i need memories

Also regarding my account theme, so sorry it's not aesthetically pleasing (T_T) like the other pretty ones on here. (｡╯︵╰｡) But I hope you can still find everything. I am not creative at all when designing stuff. And this blog is just mainly for me! I want to write/track my writing progress haha so I don't focus much on how everything looks. (I promise I will organize everything soon again)!

Learning how to write/be creative again! Just a fun way for me to practice my writing as someone who is mostly absorbed in academic research and science-based writing! Most of these are pre-written/written for a while in my docs (since my high school-uni days but posting now)!

updates | messages from me.

what's popular | reads that make everyone happy.

by your belt loops. fluff. very suggestive.

his measurement. (soft) smut. nsfw. mature. very suggestive.

what's new | most recent.

oi! pickpocket! fluff.

smoke signals with suna, part 1. fluff.

sundress season. nsfw. mature.

blue lock | paris x gen best friends with benefits.

✎ᝰ includes a complicated relationship with your pxg boys.

(old writing; may edit or add on to in the future!)

blue lock | life with rin.

✎ᝰ includes soft snippets of your life with rin. (p.s. he's needy 70% of the time).

blue lock | life with sae.

✎ᝰ includes soft snippets of your life with sae. (p.s. he's needy 90% of the time).

haikyuu!! | suna rintarou.

✎ᝰ includes all things suna! vibes are cozy, happy, safe... because when you're with suna, he treats you like his world.

haikyuu!! | sugar daddy suna rintarou.

✎ᝰ includes richy rich pro-athlete suna who wants to give you the world.

haikyuu!! | olympic team shenanigans.

✎ᝰ includes a stressed momager, sweet chaos, and protective squad energy with team japan.

haikyuu!! | there are only three women in my life.

✎ᝰ for all the women that make these boys' dreams possible.

(old writing; may edit or add on to in the future!)

multi | for all your favorites.

✎ᝰ includes your lovely boys from haikyuu, blue lock, jujutsu kaisen, and love and deepspace + anyone you want!

sundresses hit different when he can't keep his hands to himself in the grocery store (but you're not exactly complaining).

cw; mature content, smut, fingering. wc; 2.1k

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

a/n; Hello hello! I'm sorryy for slow updates again. busy bee once more... hope everyone is doing great and thank you for reading!! (we are overdue for some freaky cough cough wink wink in honor of spring season here hahah ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝

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The dress was a mistake.

Not because it's not cute—it is. And not because it's inappropriate—it's perfectly modest, sweet even, and makes elderly shop owners smile at you.

It was a mistake because he’s losing his goddamn mind.

He's been half-hard since you left the apartment, since he caught sight of you smoothing the fabric down over your thighs, adjusting the ribbon at the waist. It makes you look soft and untouchable all at once. 

You're ahead of him now, standing on your toes to reach something on a high shelf. The dress rides up just slightly, exposing the backs of your thighs. He stops walking in the middle of the aisle and stares, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do?

"Babe, can you—"

You turn, catching him frozen, and raise an eyebrow.

"Can I what?" His voice comes out rougher than intended.

"Grab that?" You point to the shelf. "The rice crackers."

He moves forward and reaches over your head easily, but instead of stepping back, he stays there, crowding into your space, one hand braced on the shelf above you. You tilt your head back to look at him, and he watches your throat work as you swallow.

"Here." He drops the package into your hands, but doesn't move away.

"Thanks," you whisper, and something in your eyes tells him you know exactly what you're doing to him.

He lets you slip past, but his hand catches your hip briefly, fingers pressing into the soft fabric, into the softer skin beneath.

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The dairy aisle is his downfall.

You're reading the label on a container of Greek yogurt, completely absorbed, and he’s standing behind you trying to remember how to act normal, trying not to think about how the dress clings when you bend slightly or how he can see the outline of your underwear when the light hits just right. 

"Hey."

He blinks. You're looking at him over your shoulder, concern creasing your forehead.

"You okay? You look weird."

"I'm fine."

"What're you staring at?"

"I'm thinking."

"About yogurt?"

"Very deeply about yogurt."

You turn fully, and he's forced to confront how close he's gotten. 

"What's wrong?" you ask quietly, and the genuine care in your voice does something catastrophic to his chest.

"Nothing's wrong." He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingers catching a strand of hair that's fallen across your face. He tucks it behind your ear, lets his hand linger against your jaw. "You just look pretty today."

Your breath hitches, and then—god, help him—you smile. That sweet, utterly oblivious smile that makes his brain short-circuit.

"Oh! Is it the dress?" You do a little spin, completely uninhibited, and the fabric flares out around your thighs. He's going to have a fucking aneurysm. "Yuki and I got matching ones when we went shopping last weekend! She got the pink version, but I liked the cream better, and she said it would look good on me, so we both got one, and I wasn't sure about the length at first because it's a little shorter than what I usually wear, but the lady at the store said—"

You're rambling. You do this when you're excited or nervous, words tumbling out in that animated way that's so fucking cute he can barely stand it. Your hands are gesturing as you talk, eyes bright, completely unaware that he's having very detailed, very filthy thoughts about bunching that dress up around your waist and—

"—and the fabric is so light, which is perfect for this weather, right? I was worried it might be too see-through, but it has a lining, so—babe? Are you listening?"

No. He's thinking about how easy it would be to slide his hands up under that "light fabric." How you'd sound if he pressed you against the shelves and kissed you until you forgot about everything except his name. How fucking perfect you'd look with those innocent eyes all wide and dazed while he—

"Bubs?"

"Yeah." His voice comes out strained. "Listening."

You tilt your head, studying him with that open, trusting expression that's going to be the death of him. "You sure? You look kind of..."

"Kind of what?"

"I don't know. Intense?" you giggle. "It's just a dress. You're acting weird."

Just a dress. Just a dress. Just a dress, his fucking ass. 

You're standing there looking like every fantasy he's ever had. 

"It's a nice dress," he manages, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"Awh, baby!" You beam at him, and then—because you're completely innocent and have no idea what you're doing to him—you lean into his touch. "I'm glad you like it. I almost wore a different one, but—"

Fuck.

He can't take it anymore.

"Come here." He moves, fingers wrapping around your wrist, pulling you to follow him.

"What are you—babe, where are we going?"

He finds what he's looking for, a narrow space between the refrigerated section and the endcap display, hidden from the main aisle. 

It's ridiculous. You’re both in a grocery store, but he can't think about that right now, can't think about anything except getting his hands on you properly and ruining you in the best way possible.

Your back hits the wall gently, and he presses close, one hand planted beside your head.

You're breathless, eyes wide with confusion and something else, something that makes his blood run hot. "We're in public."

"I know." He dips his head, nose brushing your temple. "I know, pretty girl."

The pet name makes you shiver. 

"You’re so crazy," you whisper, but your hands are curling into his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing away.

"No." His lips find your forehead, pressing a kiss there that's too tender for what he's thinking. "You're driving me crazy." His other hand finds your waist, fingers spreading over the fabric, over your ribs. "In that fucking dress."

"Baby, seriously, we're at a grocery store—" Your voice is getting breathier, even as you try to sound rational. "There are people—what if someone sees—and we still need to get the eggs, remember? You literally finished the last ones this morning, and I wanted to make that frittata tomorrow, the one with the—oh—"

He's not listening. He's too busy kissing down the column of your throat, finding that spot just below your ear that makes you melt. Your skin is so soft, tastes faintly of that lotion you use, and he wants to mark you up, wants everyone to know—

"—and we're in the dairy section, this is insane, what if we bump into—"

"Shut up, baby," he mutters against your skin, and you let out a cute moan that goes straight to his cock.

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He's gone.

He’s so gone. 

His hand slides down, over your hip, gathering the fabric of your dress slowly. You're trembling against him, fingers tight in his hair, and he wants to memorize this: the way you look flushed and wanting, the little sounds you're making, the trust in your eyes even as they flicker with nervousness.

"Is this okay?" he asks, palm flat against your thigh now, thumb stroking small circles. "Tell me if it's not."

"It's—" You swallow hard. "Yes. But we're in a—"

"I know." He kisses you again, softer this time. "I've got you. Just be quiet for me."

Your eyes roll slightly at that. His hand moves higher, and your head falls back against the wall, lips parting on a silent oh.

He watches your face as he touches you over your underwear, learning what makes your breath catch, what makes your hips cant forward seeking more. You're so responsive, so perfect, and he has to kiss you again to muffle the sounds you're making.

"Ah, please—"

"Please what, baby?" His fingers slip beneath the fabric, and you keen softly. "Use your words."

"I can't—we can't—" But you're moving against his hand, desperate and needy, and he loves you like this, loves seeing you unravel.

"Yes, we can." His voice is low, commanding in that way that makes you shiver. "You're going to be quiet, and I'm going to make you feel good. Okay?"

You nod frantically, and he rewards you by sliding two fingers inside, slow and careful, watching your face the entire time. You're so wet, so ready, and it takes everything in him not to groan out loud at how you feel.

"Fuck," he breathes against your ear. "You're soaking, baby."

You whimper at his words, hips rolling forward to take his fingers deeper, and the movement is so needy, so fucking perfect that his cock throbs painfully against his shorts. He sets a steady rhythm, curling his fingers just right; you respond immediately, grinding down on his hand, unable to help yourself.

"That's it," he murmurs, his free hand gripping your hip to steady you. "Take what you need."

And you do. Your hips are moving in small, desperate circles, riding his fingers while trying to stay quiet, and the wet sounds are obscene in the quiet corner. He can hear it—the slick slide of his fingers inside you, the way you're dripping down his palm—and it's driving him fucking insane.

Your voice breaks on his name, barely a whisper. "Oh fuck, I—"

"Shh, pretty. I know." His thumb finds your clit, circling with the same maddening patience he uses for everything, and you bite down on your lip so hard he's worried you'll draw blood. "You're being so good for me. So fucking perfect."

You're babbling now, soft little nonsense sounds and broken fragments of his name, your inhibitions melting away as pleasure builds. "Please—I need—please—more—"

He gives you more, adds pressure, keeps the rhythm steady while you grind shamelessly on his hand. His mouth finds your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point before biting down gently, and you keen, the sound muffled only by your hand flying up to cover your mouth.

"That's my girl," he growls against your skin, sucking a mark into the soft flesh just above your collarbone. He'll have to be careful—can't mark you anywhere visible—but fuck, he wants to, wants to cover you in proof that you're his. "Look at you, grinding on my fingers in the middle of a grocery store. So desperate for it."

The filthy words make you clench around him, and he grins against your throat, teeth tugging at your skin again. You're so close. He can feel it in the way you're tightening around his fingers, in the desperate rolls of your hips, in how wet you are—god, everything is so fucking wet, his fingers sliding easily, your arousal coating his palm.

"You're making such a mess, baby," he whispers, and the words are barely out before you're whimpering again, hips stuttering. "Can you hear how wet you are? How good you sound taking my fingers?"

"Ah—mm—I'm—" You can't even finish the sentence, too far gone, and it's the hottest thing he's ever seen.

"I know. I've got you." He increases the pressure slightly, keeps the pace steady, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit with each thrust of his fingers. His teeth find your earlobe, tugging gently. "Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it."

It's the command in his voice combined with one more curl of his fingers that does it. You break, shaking apart in his arms, face buried against his neck to muffle the sounds as you pulse around his fingers. He works you through it, gentle now, kissing your hair and murmuring praise while you ride out the aftershocks, still grinding weakly against his hand.

"So perfect," he says, over and over. "So fucking perfect for me."

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For a moment, neither of you moves. You're still trembling slightly, forehead pressed against his shoulder, breathing hard. That is until reality crashes back: the fluorescent lights, the hum of refrigeration units, the distant sound of a shopping cart squeaking past the aisle. 

"Eggs," he says suddenly.

You blink at him. "What?"

"You wanted eggs. For your frittata." He steps back, adjusting himself discreetly, still painfully hard.

"Oh. Right. Eggs." You sound dazed, and he has to resist the urge to kiss you again. "Yes. Eggs. That's—that's why we came here."

"Among other things," he mutters, and you turn bright red.

The egg section is mercifully close. You grab a carton with shaky hands, barely looking at it, and practically throw it into the basket. "Got them. Okay. Good. Let's go."

"What about the vegetables?" he asks innocently, and you shoot him a look that could melt steel.

"We have lettuce. That's vegetable enough. We're leaving."

"I thought you also wanted—"

"Leaving."

[best friends, blurred lines.]

senior year, final exams, and suna's going pro—everything's changing, but some things stay the same: late-night balcony talks, shotgunning smoke, and all the words you're both too scared to say (ft. lowkey stoner!suna, like super lowkey).

(wc; 3.5k)

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

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a/n; ahh sorry for the slow updates again! I am busy busy as always, but oh to share smoke with suna. he's so pretty. this was supposed to come out on 4/20! Thank you for reading!

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—Flashback; Fourth Year, University, Tokyo—

The apartment is too quiet.

You notice it the moment you step through the door, arms full of groceries and your laptop bag digging into your shoulder. Usually there's something—the low murmur of volleyball highlights, the rhythmic thud of a ball against the wall, Suna's deadpan commentary on whatever he's watching. But tonight, there's only the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic below.

You set everything down on the kitchen counter, frowning slightly. "Rin?"

No answer.

The living room is empty, his jacket thrown over the back of the couch, his keys on the coffee table next to an empty Monster Energy can. You move through the space, noting the little details—his laptop open on the dining table, an unfinished protein shake on the counter, the balcony door cracked open just enough to let in the cool April air.

There.

You can see him through the gap in the curtains, slouched in that old patio chair you'd found on the side of the road during move-in week. His head is tipped back, profile sharp against the city lights, and there's a cigarette balanced between two fingers. Second one, you think. You can tell by the way he's holding it—loose, almost forgotten, letting it smolder between his fingers while he stares at nothing. 

Your heart does something complicated in your chest.

He doesn't smoke often anymore—except for those rare moments when everything gets to be too much. And lately, everything has been a lot. Finals are two weeks away, you're drowning in exams, and Suna's been fielding calls from EJP Raijin's management team about contract negotiations and press obligations and a thousand other things that come with going pro.

You pad quietly to the balcony, sliding the door open just enough to slip through.

He doesn't look over, but you know he hears you. His fingers twitch slightly around the cigarette, and there's the barest quirk at the corner of his mouth.

"Thought you had a late class," he says, voice low and rough around the edges. 

"Got cancelled." You lean against the railing, watching him. "Professor had a family emergency."

"Mm."

The silence stretches, comfortable in the way it only is with him. You've known Suna since freshman year, when you'd been assigned as partners for a psychology project and he'd shown up twenty minutes late with an energy drink and that lazy, unrepentant smirk. Somehow, you'd ended up friends. Somehow, that had turned into late-night convenience store runs and shared playlists and moving in together sophomore year because rent was cheaper and you were both tired of shitty roommates.

"You okay?" you ask softly.

He takes a drag, exhales slowly. The smoke curls up into the night air, dissipating in the dark. "Peachy." 

"Rintarou."

"What?" He finally tips his head forward, meeting your gaze with those half-lidded fox eyes that never fail to make your stomach flip. "I'm fine. Just needed some air."

You give him a look—one that says I know you better than that—and he huffs out something that might be a laugh. 

"Coach called," he admits, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray on the floor beside him. "Wants me in Shizuoka tomorrow for a press conference. Apparently, they're announcing the new roster and they want me there for photos and interviews and—" He waves his free hand vaguely. "—all that bullshit."

"That's good, though, right? Means it's really happening."

"Yeah." His jaw tightens slightly. "It's happening."

There's something in his voice—something uncertain, maybe even a little afraid—and it makes your chest ache. Suna isn't vulnerable. He buries everything under dry humor and carefully constructed indifference, keeps people at arm's length with that smug, lazy exterior, but you've seen the cracks. You've learned how to read the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers drum against his thigh when he's anxious, the tells he doesn't even know he has. 

You move closer, settling yourself on the ground between his legs without asking permission. It's familiar, this—you've sat like this a hundred times before, during movie nights and study sessions and those rare quiet moments when the world feels too big and too small all at once.

His legs bracket your shoulders, warm and solid. You feel him shift slightly, adjusting to accommodate you. His free hand finds your hair, fingers carding through the strands with an ease that makes your eyes flutter closed.

"What time is it?" you ask quietly, fingers playing with the frayed edge of his sweatpants.

"Tomorrow morning."

"Shizuoka," you repeat. It's only a few hours away by train, but it feels significant somehow, like he's already starting to slip away into this new life. "When are you leaving?"

"Early. Like, stupid early." His fingers find a particular knot in your hair and work at it until you wince. "Gotta catch the 5AM train."

"Gross."

"Yeah, well. Komori and Washio are riding with me, so at least I'll have company for the suffering."

"What time will you be back?"

"Evening, probably. Six or seven.” He pauses. "Might bring you back something if you're good." 

"If I'm good?" You twist slightly to look up at him, eyebrow raised. "What am I, five?"

"You want cute souvenirs or not?"

"...I want cute souvenirs… and food."

"That's what I thought."

"And the suit, you gonna wear it?" You tilt your head back more, trying to catch his expression, but you can only see the underside of his jaw from this angle. 

Mama Suna had sent it last week—perfectly tailored, charcoal gray, with a note that said for my son and about fifteen hearts. She'd gushed over the phone about how handsome he'd look, how proud she was, how she was ready to livestream the conference to the entire neighborhood. Suna had pretended to be annoyed, but you'd caught him trying it on in front of the mirror when he thought you weren't looking. 

"The suit makes me look like I'm going to a funeral."

"It makes you look like a professional, silly."

"Gonna look like a try-hard." His fingers find the base of your skull, rubbing small circles that make you want to melt. "And you sound like my mom."

"Your mom has good taste."

"My mom thinks you're too good for me."

It's said casually, carelessly, but something in your chest pulls tight. "She's never said that."

"Didn't have to." 

You feel him shift slightly, one of his hands leaving your hair, and you're about to protest the loss of contact when you catch the movement from the corner of your eye—he's digging into his hoodie pocket. His hand appears a second later, holding a vape pen you didn't realize he'd grabbed. When did he even—? Little shit.

"She gets this look whenever you're over. Like she's mentally planning our wedding." 

Heat crawls up your neck. "Shut up."

"Think it's the same look you get when you think I'm not looking," he teases, playfully tugging on a strand of your hair. 

Your heart stops. "I don't—"

"Relax." He takes a hit from the vape, sweet artificial fruit smell mixing with the lingering tobacco. "I'm fucking with you."

You should change the subject. Make a joke, keep things light.

Instead, you reach back and steal the vape from his hand.

"Hey—"

"That's enough," you remind him, holding it out of reach. Except out of reach is relative when you're sitting between his legs and he's got about a foot of height on you. He doesn't grab for it, just watches you with those half-lidded eyes, mouth curved in something that's not quite a smirk.

"You gonna use it?"

"No."

"Then give it back."

"No."

His hand slides from your hair to your throat, resting there, thumb pressed against your pulse point. Your breath catches. He definitely feels it, feels the way your heart kicks against his palm.

"Give it back," he says again, quieter now, and there's something in his voice that makes your skin prickle with awareness.

You should. You should give it back and stand up and go inside and finish studying and stop letting him touch you like this—

Instead, you bring the vape to your lips.

