TomNook’sCrevice

normally, by the time he lets himself into your apartment, you'd already be greeting him from the kitchen or dramatically announcing that you were starving and he'd better have brought snacks.

instead, he finds you bundled beneath three blankets on the couch, looking like the world's grumpiest burrito.

"...baby?"

you slowly peek over the edge of the blanket, nose pink, hair a mess.

"don't come closer."

he blinks.

"...why?"

you sniffle dramatically.

"'m sick."

there's a beat of silence before kuroo smiles.

"that's all?"

"that's all?"

"yeah."

you point an accusing finger at him.

"don't touch me."

"why not?"

"because you'll get sick."

he shrugs, already kicking off his shoes.

"worth it."

"tetsu."

he ignores you completely, dropping onto the couch beside you. the cushions dip under his weight before he gently pulls you into his chest.

"tetsurou!"

"hi."

"i literally have a fever."

he presses his cheek against your forehead.

"mm... yeah, you're warm."

"exactly!"

"comfy."

you stare at him in disbelief.

"you're unbelievable."

"i've been told."

you try pushing him away, but you're exhausted, your muscles ache, and honestly... he's warm.

he wraps the blanket around both of you like a cocoon.

"there."

"i'm serious."

"so am i."

he rubs slow circles across your back while you grumble under your breath.

"you're gonna regret this."

"future me can deal with it."

you sigh dramatically.

"don't kiss me."

"..."

"...kuroo."

"..."

"...don't."

he gives you the most innocent smile you've ever seen.

"just one."

before you can protest, he presses a tiny kiss to your forehead.

then another.

then your temple.

then the tip of your nose.

you groan.

"you're impossible."

"and yet, you love me."

"...unfortunately."

he gasps.

"that sounded like a confession."

"shut up."

he laughs quietly, the sound vibrating against your shoulder.

eventually your protests get weaker.

the medicine starts making you sleepy.

your head grows heavier until it naturally settles beneath his chin.

he smiles to himself.

"there she is."

"..."

"my cuddle bug."

"'m not..."

"already asleep?"

"...no."

"..."

"...maybe."

he chuckles softly.

"get some rest."

his fingers gently comb through your hair until your breathing evens out.

he doesn't move for nearly two hours.

not even when one of his legs falls asleep.

not even when his phone rings.

not even when his stomach starts growling.

because every now and then you'd unconsciously snuggle closer, and every single time, his heart melted all over again.

—

three days later.

"achoo!" (but in a dad sneeze way)

you look up from your soup.

kuroo freezes.

"..."

"..."

he sniffles.

"...no."

you slowly lower your spoon.

"...did you just sneeze?"

"allergies."

"in august?"

"...seasonal."

"to what?"

"...love?"

you narrow your eyes.

"tetsurou."

he coughs once into his elbow.

"..."

"..."

"...okay, maybe my throat feels a little weird."

you cross your arms.

"i warned you."

"you did."

"multiple times."

"possibly."

"i specifically said not to cuddle me."

"correct."

"and i definitely said not to kiss me."

"...also true."

you give him your best 'i told you so' look.

he smiles anyway.

"still worth it."

you try so hard not to smile.

you fail spectacularly.

"you're such an idiot."

"your idiot."

"...yeah."

he reaches over the couch to hug you again.

you immediately shove a pillow between you.

"absolutely not."

"what?"

"you're contagious now."

his jaw drops.

"betrayal."

"consequences."

"where was this energy when you were sick?"

"i had common sense."

"rude."

he pouts dramatically, wrapping both arms around the pillow instead.

"...i miss my cuddles."

you stare at him for a long moment.

his nose is red.

his hair is sticking up.

he looks genuinely miserable.

"..."

"..."

"...come here."

his eyes light up instantly.

"really?"

"only because i know you'll ignore me otherwise."

he practically launches himself across the couch before carefully settling beside you.

this time, you press a cool hand against his forehead.

"see?"

you murmur.

"fever."

he leans into your touch with a sleepy smile.

"mm."

"serves you right."

"probably."

"..."

"..."

"can i have a forehead kiss?"

you roll your eyes.

"you're unbelievable."

"that's not a no."

you sigh with exaggerated annoyance before leaning over and pressing the gentlest kiss against his forehead.

he grins like he'd just won the lottery.

"...worth it."

you can't help laughing.

"...next time, listen to me."

"there's gonna be a next time?"

"..."

"..."

"...i'm not answering that."

he smiles into your shoulder as the two of you settle beneath the blankets once more, both a little sniffly now, but perfectly content exactly where you were.

a/n: i'm sick and school starts tomorrow bro also i'm making a discord server everybody cheer

Ah yes, sleepwalking. A funny but undeniably terrifying way to emotionally damage your favorite volleyball boys at 3AM.

You don't mean to cause psychological distress. You’re just trying to live your best unconscious life. Unfortunately, that includes:

Bargaining with rats,

Whispering cryptic prophecies,

Performing rituals in bathtubs, and

Declaring things like “The chicken coup has begun” with the gravity of a war general.

Is it a dream? A warning? A threat? No one knows—not even you.

But one thing’s for sure: They’ll never sleep peacefully again.

AKAASHI KEIJI

It was 3:47 a.m.

Akaashi blinked awake to the buzz of the refrigerator humming louder than it had any right to. The glow under the bedroom door looked like a horror movie setup. Your side of the bed? Empty.

Which was never, ever good.

He sat up slowly, his instincts as sharp as a seasoned libero's. No thuds. No screams. Just... soft muttering.

He padded down the hallway and peeked into the kitchen.

There you were. Eyes half-closed, mumbling nonsense to the refrigerator.

Inside the fridge?

The cat.

Akaashi stared.

The cat stared.

You, serene as a monk mid-exorcism, reached in to gently pat the cat’s head like it was a cherished casserole. “He’s the secret ingredient,” you murmured lovingly, as if that explained anything.

Akaashi pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Of course he is,” he whispered to himself, already accepting that this was his life now.

The cat gave him a look. The kind of look that said, You’re supposed to be the sane one here. Do something.

With a sigh that came from the depths of a boyfriend who’s seen too much, Akaashi scooped the shivering furball out of the fridge. The cat immediately clung to his chest like a baby koala. With his other arm, Akaashi gently reached out and took your hand.

“Come on, secret chef,” he said softly, guiding you away from your midnight masterpiece. “Let’s get you and your ‘ingredient’ back to bed.”

