he noticed.

But instead of talking to you about what happened, instead of attempting to rebuild what he’d broken, he’d asked you to stay with him for the night after you suggested you sleep at a friend’s. He tried to fix this in the only way he knew how. You both ended up tangled in bed, clothes thrown to the floor before you could even think, bodies intertwined, the sound of your breathless moans ringing in his ears as his hips collided with your ass for the better half of the night.

Between your muffled cries, his deep, guttural groans and desperate kisses, he spoke sweet nothings to you, apologizing to you over and over until you came around him.

He woke up with you in the morning, took you to a cafe down the street he knew you frequented. Everything seemed fine, he was himself, charming and sweet like nothing happened the night before.

He didn’t talk to you for two days. Not a word, not a text, not even so much as a glance. You’d said something small over breakfast before you both left for work, something about you needing to stay late to focus on a work project—something about preparing a presentation, and suddenly, he’d gone silent. He just nodded at you, unamused and dismissive.

You found him on the couch that night when you came home, phone in hand, eyes flat as he scrolled mindlessly.

“Ya didn’t even notice I was gone, huh? Didn’t even bother to see if I was still in the gym, waiting ’ for ya.”

You sighed, exhausted. “I told you I had to stay late. If I didn’t have to stay, I wouldn’t have.”

“Ya didn’t even check,” he said, voice low. “Not once. I sat waitin’ for ya.”

He lied. He didn’t wait for you. He sulked in his jeep in the parking lot, contemplating dragging you back home.

Your jaw clenched. “I mean with how you reacted this morning, I thought maybe you wanted space.”

He scoffed, tossing his phone onto the couch. “Space? That’s what ya want too, right? Why’re ya assuming what I want? Are ya tryna get away from me? Is that is?”

He looked so raw when he said it that you almost broke. His insecurity came wrapped in venom, but it was still real.

“I’m not trying to get away from you,” you said softly. “I think I’m just healing from our fight…I think I just needed time.”

“Away from me?”

“Yes.”

He flinched like you’d hit him. Then he laughed — humorless, sharp. “So ya didn’t need to stay late after all, huh? What, am I not enough anymore?”

He stood and stalked to the balcony, arms folded against the cool night air. You followed, because that’s what he wanted—the chase, the reassurance.

When you finally touched his arm, he turned, jaw tight, eyes glassy. “Do you still love me? We just got this apartment together, I’m tryna build my life with ya,” he whispered.

You did. You always loved him.

He kissed you hard in that moment, desperate and lonely, pulling you close like he could glue himself back together with your skin. You knew it wasn’t love anymore—it was a game he liked to play for gratification at your expense.

⸻

THE CHAOTIC RECONCILIATION:

He always fixed things with a dramatic flare. This time it was flowers—too many to carry—at least twelve bouquets crowding your kitchen counter in an extravagant attempt to win your heart over. He stood in the doorway, the grin on his lips sheepish, practically holding his heart in his hands.

“I kinda got carried away,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Thought ya deserved ‘em.”

You stared at the mess of petals and stems, the chaos of his affection. “Do you think this fixes it?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Nah. But it’s a start, isn’t it?”

You wanted to stay angry at him, maybe even yell at him the way he had yelled at you. You really did. But when he reached for you—like he needed you, hands trembling like you were the only thing holding him together—something inside you melted.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said softly. “I can’t be mad at you when you look at me that way, T’sumu.”

“Like what?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Like I’m the only thing that makes you breathe.”

He smiled, small and sad. “Ya are.”

You kissed him because it was easier than fighting, easier than leaving him. Because you wanted to believe him. Because every apology he made felt like a promise that this time would be different.

But you both knew it wouldn’t be.

⸻

✦ Reflection — Atsumu Miya

Loving Atsumu feels like being caught between a wildfire and a thunderstorm — all heat and chaos and noise, and you can’t tell if it’s passion or destruction until it’s too late.

He’s the kind of man who convinces you that his jealousy is love, that his control is care, that every fight is proof of how much he needs you. You start to measure your worth by how tightly he holds on, by how deeply he breaks when you pull away.

He doesn’t mean to hurt you — not really. He just doesn’t know any other way to love.

He confuses devotion with ownership, emotion with validation, obsession with intimacy.

You know it’s killing you, but you stay anyway. Because when it’s good, it’s blinding. When it’s bad, it’s unforgettable.

Atsumu will never love you halfway, he doesn’t know how. He’ll love you how ever he sees fit, no matter how toxic, no matter how emotionally unstable he gets; he’ll love you until there’s nothing left of either of you.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Of course, he remembered. Two months ago. It had been two weeks after you moved in together, when love and domestic bliss were still new and shiny. You’d sweetly mentioned that his nighttime antics were, well, a little… chaotic. Sometimes throwing an arm over your face, sometimes draping a leg across you like an overly affectionate octopus. Which were completely fine for you, but the one thing you couldn’t deal with was that he was a shameless blanket thief.