You've done this before—once, at a party sophomore year, when you'd both been drunk and stupid and someone had passed around a joint. You'd coughed so hard Suna had laughed at you for ten minutes straight. You'd punched his shoulder and he'd caught your wrist and pulled you against his side and you'd stayed there for the rest of the night.

This is different.

This is just the two of you, in the quiet dark of your shared balcony, his hand on your throat and his attention focused entirely on you.

You inhale. Too much. Too much. You immediately feel it burn, feel your lungs protest. You try to hold it like he does, but you can't. You're already—

Suna moves fast. His hand tightens just slightly on your throat, fingers tilting your head back, up, until you're fully looking at him upside down. His face is shadowed but his eyes catch the light from the living room, reflecting amber-yellow.

"Don't waste it," he murmurs. 

He leans down and—

Oh.

His mouth hovers over yours, not quite touching, close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. He inhales, pulling the smoke from your lungs to his, and you're frozen, dizzy, caught between his hand on your throat and his mouth almost-kissing you.

He pulls back just enough to exhale to the side, smoke curling into the night. His thumb strokes along your jaw. "Better."

You can't breathe, can't think. Your heart is trying to break through your ribs.

"Rinnie—"

"Wanna try again?"

This is a bad idea. This is such a bad idea. 

You nod.

His smile is oh so pleased. He takes the vape from your limp fingers, takes a long pull, and he's there again, hand firm on your throat, tilting your head back. This time, when his mouth hovers over yours, you part your lips without being asked.

He blows the smoke into your mouth, slow and steady, and you breathe it in, breathe him in, and you're sharing air, sharing breath, sharing something that feels far too intimate for whatever this is supposed to be.

When he pulls back, you exhale shakily, smoke spilling from your lips. You don't cough this time.

His gaze tracks the movement, heavy-lidded and dark, thumb still pressed against your racing pulse. "Good girl."

The words hit you. Heat floods your face, your chest, lower. You should—you need to—

You giggle. Nervous, breathless, overwhelmed. The sound breaks whatever spell had settled over the balcony, and Suna's expression softens into something almost fond.

"You're such a lightweight," he says. 

"I'm not—! I literally had two hits."

"Two hits that I gave you." His hand finally leaves your throat, returning to your hair. 

"You're such a bad influence."

"Yeah?" There's amusement in his tone, dark and pleased. "You complaining?"

"Maybe I should be." You let your head fall back against his knee, staring up at the underside of the balcony above. "I have exams in two days and you're out here corrupting me."

"You're not gonna fuck up your exams." He sounds certain. Suna always sounds certain when it comes to you, like he has absolute faith in your ability to handle anything. It's unfair, really, when you're fairly sure you're held together by caffeine and denial. 

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually. You've been color-coding your notes for three weeks. You've got flash cards. You've been testing yourself every morning at breakfast."

"You noticed that?" 

His fingers still in your hair. "I notice everything about you."

The words hang in the air between you, heavy with meaning. You should address it, should ask what he means, what this is, what you're doing.

"Like what?" you ask instead, voice smaller than you'd like.

"Like how you mouth the words when you're reading. How you always make enough coffee for both of us even though you know I'll drink it cold at three in the afternoon. How you steal my hoodies and wear them inside out so I won't notice—"

"I do not—"

"—and how from this angle," he continues, tilting your head back slightly with his hand in your hair, "I can see right up your nose."

You sputter. "You're the worst."

"Can confirm. No boogers, so that's good."

"Oh my god! I hate you."

"No, you don't." His fingers resume their gentle path through your hair, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "You're obsessed with me. Admit it."

"I'm going inside."

"No, you're not." His legs press against your sides, bracketing you, securing you. "You're gonna sit here and let me play with your hair and pretend you don't like it."

(He's right. Damn him.)

The silence settles again, comfortable now that the tension's broken. His hand moves from your hair to the back of your neck, thumb rubbing small circles that make you sigh in bliss.

"What about you?" you ask quietly, turning the tables. "You nervous? About tomorrow?"

"No."

"Liar."

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Maybe a little."

"You're gonna be great," you tell him, echoing his earlier certainty. "They're lucky to have you."

"They're paying me an obscene amount of money to hit a ball."

"They're paying you an obscene amount of money because you're worth it—are you scared?" You rush on before he can deflect. "About going pro? About everything changing?"

He's quiet for a long moment, long enough that you think he might not answer, might brush it off with a joke or a non-committal hum.

"Yeah."

The admission surprises you. 

"Of what?" you press gently.

His fingers tighten in your hair. "Fucking it up. Not being good enough. Getting there and realizing I'm just—" He stops. Exhales. "I don't know."

"You won't fuck it up."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually. I know you. You don't half-ass anything. Even when you pretend not to care, you care. You work harder than anyone I know."

"That's not—"

"It's true." You turn your head, pressing your cheek against his leg. "Remember freshman year? When you convinced yourself you were just playing volleyball to pass time? And then you'd stay at the gym until midnight perfecting your blocking technique?"

"That was different."

"How?"

"I wasn't—there wasn't—" He makes a frustrated noise. "The stakes are higher now."

"So you'll work harder. That's what you do."

He's quiet again. His hand slides from your hair to your cheek, thumb brushing your cheekbone in a gesture so tender it makes your chest ache.

"What about you?" he asks.

"What about me?"

"You scared? About graduating? About your fancy marketing job in—where was it again?"

"The offer's in Osaka. But I haven't—" You swallow. "I haven't accepted yet."

His hand stills. "Why not?"

Because of you, you want to say.

Because you've built a life around him, and you don't know how to unmake it, how to pack up three years of memories and inside jokes and late-night conversations on a shitty balcony and just—leave.

Because he's going to be playing for EJP Raijin. In Shizuoka.

"I don't know," you lie.

He doesn't call you on it, just resumes the gentle stroke of his thumb against your cheek. "You should take it. It's a good offer."

"Yeah."

"You'd be good at it. You're good at reading people, figuring out what they want."

"Apparently not that good." The words slip out before you can stop them.

His hand stills again. "Meaning?"

(Meaning you’re a pain-in-the-ass to figure out, Rintarou.)

Abort. Abort. Change the subject.

"Nothing. Just—tired. Stressed. You know." You squeeze his knee, trying to inject levity into your voice. "Ignore me. I'm being dramatic."

"You're never dramatic." He sounds amused. "That's my thing."

"You're not dramatic, you're just—"

"Bitchy?"

"I was gonna say particular."

"That's a nice way of saying bitchy."

You laugh despite yourself and feel some of the tension drain from his posture. He shifts, slouching further in the chair, and his legs bracket you more firmly, knees pressing against your sides. 

"We should go in," you say, making no move to stand. "You have your conference early. I have my exam."

"Five more minutes."

"Rin—"

"Five more minutes," he repeats, and there's something in his voice that makes you stay. Something almost desperate, though he'd never admit it.

So you stay.

You lean back against him and let him play with your hair, let his other hand rest on your shoulder, thumb rubbing absent circles through the fabric. The city sprawls below you, lights glittering like scattered stars, and the night air is cool against your flushed cheeks. 

"I'm gonna miss this," he says quietly.

Your heart clenches. "Miss what?"

"This."

The word is a knife between your ribs. 

"The apartment lease is up in August," you manage. "We could—I mean, if you wanted—"

"I'm gonna be in Shizuoka."

"Right. Yeah. Obviously."

"And you'll be in Osaka."

"Maybe. Probably. If I—yeah."

Silence.

"We'll visit though. It's not that far. Couple hours on the train."

"Yeah." Your voice sounds hollow. "Totally."

His hand slides from your shoulder to your neck, thumb finding your pulse again. It's racing. He knows. He has to know.

"Hey." His voice is soft. "Look at me."

You tip your head back, and this time, it feels intentional. His face is upside down from your perspective, but you can still see the way his eyes have gone dark, intense.

"We're gonna be fine," he says.

"Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know."

"You're my best friend. That doesn't change just because we're in different cities."

"I know," you repeat.

His thumb presses against your pulse. His eyes drop to your mouth. You watch him war with himself, watch something flicker across his expression—want, hesitation, frustration.

"You should go study," he says, and his voice is back to normal.

"Yeah." You scramble to your feet, suddenly graceless. "Yeah, okay."

You're at the balcony door when he speaks again.

"Hey, angel?"

You look back. He's still sprawled in the chair, but he's watching you with that unreadable expression he gets sometimes, the one that makes you think he's seeing right through you.

"Thanks," he says. "For coming out here. For—" He gestures vaguely. "You know."

"Anytime, Rinnie."

His mouth curves. "I'm holding you to that."

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

rin 🖤 [7:23 AM]

leaving for the meeting wearing the fucking suit i look like an asshole

You smile despite your exhaustion, despite the knot of anxiety in your stomach about your exam in an hour.

you [7:24 AM]

the word is professional rin send pic

A minute later, a photo comes through.

Oh.

Oh.

He ditched the blazer. It's just the white button-up now, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, which should be illegal, by the way. His forearms are on full display—tan, corded with muscle, veins running up the inside in a way that makes your mouth go dry. And there, just visible where the fabric's pushed up, is the edge of his tattoo.

His watch catches the bathroom light—that expensive one his parents got him for his birthday. The thin bracelet chain you'd given him as a joke (silver, delicate, absolutely not his style except he never takes it off). His rings glint on his fingers where he's holding the phone.

He looks—

He looks sooo hot, and you're supposed to be focusing on your exam in fifty-two minutes, not having a crisis about your best friend's forearms.

you [7:32 AM]

professional so professional

rin 🖤 [7:32 AM]

?? you already said that

you [7:33 AM]

i know what i said but like can you send another one for good luck??? 🥺 pls

rin 🖤 [7:34 AM]

for good luck you're not slick

you [7:34 AM]

i don't know what you're talking about i just think having a picture of my best friend looking confident will help me feel confident it's science

rin 🖤 [7:35 AM]

that's the dumbest thing you've ever said but bc you said pls

This one's worse. He's smirking now, the bastard, because he knows exactly what he's doing. The angle shows more of the tattoo—black ink curling around his forearm. His rings are more visible. So is the watch. And the bracelet. So are his stupid perfect hands and his stupid perfect forearms and—

you [7:37 AM]

i hate u

rin 🖤 [7:37 AM]

you're blushing rn aren't you?

you [7:38 AM]

no perfectly normal

rin 🖤 [7:39 AM]

shit liar go ace your exam tiger then tell me how good i look when i come home

you [7:39 AM]

you look like an asshole remember?

rin 🖤 [7:39 AM]

yeah a hot one tho

you [7:40 AM]

THE EGO ON YOU i'm blocking your number

rin 🖤 [7:40 AM]

no you're not you've got this. kick ass.

you [12:30 PM]

k. you look hot rin. and ily btw

you [2:35 PM]

don't die

rin 🖤 [5:17 PM]

oh? 😏 ilyt btw home in 45 min <3

you [5:18 PM]

with souvenirs and food?

rin 🖤 [5:18 PM]

this has made my breaks between revising enjoyable and i’m so thankful to have stumbled on these gems

can’t wait to read your other fics and any new ones you make!

Hihi huhyeni!! I am so happy you like them and thank you for reading! Our Sunarin is so beautiful, and I love writing about him hehe, I feel like he's characterized so differently by every person, but I love it. He's a big softie in my eyes though. There shall be more suna coming soon!

I hope revising is going well and good luck with everything!

[a momager and her silly olympic team.]

a simple shopping trip goes awry when you get pickpocketed (or alternatively, two of the most nonchalant men you know suddenly become very "chalant" over saving your wallet. it's romantic... if you squint).

(inspired by that "attenzione, pickpocket" ladyヽ(°〇°)ﾉ).

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

a/n; hii everyone, I hope you like this long one. ohh to be saved by suna and sakusa ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝ it's a silly bonus story to "behind the lights" where you go shopping for the photoshoot but it can be read as it's own story. I'm sorry it's so looonnnggg haha but I had silly crackhead details

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The plan is simple.

You need an outfit for the photoshoot. Maybe a blouse, a skirt. Maybe a dress. Something light, something that photographs well, something that says I am a competent professional who also looks lovely in European sunlight.

Cough cough. Simple.

"I know a place," Iwaizumi says, already walking ahead. "Coach and I found it near the river. Good prices, not tourist-marked-up."

"Of course you already scouted it," you say.

"I scout everything."

"But that's actually really helpful, thank you."

He glances at you sideways. "I know."

Behind you, Sakusa makes a sound that might be acknowledgement or might be disdain for the crowd already forming on the main boulevard. With him, it's genuinely difficult to tell, and you've stopped trying to differentiate.

Suna is eating something—a pain au chocolat he saved from breakfast—and scrolling his phone with one hand. "My sister wants a keychain. And one of those little Eiffel Tower things."

"The tiny ones?" you ask.

"'The tacky little ones that costs two euros and makes Rinrin feel embarrassed to carry to the register.'"

You laugh. "She knows you well."

"Unfortunately." He finishes the pastry and tucks his phone away. "Sakusa, your sister still wants the coat?"

Sakusa's expression doesn't change. "Yes."

"But that one’s, like, eight hundred euros, Kiyo,” you add.

"I'm aware."

"Are you—"

"She's my older sister," Sakusa says.

There are, in the entire world, exactly three people Sakusa Kiyoomi cannot say no to: his sister, Komori, and his sister again. She’s listed twice because she deserves the double entry, she has always been able to get things out of him that no coach, no teammate, no captain has ever managed, and she knows it, and she uses it, and Sakusa accepts this as one of the immovable facts of his life the same way he accepts existence of germs.

Hence the eight hundred euros.

You catch Iwaizumi's eye. He's smiling, actually smiling, not the controlled almost-version he deploys in professional settings. A real one, small and warm. Because it is, genuinely, very cute. Suna Rintarou, the most unbothered man in any room he has ever entered, hunting for the tackiest two-euro keychain in Paris for his sister. Sakusa Kiyoomi, who considers most of the world a mild biohazard, quietly budgeting eight hundred euros for a coat because his older sister asked.

Two of the most blanched, unreadable men you know, completely undone by their sisters without even noticing it.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The Seine is packed.

Every nation, every visitor, every sports journalist and enthusiastic tourist and flag-waving delegation that has descended on Paris for the Games appears to have chosen this exact street on this exact afternoon, and they are all moving in slightly different directions at slightly different speeds with slightly different levels of awareness that other people exist.

You’re walking with three of them, which means you’re cutting through the crowd somewhat efficiently because people take one look at their shoulders and recalculate their trajectory.

"Stay close," Iwaizumi says, without turning around. He's navigating through the less-congested arteries, avoiding the main tourist chokepoints, and finding the moving gaps in the foot traffic.

Suna steps back, so he's just in front of you rather than beside you. His broad shoulders create a kind of moving pocket of space, and without thinking about it, you reach out and grab the hem of his shirt to keep track of him in the crowd. He looks back at you, and something warm crosses his face before it settles back into lazy neutrality. He doesn't say anything, but he slows down a half step more.

Behind you, Sakusa is holding the very end of your sleeve, just the cuff with two fingers. He's decided this is the most efficient solution to the problem of crowds, which for Sakusa means both getting separated and being touched by strangers, two things he finds equally unacceptable. 

"You okay back there?" you ask. 

"Fine," he says. "These people have no spatial awareness."

"It's very crowded."

"That's not an excuse."

"Kiyo—"

"I'm fine," he says, which is Sakusa for please continue checking on me.

You continue through the city.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

It's a particular stretch of road, absolutely rammed with people, where you feel it. 

A small tug. 

It’s something you'd dismiss as the crowd, as someone's bag catching yours, as ordinary contact, had you not felt it linger. An accidental bump is quick, glancing, apologetic in its brevity. This one has intention: a hand that stays a second too long, fingers that don't just brush but pull, a weight that drags. 

You look down.

Your purse is open.

The zipper, which you are certain (okay, not really certain certain because you thought you’d be protected with a group of large men) you closed this morning, is open, and the little interior pocket where you keep your wallet is—

Empty.

Your brain takes approximately two seconds too long to process this.

What.

Suna feels you. You've stopped walking, but you're still holding the hem of his shirt, which means it stretches taut behind him, a small, insistent pull. He turns around in one smooth pivot. Behind you, Sakusa walks into your back, the chain reaction of you stopping without warning rippling through the three of you. He's already drawing breath for something dry and pointed about pedestrian awareness when he sees your expression.

Your face says everything.

"Hey," Suna says, quiet and sharp. "Who touched your bag."

It isn't a question.

"I—I don't—" You look around, disoriented, the crowd suddenly feeling very different, less festive and more closing in. "My wallet is—"

"There,” Sakusa says suddenly.

You turn. He's already looking, his dark eyes fixed on a point somewhere behind the three of you, calm and frighteningly focused. 

A girl, moving quickly but trying not to look like she's moving quickly. A guy next to her, closer to the edge of the crowd, already angling toward a side street.

Your wallet is in her hand.

You see it for just a second before she tries to tuck it away, the flash of the chipped gold clasp catching the light.

"That's—" you start.

Sakusa and Suna exchange a look.

It lasts maybe half a second. Sakusa's eyes flick to Suna's. Suna's flick back. There's an entire conversation in it, a silent one that comes from years of reading each other across a court.

You see them?

Got ‘em.

Left or right?

I'll take left.

Sakusa tilts his head a fraction of an inch, and Suna's mouth curves at one corner. 

They start moving.

Not running, nothing as obvious or excitable as running, but walking with the lazy gait of two men who are over six-foot, and have absolutely nowhere to be except right there. The crowd parts for them without knowing why, or maybe instinct recognizes predators even when the conscious mind doesn't.

It's unfairly hot, the way they move, synchronized without trying, efficient and certain and completely unbothered. You have the distant, slightly hysterical thought that under literally any other circumstance you would have opinions about how attractive competence looks on them.

But you have bigger problems.

Specifically, your wallet is currently being stolen and your two boys on on their way to cause chaos.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You stand there on the pavement, purse clutched to your chest, watching Suna and Sakusa merge into the crowd. 

Iwaizumi appears at your elbow. He'd been ten steps ahead and doubled back the moment the formation broke. His hand finds your arm. "What happened."

"I got pickpocketed," you say. It still sounds unreal.

The look he gives you is flat because he has told you, repeatedly, across multiple international trips, to keep your bag zipped and your wallet secure in crowded tourist areas.

"Don't," you say.

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking it very loudly."

"Because I told you—" He stops and takes a breath, starts again in his Iwa's Patient Voice, which is somehow worse. "Crowded areas. Olympic season. Tourists everywhere. We talked about this."

"I know—"

"Keep your bag close and closed, watch your—"

"I know, Haji—"

"—surroundings, don't get distracted—"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry—" You reach out and curl your hand around his bicep, fingers wrapping around the solid warmth of his arm, and something in your voice must land differently because he stops mid-lecture.

He looks at your hand, then at your face, where a small pout is forming. 

You're not crying, but you're also very aware that you got robbed thirty seconds ago and your wallet is currently in someone else's hands and the adrenaline is starting to catch up in a way that makes your chest feel tight.

His expression softens immediately. The dad-lecture evaporates.

"Hey," he says, quieter. His other hand comes up to cover yours where it's gripping his arm. "Hey. You're okay."

"I know."

"They’re gonna handle it."