You went along willingly, still half-asleep, head resting on his shoulder as you muttered something about “adding cinnamon.”

Akaashi didn’t even ask.

He tucked you in first, the cat next, and then slid in beside both of you with the kind of practiced ease that only comes from being deeply in love with a chaos goblin.

As you snuggled closer, Akaashi stared at the ceiling.

“I deserve an award,” he muttered.

The cat meowed in agreement.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

It was 3:02 a.m.

The apartment was silent. Peaceful, even.

Until—

“Koutarou.”

His eyes snapped open. He sat up like a meerkat sensing danger. “...Y/N?”

You were curled up under the blanket, eyes shut, completely still—except your mouth, which just whispered:

“I ate the evidence.”

Bokuto blinked. “What?”

But you were already quiet again. Breathing evenly. Asleep.

Dead asleep.

Koutarou stared at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at you.

He felt a chill.

“What evidence?” he whispered. “What did you eat?”

You looked so calm. So peaceful. As if you hadn't just confessed to a federal crime in your sleep.

He slowly got out of bed and tiptoed into the kitchen like a detective in his own home. The fridge door was closed. The counters were clean. Nothing suspicious.

Or maybe too clean.

The trash can? Empty.

His eyes widened.

Did you clean the scene?!

He shuffled back to the bedroom like a man walking toward his doom. You were still there, all curled up and cozy, like you didn’t just say something that would ruin him in court.

He sat on the edge of the bed, wide-eyed, mentally cycling through every possible interpretation.

Did you eat his protein bars? His leftover pizza? The last KitKat?

Did you kill a man?

Why did you sound so proud?

He laid back down slowly, eyes open, staring into the void.

You scooted closer in your sleep and mumbled, “Mmm. Crunchy.”

He stopped breathing.

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, you yawned and stretched like a cute, innocent little cloud.

"Morning, Kou," you said sweetly.

He blinked at you, dead-eyed, whispering: “...what did you eat.”

You: “Huh?”

He: “...What did you EAT.”

You: “??? Toast?”

He watched you take a bite of breakfast like it might be someone’s finger.

And yet… he still kissed your forehead.

Because love is terrifying.

KUROO TETSURO

It was 2:41 a.m.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint rustle of blankets. Kuroo was mid-dream—something about taxes turning into volleyballs—when he felt a presence.

His eyes fluttered open.

You were standing at the foot of the bed.

Staring at him.

In the dark.

He sat up immediately, already seconds from punching a demon. “Babe? Are you okay?”

You didn’t answer.

You leaned in slowly—unnervingly—and whispered:

“The ducks are watching.”

Then turned around.

And walked out of the room.

Kuroo sat there, frozen, mouth slightly open, soul halfway to another dimension.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“THE WHAT IS WHAT?”

He scrambled out of bed and peeked down the hallway to see you peacefully crawling back into bed on the couch like nothing happened.

You were out cold. Blissfully unconscious.

Kuroo stood there in his boxers, heart pounding like he just got tackled by a flock of birds with a vendetta.

He looked around.

No ducks.

But he didn’t trust it.

The next night, he installed a nightlight.

The night after that, he placed a rubber duck on the windowsill just to test your reaction. You said nothing—but stared at it for a little too long.

Now?

Now he sleeps with one eye open.

Just in case.

Because maybe the ducks are watching.

And maybe, just maybe… you’re their prophet.

KENMA KOZUME

It was 3:19 a.m.

Kenma had just paused his game. The glow from his Switch lit up his face as he dragged himself toward the kitchen for a drink, hoodie sleeves swallowed over his hands.

He wasn’t expecting to see you already standing there. In front of the fridge. Silent.

The door was open. Cold light spilling across the tiles.

You stared inside like it had insulted your bloodline.

Kenma blinked. “...Babe?”

You tilted your head. Whispered, "It's not a portal today. Lame."

Kenma froze, holding the juice carton like it was suddenly cursed.

“The hell does it usually lead to?” he muttered.

Still facing the fridge, you sighed dramatically, like a tired traveler returning from war. “Regret,” you said solemnly.

Then you shut the fridge and walked away.

Kenma just stood there.

Alone.

With the fridge.

And the regret.

He slowly backed away, returned to the bedroom, and found you already face-planted into the bed, limbs tangled like nothing happened.

He lay down next to you carefully, staring at the ceiling.

What did you see in there? Was it the expired yogurt? The leftover fast food? His search history?

He didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

And the next morning, when you yawned and casually opened the fridge, he watched you like it was a boss battle.

"Hey," he asked quietly, not looking away, "is it… is it a portal now?"

You blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," he muttered, sipping his juice with caution. “Just checking.”

KYOTANI KENTARO

It was 1:56 a.m.

Kyōtani was already half-awake, lying on his side, arm lazily draped over you. The room was quiet, the kind of stillness that made everything feel heavier. His eyes were just starting to close again when—

You turned to face him.

Eyes barely open.

And whispered, slow and serious:

“I’ve hidden the body where they’ll never find it.”

...

His entire soul left his body.

“What.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just sighed… and rolled over.

And immediately fell asleep.

Kyōtani sat up so fast he nearly pulled a muscle. “The what?!” he hissed into the silence, heart racing.

You snored.

He stared at you, mind spiraling into hell.

Was this a joke? A dream? A code? Did he just become an accomplice by proximity? He’d watched enough crime shows to know how this ends.

He checked the closet. The bathroom. The hallway. Under the bed.

Nothing.

Which only made it worse.

Because now the question was: where?

You, meanwhile, were blissfully unconscious, curled up like a harmless little gremlin, breathing softly as if you hadn’t just dropped a psychological nuke into his life.

He sat on the edge of the bed, muttering under his breath. “I didn’t hear anything. I saw nothing. We don’t even own a shovel.”

The next morning, you stretched and yawned, rubbing your eyes like sunshine itself.

Kyōtani stared at you over his coffee.

You blinked. “...Why are you looking at me like that?”

He paused. Considered. Then said:

"...Just making sure you’re real.”

You smiled.

He didn’t sleep for three nights.

Just in case.

OIKAWA TOORU

It was a quiet night in the Miyagi apartment.

Too quiet.

Oikawa had just finished his skincare routine and was about to crawl into bed next to you, humming softly and adjusting his silk eye mask, when it happened.