He’d promised to work on it. But sleep-logic Atsumu and awake-logic Atsumu were two entirely different creatures.

So, you had tried everything. Tucking the blanket under you, securing it beneath the mattress—nothing worked. And so, you’d come up with a simple solution: separate blankets.

Atsumu, however, was clearly not a fan of this idea.

With a dramatic sigh, he shuffled to the closet, every step a performance of exaggerated woe. He tugged out a pair of boxers, his expression the embodiment of a heartbroken puppy.

“Baby…” You called to him, your voice gentle but laced with an I-know-you’re-about-to-be-dramatic tone.

“If you want to divorce me, just say so.” He mumbled, slipping on his boxers. His shoulders slumped, and he looked as if he might melt into a puddle right there on the floor.

You rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “We’re not even married.”

“Exactly! That’s worse! You could just leave me. No legal ties, no paperwork, just gone—poof!” He flailed his arms for emphasis. “And then I’ll have to fight for the house in court while you take the dog that we don’t even have yet.”

“Atsumu.”

“And before I know it, you’ll find someone who sleeps like a corpse and doesn’t steal blankets, and you’ll never be cold again and—”

You shut your book, the sound soft but definitive. He stopped mid-ramble, watching as you set it on the nightstand and reached for his hand.

“Hey.”

He blinked at you, his expression still a perfect blend of pitiful and hopeful.

“You know it’s not about you being a problem, right?” You said, your thumb drawing lazy circles on his hand.

“...It’s not?” His lip wobbled just a bit, milking the moment for all it was worth.

You shook your head and gently pulled him closer. The distance between you dissolved, and with it, a little bit of his drama. “No, dummy. I just need sleep too.”

He exhaled, all his performative misery unraveling into a dramatic slump of relief. “Fine.” He muttered, dragging his feet as you coaxed him into bed. “But I don’t like it.”

You giggled and he immediately flopped down, half on top of you as usual, his weight pinning you to the mattress like a very clingy, very warm blanket of his own.

“What if we just get a bigger comforter?” He asked, muffled against your shoulder.

You hummed thoughtfully, fingers combing through his damp hair. “That might work.”

“We can go buy it tomorrow.”

“We can.” You agreed, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. “But until then, separate blankets.”

By the time he deleted the photo from the chat, he knew it was still too late.

Meian: bro

Hinata: I DID NOT NEED TO SEE THAT

Bokuto: wait r u okay or is this u seducing us?? 

Inunaki: ???

Inunaki: wtf????

Sakusa: ?

Sakusa: blocking your number

Coach: Miya, PLEASE do not send nudes to the team. 

He threw his phone across the bed like it had personally betrayed him. Which, in a way, it had. Why the hell are the chat names so close together?!

Suddenly, just to make matters worse, you rushed out of the shower, the towel wrapped around your body messily from putting it on in a hurry.

“What happened? Is everything okay?”

Atsumu was red, his hands on his head, and he cornered himself on the side of the bed, as if this piece of furniture could protect him from the very embarrassing moment he had just experienced.

“Tsumu?” 

“Baby, I’m going to retire.”

“What?” 

“I’m retiring and moving to Alaska. Look at me really good, baby. Because this might be the last time you’re seeing me.”

“What’s going on? Are you—” 

Atsumu’s phone left on the bed caught your attention, from the looks of it, something on his device was to blame for your boyfriend’s mood. 

“What were you watching?” You scolded him as you reached for the phone.

Atsumu instantly jumped up, “Don’t look at my phone!”

“Why not?” When you unlocked the phone and saw the chat open, you squinted at the screen, scrolling through the messages. “Wait, I don’t understand. You sent a nude to the group chat?”

“It wasn’t a nude, just a slightly provocative photo.” He said, trying to defend himself.

After you processed the information, you couldn’t help but burst out laughing. 

“It’s not funny! This is the worst day of my life!” His face was the color of an apple now, hands covering his burning cheeks.  “It was supposed to be for you!”

“But why were you sending me slightly provocative photos when I was literally here? In the shower? Like twenty feet away from you?”

Atsumu threw his hands up defensively. “I don’t know, for fun?!”

That set you off again, and something about the way he said it—so genuinely bewildered by his own choices, like a puppy who didn’t understand why the shoe he chewed was a problem—made your heart squeeze. He was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And somehow, that made him even more endearing.

Atsumu let out a long, defeated groan and collapsed onto the bed face-first, his voice muffled against the comforter. “I’m never showing my face at practice again. They’re gonna roast me for the rest of my career. Omi’s probably already bleaching his eyeballs.”