"I know." You tighten your grip slightly. He's warm and solid and you need that right now, the steadiness of him, the fact that he came back the second he realized something was wrong.

He needs it too, you think, the reassurance that you're right here, that you're fine, that nothing worse happened.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles once.

"Next time," he says.

"Bag zipped, I know."

"I was going to say yell for me immediately," he corrects. "But yes. Also that."

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Down the street, you can just barely see Suna and Sakusa, two tall figures cutting through the crowd. 

You stand there, watching as Suna pulls his phone out, typing something one-handed, still walking, still watching the pickpockets with that particular Suna expression that is somehow worse than an actual glare because it contains absolutely no emotion at all.

"Did he just—" you say.

Iwaizumi looks at his own phone.

A message appears in the team group chat.

Japan's Finest Disasters™ 🤡💪🏐🏐🏐💯 sunarinnie 🖤 manager got pickpocketed. she's fine but stressed.  by the seine rue de something idk look at maps.  come if you want 📍Rue du Roule

Iwaizumi reads it. He reads it a second time. 

"'Come if you want,'" he says slowly.

Your phone erupts.

The group chat, which had been relatively quiet since Bokuto sent seventeen photos of a pigeon while on his morning run, absolutely detonates.

"Oh no," you say.

"They're coming," Iwaizumi confirms, sighing. "God, they're all fuckin’ coming."

"Can you—"

He's already typing.

bo bear 🦉 🤬🤬🤬 WHERE WHERE ARE YOU WHAT STREET sunshine ☀️ IM RUNNING WAIT WHERE THO RINN-KUN YOUR PIN ISNT WORKING tobi 🥛 press on it dumbass sunshine ☀️ oh bo bear 🦉 SHIT JUST FOLLO ME GUYS toya bean 🎏 absolutely not you can't just run without a destination bo bo bear 🦉 WATCH MEE tsumuuu 🎉 I SHOULDA CAME WITH YALL EXTRA PROTECTION FOR HER sunarinnie 🖤 she'll end up protecting you instead aran superstar 🧋 ^^ you tell him rin 🫵🏾😂 tsumuuu 🎉 yall are so MEAN 😭 waka waka 🏐 I am also running. I know the way. omi o my 😷 You're supposed to be the sensible one waka waka 🏐 Manager's in danger. I'm not sensible when she's in danger. haji 🫶 Suna and sakusa are handling it DON'T come waka waka 🏐 Too late for that, Iwaizumi-san. Sorry. ✋ BTW, Coach is coming too. sunarinnie 🖤 oops

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Suna and Sakusa reach the pickpockets in the way that very large, very calm people reach things: inevitably. The girl and the guy have slowed down because they think they're clear, angling toward a narrow side street, already relaxing into the safety of we got away with it—which means they are completely unprepared when they turn the corner and find two Olympic athletes already standing there.

The guy stops so fast the girl nearly runs into his back.

Suna smiles. It's pleasant, friendly, even. "Hi," he says.

The guy makes a sound that isn't quite words.

Sakusa doesn't smile. He just stands there, masked face angled down at them, and points with one finger, directly at the wallet still clutched in the girl's hand.

Suna holds out his hand, palm up, waiting.

The girl blinks and looks between them, six-foot-four walls of muscle with expressions that say we'll wait. She tucks the wallet behind her back. "I don't know what you want," she tries. "We haven't done anything—"

"The wallet," Suna says.

"I don't have a—"

"You do," Sakusa says. His voice is very flat, very certain.

The guy beside her shifts his weight, considering running. Sakusa's eyes track the movement. The guy immediately stops shifting.

The girl tries again, switching tactics with the kind of desperate confidence that comes from thinking maybe, maybe, this will work. She leans forward slightly, tilts her head, lets her voice go softer. "Look, I think there's been a misunderstanding. Maybe we can talk about this somewhere more... private?"

She looks at Suna, then at Sakusa, when she says it. Her eyes do a thing, an obvious thing.

Suna's smile doesn't change. "Nah," he says easily. "We're taken."

The girl blinks.

"Both of us," Suna clarifies, with a vague gesture between himself and Sakusa that somehow implies they are both, collectively, taken by the same person. (Which is—actually—not entirely inaccurate if you think about it in the specific hey, I’m the team manager, and I take care of my boys kind of way, but that's not the point right now.)

The girl stares at him.

"So," Suna continues, hand still out, "the wallet. Please."

There's a long pause. The girl looks at Suna's face, at Sakusa's eyes above the mask, cold and unimpressed and tracking her every micro-movement, and at her companion beside her, who has clearly already given up and is just waiting for her to do the same.

She gives up.

The wallet appears in Suna's hand.

He turns it over, checks the inside, counts the cards with his thumb, and tucks it into his pocket. "Great," he says. "Thanks."

The guy starts to edge backwards.

Sakusa's gaze slides to him, his eyes shifting, locking on.

The guy freezes.

Sakusa holds the look for three long, silent seconds—which says I have seen your face and I will remember it and if I see you doing this again there will be a different conversation—and then, finally, he looks away.

The guy exhales; he's been holding his breath.

Suna pulls out his phone, types something, still standing before them so they can't leave. He sends it and watches the read receipts tick up.

He doesn't move.

"Can we—" the girl starts.

"In a second," Suna says.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

From somewhere down the street, faintly but growing, a voice echoes off the Parisian buildings.

"PICKPOCKET! PICKPOCKET!"

Suna and Sakusa exchange a look.

"That's our cue," Suna says.

Bokuto rounds the corner, long legs eating up the pavement, still yelling at full volume as if he's calling a play on the court. "PICKPOCKET!"

"Bokuto," you hiss from where you're still standing with Iwaizumi half a block back, hand pressed to your face. "Oh my god—"

"PICKPOCKET!" he yells again, louder, and several tourists turn to clutch their bags.

"PICKPOCKET! HOLD YOUR PURSES, LADIES! PICKPOCKETS ON THE LOOSE!"

"CLUTCH THEM PEARLS CLOSE!"

Behind him: Atsumu, sprinting because he has decided that your stolen wallet is now his personal issue. Hinata, keeping pace, eyes wide and focused. Kageyama, running with grim determination and an expression that suggests he's already planned exactly what he's going to do.

Behind them: Komori, slightly more controlled but still moving. Ushijima, running with a ground-eating stride, who could probably run through a wall if necessary. Aran, sensible enough to not be yelling but fast enough to keep up.

And at the back, somehow keeping pace despite being in his fifties: Coach, red-faced and extremely concerned and already planning the lecture.

"I'm gonna die."

"You're not going to die," Iwaizumi says. He's trying very hard not to laugh; you can tell because his shoulders are shaking.

"Of embarrassment, Haji—they're yelling—"

"I know."

"On the streets—"

"I know."

"Bo said 'clutch them pearls' to the ladies there!"

"I know."

"And he just yelled 'pickpocket' at a—?"

"That was a nun—Haji, he yelled at a nun—Haji, a nun—"

"I saw."

"Oh my god—"

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Bokuto spots Suna and Sakusa first. His face does something complicated—relief, excitement, and the joy of a man who has found his target. He skids to a stop in front of them, chest heaving. "There you are! Did you—" He sees the pickpockets. His eyes go wide. "Is that them?"

"That's them," Suna confirms.

"Did they—"

"We got the wallet back."

"Can I—"

"No."

Atsumu arrives half a second later, takes in the scene—Suna and Sakusa blocking the alley, the two pickpockets looking increasingly solemn, like they've made terrible life choices—and his face does something that resembles a snarl. "Oh, ya gotta be kidding me."

"Miya," Sakusa says. It's a warning.

"These—" Atsumu gestures at the pickpockets with both hands, "—these are the ones who—"

"Yes."

"And you just—"

"We handled it."

"I'm gonna hit them—"

"'Tsumu," Suna says, very calmly, stepping slightly to the left to block him. "No."

"I'm just gonna—"

"No."

Hinata arrives, sees the pickpockets, and his face does something terrifying.

He smiles.

It's sweet, bright. It's a smile that has charmed photographers and fans and talk show hosts across Japan, a smile that made him the face of approximately forty different sponsorship deals.

You know that smile. You know what it means.

He's furious.

"You stole from our manager?"

The girl opens her mouth.

"Don't," Sakusa says.

She closes it.

"Sho-kun," Suna says.

"Yes?" He's still smiling, not looking away from the pickpockets.

"It's handled."

"I know!" Cheerful. Absolutely seething underneath. "I just want to make sure they understand that it's handled. You understand, right?" This last part is directed at the girl, who has gone very pale.

She nods quickly.

"Great!" Hinata beams.

Kageyama arrives half a step behind him, takes one look at Hinata's face, and says, very quietly, "Oh, he's pissed."

"Very pissed," Sakusa confirms.

"Good," Kageyama says, and goes to stand directly beside Hinata, arms crossed, contributing his own brand of silent, judgmental fury to the mix.

The guy shrinks slightly.

Komori slows to a jog, then a walk, assessing the situation with quick efficiency. "Manager-chan’s got her wallet back? No one's hurt?"

"Wallet's here," Suna says, patting his pocket. "No one's hurt."

"Great. Atsumu, step back."

"I'm fine—"

"Step. Back."

Atsumu steps back. Barely.

Ushijima arrives and simply stands there, taking up space, looking down at the pickpockets that suggest he is merely observing but could, if necessary, become a problem. The guy takes one look at him and edges further into the corner.

Aran appears, slightly winded. "We're not hitting anyone."

"I ain't gonna—" Atsumu starts.

"You were absolutely going to."

"I was thinkin' about it—"

"Same thing."

Coach arrives last, already pulling out his phone, presumably to call the police like a responsible adult. He looks at Suna and Sakusa. "You have the wallet?"

"Yes, Coach."

"Is she hurt?"

"No, Coach."

"Good." He turns to the team. "Nobody hit anyone. I'm calling the authorities. Everyone stay calm."

Bokuto, still vibrating with adrenaline, looks at the pickpockets. Back at Suna. Back at the pickpockets. "Can I at least yell at them?"

"No," says Coach.

"Please?"

"No."

"What if I yell quietly—"

"That's not a thing, Bokuto."

"I'll make it a thing—"

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

From down the street, you finally arrive with Iwaizumi, having walked at a normal human pace because someone had to maintain dignity. The wall of volleyball players parts automatically to let you through.

You step into the center of the circle and look at the two pickpockets—the girl who tried to flirt her way out, the guy who looks like he wants to sink into the pavement—and then at your team. Nine men, various states of breathless and indignant, all standing in a protective semicircle.

"Hi," you say.

The effect is immediate.

Nine men who were, seconds ago, various combinations of aggressive, protective, and ready to commit minor violence, collectively melt. Because there you are—standing in the middle of a Parisian side street, completely fine, in one piece, still looking unfairly pretty even after the chaos, even with the slight furrow between your brows and the way you're clutching your bag strap.

"Are you—"

"Did they—"

"We were so worried—"

Suna and Sakusa step in front of you, two broad-shouldered barriers between you and the rest of the team's well-meaning chaos.

"She's fine," Suna says.

"We can see that," Atsumu says, trying to peer around him.

"Then stop crowding," Sakusa adds flatly.

The team stays exactly where they are, which is crowding, but they stop trying to get closer, which you suppose is progress.

Suna turns to face you, and his expression shifts, still lazy, still unbothered, but with something warmer underneath. He holds out your wallet. "Everything's there. I checked."

You take it, fingers brushing his. "Thank you," you say quietly.

He reaches up and ruffles your hair. His hand is warm; his touch is gentle. "You're okay?"

"I'm okay."

Beside him, Sakusa is studying your face, looking for signs of distress, cataloging whether you're actually fine or just saying you are. Whatever he sees must satisfy him because he nods once and—in a move that surprises even you—reaches out and fixes the strand of hair that Suna just messed up, tucking it carefully behind your ear.

Your brain briefly short-circuits.

"Good," Sakusa says simply.

Suna's mouth curves. He looks at Sakusa, at you, and back at the pickpockets, who are still standing there looking extremely uncomfortable. "We're taken, remember?" he says, like he's reminding Sakusa of something.

You blink up at him. "What?"

"Inside joke," Sakusa adds, completely deadpan, looking at you with squinted eyes that means he's enjoying this way too much. "You had to be there."

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The crepe spot is tucked along the Seine, small tables scattered under striped awnings, the kind of place that's been there for decades and will be there for decades more. You squeeze around two tables pushed together while the afternoon light goes gold on the water and the city hums its beautiful chaos around you.

Suna is texting. He's got that particular expression that means he's dealing with his sister—fond and exasperated in equal measure. His fingers move quickly across the screen, then switches to his camera roll and starts scrolling.

A second later, his phone erupts.

Not a text. A voice message, loud enough that half the table turns to look.

"RINTAROU!" His sister's voice comes through, delighted and piercing. "Oh my GOD, you actually got the tacky one—I LOVE IT—it's PERFECT—"

Suna's mouth twitches. He turns the volume down slightly but not before everyone at the table hears.

"—you're the BEST brother, I love you, Rin, when are you comin’ back? I'm wanna put it on my keys RIGHT NOW—MA, LOOK WHAT NI-SAN BOUGHT ME—"

Across the table, Sakusa's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, clicks answer, and his expression is uncharacteristically soft. 

He opens his camera roll, scrolls, selects a photo of the coat—eight hundred euros of beautiful Parisian tailoring, cream-colored and perfect—and sends it.

The response is instantaneous.

"KIYOOMI!"

Sakusa holds the phone slightly away from his ear but you can still hear her, clear and thrilled and loud enough that Komori perks up from two seats away.

"Oh my god, oh my GOD, it's PERFECT—I love it—thank you, thank you—"

Sakusa's expression stays neutral , but something in his eyes goes warm. "You're welcome, nee-san."

"I'm wearing it everywhere—I'm never taking it off—you're the best little brother—"

"I'm your only little brother."

"Still the best!"

Komori is suddenly right there, leaning over the table with his phone out, grinning. "Hey, Sakusa-san!" he calls into Sakusa's phone, hijacking the call with zero shame. "There was also a matching scarf! Really nice, same cream color, cashmere—you want Kiyo to get you that too?"

There's a pause on the other end.

"There's a SCARF?!"

Sakusa's head turns slowly toward Komori. The look he gives him could freeze the Seine. "Don't give her ideas."

"Too late!" Komori sings, pulling back with his phone.

"'TOYA-CHAN, YOU ANGEL, MY PRECIOUS COUSIN—" comes through Sakusa's speaker. "Kiyoomi, the scarf—"

"I heard."

"Please—"

"I just bought you an eight-hundred-euro coat."

"And I'll love you forever for it! But the scarf—"

Sakusa closes his eyes and takes a breath before opening them. "...I'll think about it."

"That's a yes! Thank you, Kiyo, I love you! And I love you, Motoya!"

"I said I'd think about it—"

But she's already hung up. Probably already planning outfits.

Sakusa looks at Komori. Komori grins back, completely shameless.

"You're buying the scarf," Sakusa says flatly.

"What? No. That's for your nee-san—"

"You suggested it. You're buying it."

"I was just helping—"

"Motoya."

Komori's grin gets wider. "Okay, okay. I'll buy her a scarf."

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Iwaizumi's shoulder is warm against yours where you're sitting close at the crowded table. He has a coffee and a crepe with lemon and sugar, and he's been quietly watching the chaos unfold with the expression he gets when he doesn't want you to know he's content.

You know anyway.

"Good day?" he asks quietly.

You look down at the bags tucked carefully at your feet—the pretty blouse you'd come for, flowy and summery and professional all at once, the skirt that matched perfectly, the dress you hadn't planned on but Iwaizumi had tilted his head at when you'd tried it on and said, very simply, "That one too." So you'd gotten it.

You look back up at him. "Yeah," you say. "Good day."

[best friends, blurred lines.]

you've been kissing suna's injuries better for three years, but when you accidentally catch the corner of his mouth, you have a full meltdown.

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

more reads!

a/n; sorryy i've been busy I have disappeared again haha, sorryy, but oh how our sunarin deserves all the love even though he's such a sneaky fox. I miss writing for him! ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝ thank you for reading!!!

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

The first time you kissed Suna Rintarou's injury was three years ago. 

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

It's the Championship Game—Collegiate Nationals, the culmination of four years of blood, sweat, and dreams. You're in the stands with the rest of the student section, screaming yourself hoarse as the team battles it out in the fifth set. Your eyes are locked on a certain player, watching him move across the court with that deceptive laziness that hides how lethal he really is.

The final point is a block. Suna reads the setter perfectly, jumps at the exact right moment, and slams the ball down on the opponent's side with finality.

The arena explodes.

You're jumping, screaming, crying—everyone is. The team wins nationals for the first time in a decade, and you get to witness it happen.

After the medal ceremony, after the photos and the interviews and the chaos, you wait outside the locker room like you always do. The team files out gradually, still high on adrenaline and victory, clapping each other on the back and making plans to celebrate.

Suna emerges last.

He's showered, hair still damp and sticking up in odd directions, wearing his warm-up jacket and a rare, genuine smile. When he sees you, something in his expression softens.

"Hey, angel," he says, and the nickname still makes your stomach flutter even though he's been calling you that for months now.

"Rin!" You launch yourself at him. He catches you easily, always does, and you wrap your arms around his neck. "You did it! National Champions!"

"We did it," he corrects, and his arms tighten around you, face buried in your hair. "Thanks for being here."

"Like I'd miss it." 

You pull back to look at him properly, and your hands find his without thinking. It's just something you do, this habitual reaching for each other, fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces that have always fit. His hands are so much bigger than yours, long fingers wrapping around your smaller ones, and you start to smile at the familiar comfort of it—

Until you feel the wetness.

Your smile falters. You look down at your joined hands and your heart drops.

"Rin, your hands—"

His palms are destroyed. Blood seeps through the tape that's barely holding on, staining the white fabric red. The skin underneath is scraped raw, swollen, split open in places from the force of his blocks. You can see bruising already forming, dark purple spreading across his fingers.

"It's fine—"

But you're already pulling him away from the crowd, gentle despite your horror, refusing to let go of his hand even though it's bleeding. "Fine? Rin, you're bleeding through the tape."

"Doesn't hurt." He's lying. You can tell by the way his fingers tense slightly in yours, the only tell he'll give.

"Come on." You tug him toward a quieter corner near the vending machines, still holding his hand like you can somehow keep him together through touch alone. "Sit."

He sits on the floor without complaint, long legs stretched out, and watches as you finally, reluctantly, release his hand to dig through your bag. You always carry basic first aid supplies to his games; you learned that necessity freshman year when he'd split his lip and tried to spit blood into a towel like that fixes it.

"You don't have to—"

"Hush." You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands again. Your fingers are gentle as you begin to unwrap the tape, but you can't help the way your thumb strokes across his wrist, a soothing gesture. "Let me take care of you."

He goes quiet at that, unnaturally still as you work. The tape pulls away to reveal worse damage than you thought. His fingers are a mess of broken skin and bruising, an injury that's going to hurt like hell tomorrow when the adrenaline wears off.

You're still holding his hand, cradling it in both of yours. "Rin," you say softly, something aching in your chest. "You played so hard."

"Had to win." His voice is rough. "Last chance."

You know what he means. Senior year, final tournament, the end of collegiate volleyball. After this, he'll go pro, already has offers from several Division 1 teams, but it won't be the same. It won't be this team, these people, this chapter of his life.