A thud.

Then— SPLAT.

He flinched and turned toward the sound.

A cupcake.

Smeared on the wall.

Like a pastry-based crime scene.

And you? Standing beside the bed, arm still mid-throw, eyes closed.

Then, in a low, haunted voice that echoed through his soul, you whispered:

"It's too late, Carol."

...

Oikawa’s jaw dropped.

You got back into bed like nothing happened.

He stared at the cupcake. Then at you. Then back at the cupcake.

There. Was. No. Carol.

He didn’t know a Carol. He’s never met a Carol. He doesn’t even like the name Carol. It sounded… threatening now.

He slowly pulled the eye mask up, face pale.

“What did Carol do?” he whispered to himself.

You snored.

Oikawa backed into the hallway and whispered into his phone flashlight camera like he was in a horror documentary.

“It’s been 7 minutes since the incident. Subject Y/N has returned to sleep. Carol remains unidentified. The cupcake is… dead.”

The next morning, you woke up chipper and confused as to why there was chocolate frosting on the wall and your boyfriend was sipping tea like a Victorian widow.

“Did… something happen?”

He didn’t answer. Just muttered: "We are never baking cupcakes again."

Tooru now double-locks the pantry at night. And flinches every time someone says “C” words.

Carol, whoever you are… he hopes you never come back.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

1:03 a.m. Peace. Silence. The soft hum of the aircon.

Iwaizumi Hajime was dozing off, his breathing steady, arm wrapped loosely around you.

And then you whispered, barely audible:

"Hajime..."

He stirred. “Mm?”

You shifted, lips near his ear, and mumbled like a general delivering final orders:

"The chicken coup has begun. Tell Gerald to start phase two."

...

He blinked.

“...Huh?”

But you were already gone.

Not dead, no. Just deep in sleep. Face smushed into the pillow. Dead to the world, but not, apparently, to the ongoing uprising in the poultry community.

Iwaizumi sat up slowly, like if he moved too fast, the chickens would hear him.

He stared into the darkness.

"Gerald... who the hell is Gerald."

Was Gerald a chicken? Was he Gerald? Did you plant something?

He got out of bed, checking every window, fridge, and closet like a man preparing for an oddly specific war.

When he returned, you were cuddled in the blanket fortress, completely unbothered.

Iwaizumi whispered into the void: "Why would you say that to me."

The next morning, he brought it up over coffee like a man trying to casually discuss a national emergency.

“Hey... um... last night you said something about a chicken coup? And phase two?”

You blinked. “I what?”

“And Gerald. Don’t forget Gerald.”

You laughed. “That’s unhinged. I must’ve been dreaming.”

“Yeah, well. Now I can’t go near a rotisserie without wondering if I’ve made enemies.”

Iwaizumi now triple-checks chicken coop memes for signs of coded rebellion.

He doesn’t know who Gerald is. But he fears he’ll know when it’s too late.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

It was nearing 2 a.m.

Kageyama had just gotten comfortable, duvet pulled up to his chin, the room quiet except for the soft ticking of the clock.

And then—

CREEEAK.

He opened one eye. You were standing.

In front of his closet.

You opened it slowly. Looked inside with the gravity of a priest opening a tomb.

Then whispered, completely monotone:

“This is where I keep my alter ego… Brenda.”

...

He blinked. “Huh?”

You didn’t answer. Just stared into the dark closet.

And added:

“Brenda wears red lipstick and commits tax fraud.”

You shut the door. Got back in bed. And slept peacefully.

Kageyama, however, did not.

He turned slowly to stare at the closet like it personally insulted his family. His entire body froze, unsure whether to scream, pray, or text someone for help.

“Brenda?!” he hissed, trying not to wake you.

He opened the closet cautiously, half-expecting a mannequin in heels or a woman in a red power suit whispering, “You owe me everything.”

But there was only… clothes.

And yet. It didn’t feel right anymore.

Kageyama now sleeps with a volleyball in one hand and a slipper ready to throw in the other. He also googled “how to remove lipstick stains from dreams” and “can closets hold alternate personalities legally.”

The next morning, you stretch, yawn, and ask why he looks like he didn’t sleep.

He says nothing.

Just side-eyes the closet.

And mutters:

“…Brenda.”

SUGAWARA KOUSHI

It was 1:47 a.m.

Sugawara had just drifted off, snuggled under the warm blankets with dreams of mochi and domestic peace. Everything was perfect. Still. Serene.

Until the TV clicked on.

He blinked awake to a soft gray glow filling the room. Static. Pure white noise hissing like a snake in the dark.

And you?

You were standing directly in front of the screen. Barefoot. Eyes closed.

Sugawara sat up slowly. “...Babe?”

You didn’t turn. Didn’t flinch. You just leaned in a little closer, hands relaxed at your sides, and whispered:

“This is how they talk to me.”

...

He screamed. Internally. Like a church boy in a horror movie.

You turned around, eyes still closed, and shuffled back to bed without another word. The TV kept hissing behind you.

Sugawara stared in utter terror.

He grabbed the remote. Nothing. He tried the power button. Nothing. He unplugged it. The screen flickered—finally—off.

He stared at the outlet like it had personally offended him. Then grabbed a bundle of sage from the kitchen drawer (emergency vibes only) and lit it like his life depended on it.

Twice.

The next morning, you woke up refreshed.

“Oh wow, I feel great!” “Yeah,” Sugawara said, looking deeply unwell. “Did you… dream of anything?”

You squinted. “Hmm. Something about… a static broadcast? Weird, right?”

He paled. His mug trembled.

You sipped your tea cheerfully.

Sugawara burned sage again when you weren’t looking.

He has since installed a child lock on the TV.

And prays nightly for “Them” to pick a different channel.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

1:26 a.m. He was up scrolling, glasses low on his nose, earbuds in. Everything was normal.

Then he felt it. Movement.

You.

Shuffling out of bed like a gremlin in a trance.

He pulled one earbud out. “...You good?”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you walked up to him, eyes half-lidded but direct—too direct. You slowly… silently… handed him a single white sock.

And whispered:

“If it moves, run.”

...

He stared at the sock in his hand. Then stared at you. Then back at the sock.

You had already turned and zombie-walked back into bed. Out cold.

Tsukishima, alone in the dark now, holding a cursed sock like it was the Horcrux of Satan, muttered:

“…What the actual f—”

He sat there for a good minute, debating every life choice that led him to this moment.