You watched him lie there, completely deflated. The tips of his ears were still bright red, and his shoulders had that slumped quality that told you he was genuinely mortified. Okay, maybe you’d teased him enough. 

You climbed onto the bed beside him, your hand gently rubbing circles on his back. “Hey.” You said softly. “Baby, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” He turned his head just enough to look at you with one eye, his expression pitiful. “I sent a nude to my entire team. Coach Foster saw it. Coach Foster. I can never look him in the eye again.”

“Okay, yeah, that part is pretty bad.” You admitted, and he groaned again, burying his face back into the mattress. You couldn’t help but smile as you ran your fingers through his hair. “But hey, they’ll tease you for like... a week, tops. Maybe two. And then Bokuto will do something dumb and everyone will forget all about it.”

“You really think so?” His voice was small, hopeful.

“I know so.” You tugged gently at his hair until he rolled over onto his back, looking up at you with those warm brown eyes that were still clouded with embarrassment. You leaned down, cupping his face with your hands. “Besides, you’ve got a great body. If anything, they should be thanking you for blessing their group chat.”

That got a weak laugh out of him, one corner of his mouth quirking up. “You’re just sayin’ that.”

“I’m absolutely not.” You brushed your thumb across his cheekbone, your voice sincere. “You’re hot, Tsumu. Like, annoyingly hot. It’s actually kind of unfair.”

Some of the tension finally left his body, and his hands came up to rest on your hips, pulling you closer. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You leaned down to kiss him, soft and reassuring, until you felt him relax completely beneath you. When you pulled back, he was smiling—that genuine, slightly dopey smile you loved. 

You settled beside him, propping yourself up on one elbow, and traced absent patterns on his chest. After a moment of comfortable silence, you spoke up, trying to sound casual. “So... am I still gonna receive that photo? You know, in the right chat this time?”

Atsumu’s entire body went rigid.

His head whipped toward you so fast you were worried he might hurt his neck. “You… wait, you want—?” His voice cracked spectacularly, and he cleared his throat, ears immediately burning red again. “Even after— I mean, you really—?”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing at how utterly flustered he’d become. Here was this confident, cocky setter who could trash-talk like no other, completely short-circuiting at your question.

“I mean, you took it for me, right?” You tilted your head, playing with the chain around his neck. “Seems like a waste if I never get to see it.”

Atsumu’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out. His hands on your hips tightened slightly, and you could practically see the gears in his brain grinding to a halt and trying to restart.

“I—” He started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. His gaze darted away from yours, then back, then away again, a flush creeping down his neck. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

The look on his face was priceless—somewhere between elated and completely overwhelmed. His trademark smirk tried to make an appearance, but it kept flickering into something much more genuine and flustered.

“Well.” He finally managed, voice slightly strangled. “I guess… If you really want… yeah. Yeah, okay.”

You grinned and leaned down to kiss his cheek. “Good. I’ll be waiting then.”

You started to pull away to finally get dressed, but his arms wrapped around you, keeping you in place for a moment longer.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” He muttered against your shoulder, and you could feel the heat radiating from his face.

“At least it won’t be from embarrassment this time.” You said cheerfully, finally extracting yourself from his grip.

His only response was another groan as he grabbed a pillow and covered his face with it.

"Why are you apologizing?" He asks softly, reaching to unstick a sweaty strand of hair from your face.

"Because, it's so gross. You didn't have to come in here," You insist. "I'm an adult, and - you really shouldn't have to see that." You purposefully avoid glancing in the mirror. You don't even want to know what you must look like right now.

"But I don't want you to feel gross alone," He says as if it's simple. You open your mouth, searching for some kind of retort, but nothing comes. "I know you can take care of yourself, but you shouldn't have to," He continues. "Not when I'm right here."

It's so surprisingly sweet that you feel your face start to crumple. "Tetsu," You squeak out.

"Shh," He shushes you, "Just tell me what I can do. Do you need anything?"

"I just want to go back to bed," You admit, reaching out to grab the edge of the sink as you feel yourself begin to waver.

"Okay then," He says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead before he scoops you up in his arms, slowly carrying you back to the bedroom and setting you gently on top of your pillows. "Try to get some rest," He murmurs, pulling the blankets up over you. "I love you," He adds, brushing the hair away from your face.

"I love you too," You murmur back, leaning into his touch and the comfort of the knowledge that he'll always be right here.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

Your alarm feels even earlier than usual, and after confirming that it is indeed time to get up, you turn it off with a groan. You're feeling particularly at odds with the world already today, and part of you just wants to pull the covers over your head and go back to sleep. Instead, you slither out of bed, standing next to it as you check the e-mail notification that had popped up overnight.