"Well, you did win," you remind him, trying to smile as you clean the wounds as gently as possible. Your fingers never quite leave his skin, always maintaining that point of contact. "You were amazing."

He makes a dismissive sound, but you can see the pleased curve of his lips. 

You work in silence, applying antiseptic and fresh bandages. Your hands are steady despite the way your heart is racing from his proximity, from the trust in the way he lets you hold him, touch him, care for him.

"There," you say finally, tying off the last bandage. "All better."

Except, it's not all better, is it? He's still hurt. He’s still bleeding under those bandages. He’s still pushed himself to the breaking point for this win.

Without thinking, operating on pure instinct and emotion, you lift his hand—the one you've been holding this entire time because you just couldn't bear to let go—to your lips and press a soft kiss to his wrapped knuckles.

"Okay," you whisper. "Now it's better."

The words hang in the air between you.

Suna has gone completely still, eyes wide in a way you've never seen before. You're suddenly very aware of what you've just done, of the intimacy of the gesture, of the way his hand is still cradled in yours.

"I—" Heat floods your face. "Sorry, I just—it's something I do with my nieces and nephews—"

"Don't apologize." His voice is strange, rough around the edges. His free hand comes up to cup your cheek, and his thumb brushes just under your eye. "It's... it's good. Fine. Good… really good."

You've never heard Suna Rintarou stumble over his words before.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Which brings you to now, three years after that first kiss outside the locker room.

The action is so ingrained at this point that you don't think about it anymore. Suna comes home hurt, you fix him up, you kiss it better. It's just what you do, as natural as breathing.

You definitely don't think about the implications.

Definitely don't notice the way his eyes linger on your lips afterward, or the way his breathing changes when you're close, or the way he seems to find excuses to need your care more and more often.

Definitely don't acknowledge the growing tension between you, the weight of all these unspoken feelings, the way every innocent touch feels charged with something dangerous.

Definitely don't let yourself want more than these stolen moments of intimacy disguised as first aid.

(Definitely lying to yourself about all of it.)

So when he comes home from practice with split palms (again), angry red marks across his fingers from where he'd blocked one too many of Washio’s spikes, you move on autopilot.

"Rin!" you scold, already reaching for his hand. "Come here."

He doesn't argue. He never does, not about this, at least. He follows you to the bathroom, where you keep the first aid kit and sits on the edge of the tub, watching you with those half-lidded eyes that always make your stomach do something complicated.

You clean the cuts carefully, gentle fingers dabbing antiseptic. He doesn't flinch. He's used to pain, has a tolerance built up from years of diving for balls and throwing his body around like it's expendable, but you're not used to seeing him hurt, even in small ways like this.

"You need to be more careful," you murmur, wrapping gauze around the webbing of his fingers.

"Yeah, yeah." His voice is flat, bored almost, but there's something soft in the way he lets you fuss over him.

You tie off the bandage. Then, without thinking, the same way you do with your nieces and nephews when they scrape their knees, the same way you've done with him dozens of times before, you bring his hand to your lips and press a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

"There. All better."

You're already turning away to put the first aid kit back when you catch the look on his face, something arrested, almost stunned, though it smooths over so quickly you might have imagined it.

Except—you've seen that look before. Three years ago, outside a locker room, after a championship game.

Some things never change.

"Thanks, angel," he says, and his voice sounds different. Lower. Rougher around the edges.

You shrug it off. It's just Rin being Rin.

But what you don't see, what you miss because you're already walking back to the living room, is the way he stares at his hand like you've branded him. The way his fingers curl into his palm, holding onto the phantom warmth of your lips.

The way he smiles, small and secret and wanting.

The same way he's been smiling for three years.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

It becomes a thing.

(It's always been a thing, but you're committed to not examining that too closely.)

Suna Rintarou is not a careless player. He's calculated, precise, moves with the kind of lazy efficiency that makes it look easy, but volleyball is a violent sport for all its grace, and he comes home marked by it more often than not.

Blistered palms from too many serves. Bruised ribs from bad falls. Split skin on his fingers from blocks that connect just wrong. Each time, you pull him to the bathroom, and you clean him up.

And each time—muscle memory, instinct, habit, whatever—you kiss it better.

A soft press of your lips to his palm. The inside of his wrist. Once, memorably, his shoulder when he'd landed hard enough to leave a bloom of purple-blue-green across his skin.

You don't think about it. It's just what you do, the same way you breathe or blink or say his name.

But Suna thinks about it.

Oh, does he think about it.

He thinks about it during practice, when Komori asks why he's smiling at nothing. He thinks about it at night, lying in his bed on the other side of the apartment, knowing you're just a wall away. He thinks about it when he wakes up and finds you making coffee in one of his old hoodies, the sleeves too long on your arms.

He thinks about the softness of your lips, the careful way you touch him. He thinks about the little furrow between your brows when you're concentrating, the way you bite your bottom lip when you're worried.

He thinks about all the places he'd like you to kiss.

It's torture, sweet and slow and perfect.

He's addicted to it.

So maybe—maybe—he gets a little less careful at practice. Maybe he goes for blocks he doesn't need to, dives for balls that are already out. Maybe he lets his hands take more hits than necessary.

Komori notices. "You're playing sloppy today, Rinnie-rin."

"Am I?" Suna examines his reddened palms with satisfaction. "Didn't notice."

His teammate gives him a long, knowing look. "Uh huh. This wouldn't have anything to do with your cute little roommate, would it?"

Suna's expression doesn't change, but something sharp flashes in his eyes. "Careful."

"I'm just saying—"

"Don't." The word is flat, edged with warning. "Don't talk about her."

Komori raises his hands in surrender, but he's grinning. "Man, you've got it bad."

Suna doesn't dignify that with a response.

Mostly because it's true.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

Today's practice is brutal.

EJP has an upcoming game against the Adlers, which means everyone's on edge, pushing harder. The gym echoes with the sound of balls hitting the court, bodies hitting the floor, Coach calling out plays in that commanding voice of his.

Suna's in the zone, that flow state where nothing exists except the game. Reading the plays, watching the angles, timing his blocks perfectly. He's always been good at this, the mental chess of volleyball, staying three moves ahead.

Which is why he definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent does not mean to miscalculate the trajectory of Washio's spike.

Definitely does not turn his face at just the wrong angle.

Definitely does not let the ball graze his jaw, right near the corner of his mouth.

"Shit, Suna!" Washio jogs over immediately. "You good?"

Suna probes his jaw with careful fingers, feels the sting of abraded skin. Not bleeding, but it'll bruise. And more importantly, it's in a perfect spot.

He fights down a smile.

"I'm fine," he says, flat as always. "Lost focus for a second."

Komori appears at his elbow, takes one look at his face, and starts laughing. "Oh my god. You did that on purpose."

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"You’re so full of shit—"

"Aren't you supposed to be practicing receives?" Suna cuts him off mildly. "That last one looked a little shaky."

Komori flips him off but jogs back to position, still grinning like he knows all of Suna's secrets.

Maybe he does.

Suna touches his jaw again, feels the tender skin, and thinks about your hands. Your soft, careful hands, and your lips—

Yeah. Komori definitely knows.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

You're chopping vegetables for dinner when you hear the door open.

"Rin? That you?"

"Yeah." His voice sounds normal, that familiar drawl that always makes you smile. "Smells good."

"Stir-fry," you say, not looking up from the cutting board. "How was practice?"

There's a pause. "Fine."

Something in that pause makes you turn around, and—

"Oh my god, Rin!"

There's a scrape along his jaw, red and angry, and you're moving before you can think, abandoning the vegetables to cross to the genkan.

"What happened?" Your hands flutter nervously around his face, not quite touching. "Does it hurt?"

"Took a ball to the face." He shrugs, but you catch the way his eyes track your movements, intent despite his casual tone. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing, you're hurt." You're already pulling him toward the bathroom, fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Come on, sit. Let me clean it."

He follows easily, and you try not to think about how he always does this—follows you, indulges you, lets you take care of him like it's a privilege instead of a chore.

The bathroom is small, too small for two people, but you've done this enough times that you've figured out the choreography. He sits on the edge of the tub, long legs spreading slightly to make room, and you step between them to get close enough.

You're concentrating on dampening a washcloth, adding soap, but you can feel his gaze on you, heavy and heated.

"This might sting," you warn, bringing the cloth to his jaw.

"I can take it, angel."

The nickname makes something flutter in your chest, the same way it always does. He's called you that for years now—even before that first time you kissed his injury, actually—and it still affects you, still makes you feel safe and soft and wanted.

You clean the scrape as gently as possible, hyper-aware of how close you are. He's so much bigger than you like this, sitting down but still somehow taking up all the space. You have to lean in to reach properly, and suddenly, you're surrounded by him: his scent, his warmth, his presence.

"There," you murmur, setting aside the cloth. The scrape is clean now, not bad enough to need a bandage. "All done."

You don’t step back yet. You're still between his legs, close enough to see the different shades of green in his eyes, the way his pupils are dilated.

And then, that ingrained response you've built over three years of this, you lean in and press your lips to his jaw.

Right at the corner of his mouth.

It's barely a kiss, the same soft peck you always give, but the placement is different. Intimate. You can feel the edge of his lips against yours, feel the sharp intake of his breath.

Time stops.

You realize what you've done, where you are, how close you are. Heat floods your face as you jerk back slightly, eyes wide.

"Oh! Sorry, Rin, I didn't mean—I mean—" 

The words tumble out in a rush, your face burning hotter with each syllable. 

"I've just been doing this for years now, habit, so why not continue to kiss—wait, that came out wrong—"

You slap a hand over your mouth, mortified, but the damage is done and your brain won't stop.

"Wait, not that I don’t want to kiss—" 

Your eyes go even wider as you realize what you just said. 

"I mean—ugh!"

You make a frustrated noise, covering your face with both hands now, and your next words come out muffled and pouty. "This is your stupid fault for having your stupid face in the stupid wrong place."

There's silence for a good two minutes. 

Then Suna laughs, actually laughs, a real one, not his usual quiet huff. The sound is warm and genuine and oh so delightful.

"My stupid face," he repeats, and you can hear the grin in his voice. "In the stupid wrong place."

"Shut up," you mumble into your hands, refusing to look at him.

"So let me get this straight." He's definitely enjoying this now, voice lazy with amusement. "You've been kissing my injuries for three years—"

"You know I have, don't be smug about it—"

"—and you're upset because this time you kissed the wrong spot—"

"It wasn't the wrong spot, it was just—close—"

"—except you just admitted you didn't actually mind kissing me—"

"I did not say that!" You peek at him through your fingers, face absolutely flaming.

"Pretty sure you did, angel." He reaches up and gently pulls your hands away from your face, and the smirk on his lips is absolutely insufferable. "Something about 'not that I don't want to kiss'—"

"Stop talking."

"Make me."

It's such a childish quip, delivered in that deadpan way of his, and you're so flustered you can't even think of a comeback. You just stand there between his legs, hands captured in his, face burning, with the cutest pout on your lips. You make another frustrated sound, somewhere between a whine and a huff, and his lips quirk. Not quite a smile, but close.

"You're cute when you're flustered," he says, because apparently, he's decided to just destroy you completely today.

"I'm not—you can't just—" You're sputtering now, and his grin widens.

"Can't just what?" He tugs you slightly closer, voice dropping. "Point out that you've been thinking about kissing me? That you just confessed that you want to?"

"That is not what I said!"

"It's what you meant."

"You're impossible."

"And yet." His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand, and his eyes are dancing with mirth. "Here you are."

Your breath catches. "I—you—"

"In fact," he continues, and now there's a slight smirk playing at his lips again, "I think my jaw still hurts. Might need proper treatment."

"S-so annoying," you finally manage, and you hate how breathless you sound.

"You love it." His eyes are soft despite the teasing. "Don't you?"

And the worst part is—he's right.

You do.

"Give me one more, angel." His voice is softer now, almost vulnerable beneath the playful exterior. He releases one of your hands to tap his cheek. "Right here. Please?"

"I'm not—you know what, never mind."

"Smart choice." His hand comes up to tap his cheek once. The gesture is casual, expectant, like he's owed this.

You stare at him. "Seriously?"

"Seriously." His expression doesn't change, but there's the barest hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "Doctor's orders."

"You're not a doctor."

"Patient's request, then."

"Rin!"

"Angel." He taps his cheek again, patient and waiting. "I'm in pain here."

“Ugh.”

You press a kiss to his cheek just to shut him up, lingering a little longer than necessary. His skin is warm under your lips, and you can feel his smile widen.

"There," you say, pulling back and trying to sound stern despite your burning face. "Better?"

"Much better." His arms come around you, pulling you back in, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck. "You know, I think it still hurts a little—"

"Suna Rintarou—"

He laughs against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. "'M sorry, 'm sorry. Kidding."

You try to pull away, but his hold tightens. Not constraining, just keeping you there. Close.

"Rin," you sigh. "I need to finish dinner."

"In a minute." His breath is warm against your neck. "Just... give me a minute.”

So you do.

At first you stand there awkwardly, arms at your sides, not quite sure what to do with yourself while he holds you. But after a few moments, when it becomes clear he's not letting go anytime soon, you give up.

Your arms come up to rest on his shoulders, hesitant at first, then more certain. You give him a gentle squeeze, and you feel him exhale against your neck, some tension you hadn't even noticed leaving his body.

"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?" you murmur into his hair.

"Not a chance." You can feel his smile against your skin. "You're lucky I like you when you're all pouty and rambling."

"I wasn't rambling—"

"'Wait, that came out wrong,'" he quotes in a terrible impression of your voice, and you swat at his shoulder.

"Stop it!"

"'Not that I don't want to kiss—'"

"Oh my god, I hate you."

"No, you don't." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his expression is unbearably fond. "You love me."

And damn him—he's right again.

You do.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

And later that night, Suna touches his cheek where you kissed him, then the corner of his mouth where you'd gotten so close, and smiles.

Thank you for reading!! and for loving the bois (*´︶`*) this means a lot. I mainly started this tumblr for the sole reason of practicing/improving my writing styles because I am not the strongest at writing (i was always struggling in school haha). I still struggle a lot! but I think some of my crackhead ideas and creativity keeps me going, and I love seeing the story unfold!

Thank you for reading and supporting always! I am here and there, being a busy bee in life haha, but doing well overall ⸜( *ˊᵕˋ* )⸝ I hope you are having a good day/night Moto!!

a momager and her silly olympic team.

why you should never stand near atsumu's serves and how team japan babies you. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

cue the most dramatic apology in volleyball history (inspired by yuji nishida =^ ◡ ^=).

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The gymnasium echoes with the sharp thwack of volleyballs and sneakers squeaking against polished floors. You're crouched beside Hinata on the sidelines, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you work on the disaster of his shoelaces.

"Sho, how do you even do this?" you mutter, unlooping what appears to be some kind of thing masquerading as a knot. 

"Ehehe, sorry!" Hinata grins, that sunshine smile never faltering even as you shake your head. His orange hair is already damp with sweat from warm-ups, and he's practically vibrating with energy. "I was in a hurry and—"

"You're always in a hurry," you say fondly, attempting to get the lace straightened out. 

“—and I threw it in the washer, so the laces probably got fucked—”

"Sho!" You look up at him, and he has the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. "Volleyball shoes are delicate! You can't just throw them in the washer!"

"But they were really dirty from yesterday's practice!" he protests, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, a nervous habit he's never quite broken. "And I thought if I just put them on the gentle cycle—"

"There is no gentle cycle for sports shoes," you say, trying to sound stern, but it comes out too soft. You hold up the mangled lace. "Look at this. The agitator tangled them all up, and the heat probably damaged the material. See how stiff this part is?"

He leans down to look, genuinely curious despite being scolded. "Oh. Ohhh, you're right."

"And the padding inside—" 

You press gently on the insole, and it squelches slightly. 

"—is still damp. You could get blisters, or worse… fungal infections."

"Ew."

"Exactly. Ew."

You cup his face with one hand, thumb brushing over his warm cheek, and he immediately leans into your palm. “Next time they get dirty, just wipe them down with a damp cloth, okay? Maybe use a shoe cleaning solution if they're really bad. No washing machine. Promise?"

"Promise," he says earnestly, brown eyes wide and sincere. He turns his head just slightly and presses a kiss to your palm—except his aim is adorably off, and he ends up kissing more of your fingers than anything else. That irrepressible grin breaks through again. "You're the best manager ever, you know that?"

"Flattery won't untangle these laces faster."

"Worth a try!"

You shake your head, biting back a smile as you return to the knot, still feeling the warm tingle where his lips brushed your hand. "Okay, I'm going to have to completely re-lace these. The knots are too tight to work out."

"Can you make them look cool? Like, with a pattern?"

"Sho, I'm trying to make them functional."

"Functional and cool?"

“Functional, period.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Around you, the practice court is alive; Coach had booked the entire venue for a closed practice session, but somehow word got out (of course), because this is Team Japan's Olympic roster, and now there's a modest crowd of fans pressed against the barriers, phones out, calling encouragement. 

Bokuto's booming laugh carries across the court as he spikes another ball past Sakusa, who looks mildly annoyed behind his mask. "HEY! Did you see that cross-shot, Omi-Omi? That was at least a 10 out of 10!"

"It was a 6," Sakusa replies flatly, already positioning for the next ball. "And don't call me that."

"Aw, c'mon! You're just grumpy because I scored on you three times in a row!" Bokuto does a little victory wiggle, and you can see Sakusa's eye twitch.

"I'm allowing it for your confidence. You need the encouragement."

"Omi! That's so mean!" But Bokuto is grinning because they both know Sakusa's particular brand of affection comes wrapped in blunt honesty.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

On the other side of the court, Ushijima is practicing his serves with precision, each one a controlled missile. He pauses between serves to adjust his grip fractionally, tilting his head as he analyzes his own form. It's almost meditative, the way he approaches it, like he's having a quiet conversation with the ball about the optimal trajectory. 

"Ushiwaka!" Bokuto calls out. "Bet you can't hit the same spot twice!"

Ushijima considers this. "Which spot?"

"Uh—" Bokuto looks around, then points at a water bottle someone left near the endline. "That one!"

Without a word, Ushijima serves. The ball rockets across the court and clips the water bottle, sending it spinning. He serves again. Same result, this time knocking it over completely.

"WHAT!" Bokuto shrieks. "That's not fair! You're a robot! A volleyball robot!"

"Thank you," Ushijima says seriously, completely missing the fact that it wasn't a compliment.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Meanwhile, Kageyama is setting for Suna, the two moving in that effortless rhythm that makes volleyball look like art. Suna barely has to call for the ball—Kageyama just knows where he'll be, when he'll jump, the exact angle of his approach.

"Little higher next time," Suna says casually after spiking one down.

Kageyama's eye twitches. "That was perfect."

"Almost perfect."

"It was perfect, Rintaro."

"If you say so, Your Majesty." Suna's smirking now, lazy and knowing, and you can see Kageyama's competitive instinct flare.

The next set is so precisely calibrated to Suna's request that the ball practically hangs in the air, and Suna's spike is devastating. He lands and gives Kageyama the most subtle nod—acknowledgment and apology and approval all at once.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Near the back, Komori and Aran are running receive drills, and Komori's are... creative.