Then he cautiously set the sock on the floor and backed away like it might sprout legs.

The sock did not move. Yet.

He stared at it for five full minutes, just in case. By 2 a.m., he’d burned it in the sink with kitchen tongs and muttered curses under his breath.

Next morning:

“Kei, have you seen my other sock?”

“No. It's dead. Forget about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

You tilted your head. “You’re acting weird.”

He stared at you. Then at your feet. Then at the floor where the sock once was.

He doesn’t sleep well anymore.

To this day, he avoids the laundry basket like it's cursed. Because what if the sock wasn’t alone?

What if that was just phase one.

YAMAGUCHI TADASHI

Yamaguchi had just reached peak comfort—blankets tucked just right, your leg draped over his, the room perfectly quiet.

Then— You snorted in your sleep. Sat up like a possessed doll. Eyes opened just enough to be terrifying.

And in the creepiest half-asleep voice imaginable, you said:

“He knows we switched the baby.”

...

He blinked.

“...I’m sorry—what?”

You flopped back down without another word. Snored. Like nothing happened.

He lay there stiff as a board, heart pounding.

“Switched the… baby?!”

What baby?

WHO IS "HE"?

Did you two kidnap a child in your sleep? Was it metaphorical?? Is this a code???

He lay awake for the next hour, eyes darting around the room like someone was going to bust through the door with a warrant and a diaper bag.

At 4:27 a.m., he was on Google:

“Sleep talking criminal confessions”

“Can dreams be used as evidence”

“How to unswitch a baby you don’t remember switching”

Next morning:

You stretch. Smile. “Morning, Tads!”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. Cautiously.

Finally:

“...What baby.”

You: “Huh?”

“Last night. You said—‘he knows we switched the baby.’ WHO IS HE. WHAT BABY.”

You blink. “That’s horrifying. I don’t even remember dreaming.”

He just nods slowly.

You sip your coffee like a totally normal person.

He stares at the baby doll on the shelf.

It’s looking at him. He swears it is.

He now sleeps with a night light and checks behind the couch before going to bed.

Just in case.

Because what if it wasn’t a dream?

What if “he” really knows.

HINATA SHOYO

It was 2:47 a.m.

Hinata was dreaming about volleyball and mochi. The night was peaceful. Moonlight spilled gently across the room.

Then, out of nowhere—

You opened your eyes. Sat upright. And in a voice that did not belong to you—deep, rasped, echoing like it had crawled out of a well—you said:

“The bones… are in the closet.”

...

Hinata blinked. “HUH???”

You laid back down. Eyes shut. Completely still.

He froze.

"...Bones?" he whispered.

He looked at the closet.

The closet looked back.

Slowly… cautiously… Hinata climbed out of bed, crept over like he was in a horror film, hand shaking as he reached for the doorknob.

He opened it.

.

.

.

A cockroach ran out.

He screamed. Tripped over a shoe. Fell flat on his back.

The closet swung open wider. Nothing else inside. No bones. No monsters. Just clothes… and shame.

You snored peacefully behind him like nothing had happened.

Hinata stared at the ceiling in silent betrayal. He’d been set up. By YOU. By fate. By the roach.

The next morning:

“You okay? You look like you didn’t sleep.”

“I saw things, [Y/N]. Things you can't un-see.”

You blinked. “Oh. Maybe it was the bug. I dreamed about bugs last night.”

Hinata just nodded slowly.

He now closes the closet with tape every night.

And occasionally whispers back:

“The bones are gone. But the trauma remains.”

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

It was 1:13 a.m. Goshiki had to pee.

Simple mission. In. Out. Maybe brush his teeth, maybe not—who’s to say? The world was quiet, the moonlight soft, his socks comfy.

But as he passed the bathroom, he heard something. A whisper.

A low, reverent, slightly sing-song whisper:

“…Soup time.”

He paused.

He turned.

And there you were.

Sitting in the bathtub.

No water. Lights off. Just you. In your pajamas. Holding a rubber duck gently like it was an infant. Cradling it. Whispering sweet, terrifying nonsense to it.

“Soup time…”

Goshiki stared. You didn’t blink. You didn’t look up.

He backed away.

Step. By. Step.

Closed the door. Slowly. Like in a horror movie.

He went back to bed and stared at the ceiling until 4 a.m., whispering:

“Not my business. Not my duck. Not my soup.”

The next day:

“[Y/N]… were you… in the tub last night?”

You: “Huh? No. Why?”

He just nods. “Right. Me neither.”

He still hasn’t brushed his teeth in that bathroom.

The duck remains. Somehow closer to the drain every morning.

He swears it’s watching him.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

It was 3:33 a.m.

Ushijima slept like a man who trusted gravity and his eight hours.

Until—

You suddenly shot upright in bed. Eyes wide. Moonlight framing you like the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy.

Then, in a voice he did not recognize— Elegant. Crisp. British.

You said:

“The theatre calls… and I must answer.”

Then collapsed.

Limply. Tragically. Like a haunted widow whose fiancé just perished in a horse-and-carriage accident.

Ushijima stared at you, heart pounding.

Silence.

He blinked.

“…Since when do you have a British accent?” he whispered to no one.

No response.

You were already back in dreamland, drooling peacefully into your pillow like none of that just happened.

Ushijima sat there for a full minute. Processing. Possibly glitching.

“…Was that... Shakespeare? Who’s calling you? Where are you going? What theatre??”

No answers. Just the quiet hum of betrayal.

The next morning:

“Do you—do theatre?” he asked over breakfast, like he was afraid of the answer.

You, chewing cereal: “What? No. Why?”

He paused. Stirred his coffee. Quietly mumbled:

“…You lied with accent.”

You: “Huh???”

He just nodded to himself, deeply disturbed. You, apparently, had layers.

And one of them was British.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

It was 2:16 a.m.

Shirabu was halfway through cramming for an exam when he heard the fridge open.

He figured it was you. Midnight snacking. Normal.

Until—

He peeked into the kitchen and saw you standing in front of the open fridge, bathed in cold light, cradling a cucumber like it was sacred.

Then you hissed, voice low and gravelly:

“This one’s got the code.”

He froze.

“…What?”

You turned, eyes glassy, face serious.

And walked away—back to bed—still holding the cucumber.