"Oh," At the sound of his voice, you turn to look at Wakatoshi. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, and he's looking at you with a slight frown on his face. "My love..." He gestures down at your side of the bed, and to your horror, you see a streak of red on the otherwise pristine sheets.

Suddenly, the way you're feeling is making a lot more sense. "Oh no," You drop your face in your hands, muffling your words. "That's absolutely disgusting. I'm so sorry." You don't even want to look at him, but at the sound of rustling sheets, you finally drop your hands. Your boyfriend is methodically stripping the bed.

"Why don't you get in the shower? I'll start washing these." He says matter-of-factly. There must be something in your expression, because you see his face soften. "It's alright. It's natural," He assures you.

"But-" You can't put into words how mortified you are. Natural or not, he shouldn't have to see it, much less clean it up. "At least let me do that," You insist finally, reaching for the pile of bedding.

"No," He twists away so that it's out of your reach, "I've got it. Just get in the shower, okay?"

"You shouldn't have to, though," You say more softly.

"I don't have to," He agrees. "I want to help you. Can I do that?"

You bite your lower lip, trying not to let your hormonally-charged emotions win this battle. "Okay," You say finally.

"Okay," He echoes you, dropping the sheets into the laundry basket before crossing the room back to you, gently taking your face in his hands and pressing a kiss to your lips. "I'll make you some tea to have with breakfast," He adds after he pulls away. "Will that help?"

"Yes," You whisper, the I-love-you hidden in his words practically echoing in your head. You can't resist pulling him back in for one more kiss, hoping he feels the I-love-you-too that you press into it.

MIYA ATSUMU

"Atsumu!" You knock on the bathroom door, "Are you soon done?" It's moments like these when you really regret that this apartment has only one bathroom.

"Just got in!" He shouts back above the sound of the running shower. You bite back a sigh. He's famous for his long, hot showers.

"I really have to go!" You call back. "Can't you make it quick?" You're on the verge of pacing back down the hallway, just to help you hold it in.

"The door isn't locked! Can't ya just come in and go?" You freeze. It might be silly, but it's an unspoken milestone that you haven't crossed yet - peeing in front of each other.

"But!" You groan.

"But what? Ya've seen me naked before," You can practically hear his smirk.

"Tsumu," You whine, but in a matter of moments, you open the door anyway. It's gotten to the point where you don't have much choice. With only a moment's hesitation, you put up the toilet lid.

"How was yer day?" Atsumu begins conversationally.

"We're not doing this," You say quickly. "I'm going, and then I'm leaving the bathroom."

You hear him sigh. "Want me to get out and pee too, so we're even?" He asks, completely serious.

"No!" You say quickly. "I'm leaving now." Before he can say anything else, you're closing the door behind you.

About 10 minutes later, Atsumu finds you in the kitchen, towel wrapped around his waist as drips of water slip from his hair. "Guess we're a real couple now," He grins, leaning in and pressing a damp kiss to your lips.

"We weren't before?" You ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"'Parently not. Didn't know it was such a big deal," He says with a smug grin. "How will I ever look at you the same again?"

"Hey!" You swat his bare shoulder indignantly. "It was your idea." You remind him.

"Guess so," He hums. "Know what? I think I still love ya just as much." His smile is softer somehow, despite the teasing glint in his eyes.

"Oh?" You ask, struggling to maintain your haughty expression.

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched into a smile.

From then on, it became a quiet ritual.

At every meal—whether it was takeout sushi on the couch, late-night snacks, or lazy weekend breakfasts—Atsumu somehow knew when you were done. You never said anything. You’d just push your plate a few inches away, and seconds later, his arm would reach out, like a sleepy cat stretching toward a sunbeam.

He never asked. He just did, like it was the most natural thing in the world to finish what you couldn’t. And honestly? You loved it. It was kind of warm. Kind of comfortable. A little unspoken love language all your own.

Sometimes, you liked to leave things on purpose—half a fry, a bit of omelet, the last bite of a sandwich. Not because you couldn’t finish, but because it made you smile when he took them without hesitation. Like there was this tiny thread between you, this unspoken connection built from a thousand small, silly habits.

And now, months later, that thread had only grown stronger.

Tonight, you were curled up on the couch together, a blanket tossed over both of you, the flicker of a movie playing quietly in the background. You handed him the last bite of your ice cream cone without looking—just a silent offer passed between you two.

He took it, of course, with a soft “thanks” leaving his lips.

After he finished, he turned to you and tapped your nose gently with his finger. “Y’know, if you ever actually finish your food one day, I think I’d be heartbroken.“

You snorted, leaning into his side. “Maybe I’m just trying to slowly make you gain weight. Long-term plan.”

He gave you a flat look. “So this is a trap.”

“Obviously.”

Atsumu shook his head with a small laugh, slipping an arm around your shoulders. “Well… too late now. It’s already my favorite part of the meal.”