"Motoya, you don't have to do a full layout for every ball," Aran says, exasperated, as Komori dramatically sprawls across the floor to dig up what was honestly a very manageable receive.

"But it looks cooler this way!" Komori calls from the ground, not even bothering to get up yet.

"We're not being graded on style points!"

"Everything is style points if you believe hard enough." Komori finally rolls to his feet, brushing off his knee pads with a cheeky grin. "Besides, the fans love it." He gestures to the crowd, where indeed several people are taking photos.

Aran pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're impossible."

"You love me."

"I tolerate you."

"Same thing!" Komori bounces on his toes, ready for the next ball. "Okay, okay, hit me with your best shot. I promise I'll—"

Aran sends a spike his way, and true to form, Komori executes a completely unnecessary diving receive with a little spin at the end.

"MOTOYA!"

"What? I got it, didn't I?" Komori's grin is unrepentant as he pops back up. "Perfect receive. You should be thanking me."

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

And Atsumu—

"Oi, sweetheart!" Atsumu's voice rings out, that Kansai drawl thick with amusement as he bounces a ball, setting up for a serve. "Watch this one! Gonna make it so pretty ya'll wanna frame it!"

You glance up just in time to see him toss the ball, that familiar cocky smirk on his face—

The serve goes horribly wrong.

Horribly.

You don't even have time to process it. One second you're threading a lace through Hinata's shoe in a neat criss-cross pattern, and the next—

SMACK.

White-hot pain explodes across the side of your face as the volleyball connects with your cheek. The impact sends you stumbling sideways, stars bursting behind your eyes. Hinata's hands shoot out to steady you, his startled yelp mixing with the collective gasp from the team.

"Oh my god—!"

"SHIT, BABY!"

Atsumu's voice cracks on the last word, pure panic bleeding through.

You blink away the tears automatically springing to your eyes, hand pressed to your stinging cheek, and look up to see: Miya Atsumu launching himself into a full-speed dive across the court.

Not a controlled athletic slide—a genuine, panicked, completely graceless belly-flop that sends him skidding across the polished floor on his stomach. He slides a good ten feet, the squeak of his jersey against the court echoing through the suddenly silent gymnasium, until he comes to a stop right in front of you in the deepest, most desperate dogeza you've ever seen. His forehead is pressed so hard against the floor you're worried he's going to leave an indent, his whole body prostrate, like he's begging the earth itself for forgiveness.

Even the fans have stopped taking photos, mouths open in shock.

"'Tsumu—" you start, torn between laughing and crying, because your face hurts but also he looks absolutely ridiculous and oddly touching and—

"'M so sorry!" His muffled voice comes from where his forehead is literally pressed to the floor. "'M so sorry, ‘m the fuckin’ worst, I—"

"Oh my god, get up," you say, but your voice comes out wobbly. You're not sure if you're about to laugh or cry or both.

Suna has his phone out, recording the entire thing with amusement. "New wallpaper," he deadpans. “This is gold."

"You fucked up, Miya," Kageyama observes with his usual bluntness, earning an elbow from Hinata.

"Not helping, Tobio!"

Bokuto looks at you with a pout and winces sympathetically. "Oof, that's gonna bruise.” 

Atsumu finally lifts his head, and the look on his face is pure devastation. His brown eyes are wide, almost glassy, and he scrambles to his feet with none of his usual grace, practically tripping over himself to reach you.

"Sweetheart, oh my god, princess, I'm—" His hands hover around your face, not quite touching, like he's afraid he'll hurt you more. His Kansai accent is so thick right now you can barely understand him, words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean—I wasn't lookin'—I mean I was, but the ball just—yer face, oh god, yer pretty face—"

"'Tsumu, I'm okay," you try to say, but he's already cupping your cheeks with trembling hands, tilting your face this way and that to inspect the damage.

"Yer not okay, look at ya!" His thumbs brush just below the impact site, feather-light. "It's already turnin' red, I'm such an idiot, I'm so sorry—"

And then he's kissing your cheeks: soft, desperate little pecks scattered across your face like apologies. Your forehead, your nose, your uninjured cheek, the corner of your mouth.

"’M sorry, ‘m sorry, ‘m sorry—" 

Kiss. 

"—so sorry, baby—" 

Kiss. 

"—never gonna forgive myself—" 

Kiss.

For all of Atsumu's swagger and bravado on the court, for all his cocky grins and sharp-tongued banter with the team, this is how he really loves: desperately, completely, with his whole body. He's never been good with the soft words, always stumbling over declarations and getting embarrassed by genuine sentiment. 

But his touch? 

That's where all his tenderness lives. Every kiss a promise, every gentle hold a vow. He shows what he can't always say, pouring everything he feels into these moments—the careful way he cradles your face, the reverent press of his lips against your skin, the way he's literally trembling with the need to make sure you're okay.

He nuzzles against your jaw, and you can feel how tense he is, practically vibrating with guilt and stress.

"Atsumu," you say more firmly, wrapping your fingers around his wrists. "Breathe. I'm fine."

"Yer not fine, I hit ya with a volleyball—"

"It was an accident."

"Doesn't matter!" His voice cracks again. "I hurt ya!"

From behind, you feel warm arms wrap around your shoulders as Hinata drapes himself over your back like a human blanket. "You sure you're okay?" he asks, his voice soft and warm against your ear. 

He tilts his head, and suddenly his face is right next to yours, upside down and grinning that impossible sunshine grin despite the concern in his eyes. "That was a pretty hard hit."

"Sho, you're—" You can't help but laugh, even though it makes your cheek throb, because he looks so silly hanging over you like this, his orange hair flopping everywhere, his face completely upside down. "You look ridiculous."

"But did it make you feel better?" His eyes are sparkling with mischief and warmth, and he nuzzles against your uninjured cheek.

"...Maybe."

"Mission accomplished!" He squeezes you tighter, a proper back-hug now, and sways you both gently side to side. "See, 'Tsumu? She's smiling. She's okay."

You glance over at Atsumu, and your heart clenches. He's still sitting there looking absolutely wrecked—his bottom lip trembling slightly, eyes red-rimmed and glassy like he's two seconds away from actually crying, and his hands hovering uselessly in the air. 

"'Tsumu, stop it," you say, reaching for him and pinching his ear softly. 

He makes a wounded sound in the back of his throat and immediately pulls you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. 

“Don’t get your snot on her hair, ‘Tsumu.” Suna appears on your other side, slouching against you with ease. 

“Go’way, Rinrin,” Atsumu blubbers. 

"Lemme see," Suna says, ignoring him. His fingers ghost over your reddening cheek with surprising gentleness. His touch, something about the intimacy of it—the way he's pressed his face against yours, the warmth of his breath, the surprising tenderness from someone usually so blasé—makes your chest feel tight. It tingles where he touches, half from the bruise and half from the sweetness of the gesture.

"Rin," you breathe.

"What?" He's already nuzzling into your neck shamelessly, but you can feel the small smile against your skin. "Medical assessment."

"That's not—"

A large hand lands on top of your head, and you look up to find Ushijima standing over you. He gives you—one, two, three—slow, deliberate head pats. 

"You should ice it," he says in that deep, measured voice. Another pat. "Head injuries are serious."

"It wasn't a head injury, it was my cheek—"

Pat. Pat. Pat.

"Wakatoshi-kun, I don't think more head contact is the solution here," Suna points out, still draped over your shoulder.

Ushijima's hand pauses. "Ah. You're correct." But he doesn't move it.

"Okay, everyone back up, give her some space!" Komori's voice cuts through the chaos as he jogs over, medical kit already in hand. "Team mom mode activated!"

"I'm fine—"

"Uh-huh, sure." Komori gently but firmly extracts you from the tangles of the team, shooting Atsumu a look that makes the setter step back reluctantly. "Let me actually check. Open your eyes wide for me?"

You comply, and he checks your pupil response with a small flashlight, then carefully prods around the impact site.

"Any dizziness? Nausea? Ringing in your ears?"

"No, no, and no. It just stings."

"Mmm." He pulls out an instant ice pack, cracks it to activate it, and wraps it in a towel before pressing it gently to your cheek. "Hold this. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."

"‘Toya—"

"Doctor's orders. Well, libero's orders, but same thing."

Sakusa has drifted closer, maintaining his usual distance but watching with those sharp eyes. "Maybe Miya should practice his serves away from our manager for the remainder of practice," he observes dryly.

"Omi-kun!" Atsumu looks wounded. "I said I was sorry!"

"Saying sorry doesn't prevent repeat incidents."

"It was an accident!"

"A preventable one."

"Okay, okay, break it up." Iwaizumi's authoritative voice cuts through the bickering as he strides over, clipboard in one hand, whistle around his neck. His athletic trainer credentials give him just enough authority to boss around even this chaotic roster, and he uses it liberally.

You instinctively lean toward him as he approaches, and his free arm comes around your shoulders automatically, pulling you against his solid warmth.

"Let me see," he orders, and you tilt your face up obediently. He examines the mark with a critical eye, jaw tight. "Oof. That's gonna be colorful tomorrow."

"It's fine, Iwa."

His arm tightens around you briefly in reassurance. "Miya!"

Atsumu snaps to attention. "Yes, sir!"

"Fifty penalty serves. Far corner. Away from anyone with a functioning brain."

"Iwa-chan—"

"Iwaizumi-san," he corrects sharply, and Atsumu deflates.

"Yes, Iwaizumi-san," he mumbles, shooting you one more apologetic look before trudging toward the corner. 

You can't help but giggle at the sight, even though it makes your cheek throb. "Don’t go so hard on him."

"Yeah, no. Can't have my manager getting concussed because someone can't aim." His tone is stern, but his hand comes up to cup the back of your head, thumb rubbing small circles at the base of your skull. "You good to keep up with stats, or you need a break?"

The combination of his solid presence and the soothing motion makes you melt a little. "I can work."

"Atta girl." It's said quietly, almost absently, as he scans his clipboard. "Okay, you idiots, back to drills! Everyone opposite end from Miya, please, for the love of—"

"Got it, Iwa-chan!"

"It's Iwaizumi-san!”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The team starts to scatter, but before they can get too far, Bokuto hesitates, golden eyes flicking between you and the court. He's bouncing on his toes, that telltale sign that he wants something but isn't sure if he should ask.

"Bo?" you call out, and his whole face lights up.

"Can I—" He gestures vaguely at you, then at himself, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I mean, everyone else got to check on you, and I just—"

"Get over here," you say, opening your arms, and he's there in an instant.

Bokuto's hugs are all-encompassing, warm and solid and safe. He's careful with your face, tilting his head to nuzzle into your hair instead, and you can feel the tension in his shoulders ease as he holds you. "Scared me," he mumbles into your hair. "That was a really loud smack."

"I'm okay, Bo."

"Promise?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, those owl-like eyes searching your face for any sign of pain.

He grins, then dips down to press the gentlest kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a moment. "Good. Because if you weren't okay, I'd have to fight Tsum-Tsum, and Omi-kun says fighting teammates is 'counterproductive.'" He does air quotes with one hand, the other still holding you close.

"Very counterproductive," you agree, laughing.

A shadow falls over you both, and you look up to find Kageyama standing there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking supremely awkward but determined. His ears are already turning pink.

"Kageyama?" you call softly.

He doesn't say anything—he never really needs to—but he steps closer, and before you can blink, he's leaning down and bonking his forehead against yours. He stays there for a moment, blue eyes serious and searching.

"You're okay?" he asks, voice low.

"I'm okay, Tobio."

Another gentle head bump, this one with the barest hint of a nuzzle, and you can't help but smile because Kageyama's come so far from the awkward, touch-starved setter who used to freeze up at any sign of affection. He's still not great with words, still gets flustered and red-faced, but he's learned—slowly, carefully—that it's okay to show he cares.

He bumps his forehead against yours one more time, softer now, almost playful, and you can see the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

"Good," he mutters.

"My turn." Aran appears besides Kageyama, arms crossed but eyes soft. "Some of us are actually worried, you know."

"You're always worried, Aran," Kageyama points out, but he steps aside.

Aran's affection is quiet, steady. He cups your uninjured cheek in his large palm, thumb brushing just below your eye as he examines the damage himself. "That's gonna hurt tomorrow," he says, voice low and warm. "You need anything, you tell me. Okay?"

"Okay," you whisper, leaning into his touch.

He gives you one more gentle pat on the head before stepping back and nearly crashes into Sakusa, who's been hovering at a careful distance, hands in his pockets.

"Omi?" you ask, surprised. Sakusa's not usually one for physical affection, especially not in public, especially not when he's in practice mode and hasn't showered yet.

He's quiet for a moment, dark eyes assessing. Then, with measured steps, he closes the distance between you. He doesn't touch your face—doesn't need to, you suppose, since everyone else already checked—but his hand comes up to rest on the top of your head, fingers gentle in your hair.

"Miya's an idiot," he says flatly.

"We've established that, Omi-Omi!" Bokuto calls from where Iwaizumi is already herding him toward the court.

Sakusa ignores him, his attention still on you. Then, in a move that surprises everyone—including, it seems, himself—he leans down and presses a quick, soft kiss to the crown of your head. It's over in a second, but the tenderness of it makes your chest ache.

"Don't let him hit you again," Sakusa says, pulling back. There's the barest hint of a smile hidden at the corner of his mouth. "It's unsanitary."

You burst out laughing, and even Sakusa's lips twitch upward before he turns and walks back to the court, pulling his practice mask back up.

"Did Omi-kun just—" Bokuto's voice carries across the gym, delighted and incredulous.

“Oh my god! That was s’cute!” 

"Bokuto! Drills!"

"Going, Iwa-chan! But did you see that!"

Iwaizumi looks like he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment, but his hand is still warm on your shoulder, grounding and steady.

You settle back against his side, ice pack held to your cheek, and watch your team across the court. Hinata and Bokuto are already bickering about spike approaches. Suna has his phone out again, showing the screen to Kageyama, probably uploading that video of Atsumu's slide to every social he has. Ushijima is back to his meditative serving practice. Sakusa is pointedly not looking in your direction, but you catch him glancing over every so often. Komori and Aran are back to their drills, though Komori adds an extra little flourish to his next receive and shoots you a wink.

From the corner, Atsumu catches your eye and mouths another apology, looking so genuinely distraught that you blow him a kiss.

The smile that breaks across his face is blinding, and his next serve actually goes where it's supposed to.

"Stop acknowledging the guy who gave you a contusion," Iwaizumi mutters.

"It's barely a bruise!"

"Uh-huh. Ice. Twenty minutes. Timer starts now."

You sigh but comply, holding the ice pack to your cheek as the practice resumes around you. The fans are definitely getting their money's worth today—Olympic-level volleyball and drama.

You wouldn't have it any other way. 

<3

No promises on anything soon but trying my best for sure (and I really wanna practice my writing anyway!)

for all the women that make these boys' dreams possible.

(old writing; may edit or add on to in the future!)

only three women with oikawa. fluff.

જ⁀🏐✈️🇦🇷oikawa flies you out to his game in argentina and shows you off.

two women and a plus one with miya a. fluff.

જ⁀🏐💛🎉atsumu begs you to come to his game because you're his best girl.

two women and someone i should've eaten in the womb with miya o. fluff.

includes a complicated relationship with your pxg boys.

(old writing; may edit or add on to in the future!)

in public with karasu. fluff. slight nsfw. very suggestive.

ᯓ⚽🥅💜grocery shopping takes a heated turn with karasu.

car trouble with rin. smut. nsfw. mature.

ᯓ⚽🥅💙when you're sitting on rin's lap.

needy with shidou. fluff. slight nsfw. very suggestive.

just because. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when he buys you flowers. no reason... just because.

♡ For all your boys who get you ‘just because’ flowers.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

ʚଓ ˚˖𓍢🌷✧˚.🎀⋆ ʚଓ

You don’t expect anything when you come home. Just the usual quiet—his shoes kicked off by the genkan, the TV murmuring some rerun in the background, maybe the faint smell of takeout if he didn’t feel like cooking.

But today?

There’s a bouquet on the dining table.

It’s pretty—so pretty—roses and ranunculus and tulips, dusty pinks and creams, little sprigs of baby’s breath nestled between, wrapped in warm brown paper tied with a velvet ribbon.

Your breath catches as you drift toward them, fingers brushing over the delicate edges of the petals.

“Who…?”

But you already know.

Before you can even pick up the little tag tucked between the stems, you feel him—arms winding around your waist from behind. Long fingers splay low on your stomach, just above the hem of your blouse, warm as he rubs slow, absent circles. He’s been waiting all day just for this.

“You like ‘em?” 

His voice is a low murmur against your neck as he dips his head and brushes his lips there. It’s barely a kiss, more like a warm sigh grazing your skin.

“The lady said they’re in season or something,” he adds. His fingers drag slightly lower, just to tease. “Didn’t really care. Just thought they’d look pretty in your hands.”

Everything blurs into static. Your lips part, but your thoughts are scrambling, tripping over themselves trying to form something coherent.

“For… me?” you finally manage, voice small and slightly choked, like your brain hasn't caught up with your mouth yet.

“No, for the other girl I keep in my room,” he deadpans. 

You try to wriggle away and playfully elbow him, but he only snorts into your shoulder, holding you tighter. 

“I’m kidding,” he says, and this time, it is a kiss, lingering just beneath your ear. “Yeah. For you, dumbass.”

You glance down at the bouquet still cradled in your hands, the ribbon, the careful wrapping, the quiet tenderness behind the choice of colors, the unspoken feelings pressed between every petal.

“But why?”

He shrugs, the faint movement against your back. “Dunno. Just ‘cause.”

Your fingers tighten around the bouquet. “You never buy flowers.”

He scoffs. “I do. Just when you least expect it.”

And before you can roll your eyes or argue back, his hands shift. One curls gently around your waist, the other coming up to your shoulder as he turns you in his arms until you’re facing him.

The bouquet ends up pressed lightly against his chest between you as he peers down at you with that look he always wears when he’s up to something.

“Like…” His voice dips, gaze flicking down to your lips just for a second. “Now.”

Flick.

You flinch when his fingers snap gently against your forehead.

“Ow,” you murmur, blinking up at him, mouth parted in a soft pout.

His lips twitch. “That’s for thinking I don’t do nice things for you.”

“You don’t.”

He gives you a long look, equal parts flat and unamused, but there’s a flicker of something smug underneath—something knowing, something fond.

He reaches down and squishes both your cheeks between his hands, fingers pressing in just enough to make your lips pucker.

You yelp softly, bouquet wobbling in your grasp. “S’nuh—!”

“Just say thank you, baby,” he drawls, voice a lazy purr as he leans in closer, nose practically brushing yours. “Literally so easy. C’mon. I did the whole thoughtful-boyfriend thing and everything.”

“Nuh my boyfwen,” you mumble through smushed cheeks. 

“Sure I’m not,” he murmurs, eyes flickering down to your mouth. 

He kisses you.

A kiss that makes your knees buckle. It isn’t sweet or shy or tentative; it’s sloppy and wet and filthy, teasing in the best ways as his mouth moves against yours. Because he’s got something to prove, because he likes kissing you when you can’t even kiss him back properly. 

You try to pull away—mostly out of surprise, definitely not because you want it to stop—but he doesn’t let you. One hand still cradles your cheeks, holding your face in place, while the other slides around your waist again, dragging you closer.