Shirabu stared after you. Then walked to the fridge, curious, confused, low-key concerned for both your sanity and his.

That’s when he saw it.

On the cucumber. Right under the sticker.

A barcode.

That’s it.

Just a plain old, grocery store barcode.

Shirabu stood there for a second. Processing.

Then sighed the heaviest sigh of his life.

He didn't even bother asking questions.

The next morning, he handed you a slice of toast and muttered:

“You need to stop watching spy thrillers before bed.”

You blinked at him. “I didn’t?”

He stared. Then slowly pulled the cucumber out of the fridge.

You: “Why is that in a Ziploc bag??”

Him: “For containment.”

You: “...Of what??”

Shirabu just bit his toast and walked away.

He's not sure what worries him more: the fact that you sleepwalk… Or the fact that you did it with such conviction.

MIYA OSAMU

It started with missing onigiri.

At first, Osamu thought maybe he just forgot he ate them. Or maybe Atsumu dropped by and did what Atsumu does best—steal without remorse.

But when it kept happening, he got suspicious.

So one night, he waited. Lights off. Arms crossed. Eyes locked on the kitchen.

And right on cue—there you were. Barefoot. Half-asleep. Eyes unfocused. Floating toward the fridge like a snack-seeking phantom.

He watched in horror as you unzipped a bag of rice crackers, whispered, “It’s okay now,” and stuffed two in your pockets before munching on a third.

The next morning, Osamu confronted you, holding up the empty snack bag like a lawyer in court.

“You wanna explain this?”

You blinked at him, groggy. Then sighed, like he was the unreasonable one.

“They were hungry.”

“…They who?”

You glanced at the floor.

Then at the air vent.

And said nothing.

Osamu turned slowly to the vent.

Paused.

“…No. No way.”

You just sipped your coffee, dead silent, looking like someone who’s seen things. Things that crawl. Things that whisper.

He didn’t sleep that night.

He bought an air vent cover the next day. The snacks now live in a locked cabinet. He doesn’t question it anymore.

But sometimes, when it’s really quiet, He swears he hears a crunch.

KITA SHINSUKE

Kita was a light sleeper.

He wasn’t sure what exactly woke him—maybe the creaking floorboards, maybe the distant thump of... jazz hands?

He peeked into the hallway and stopped dead.

There you were. Spinning slowly. Barefoot. Arms raised like a ballerina summoning a weather god.

And whispering, with complete, bone-deep conviction:

“This is how the rats taught me to summon rain.”

You did a final pirouette. Then clapped twice.

Kita blinked.

You turned toward him, eyes closed, nodded solemnly, and walked straight back to bed like nothing happened.

He stood in the hallway for a long moment, lips parted, socks cold.

“…The rats?” he muttered.

It rained the next day.

Not a drizzle. A downpour.

Thunder. Flood warnings. A rogue frog on the porch.

Kita stared out the window, hand gripping his mug like it might float away.

You? You ate cereal like normal.

Not a single mention of rodents. Of rituals. Of rain.

He didn’t ask.

He couldn’t ask.

Because if you answered, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever sleep again.

MIYA ATSUMU

Atsumu had just drifted off when he felt the bed shift.

You sat up—slow, stiff—like something out of a ghost documentary.

Then, in a voice that didn’t even sound like yours, you muttered:

“If I vanish… check under the floorboards.”

Then flopped right back down and started snoring.

Atsumu blinked at the ceiling, eyes wide, frozen. He didn’t breathe for a solid minute.

“…I’m sorry, what?”

The next morning, you acted completely normal.

Too normal. Smiling. Stretching. Asking if he wanted toast.

He didn’t mention it.

But he remembered.

Night two, he tossed and turned.

By night three, he had a flashlight and a crowbar.

By night four, he was in the floorboards.

There was nothing there. No hidden passage. No secret note. No you-shaped hole.

Just dust, a broken pencil, and the faint scent of panic sweat.

He’s stopped sleeping.

Every time the clock hits 3:33AM, he holds his breath.

Because what if this time, you sit up and finish the sentence?

SUNA RINTARO

It was 2:12AM.

Suna got up for water.

He didn’t expect to find you kneeling in the kitchen, arm stretched dramatically toward the base of the cabinet.

In your hand: one single, perfectly balanced Ritz cracker.

Whispered, reverent:

“For the council.”

Suna blinked. Didn’t move.

Three rats emerged from the shadows like they were summoned. Took the cracker.

You gave a solemn nod, murmured, “The pact is sealed,” and shuffled back to bed.

No further explanation. No context. Just rat business.

Suna stared at the empty floor for a long moment.

Then turned around and walked away.

“Not my business,” he muttered.

He hasn’t brought it up. He won’t.

But deep down, he wonders—

What if you're on the council, too?

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

It was 1:47AM.

Kiyoomi was half-awake, scrolling through news articles about bacteria for fun (as one does), when you rolled over and mumbled into the darkness:

“I gave the rats my brain. I don’t need it anymore.”

Silence.

Then your breathing evened out, like you’d just shared your grocery list.

Kiyoomi sat there for a full minute, blinking slowly.

“…Makes sense,” he whispered into the void.

The next morning, you poured juice into a bowl instead of a glass.

Then stared at a spoon like it betrayed you.

He didn’t say a word.

Just nodded. Respectfully. Acceptingly.

Because clearly, the rats had taken over.

And honestly?

"GO AWAY, I LOOK UGLY RN."

Period Comfort With Our Haikyuu Babies

FT. Hinata, Kita, Akaashi, Goshiki, Ushijima, Kageyama, Kuroo, Bokuto, Daichi, Iwaizumi, Kyotani, Shirabu, Sakusa

HINATA SHOYO

You’d locked yourself in the bathroom nearly an hour ago.

Cramps had you doubled over, your mood was in the gutter, and you felt bloated, ugly, and irritable. The last thing you wanted was anyone seeing you like this—especially not him.

Outside the door, Shoyo Hinata paced like a worried puppy.

“Y/N…?” he called gently. “You okay in there?”

No answer.

So, he tried again. “Do you need anything? Water? Chocolate? Me to go fight your uterus?”

Still nothing.

After a moment of silence, a quiet shhfff sound slid across the bathroom floor.

You blinked, turned, and looked down near the door.

A small pack of strawberry Pocky had been pushed through the crack under the door.

“…Shoyo?”