“You gonna say thank you now?” he mumbles into your mouth between kisses, the curve of his grin brushing against your lips. “Or do I have to keep convincing you?”

You breathe in shakily, lips still tingling, cheeks burning, hands trembling just a little around the bouquet still squished between your chests. He’s so close. You can smell his shampoo, feel the heat of his body, the weight of his gaze on your mouth.

And you cave. Of course you do.

“...Thank you,” you whisper. 

That smug grin of his softens immediately. He lets go of your cheeks, finally, and smooths his palms along your sides instead, grounding you there in that pocket of space only the two of you ever really occupy.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. Gentle. Tender. Lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

You stare down at the bouquet between you, at the soft blush-pink petals and the tag you never even read, because you were too busy melting.

For my girl. —just because you are.

You swallow hard. The words rise before you can stop them:

“I love you.”

And he’s already replying—no hesitation, no teasing:

“I love you more.”

It’s cheesy. It’s stupid. It’s so soft. 

And it’s yours. 

── ♡ Bonus ♡ ──

“Technically, though, they’re my flowers. Because I picked ‘em. So. I get partial credit.”

“You barely even know what a ranunculus is.”

“Yeah, but I know what you look like when you smile,” he murmurs. “So I picked the ones that felt like that.”

“...Oh.”

“That was good, huh?”

You twist around in his arms to glare up at him, face burning. “You rehearsed that.”

“Maybe.”

“You absolutely rehearsed that.”

He shrugs again, unabashed. “So what. It worked, didn’t it?”

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

lipstick on his visor with suna. fluff. suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

suna coming home late from practice + you coming home late from a girls' night = both meet on the road... coincidence? i think not! (ft. biker!suna).

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

The city is humming beneath you, glittering with nightlife and a kind of recklessness that only happens after midnight. You're tucked into the backseat of your friend’s car, head leaned against the window, heart a little light, mind a little blurry with the warmth of drinks and laughter. Neon signs flicker past; tail lights stretch in streaks of red.

You’d texted Suna a few hours ago—

You [9:02PM]

getting home a bit late, don’t wait up 

Rin [9:36PM]

me too. practice’s running long 

You figured that would be it for the night—a quiet check-in, like always. But somewhere between your second drink and your third karaoke ballad, the alcohol started settling warm in your chest and your thumb hovered a little too long over his name.

You [10:12PM]

hiiii rinnieeee i miss you 🥺💗 ilyyyyyy mwah mwah 💋

You [10:16PM]

ur so good at volleyball btw

You [10:23PM]

like SO good like stupid good like ur arms?? hellooo

You [10:25PM]

love you sm. don’t die ok 😵‍💫🫶

Rin [10:31PM]

wtf is in your drink

You [10:33PM]

PEACH 👏 SOJU 👏 AND 👏 PASSION 👏 FRUIT 👏 also maybe sum wine idk why u ask <3 u miss me??? 💋💋😘😘🥰🤩😽🫦

Rin [10:34PM]

nah just wondering what turned you into a monster 

You [10:35PM]

u think my emojis are cute just say it 🙄 also u didn’t deny u miss meee i bet u do miss my face and my laugh and my hair mostly my face right

You [10:38PM]

o am i bein ignored 🥺 i miss youuuuuu  i miss youuu 

Rin [10:40PM]

you’re so drunk it’s stupid but yeah i miss your loser ass face

You

o u cute okay bye forever

Rin

be safe idiot

Rin [10:43PM]

also my arms aren’t even the best part

You [10:45PM]

RINTARO 😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳😳 what’s the best part then HUH??? tell me tough guy

Rin [10:47PM]

wouldn’t you like to know <3

You

yes pls pic pls  pic pls pls 

Rin

lmao you’re so gonna regret this later 

You [10:55PM]

ily

Rin [10:56PM]

ily 

You [11:05PM]

pic?

It’s past eleven now, and your buzz is soft around the edges—less sparkles, more static. Your head tips back against the seat as the bass from the speakers thump against your ribs. You’re staring at the passing blur outside the window, streetlights flickering gold across your rosy cheeks, when your phone buzzes again.

Rin [11:22PM]

leaving the gym now

You 

ride safe pls i’m on the road too

You watch the message deliver, a little “read” receipt showing up almost immediately. There’s no reply yet, but you imagine him seeing it—thumbs scrolling, helmet under one arm, hair messy in that way that makes your fingers itch to fix it.

The thought makes your heart flutter and settle all at once. 

Your phone screen goes dark. You lean your cheek against the window, sighing. The night feels quiet now, more intimate, where it’s just you and him on parallel paths, both drifting through the city, heading home to the same place.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

Out of the corner of your eye, you see something shift.

Your gaze catches on the glint of metal and the sleek roll of tires slicing through the lane beside you. A motorbike is weaving between the cars, confidently cutting a smooth path to the front of the traffic. As the bike glides closer, you see the faint gold shimmer of an EJP Raijin hoodie stretched across the rider’s back. A duffle bag is strapped cross-body, resting on the back seat. The rider dips slightly as he leans past your lane, weaving ahead again toward the front of the pack.

You squint. 

Oh. 

You know that silhouette. You’d know it anywhere.

That lazy kind of lean. That broadness in the back. The way he tilts his head slightly when he checks his mirrors.

That’s him.

“Rin,” you whisper, pressing your palm flat to the window. “Oh my god.”

“Girl, is he coming home from practice too? That’s so cute. You guys timed it.”

You’re blinking fast, heart pounding way harder than it should. The traffic light turns yellow, and Suna slows, your car coming to a stop behind him. 

“Babe, go say hi,” your friend giggles, nudging your arm.

“I—I can’t just—”

“Yes. Yes, you can—!”

“The light here is long anyway.”

“Go, go! Before it changes.”

“You wasted, like, two minutes already, girl.”

“Wait—guys—!” You start to protest, but someone’s already opening the door for you, pushing you out into the night air, laughter trailing behind you. 

“Do it for the plot!” they shriek, already filming.

And so, half-tipsy and full of impulse, you stumble out and jog up toward the familiar shape of him, your heels clicking on the pavement.

He doesn’t see you yet—too focused on the light, or maybe just zoned out. Typical Suna. 

But when both hands wrap around his biceps, fingers sinking into the thick muscle under his hoodie sleeves, you squeeze, breath hitching at the feel of him, warm and solid beneath your palms.

He jolts slightly and looks up. 

And in one bold motion, you rise onto your toes, tilt his helmet just enough—

And kiss the lower corner of his visor.

It’s quick, but it lingers. A soft, glossy, red imprint right where his cheekbone would be, a little stain of color catching the city light.

You lean back, heart racing. “...Hi,” you say, breathless, voice small and so flustered.

He tilts his head slowly to the side, watching you from behind the dark tint, still and quiet, before gloved fingers tug the visor up an inch. “You’re feelin’ really fuckin’ bold tonight.” His voice is low, flat as ever, but there’s a curl of something rougher under it, a little dark with interest.

“Mhm, think it’s the alcohol,” you murmur as you lean up, arms rising to wrap around his neck. 

“This a dare?”

“No... just missed you.”

He shifts his weight and loops both arms around your waist, pulling you in until you're flush against him, soft fabric of your minidress pressing against his knees where he’s straddling the bike. One hand settles heavy on your lower back as the other drifts lower, gripping your hips. 

“Damn,” he mutters, voice brushing across your temple. “Must’ve really missed me.”

You hum a noise into his neck, soft and slurred, nose brushing under his jaw. “I did… you saw my texts.”

Suna snorts. “Yeah… you regretting them now?”

You pull back slightly, arms still looped around his neck, hands resting over the edge of his hoodie. And you look him dead in the eye.

Sober-as-you’ve-ever-been.

“…No.”

You don’t budge.

“I meant every word,” you continue. “You are so good at volleyball. And I did want a picture of your arms. Thirst trap optional. Shirt off preferred.”

Suna laughs. Chokes on it, really. The sound comes out disbelieving, half a groan, head tipping forward until his helmet bumps lightly against your head.

“You’re insane,” he rasps. 

“Send the pic, Rinnie.”

“I’m blocking you.”

“You won’t.”

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

It’s been a few minutes now, maybe more—long enough that traffic’s reset around you, horns blipping somewhere in the background. The light above is about to flicker, signaling the shift.

Suna sighs, glancing up at it with that lazy, tired look in his eyes. His gloved hands slide down your sides again. One of them tugs gently at your dress, smoothing it back down over your thighs with care, knuckles brushing your skin as he adjusts the hem.

“Lights about to change. Get back in the car.”

You shake your head into his neck. “No.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Anyone told you you’re clingy drunk?”

“You just smell good,” you mumble.

Suna pats your hip again—once, then twice, a little firmer this time. “That’s not an excuse to catch a ride without a helmet.”

You look up at him, brows knit slightly, eyes soft. “But I wanna ride with you. Just this once?”

“No, angel.” He leans forward slightly, visor brushing your hair. “I don’t have your helmet. Can’t risk it.”

“But—”

Suna’s thumb strokes your hip. “Car’s safer.”

Your lip wobbles; you’re not crying—just tipsy and soft and filled with too much affection.

He sees it, feels it. And so he dips his head, helmet knocking you gently, voice barely audible over the idle hum of his engine. “I’ll see you back home, yeah?”

You hesitate. But slowly, reluctantly, you nod. 

He lifts a hand to snap his visor back down. “Be good,” he says. 

And before the green light can steal him away, you lean in one last time.

Both hands curl against the front of his hoodie as you rise onto your toes and press your lips, slow and sweet, to the side of his visor—another kiss just below the first, leaving a second mark on the reflective surface. 

And maybe it’s the night. Or the streetlight glow catching the curve of your cheek. Or the way your voice goes quiet when you say—

“See you at home.”

a momager and her silly olympic team.

behind the lights. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

team japan's photoshoot for the billboards is run by one person and one person only... you! (or alternatively, your boys can't get dressed, so you do it for them).

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The shoot is in two hours. And you’re already losing your mind.

The studio’s a pristine white cavern in the heart of Paris, massive LED panels glaring from every direction. Makeup artists are frantically dusting translucent powder over sharp cheekbones, stylists are running around with backup jerseys, and twenty photographers are arguing over lighting angles for the Olympic billboards.

And your boys? Team Japan’s golden boys?

Absolutely no thoughts. 

Head empty. 

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

“Sakusa, you are not allowed to use your lint roller as a weapon.”

“It’s disgusting here, and Atsumu touched me.”

“EXCUSE YOU—!”

You cut in before it can escalate. 

“Nope. Not doing this today.” You hold out your hand, palm up. “Lint roller. Now.”

Sakusa stares at you, clutching the sleek black handle. “You don’t understand,” he says seriously, eyes locked on yours. “There was glitter on his sleeve. Glitter. I’m not taking risks.”

“Kiyo. I’m not taking it away.”

“…You’re not?”

You step closer. “I’m gonna help you, silly. Like… on your jersey.”

His grip loosens just a little.

“…Don’t miss the seams.”

“I would never.”

You step behind him and start gently rolling down the back of his jersey—slow, methodical swipes over fabric that’s already wrinkle-free but still somehow not clean enough for the Sakusa Standard. He’s stiff at first, arms locked at his sides until you playfully tug on his ear. 

“Relax.”

“Feels weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“...That’s valid.”

You smile to yourself, then smooth the roller along his shoulder seam one last time before stepping around to face him.

“Alright,” you say, glancing at his head. “Time for hair duty.”

“No one touches my hair.”

You point to the mirror behind him. “It’s puffed in the back. Can’t have your fans thinking you slept on a volleyball.”

He sighs. “Komori usually handles that.”

You nod. “I know. So… do you want me to get him?”

You’re already turning, expecting him to say yes—of course he’s going to say yes. It’s his cousin, the only one ever allowed to invade his perfectly measured personal space.

But then—

“…You can do it.”

You freeze.

“…What?”

“I said you can do it,” he repeats, not looking at you. “If—if you washed your hands.”

You turn back slowly, eyebrows raised, mouth twitching.

“I did.”

“Twice?”

“Would I ever come near you with unwashed hands?”

He eyes you suspiciously, then finally nods. “Okay. But be gentle.”

You stifle your grin, grabbing a small brush and stepping into his space again. He doesn’t flinch, not exactly, but his shoulders do rise a little as you ease your fingers into his curls, carefully fluffing and shaping the back of his head where it’s flattened.

His hair is soft. Surprisingly so. You work carefully, letting the brush glide lightly, your fingertips doing most of the work, mindful of how close you are now.

“…You’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice low.

“Yeah?” you smile.

He nods slightly. “Komori’s still better. But… this isn’t bad.”

Your heart does a stupid little flip, but you keep your tone dry. “I’ll take that as the highest compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“It is,” he says flatly.

You laugh softly and fix one last curl before stepping back.

“Done. You’re officially photo-proof.”

He glances at his reflection, nods once, and grabs his water bottle like none of this was significant, but his ears are a little pink.

And he doesn’t re-fluff anything himself. 

Which is how you know it mattered.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The next time you find Atsumu, he’s exactly where you don’t want him to be—leaning against the edge of the snack table, flashing his most charming grin at a cluster of photography interns.

“D’ya’ll know I won Best Server in college four years straight?” he says, rolling a grape between his fingers. “And I’ve been voted best legs on the Olympic team three times. Sunarin made the poll, but still counts—”

“‘Tsumu,” you call, already moving toward him.

“Oh! By the way! Can ya change the gel they use on set for me, babe?”

“Atsumu.”

“Awful. Too crunchy. You should feel it—”

“Miya Atsumu.”

He glances over his shoulder, sees your face and goes pale but tries to smile again.

“Ah. Manager-chan. Fancy seein’ you here,” he says, casually putting down the grape. “Did ya need me for somethin’? Or were ya just jealous I was flirtin’ with someone else—”

You grab him by the arm mid-sentence and start dragging.

“WHOA! Okay, okay—!”

You give the interns a polite smile with zero remorse because you’re about to tear Atsumu into shreds. 

“Just for the record,” you say sweetly, “Atsumu didn’t actually go to college. He got recruited straight out of high school by MSBY.”

Atsumu chokes. “Hey—!”

“And benchwarmed for a solid two years,” you add brightly.

“I STARTED BY CHOICE,” Atsumu huffs, heels dragging against the floor as you haul him away. “I was bein’ humble!”

“And best legs? Actually goes to Hinata. Just look at them later when you guys take his photos!”

“SWEETHEART—!”

“You’re welcome!” you call back, waving at the interns.

When you and Atsumu finally reach an open mirror, he slumps onto the stool in front of it, pouting in that kind of adorable and insufferable way. His reflection stares back—cheeks flushed, hair wild from ego, a few strands stubbornly curling out.

“Yer so mean t’me,” he whines.

You step up behind him with a sigh, hands settling on the top of the chair before they drop down to pinch both his cheeks firmly. “Yeah? Well someone’s gotta keep you in line.”

He lets out a muffled, “OW,” his words all smushed from your fingers pulling at his face.

“You think I like chasing you around the studio?” you mutter, gently squishing his cheeks together until his lips pucker. “Fixing your hair, dragging you away from interns, talking you out of trying to pose shirtless again—?”

“I wasn’t gonna pose shirtless this time,” he manages, voice all warped.

You release him with a soft clap to his cheeks, watching them jiggle slightly on the rebound. “You absolutely were.”

He pouts harder, rubbing his cheeks. “Baby! I wasn’t—!”

“Sure, sure,” you laugh, stepping around to grab the comb. “Stop talking now. I need to fix your hair.”

“But I—”

You lean down and gently nudge his chin forward, hand under it. “Mouth closed, Miya.”

He huffs loudly, dramatically; but he shuts up. 

You part his hair with your fingers first, combing carefully through the strands. It's coarser than it used to be—years of bleach and heat and styling have taken their toll. He jokes about it sometimes, but now, under the harsh vanity lights, you can see the breakage near the ends, the patches that don’t lay flat no matter how you smooth them down.

Still, you try your best.

Your fingers are patient, gentle. The comb glides where it can, and where it snags, you ease through it with care, never tugging too hard. You spritz a little hydration mist near the nape of his neck, pat it in, and start brushing again.

Atsumu sighs under your touch, slumping forward slightly in the chair.

“Am I hurting you, ‘Tsum?”

He shakes his head. “Nah… just feels nice.”

You glance at him in the mirror. His lashes are lower now, eyes half-lidded, melting under the rhythm of your fingers.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” you tease.

“Can’t help it. Yer hands’re so soft,” he murmurs. “Like I’m gettin’ hair therapy.”

“You need hair rescue, ‘Tsumu.”

“...And a kiss from you.”

Your hand stills in his hair. Without a word, you slide your fingers deeper into the strands near his crown, and gently tug his head back until he’s tilted up to look at you.

His eyes widen slightly, lips parting and chest rising. “Mmmph,” he groans, low and pleased, the stretch of his neck and the pull on his scalp hitting a nerve he wasn’t expecting.

You arch one brow at him. “Don’t try me.”

Atsumu stares up at you, flushed and entirely too smug now, even with his head still cradled in your hand. “…Kinda wanna.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The intern hovering by Suna’s chair is really trying.

She’s sweet with fluttery energy, brushing imaginary lint from his shoulder and giggling at something he didn’t say. Her voice is high and bright as she compliments him. 

But Suna?

Suna’s just sitting there, slouched in the makeup chair, scrolling through his phone with one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh, giving absolutely nothing.

Every so often, he lets out a “hm” or a “right,” but you know that face. That’s the get me out of here face.

You step in.

“Sorry to interrupt,” you smile, voice sweet as sugar as you gently slide between them, placing yourself in front of Suna. “This one just gets a little grumpy before shoots. Needs some extra coaxing or he’ll bite.”

“Oh! I was just—” the intern laughs awkwardly, flustered but polite. “I was just fixing his—”

“I know,” you say warmly, already reaching for the edge of Suna’s collar. “And he appreciates it. He’s just… not the best at showing it.”

She smiles, a little unsure, but you soften it with a quiet, sincere “Thanks for looking out for him,” and she relaxes, nodding before slipping away.

As soon as she’s out of earshot, you flick Suna’s cheek lightly and murmur, “Hey. Give her something.”

“I was giving her something.”

“You gave her nothing,” you whisper-scold, fixing his collar. “She was trying so hard, and you looked like a brick wall.”

“I said thanks.”

“No, you grunted,” you deadpan, tugging the hem of his sleeve straight. “You grunted, Rin.”

He shrugs. “What else am I supposed to do? Lie?”

“You could pretend not to be emotionally constipated for five minutes,” you mutter, patting down the front of his jersey.

You lean in a little closer, eyes narrowing at his hand.

“…And you could stop scrolling on Insta, maybe, while I’m literally fixing you.”

He flicks his thumb to refresh his feed. “I’m multitasking.”

“You’re looking at fan edits.”

“They’re good edits.”

You roll your eyes and step closer, gently hooking two fingers under his chin and tilting his head up so he’s forced to look in the mirror instead of his screen. “Eyes up.”

His expression is flat but compliant, letting you adjust the angle of his face. His reflection stares back—sleepy eyes, sharp jaw, and just the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. Your fingers brush lightly against his chest as you adjust his chain, dragging it out just enough so it sits perfectly at the dip of his collarbone. It catches the light, and you tilt your head, satisfied.