“Just in case you’re hungry,” he replied from the other side. “And if you’re sad. You always eat Pocky when you’re sad.”

You were silent for a while—partly confused, partly touched—when another shhfff noise happened.

This time, it was…a fuzzy pair of boxers.

Steam rose from them.

“What the hell is that?” you asked, leaning toward it like it might attack.

“…I microwaved my boxers,” Hinata said proudly. “So you can wear them and feel warm!”

Your jaw dropped. “Hinata Shoyo. You microwaved your underwear—for me?!”

“YEAH! Not the ones I wore today, okay? They’re clean!! I swear! I just thought—you know—you always say warm stuff helps when it hurts so bad, so I thought…”

You couldn’t help it. A laugh burst out of you despite the dull ache in your stomach.

“…That’s the dumbest and sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you muttered.

You unlocked the door slowly, peeking out with tired eyes and a flushed face.

Hinata stood there with a lopsided smile, holding a heating pad in one hand and another snack in the other. His cheeks were just as red as yours.

“I just… wanna help,” he said sheepishly. “Even if I’m not good at it.”

You opened the door fully and pulled him into a hug.

“You’re more than good at it. You’re the best.”

And in that warm, giggly moment—with microwaved boxers, snacks on the floor, and a sunbeam of a boyfriend—you felt just a little better.

KITA SHINSUKE

Your legs are curled against your chest under a mountain of blankets. The world feels too loud, your body too heavy. Your cramps pulse like clockwork—sharp and relentless—and the heat pack isn’t helping anymore. Neither is your mood.

There’s a knock at your door. Soft. Familiar.

You groan. “Don’t come in. Go away. I look ugly right now.”

Silence. Then, the click of the door opening anyway.

You can’t bring yourself to lift your head, but you recognize his footsteps—quiet, deliberate. The scent of chamomile floats into the room before you even see him.

You peek out from the cocoon of blankets. There he is. Kita Shinsuke. Hair still perfectly combed. Hoodie sleeves pushed neatly to his elbows. Holding a mug with both hands like it’s something sacred.

“You’re not ugly,” he says plainly, like it’s just fact. “You’re in pain. That’s not the same.”

He sets the mug on your bedside table and doesn’t try to touch you. Doesn’t force anything. Just turns toward the messy basket of unfolded laundry near your desk and begins folding—slowly, methodically. Like it’s part of a quiet ritual he does just for you.

You stare, too tired to argue, too touched to say anything.

He doesn’t speak either. His movements are calm, steady. It’s like watching a warm breeze clean your room. Your shoulders start to loosen without you realizing. The throbbing in your abdomen is still there, but somehow, it’s less… sharp.

When the last shirt is folded and stacked, he walks over and sits on the edge of your bed, careful not to shift it too much. He picks up the mug again, now cooled just enough, and gently presses it into your hands. His fingers brush yours—warm, calloused, familiar.

“Drink a little. Then I’ll heat up your pad again,” he murmurs.

You do as he says, because you trust him, because his voice makes the ache in your chest ease.

As you take a slow sip, Kita leans in a little closer. His hand brushes your hair back from your forehead, so softly it makes you want to cry.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “Even when you think you’re not.”

You blink at him, stunned at the quiet certainty in his voice.

He studies your face for a moment—eyes calm, kind. Then he leans in and presses the softest kiss to your temple, lingering there for a second longer than needed. Your breath catches. It’s like everything stops—except your heartbeat, which stumbles in your chest.

You whisper, “Thank you.”

Kita smiles faintly, resting his forehead gently against yours. “Always.”

And for the first time that day, the ache doesn’t feel so heavy. Not with him here. Not when he makes even your worst moments feel worth showing up for.

AKAASHI KEIJI

You were halfway out of bed when it happened— That dreaded, telltale warmth.

Panic set in immediately. Your stomach dropped as you glanced down at the faint crimson bloom on your sheets. You scrambled to fix it, heart racing, trying to move fast, cover it up, clean it—anything before someone—

Creak.

The door opened. You froze, like a raccoon caught mid-crime. And there stood Akaashi Keiji, blinking softly at you in the doorway.

You were hunched awkwardly, half-lifting your blanket, a pillow pressed to your side, and you just… froze. Wide eyes. Stiff shoulders. Total horror.

Akaashi took one look at your face and understood.

You broke first, your voice a whisper, shaky and small. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I just—it's gross and—”

He stepped in without hesitation. “Hey,” he said gently. “It’s okay. It’s normal.”

You turned away quickly, embarrassment burning through your skin. “I just—I didn’t want you to see it.”

He sighed—not out of frustration, but with the kind of softness people use when folding origami.

“Then I’ll close my eyes while I hold you next time,” he said, only half teasing, and you hated that it made your heart stutter.

Still overwhelmed, you slipped out of the room and headed straight for the laundry area, hiding behind the washing machine like a little gremlin. You didn’t even know why—it just felt like the safest place to melt from embarrassment.

Moments later, you heard the shuffle of sheets and footsteps approaching.

Akaashi appeared around the corner with a laundry basket, wearing that same calm, unreadable face he always did—but this time, his voice was warmer than usual. “Let me clean it. You go rest.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he gave you that look. The one that somehow convinced Bokuto to sleep at a reasonable hour.

“You’re tired. And I know your back hurts. Please,” he added.

And you knew he wasn’t asking out of pity. He was offering care, in the quiet, thoughtful way only Akaashi Keiji could.

So you nodded, slowly, and let him take over.

Later, you found him again, curled on the couch with a blanket ready for you. A warm mug in his hands. Lo-fi playing softly in the background, paired with his voice as he read from your favorite book—his tone calm, steady, like nothing awkward had happened at all.

You sank beside him, cheeks still hot.

“Still feel gross?” he asked quietly, eyes flicking to yours.

You hesitated, then shook your head. “Not as much.”

He reached out, brushing your pinky with his.

“That’s good,” he said. “Because you’re not. And I’ll keep reminding you until you believe it.”

GOSHIKI TSUTOMU

You were curled up in bed, hair messy, hoodie oversized, hot water bottle clutched to your stomach. The cramps were rude. The bloating was worse. And your mood? Somewhere between “burn the world down” and “cry over a kitten video.”

When your bedroom door creaked open, you groaned. “Go away. I look terrible.”

Silence. Then—

“Wha—NO YOU DON’T!!”

You blinked, startled, as Goshiki Tsutomu stumbled into your room like a panicked deer. “You’re literally glowing?? Like—like a powerful goddess or something??”

You stared at him, deadpan. He stared back, cheeks going pink like cherry blossom petals in real time.

“I mean—!” he tried again, waving his arms. “I-I just meant, you always look good! Even when you’re, y’know… fighting for your life??”

You raised an eyebrow.

He clutched a plastic bag tightly. “I brought snacks!”

Then—of course—he tripped over your laundry basket.

Half the snacks spilled out onto the floor in slow motion. A pack of gummies hit your shoe. A chocolate bar slid under your desk like it was making a break for it.

He stood frozen, mid-squat, mouth slightly open in silent horror.

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. A small one at first, then a full giggle as he scrambled to collect everything, muttering apologies to both you and the snacks.

“I’m—uh—usually way cooler than this,” he said, red-faced, clutching the surviving chips to his chest like wounded soldiers. “But I just—I wanted to make you feel better, and I read that snacks and compliments help, so—”

You reached out, tugged him gently by the sleeve, and said, “Thank you, Tsutomu.”

He froze.

You gave him a tiny smile. “You're flustered, but you're sweet. And honestly, that’s way more comforting than being too smooth.”

His ears turned red. “S-Smooth is overrated anyway.”

You scooted over, patting the spot beside you. “Come sit, snack guardian.”

He sat beside you like a very nervous golden retriever, still holding the chips, trying very hard not to vibrate with excitement or accidentally touch your knee.

And despite the cramps and bloating, you couldn’t stop smiling. Because in all his awkward glory, Goshiki made you feel like a goddess—even in sweatpants and pain.

USHIJIMA WAKATOSHI

You were flopped across the couch like a defeated warrior, wrapped in a blanket burrito with a hot compress against your stomach and a scowl on your face. Everything felt puffy. Your mood was foul. Your body felt like it was personally betraying you.

So when you heard footsteps approaching, you groaned. “I’m bloated and horrible. Don’t come near me.”

A pause.

Then, in that calm, even tone only Ushijima Wakatoshi could pull off: “Your appearance does not change how I feel about you.”

You peeked out from under your blanket.

He was standing beside you, stoic as ever, holding... a peeled orange. Perfectly sectioned. Not a bit of peel or pith in sight.

“I read that citrus is good during menstruation,” he said seriously, placing it in your hands with utmost care.

You blinked. “Wait—you peeled this?”

“Yes,” he said plainly. “With a spoon. It was... delicate work.”

Your heart did something warm and annoying.

He sat beside you then—not too close, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Strong. Steady. Like a mountain planted at your side.

He didn’t say much after that. Just rested a warm hand against your back, slow and grounding, like an anchor. You didn’t even have to explain how much it helped. He seemed to know, in his own quiet way.

After a while, you muttered, “You’re really not freaked out by all this?”

He looked at you, confused. “Why would I be?”

“I dunno... it’s messy. Complicated. Most guys don’t get it.”

“I don’t fully understand,” he admitted without shame. “But I understand you are in pain. And I want to help. That is enough for me.”

You just stared at him.

Because somehow, that was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to you.

He gently pushed the orange closer. “You should eat. I peeled it with precision.”

You laughed, even though it hurt a little. “You’re kind of perfect, Wakatoshi.”

He blinked slowly. “Only because I’m with you.”

And for once, the pain didn’t feel quite so heavy.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

You were half-buried under a mountain of blankets, hoodie up, socks mismatched, and a microwaved heat pack balanced precariously on your stomach.

Your cramps had declared war. Your bloating was its loyal general. Your mood? Somewhere between “don’t look at me” and “don’t not look at me.”

So when the door creaked open, you groaned dramatically. “Go away. I look ugly right now.”

A pause. Then his voice—flat, mildly confused, completely Kageyama: “You’re literally just lying down.”

You peeked up. He was standing awkwardly in the doorway with a grocery bag and a furrow between his brows. Inside the bag? Snacks, bananas, a heat patch, and... chamomile tea?

You squinted. “Did you look this stuff up?”

He stepped in, muttering, “Yeah. Watched three videos. One of them had cartoons... I didn’t like it.”

Your heart did a small, ridiculous flip.

Kageyama placed the tea on the side table like it was a volleyball trophy, then sat stiffly beside you. He handed you a warm bottle of water like it was part of a ritual. He didn’t really know what to do—but he wanted to do it right. That much was obvious.

“You don’t have to stay,” you mumbled, a little shy.

He frowned. “I want to.”

You stared at him.

He stared at your blanket burrito.

Then, in a very serious voice: “If you need anything... I’ll get it. Unless it’s, like, prescription stuff. Then we need to text someone with a license.”

You bit back a laugh. “That’s... thoughtful?”

He stiffened. “I’m just trying to help. You helped me when I failed that Math test.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t bleed for five days straight.”

His face turned bright red.

There was a loud knock at the door—probably your sibling yelling about borrowing something.

Kageyama stood up like a soldier mid-war. “I’ll handle it.”

You blinked as he marched out, posture tense, voice firm as he told them, “She’s busy. Come back later.”

You heard muffled grumbling. Then silence.

When he came back in, you were smiling.

“Tobio,” you said softly.

He looked over, slightly worried. “What?”

“You’re kinda bad at this... but you’re also kinda great.”

He sat back down beside you, scratching the back of his neck. “Well... yeah. I know. But I’m still gonna try.”

You leaned against him, heat pack between you, and for the first time all day, you didn’t feel quite so gross.

KUROO TETSURO

Your uterus was staging a full-blown revolution, your head was pounding, and your emotions were somewhere between burn everything and cry over nothing.

So when Kuroo Tetsurō peeked in through the door with his usual smirk, your reaction was immediate and primal.

“I feel gross, go away.”

He walked in anyway, waving a bar of chocolate like a white flag. “You’re cute when you’re grumpy.”

You deadpan stared. He paused.

“Okay wait, don’t kill me—here’s chocolate!” He tossed it onto your bed like he was feeding a wild animal.

“I told you to go,” you gritted, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at him.

He ducked with a laugh, catching it midair. “Woah—projectile detected!”

“Oh, shut up with the science jokes—”

Too late.

“You know,” he said, inching closer, “your mood is just Newton’s Third Law in action: for every annoying boyfriend action, there is an equal and angry girlfriend reaction.”