“There. Our resident bad boy.”

Suna doesn’t respond, but his gaze flickers from his reflection to yours, then down to your fingers as they move to take his hand gently. They’re warm, fingers long, rings cold against your skin.

You run your thumb across the metal—sleek silver, matte black, the faint etching on the band he wears on his index. A few are tilted just slightly from movement, others a touch loose. You turn them slowly, realigning each one with care, making sure they sit perfectly.

“Pose for me,” you murmur, not looking up.

He hums but lifts his hands anyway, fingers spreading into that familiar pose, curled loosely in front of his face.

You step back, squinting as you observe him through the mirror.

“Mm… no. This one’s crooked.” You take his hand again and gently nudge one ring down with your thumb. “This one needs to catch the light when you bring your hands up. Like… this.” You demonstrate, guiding his fingers into place.

“Fussy,” he mutters, voice low.

“Perfect,” you correct. “You’re giving the girls exactly what they want.”

“You included?” he says, too casually.

“Shut up.”

But yeah, you included. 

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Komori’s standing in front of the mirror with one eye closed and a pair of tweezers clenched in his hand. His brow furrows, literally, and he plucks again, wincing slightly as he tries to tame the absolute chaos of his eyebrows.

You catch him mid-tug, eyes wide, skin a little red from overzealous pinching.

“‘Toya, stop,” you say gently, stepping behind him.

He jumps slightly. “What? Is it bad?”

You glance at the tweezers in his hand. “No, but if you keep going, you’re gonna end up with one brow and irreversible regret.”

He groans and tosses the tweezers onto the vanity. “They’re so bushy… like they don’t even have a proper shape right now.”

You eye him for a second, then smile softly. “I think they’re cute, actually.”

He flushes immediately, ducking his head a little. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t,” you agree, stepping around him, “but I mean it.”

You nudge his shoulder and gently guide him down into the chair. He obeys with a pout, sinking into the seat in front of the glowing mirror. His hair is a little mussed, brows admittedly a bit wild, but he still looks good. 

You lean over him for a moment, examining his face from different angles. 

“You’re lucky,” you murmur, brushing your thumb lightly across his brow bone. “Your bone structure’s soft enough that the brows just… work. You just need a little clean-up. Not a full remodel.”

He huffs a shy laugh. “Don’t say remodel, it makes me sound like a construction site.”

You move to stand directly in front of him, blocking the mirror light with your body as you crouch slightly, eyes focused.

“I mean it in a cute way,” you giggle.

Komori blinks up at you, cheeks growing rosier by the second, and you fight the urge to coo at how helpless he looks in that moment.

You gently brush the hairs upward with a clean spoolie, inspecting the bean shape. He flinches just a little when you pluck a stray.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

“It’s okay. I trust you.”

You shape them carefully, brushing and trimming where needed, plucking only the few that really throw the shape off.

Komori stays quiet the whole time, hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes closed. 

You don’t say it out loud, but you notice: how soft he is under the lights, how his warmth is quieter than the others, but never dull, how when you tilt his face to catch the glow, you see someone who isn’t trying to look perfect but wants to look good for the camera, for the world, for you. 

Silly boy. He’s already perfect to you. 

“There,” you say after a few more finishing strokes. “Soft boy glow-up complete.”

Komori blinks a few times at his reflection, then smiles wide.

“…Whoa.”

You grin. “Told you. A cutie...”

“Patootie,” he finishes. 

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Aran’s standing by the mirror, frowning at his reflection. You spot him across the dressing room, one hand cupped over his jaw. Unfortunately, you already know what’s going on before you reach him.

“Don’t say it,” he mutters when you walk up.

“Say what?”

“That I should’ve listened to you.”

“Oh, I’m saying it,” you grin cheekily, stopping beside him and crossing your arms. “Because I told you. I warned you. Too much karaage in one night and your skin would revolt.”

He groans, head tilting back as he sighs dramatically. “It was so good, though. I have no regrets… except this damn pimple.”

You step closer, and he slowly lowers his hand to reveal the culprit: a single, stubborn bump right at the corner of his jawline.

You narrow your eyes at it, then glance back up at him. “Okay, it’s not even that bad. Barely visible.”

“It’s glarin’, babe.”

“It’s not, you baby. You’re just dramatic.”

Still, you glance over toward the table where the makeup kits are laid out—a sea of shades too light, too pink, too off. None of them match Aran’s skin tone. Again.

You frown. “They don’t have your shade.”

“Nothin’ new.”

“Well… good thing someone around here plans ahead.”

He raises a brow as you grab your purse and unzip the side pocket. “Don’t tell me—”

You pull out a slim, travel-sized bottle. The label is faded, but it’s unmistakably his exact shade.

Aran’s eyes widen. “Is that—?”

“Mhm! Your perfect shade. Custom matched. Been in my purse since the Argentina game.”

His voice softens. “You really kept that?”

You give him a look. “Of course I did. You’re my Superstar. I’m not letting one rogue pimple take you out before the cameras roll.”

He chuckles. “You’re unreal.”

“Flattery gets you touched up faster,” you say, already squeezing out the tiniest dot onto a clean sponge.

He leans down slightly so you can reach the spot, and you dab the foundation gently across the bump, blending it until it disappears.

“Damn. That’s clean.”

“Isn’t it?” you laugh, capping the bottle and tucking it back into your purse. “Now, don’t let Atsumu rub his face on you again.”

Aran groans. “Tell that to Atsumu.”

“Tell me what?”

Aran takes one look at Atsumu and immediately starts backing away. “Nope. Don’t even think about it.”

Atsumu’s eyes light up. “What’d I do?”

“Don’t touch me, bro. I’m flawless right now. She just fixed it.”

“Ohhhh.”

Atsumu smirks and lunges just a little—

And Aran’s gone… full sprint away. 

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Hinata’s rocking on the balls of his feet when you find him—already in uniform, already glowing, and already talking a mile a minute about his upcoming solo shot.

“They said they wanna do a spike shot,” he says breathlessly, “like mid-air, ball above my head, super dramatic, and they’re gonna light it all cool from underneath so it looks like I’m flying—”

“That sounds awesome, Sho!”

“I know, right?!” he beams.

Then, suddenly, he leans in close, about to tell you a life-altering secret.

“…But my legs are dry.”

You stare at him.

He stares back, very seriously.

“…Like, desert dry.”

“Okay?”

“And,” he continues dramatically, “this is my one shot, okay? One shot to have immortalized quads. I need them to look good. Like shiny-good. Poster-good.”

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Are you seriously asking me to moisturize your legs?”

“…Yes.”

“Shoyo.”

“Sweets.”

You squint at him. “Really? Sho.”

He gives you the biggest eyes you’ve ever seen, hopeful and pouty and absolutely shameless.

“Sweetssssss,” he whines again, dragging out the name, hoping it’ll break you down if he says it cutely enough.

You cross your arms. “You’re a professional volleyball player, and you can’t put lotion on your own thighs?”

“I can, technically,” he defends. “But—okay—listen—”

And here come the excuses.

“I can’t reach the back of my thighs properly, okay?! And the team lotion smells like a pine-scented candle. I want the one from your bag. The good one. The sparkly one. The one tht smells like lavender.”

You narrow your eyes, and he quickly continues.

“And like—look—this is an important shot. They're lighting me from below. There’s gonna be emphasis on the quads. My legs need to be soft and hydrated and like… subtly gleaming. That takes finesse. I don’t have finesse.”

You raise a brow. “You want your thighs to glisten.”

“I want your hands on my thighs,” he says so fast you almost miss it.

“What?”

“What?” he echoes, way too innocent.

You stare at him.

He coughs. “I mean—like—not in a weird way—just—your hands are so soft, sweets. And you’re good at this stuff. You do that magic massage-y thing-y when you apply it and it makes my muscles feel all relaxed and—uh—photo-ready…”

“Hinata Shoyo.”

He tilts his head, pouting. “Babyyyyy. Please.”

You stare at him.

He stares back, bottom lip sticking out just slightly, eyes big and sparkly, curls flopping over his forehead. He knows he’s being ridiculous, but it’s absolutely going to work on you.

“Sho…”

“I’ll owe you forever,” he says dramatically. “I’ll never ask for anything again… except maybe water later, and maybe you fixing my hair, and also helping me pick a filter for the behind-the-scenes pics—”

You groan, already reaching into your bag. “You are so lucky I love your stupid perfect legs.”

“You love meeee.”

“Nope. Just the legs.”

“Liar.”

You shake your head and pat the seat next to you. “C’mon, drama king. Let’s make your thighs sparkle.”

“Yes!” He’s practically bouncing as he sits and sticks one leg out. 

And as you start smoothing the warm lotion over his calf, working your way up slowly with steady hands, he sighs happily—shoulders relaxing, eyes fluttering shut, entering some kind of blissed-out spa state.

“Yup,” he says, voice dreamy. “That’s it. That’s the good stuff. If we win gold, it’s because of this exact moment.”

You laugh under your breath, thumb gliding up toward his thigh. “I’ll be sure to let the Olympic committee know it was the shimmer lotion that sealed the deal.”

“No, no,” he mumbles. “You. It was you, sweets. You’re my lucky charm. For real.”

Your hands slow just slightly, but you don’t say anything as you finish smoothing the last bit of lotion over his quad, blending until it catches the light perfectly.

“There,” you say, tapping the side of his thigh. “You’re good to go. Glistening. Gorgeous. Dangerously aerodynamic.”

Hinata springs to his feet with a hop, bouncing once in place. Then, without warning, he leans in, cups your cheeks with both hands, and plants a soft, smacking kiss to your cheek.

“Love you!”

Okay, fine. You adore him too. 

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Kageyama is currently in front of the mirror, halfway through sucking the soul out of a yogurt packet. 

You stop dead in your tracks.

“…Tobio.”

He doesn’t even look at you, only nods in acknowledgment, still hunched over, slurping violently.

You’re appalled at the scene—yogurt lid discarded on the vanity, tiny droplets clinging to the corner of his mouth, and he’s wearing his jersey. Red jersey… white yogurt…

You panic.

“Oh my god—NO—!” You lunge forward towards him. 

He blinks at you, caught mid-sip. “What?”

“You’re eating yogurt like a feral child and it’s about to drip all over your jersey—”

“I’m hungry.”

“I don’t care if you’re starving, if even a speck gets on that uniform, you’re getting tackled.”

You’re already digging through your emergency pouch, pulling out three tissues at once and pressing them urgently, but gently, against his chin, his cheek, his yogurt-stained hands. “Hold still,” you mutter, dabbing around his mouth. “What are you, five? Can’t you eat like a human being?”

“I was eating fast,” he says defensively, slurping the last bit of yogurt with one final aggressive suck.

You look at him, exhausted. “Please tell me you didn’t just spit any of that onto your sleeve.”

“…Maybe a little.”

You let out a sharp gasp.

He tenses. “I’ll fix it! I’ll fix it—!”

“Nope. You’re not touching anything.”

You take a makeup wipe and dab carefully at the edge of his collar, inspecting the damage. By some miracle, nothing’s stained… yet, but your nerves are already shot.

He stares at his reflection while you work, still chewing at the opening of the empty packet.

“Okay, now smile,” you say suddenly.

“What?”

“For the camera. Smile.”

He stares at you, absolutely horrified. “I am smiling.”

“…No, you’re not.”

He glares into the mirror. “This is my smile.”

You frown, stepping beside him and pointing at his stone-faced expression. “Tobio. That’s your serve face. Your I’m about to destroy you face.”

“It’s the same face.”

“No it’s not!” you groan. “Why can’t you smile like Miwa? She smiles like a human. It’s adorable.”

“She’s weird.”

“She’s photogenic. You… on the other hand… you’re gonna look like a wax statue on the Olympic poster.”

He squints into the mirror. “How do I fix it.”

“Soften your face. Like, less ‘murder,’ more ‘friendly neighborhood champion.’ Think about something nice. Like… puppies. Or food. Or… Hinata tripping during warmups.”

Oh. There we go.

That gets him. 

Just barely, his lips twitch. 

“THERE. THAT. Do that for the camera!”

“I didn’t even smile yet.”

“You almost did,” you beam. “That’s progress.”

He huffs, cheeks flushed now, and looks away. “I don’t know how to pose.”

“You’re tall and hot and terrifying. You don’t have to pose. Just look at the camera, silly.”

“…No promises.”

You pat his cheek gently—clean this time, thank god—and hand him a fresh tissue.

“Go away now. And no more yogurt.”

He trudges off grumbling under his breath, but you swear you catch the faintest upturn at the corners of his mouth.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Bokuto is still shirtless.

And the problem is not that he’s shirtless; the problem is that he’s shirtless and thriving.

There’s a small crowd of interns and stylists around him—some not even pretending to be professional as Bokuto flexes just slightly while laughing way too loudly, his abs gleaming from warmup sweat, hair already perfectly puffed, voice echoing through the studio.

“IS IT TOO MUCH IF I SPIKE IN SLOW MOTION?” he booms to no one in particular. “LIKE SUPERHERO LANDING STYLE? OHHH—CAN WE DO A POSE WHERE I’M HOLDING THE BALL LIKE I’M ABOUT TO BITE IT?!”

You spot him across the chaos and immediately make a beeline.

“Bokuto Kotaro—jersey. Now.”

He turns to you, bright-eyed and completely unbothered. “BABE! I WAS JUST—”

“Causing a hot disaster, yes, I can see that.” You grab his jersey from the clothing rack and shove it into his chest. “There are cameras, Bo. And impressionable interns.”

He pouts, lip jutted. “But I’m so hot right now!”

“That’s the problem!” you hiss, eyes darting toward the stunned interns. “Put your shirt on before you cause a workplace hazard.”

He groans dramatically but holds up the jersey awkwardly. “…Can you help me?”

“You can’t put it on yourself?”

“No, I can! I just…” He wiggles his fingers. “I wanna be pampered.”

You sigh. You really shouldn’t indulge him, but he gives you that look—big golden retriever eyes, bottom lip trembling slightly, chest puffed. You cave instantly.

“Fine,” you mutter, stepping in and helping guide his arm through the sleeve.

He grins wide, one of those smiles that radiate victory. You tug the jersey gently down over his chest, smoothing it into place. Your hand drifts slightly across the ridges of his abs, more out of habit than thought, patting it flat.

And the second your palm makes contact—

“OH?” he gasps.

Your eyes go wide. “No. That wasn’t—”

“DID YOU JUST—PAT MY ABS?” he beams.

“It was muscle memory—! Like—like—how I always pat your shoulder!”

“...So you love me.”

You groan and pull the bottom hem of his jersey into place. “You’re a menace.”

You barely finish the sentence before he grabs you—big hands around your waist, sudden and strong, and the world lifts under your feet. 

“Wait—Bo—!”

Too late.

He’s already pulling you into a hug, laughing as he sweeps you clean off the ground, spinning you in a wide, dramatic circle right in the middle of the room. The scent of him spins with you as your arms wrap around his neck in shock.

“Bo!” you shriek, half laughing, half scolding, clutching onto his shoulders.

“This is because you love me,” he declares proudly, holding you tightly as he twirls once more, the motion smooth and giddy, like he’s high on the fact that he got you flustered again.

“Put me down!”

You’re giggling though, hands curled into the fabric at his shoulders, legs lifting slightly from the force, and heart thumping from the sudden rush of it all. The air swirls around you, catching in your hair as he slows his turn, chest still pressed to yours, arms firm and safe around your back.

When he finally eases the spin and lets your feet touch the ground again, he doesn’t let go right away. He holds you there, close and swaying a little, breath warm on your temple as he rests his chin lightly on your head.

“Thanks for taking care of me,” he mumbles, voice quiet, almost shy.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Always.”

He looks down at you with a cheeky grin. “...You’re gonna pat my abs again, right?”

You smack his chest.

“Menace.”

“Affectionate menace,” he corrects, already bouncing away. 

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Ushijima is, of course, already dressed.

Perfectly.

His Team Japan jersey is tucked with precision, socks aligned, shoelaces knotted identically. And yet—he’s standing completely still, arms at his sides with a small but growing cluster of interns frozen nearby, clutching clips and lint rollers they’re too afraid to use on him. 

You see the problem instantly.

He’s too intimidating… and too hot.

One stylist half-whispers, “Can you fix the crease on his shoulder?”

Another intern hisses, “You do it! He’s staring straight ahead like a Final Boss!”

You sigh, already walking over.

“Wakatoshi,” you say gently.

He turns to look at you, expression neutral, posture strong as ever. “Yes?”

“They’re scared of you,” you say plainly, stepping in close and patting down the shoulder seam of his jersey.

“Why?”

“You look like you bench press buildings. And you haven’t blinked in five minutes.”

“I am trying to preserve energy,” he says, completely seriously.

You hide a smile and gently adjust the collar of his jersey, tugging the hem just slightly to get rid of a small wrinkle. “For a photoshoot?”

“No. For the drills after the photoshoot. Coach mentioned them in the schedule.”

You pause, fingers stilling against the fabric. “…Ah. Right. The drills.”

He nods, completely earnest. “It’s important to be prepared.”

Of course. Of course he’s thinking about volleyball. Always.

“Right,” you say, lips twitching. “Can’t have a wrinkled jersey interfering with your spike form.”

He doesn’t catch the teasing, only just nods again. “Exactly. The fabric could affect drag.”

You glance up at him, smiling softly. “Focused, intense, mildly terrifying… and a little bit adorable.”

He tilts his head. “Adorable?”

You reach up and brush a strand of lint off his shoulder. “Yes, Ushijima. Adorable. Don’t let it get around.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The room is finally settling into a lull.

And you are exhausted.

You’re standing near a mirror, brushing off your skirt with one hand, adjusting your collar with the other, trying to look halfway presentable before the shot with Iwaizumi and Coach. It’s a simple shot—the manager, the trainer, and the man calling all the shots. 

Your blouse is slightly askew. A piece of lint is clinging to your sleeve. The hem of your skirt is a little wrinkled, and your hair is starting to frizz from all the running around. You’re just about to give up and accept that you’ll look stressed-out in front of a billboard—

When Iwaizumi appears behind you in the mirror.

“Hey,” he says, voice soft.

You turn. He’s already dressed for the photo—crisp black slacks, button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, Team Japan lapel pin at his collar. Clean, pressed, composed. And looking at you with the most tender expression.

“You didn’t think to ask anyone to help you?” he murmurs, stepping closer.

You shrug. “I didn’t have time. The boys were—”

“Dumbasses,” he finishes for you. “Yeah. I saw.”

He stops in front of you, hands slipping gently to the sides of your skirt where the hem’s bunched slightly. You watch him crouch a little as he smooths it down carefully, knuckles brushing against the fabric, expression focused and quiet.

Your breath catches. “Wha—Hajime, I could’ve—”

“I know you could’ve.” He looks up. “But you didn’t. So I am.”

You swallow thickly, lips parting.

One of his hands drifts to your waist, fingers brushing a stray thread away before moving to your blouse, adjusting the angle of your collar so it lies just right. 

“You’ve been running around for everyone else,” he says. “You don’t even stop to check yourself.”

“I didn’t notice,” you murmur.

He raises an eyebrow. “I did.”

You go still.

He reaches up and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a second too long at your temple.

“There. Now you look like the manager that keeps this entire circus from burning down.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

“On my count,” the head photographer says. “Ready…!”

The lights flash brighter. You watch the boys take position—not just as teammates, but as something bigger.

A unit. A family. A storm in sync.

You hear Hinata whisper, “Wait, are we smiling or looking serious—?”

“Shut up,” Sakusa hisses.

“I’m doing both,” Bokuto beams.

Someone snorts. You think it’s Suna.

And right as the camera flashes—

You call out: “Smile like you already won gold!”

color me yours. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when your niece discovers another purpose for his tattoos.

♡ For all your favorites with tatted, girl-dad energy.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

Your niece looks up at you, wide-eyed and devastated—an expression only a five-year-old with an empty coloring book can muster. The last page lies flat on the coffee table, scribbled over in sparkly marker, the princess’s dress glowing a violent neon pink.

You sit cross-legged on the carpet, defeated. “I thought we had another one,” you murmur, rifling through old receipts, snack wrappers, and magazines in your tote. “I’m so sorry, sweet girl…”

There’s a soft shuffle behind you, then a low voice, warm and slightly amused.

“You really colored the whole book, baby?”

You look up just in time to see him crouch beside you, his large hands sliding under your niece’s arms as he lifts her effortlessly into his hold. She squeals with delight, kicking her feet in the air as he settles her on his hip.

She nods proudly, wrapping her tiny arms around his neck. “Uh-huh. I finished the last page just now. The princess one!”

“No way. The entire thing?”

“Every single page!” she beams, cheeks flushed with excitement. “Even the robot one. That was boring.”

“Damn,” he says. “Felt like that was the best one, though.”

She giggles, then suddenly stills, her gaze dropping to his forearm where it wraps snug around her frame. Her brow furrows, eyes narrowing in that suspicious five-year-old way.

“...Wait.”

He lifts a brow. “What?”

Her tiny hand flattens against his bicep. “Wait.” Her voice is louder now, more urgent. She squints at the dark ink wrapping up his arm. “You have coloring book arms.”

“What?”

“Coloring book arms!” she exclaims again, delighted by her own epiphany. She pats the ink on his bicep with both hands now. “Look! It’s not even done! There’s spots you forgot to fill in!”

“Mm.” He feigns deep thought. “Guess you’re right.”

“Okay, okay, hold on, baby.” You scramble to your feet, crossing the room in three quick steps, hands raised in gentle negotiation mode. “How about we… do origami instead?” you offer, voice a touch too bright. “We can make paper frogs! Or butterflies! You love butterflies, don’t you?”

Your niece frowns at you. “Auntieeee,” she whines, hugging him tighter, “I wanna color Uncle.”

“Yeah, Auntie,” he echoes, voice completely flat and entirely unhelpful. “She wants to color me.”

You shoot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

He shrugs, shifting her higher on his hip. “Not trying to.”

Before you can protest again, your niece perks up, face shining because she’s cracked the ultimate loophole. “Oh! Auntie!” She wiggles excitedly in his arms, little hands grabbing at his shoulder. “Uncle has a tiny butterfly already! On his hips, remember? It’s on a rose! So I am still getting my butterflies!”

Oh. 

She’s right. 

“Shit, princess. You remember my tattoos more than me.”

୨୧ ♡ ୨୧

“M‘kay, baby. Let’s see how good of an artist you really are.”

He drops onto the rug with her, leaning back against the foot of the couch, legs stretched out long, body broad and inked under the soft lamplight. Your niece immediately clambers into his lap, her pouch of markers jingling as she unzips it. 

“Where do I start?” she asks seriously, already uncapping pink.

He hums. “Dealer’s choice.”

She leans in close, examining the smoky lines across his bicep. Then, she starts coloring—little squeaks of effort leaving her as she presses the marker down hard, glitter ink bleeding into black swirls.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, chewing on her lip, “I wanna make these lines into a flower.”

“Yeah?” he says, a lazy smile tugging on his mouth as his half-lidded eyes flick toward her face. “Gonna make it pretty for me?”

“Mhmm.” She giggles and nods furiously, switching to a yellow marker for the “petals.”

You sit stiffly on the couch above them, trying so hard to look unaffected, but the picture in front of you makes your chest ache—this big, quiet man letting a five-year-old girl turn his body into her art.

He doesn’t flinch when she leans against him for balance, doesn’t complain when she presses a glitter pen too hard into his shoulder. Instead, his free hand lifts lazily, absent-mindedly catching a strand of her hair and twirling it around his finger. 

“Keep still, Uncle,” she scolds, nudging his chest.

“I’m not moving,” he mutters, a ghost of a grin curving his lips.

“You’re breathing too much,” she declares.

He chuckles low in his throat, eyes flicking up to you with that dangerous, knowing glint. “Hear that, Auntie? Can’t even breathe around her.”

You shake your head, fighting a smile you don’t want him to see. “Good. Maybe she’ll finally keep you in line.”

His grin deepens as he brushes her baby bangs away from her face. “Funny. Thought that was your job.”

୨୧ ♡ ୨୧

“Auntieee,” your niece groans suddenly, tossing her marker down with dramatic flair. “I don’t know how to draw a lily. I wanna make this part a lily, and I don’t know how.”

“Sweetheart, it doesn’t have to be a lily, you can—”

“Nooo.” Her pout deepens. “It has to be a lily.” She grabs at your hand with her tiny fingers, tugging you down from the couch. “Help meee!”

“Guess you’re up,” he drawls, shifting so his arm stretches out across the rug, muscles flexing beneath half-finished ink. “C’mon, Auntie. Show her how it’s done.”

Your niece bounces on his lap, nodding furiously. “Yes, yes! Auntie, you draw the lily! Right here!” She points to a bare patch of smoky linework trailing over his abs.

You hesitate, marker clutched in your hand. That spot is criminally low, dangerously close to the waistband of his sweats.

But your niece is looking at you with those big pleading eyes. And he’s—well, he’s looking at you with a smug curve to his mouth; he knows you’re cornered.

So you exhale slowly and lean in.

As soft light spills over his skin, warm bronze painting over the ridges of his stomach, you let the tip of the marker touch the base of one smoky line, dragging it upward, using his tattoo as the stem of the lily. The glittery green bleeds into black ink, winding its way higher as your niece thrums happily. 

“Yayyy! It’s a flower now!” she cheers, her tiny hands pawing excitedly at his abs, trying to help you “hold him still.” Her palms press into the hard ridges of muscle, pat-pat-patting at his stomach with every new petal you add.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling under your palm where you steady yourself against him, and his abs flex. The lines tighten beneath your niece’s hands—beneath your careful strokes. The tattoo shifts with the movement, smoke twisting, the lily stem you’re sketching curving naturally over muscle.

“You’re making it hard to draw,” you mutter, glaring at him.

“Am I?” His eyes are sharp on you, watching every flicker in your expression.

“Uncle! Don’t move!” Your niece smacks his stomach with both hands.

He grins, closing one eye at her. “I’ll try, princess. But Auntie’s tickling me.”

You snap your gaze up. “I am not—”

Before you can argue further, your niece gasps and announces, “Wait! I’m gonna add a butterfly! Right on the lily!”

She grabs a purple marker, tongue poking out as she carefully draws the tiniest, messiest butterfly beside the glittery petals you’ve just sketched. The wings are uneven, one bigger than the other, but she beams proudly. 

He tips his head down, eyes flicking over her art. “Not bad,” he murmurs. “Think I’m ready to book you for my next sleeve.”

She giggles, “I don’t charge money.”

He smirks. “Lucky me.”

୨୧ ♡ ୨୧

The three of you fall into an easy rhythm after that—her humming softly, switching markers every few minutes; you sketching a few lines when she insists she needs your “grown-up help”; him letting himself be colored in without a single complaint.

By the time half an hour drifts past, the floor around you is scattered with uncapped markers, stray pen caps, and glitter smudges on the rug. Your niece’s excitement has dwindled to slow motions and tiny yawns. She wiggles one last butterfly onto the crook of his collarbone before her hand goes slack, marker slipping from her fingers.

With a little sigh, she curls into his chest.

He shifts instinctively, steadying her with one large palm against her back. She settles there, cheek pressed against his bare skin, her breaths evening out.

He glances at you over her head. “Out like a light.”

But just before she goes fully under, her voice mumbles against him, half-dreamy: “Auntie… finish the butterfly… the one on Uncle’s rose… wanna see it pretty… tomorrow.”

You snort as he huffs a quiet laugh, eyes locking on yours. “Orders straight from the boss.”

You glance down at the spot she means—the delicate rose tattoo inked low on his hip, the faint outline of a butterfly perched on its petals. It’s unfinished, uncolored, the ink dark but empty.

The place is… intimate. Too intimate.

Still, her hand pats blindly at his chest, making sure you heard her, before going completely slack. She’s asleep now, trusting you to follow through.

He leans his head back against the couch, watching you from under hooded lids, lips curving slowly. “Well?” His voice is a low rumble. “Gonna tell her no?”

Your fingers tighten around the marker.

“No,” you whisper, moving closer beside him.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, so soft you almost miss it.

And with your niece fast asleep on his chest, you reach down and press the tip of the marker to the butterfly on his hip.

The spot is warm under your hand, his skin smooth and taut, the faint rise and fall of his breath brushing against your knuckles as you lean in close. You trace the delicate lines slowly, filling the wings with soft strokes. A little purple, a little blue, dots of yellow where the veins of the wings curve. You make it extra pretty; your niece asked for a butterfly, but you’re making sure it’s one worth remembering.

You’re so focused you barely notice how quiet he’s gone, how his head has tilted, cheek resting lazily against the crown of your niece’s hair, but his gaze is pinned entirely on you.

He loves the way you’re concentrating, lips pressed together in thought, brows drawn ever so slightly as if you’re tattooing him for real and not just coloring him in with glitter pens, loves that you’re close enough he can feel the faint brush of your hair against his side, that you’re steadying yourself with one palm flat on the floor beside his thigh.

“Serious face,” he mutters. 

You glance up quickly, cheeks heating. “I want it to look nice.”

“Already does.” His gaze drifts down, catching the way your hand lingers on his hip a second too long, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweats.

୨୧ ♡ ୨୧

“C’mere, baby.”

He shifts just enough to free his other leg, the one not occupied by your niece curled up and dreaming against his chest. With his free hand, he tugs gently at your wrist until you move, climbing onto his thigh carefully. His arm circles your waist, pulling you in until there’s no room for hesitation. You can feel the strength in him, but he’s holding you soft because you’re as precious as the little girl breathing against his collarbone.

His face is close, hair falling over hooded eyes that don’t leave yours. He dips his head, brushing his lips over yours in the sweetest kiss. His mouth moves against yours once, then again, lingering and stealing every thought from your head, leaving only the warmth of him behind.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his voice is a secret meant for you alone. “You two can color me in forever.”

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

tatted koi with suna. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

suna takes you to get your first tattoo... something that matches his too.

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

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જ⁀🏐🖤📱

You’ve been talking about it for months. 

A small koi fish, elegant and discreet, right on your right hipbone—something for yourself, something delicate and flowing and soft. 

Something that mirrors the large koi sprawled along his own bicep. 

You’d asked him about it once in college, tracing the edges with your finger after a night out, both of you half-drunk and stretched across the couch, limbs tangled. You’d asked what it meant.

“Resilience. Persistence. Koi swim upstream, even when the current fights them.”

You hadn’t told him then, but that’s what made you fall in love with the idea.

Not just the koi.

But matching with him.

So when you murmur, “I think I wanna get the tattoo,” he glances over from the other end of the couch, something sparking behind his hooded eyes.

“Yeah?” he says. “For real this time?”

You nod, a little shyly. “Mmhm. Wanna get it on my hip.”

He finishes chewing on a piece of takoyaki and licks the sauce off his thumb. “You wanna go this weekend?”

“…You’d come with?”

Suna turns to face you properly, head tilting a little. There’s a flicker of something smug in the curve of his lips. “Yeah. Wanna see you squirm.”

Turns out, he already had a studio in mind. One of the tattoo artists he swears by. No questions asked, he booked you in for the weekend. 

So now, you’re perched on the edge of a leather table with your shirt tugged up and your waistband rolled just enough to expose the curve of your right hip. Suna’s sprawled in the chair next to you, legs kicked out, posture obnoxiously relaxed. He’s wearing one of his old black long sleeves, but he’s pushed the fabric up to his elbows, revealing those forearms you’ve stared at far too long. 

His tattoos peek out like shadows along his skin—inky, abstract shapes that fade and swirl like smoke caught mid-motion. Not quite anything, not quite nothing. Only movement and mood. They creep across his shoulder and dip down his side, curling like mist—wild and artful and unmistakably him. And just above his inner wrist, is the one that always makes you laugh—a little cartoon fox, mouth open in a goofy grin, wearing a number ten jersey. A silly, sentimental tribute to his high school days. 

But the koi fish is the one that always gets you.

It stretches along his right bicep, sleek and powerful, its body arched, swimming upstream. The inkwork is bold, flowing. It’s exactly how you remember the first time you saw it, when he’d come home from the appointment sore, showing it off with a smug, “Look good, huh?”

Yeah, it had looked good. Too good.

You breathe in slowly, trying to relax as the artist preps your skin. The buzzing of the tattoo machine fills the air, and it makes your chest flutter.

Suna catches the nervous flicker in your eyes. His gaze softens with reassurance. “You good?”

You nod at first, trying to play it cool, but the buzzing gets louder, closer, and the artist gently touches the tip of the needle to your skin.

You flinch.

It’s sharper than you expect. Not unbearable, but it lances quick and hot across your skin, and you gasp, body twitching before you can stop it. Your eyes squeeze shut, lip caught between your teeth.

“Hey,” he coos softly, something almost fond threading through it. “Breathe.”

You glance at him, wide-eyed. The artist says something about letting him know if you need a break, but Suna’s the one who holds your attention. Always is.

And then it hits again—another small zap of sting.

Your fingers move on instinct, reaching out like you always do when you’re overwhelmed or clinging to the edge of something too much. You let out the softest little whimper, barely a breath, but it’s his name, and it leaves your lips like a plea full of nerves. “Rin…”

And Suna… he’s already there.

No hesitation.

His hand slips easily into yours, and his long fingers wrap around you. He squeezes gently, thumb brushing over your knuckles as his eyes meet yours. The smug curve of his mouth softens into something gentler—something only you ever get to see.

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m here,” he murmurs. “I got you, pretty girl.”

The nickname slips out, and maybe he doesn’t even realize he said it, but your breath catches anyway. You swallow thickly, blinking through the burn behind your eyes. Not from the pain. From him.

He leans forward a little, elbow propped on his knee, slouching in that lazy way he always does, but his gaze stays on you. He’s watching every twitch of your brow, every little inhale because if you gave so much as a flinch again, he’d tell the artist to stop.

“You’re okay.” His voice full of that dangerous care he hides behind flat tones and eye rolls. His thumb keeps rubbing slow circles over your skin. “You’re doin’ so good for me.”

His hand squeezes yours again to tether you there, to him, to the moment.

You bite back another wince when the needle dips in again, heat blooming under your skin.

“Hey,” Suna says, dipping his head a little. He reaches out with his free hand, fingers gentle as he brushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Relax your face. You’re gonna get wrinkles.”

You blink up at him, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

“R-Rin.”

He raises a brow, lips tugging up at the corner. “Also? Pretty sure you’re the first person to make getting a two-inch koi look like a near-death experience.”

“It hurts,” you whisper, voice trembling just a little.

“I know, I know,” he says with mock-pity. “But you act like he’s tattooing a dragon across your whole back.”

You narrow your eyes at him through the pain.

He leans in, smirking. “It’s a fish. A cute little fishy. Real deadly.”

Despite yourself, a giggle slips free. 

“There she is. My tough girl.”

When it’s finally done, the artist wipes down the ink, gives you the aftercare spiel, and Suna helps you hop off the table. His hand finds your waist instinctively, thumb ghosting over skin dangerously close to the new tattoo.

“Lemme see,” he says. You hardly get a chance to protest before his calloused fingers hook into the waistband of your sweats.

You look away, face warm when he tugs them down just enough to expose the fresh ink.

And when he sees it, when the little koi fish comes into view, sitting on the curve of your hip, he whistles low. You feel his breath hit your skin, warm against your lower stomach, and your entire body tenses, goosebumps dancing up your spine. You’re suddenly hyperaware of how close his face is, how his eyes are locked on the ink, knowing it’s something sacred. 

“Damn.”

“Stop,” you mumble.

“No, really,” he mutters hoarsely. His fingers stay at your waistband, holding it down; you can feel the heat of his palm so close to your skin it makes your stomach tighten. “It’s fuckin’ hot.”

You glare at him half-heartedly. “It’s not supposed to be hot.”

His gaze flicks up, finally meeting yours. His eyes are dark, shadowed with want. “Too bad.”

Later that night, you’re both back in the apartment. The tattoo’s starting to sting now—a low throb under your skin, tender and hot and a little distracting.

You’re curled up on the couch, hoodie draped loosely over your frame but hiked up at your hip, waistband rolled to avoid touching the fresh ink. You’re scrolling through your phone mindlessly, but your eyes keep drifting to the hallway.

And like clockwork, he appears.

Suna walks out of the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, damp hair tousled. He’s shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips, skin still flushed slightly from the shower.

And the tattoos. God, the tattoos.

They’re all on display now, glistening faintly from steam and water. The koi on his bicep flexes with every move he makes, a mirror to the smaller one now healing on your hip.

He catches your gaze and raises a brow. “Need help with the ointment?”

“I can do it.”

He walks over anyway, tossing the towel on the back of the couch. “Yeah, but I’m better at it.”

You stay still as he crouches in front of you, but Suna doesn’t reach for the ointment right away. 

“Lean back for me.”

You do, slowly sinking into the couch cushions. 

His hand grazes your thigh as he murmurs, “Lift your hips a little.” 

You obey. The waistband of your sweats shift to bare the fresh tattoo. Suna hums quietly with approval, and finally dips his fingers into the ointment, scooping a bit out. When he leans in closer, you feel his breath ghost over your stomach.

“Stay still.”

The pads of his fingers press against your hip, gentle and slow as he smooths the balm over the koi’s delicate lines. You watch the way his brows pinch ever so slightly in concentration, the way his thumb glides with just enough pressure to soothe. 

“You were brave today.”

He keeps working, still focused, but his tone stays hushed and quiet in the way that tells you this isn’t a joke. This isn’t teasing. This is real.

“It’s your first. I know it hurts,” he continues, fingers brushing just beneath the edge of the design. “But you still did it. Didn’t back out. Didn’t run.”

His eyes finally lift, meeting yours. He pulls back after one last careful swipe, and his palm settles warm and steady against your side, just above the tattoo.

“Proud of you.”

Your lips tremble with the start of a thank you, but Suna’s already tugging your hoodie down again with care, tucking you in. He carefully pulls your waistband back up, adjusting the fabric, fingers lingering on your hipbone. And for a second, he just stays there—kneeling in front of you, head ducked slightly, brows drawn in that way he gets when he’s thinking too hard.

“…Wanna get another one?”

“Could be something stupid this time,” he adds. “Like a grumpy cat.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. The tension breaks just enough for the warmth to spill in.

“Only if it’s matching on the same spot.”

He grins. “Deal.”