You hurled a slipper next.

It missed, barely.

He gave you a look. “Did you just throw your slipper at me?”

“I’ll throw the other one too if you don’t leave me alone!”

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he set the chocolate properly on your nightstand, sat beside you, and—very gently—reached for your foot.

You raised an eyebrow. “What now?”

“Massaging away the murder vibes before I die.”

You were still glaring... but you let him.

His thumbs pressed against the arch of your foot in slow, soothing circles. He was annoyingly good at it. You hated how fast the tension began to melt.

“I read that foot massages help with cramps,” he said casually, shifting a little to rub at your calf too. “Also, I like touching you. That part’s a bonus.”

You huffed, pulling the blanket over your face. “I hate you.”

He leaned down, kissing your temple through the blanket. “You’ll love me again when the serotonin from the chocolate kicks in.”

Another grumble.

Then, softly, you peeked out. “...You are good at massages.”

“I know,” he smirked. “Physics, baby.”

You smacked him lightly with the pillow again—but this time, you didn’t throw it.

BOKUTO KOUTARO

You were curled up on the couch with a heat pack, blanket hood over your head, and an expression that said: I’m done with this world.

You barely mumbled, “I look like death. Don’t look at me.”

But Bokuto was already there—wide eyes, full heart, and very little understanding of how menstrual cycles worked, but deeply trained for this exact situation.

“NOOOO, YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL EVEN WHEN YOU’RE DYING!!” he cried out dramatically, dropping to his knees beside the couch like you were in a medieval tragedy.

You groaned and smacked a pillow over your face.

Three weeks ago, he’d caught sight of a single bloodstain on your sweatpants and screamed like you’d been stabbed. “BABE?! ARE YOU BLEEDING TO DEATH?! SHOULD I CALL KUROO? OR AN AMBULANCE???”

Since then, you sat him down—twice—and gave him the “Period 101” crash course with printed infographics, diagrams, and a checklist labeled: “THINGS TO DO WHEN Y/N IS IN PAIN (DO NOT PANIC)”

And now? He was ready.

Bokuto gently removed the pillow from your face like it was sacred. “You want the raspberry tea or the mango one? You said mango last time, but you also said raspberry makes you feel loved—”

You blinked.

“I’ll bring both,” he decided, already sprinting off like he was on a game show.

He returned with both teas, a small heating pad, and a pink sticky note taped to the mug that read:

“YOU ARE BRAVE AND AMAZING AND PERIODS ARE SCARY BUT YOU’RE SCARIER 💪❤️ – BOKU ❤️”

You stared at the note.

Then at him—grinning and rocking side to side, eyes expectant.

“Okay,” you said softly. “That’s actually really cute.”

He beamed. “I FOLLOWED THE LIST!!”

You motioned him over with a little wave. He dove beside you immediately, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a large, clingy marsupial.

“I’ll cuddle the cramps out of you,” he declared. “Koala mode: activated.”

You snorted. “You’re the most chaotic comfort ever.”

“Chaotic comfort is still comfort!” he said proudly, then kissed your cheek.

You buried your face in his hoodie, finally able to laugh through the pain.

He stayed like that for hours—occasionally gasping when you shifted or winced (“is it back?! should I karate chop it??”) but never leaving your side, not even once.

DAICHI SAWAMURA

You were curled up under two blankets, hoodie hood up, hair a mess, face pale, eyes tired. Your body hurt, your emotions were a rollercoaster, and the only words that escaped your mouth when Daichi walked into the room were:

“Please, I’m a disaster. Go away.”

But instead of leaving, Daichi Sawamura knelt down beside you with that soft, impossibly patient look in his eyes and said:

“You’re my favorite disaster.”

You groaned into the pillow. “Don’t say sweet things when I look like this…”

“I said what I said,” he replied, standing to his full height like this was some kind of operation he was born for.

And maybe it was.

Five minutes later, he returned with:

Your heating pad (already warm),

A fresh glass of water,

Your meds (right on time),

A snack you didn’t even know you were craving,

And his shoulder.

“Lean on me,” he said gently, tucking himself behind you on the couch and pulling you into his side like a magnet.

You didn’t resist. Couldn’t, really.

You pressed your forehead to his chest and closed your eyes. His arm wrapped around your waist, firm but soft, grounding you even when the cramps made your breath hitch.

“You’re doing great,” he whispered.

“I’m just lying here and not crying.”

“And that’s still brave,” he said, brushing your hair back gently. “Your body’s doing a lot. You don’t have to do anything else.”

You felt yourself melt into him—like your pain got a little lighter just from being near him.

He didn’t make a big deal. He didn’t flinch. He just stayed. And that was exactly what you needed.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

You were curled up on the far end of the bed, hoodie zipped up to your nose, hot pack clutched like a lifeline. Your hair was a mess, your eyes watery, and you were pretty sure you looked like you’d fought a war and lost.

Iwaizumi knocked softly and peeked in. You turned your face away.

“Don’t look at me,” you mumbled. “I feel disgusting.”

He sighed. Not annoyed—never that—but like he was frustrated that you were hurting and blaming yourself for it.

“You’re literally sick,” he muttered, walking in without hesitation. “Let me take care of you, idiot.”

You glared at him half-heartedly from under the blanket. “Rude.”

“I said it with love,” he grumbled, setting a tray down on your nightstand. It had toast, soup, a glass of water, and your painkillers—organized like he was prepping for surgery.

Then he sat beside you and placed a hand gently on your back. You were tense—tight with pain—but his palm was warm, his fingers steady as he rubbed small circles along your spine.

“…Your uterus is a damn menace,” he muttered under his breath, like he could intimidate it into behaving.

You laughed. It was small, breathy, but real.

He looked at you, still serious. “Did you eat anything?”

You shook your head. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes and handed you a piece of toast. “Bite. Don’t argue.”

You opened your mouth to sass him, but he beat you to it with a warning stare. You took the bite.

He gave a satisfied nod. “Good.”

You chewed slowly, his hand never leaving your back, his other hand checking your forehead like he didn’t trust you to admit if you had a fever.

He didn’t coo or fuss. He didn’t hover. He just... showed up. Knew exactly when to speak and when to just be there.

His love was the kind that made you feel safe without needing to ask. Tough in tone, soft in every action.

And when you curled into his chest later, finally full, warm, and less in pain, he kissed your hair and mumbled:

“Still beautiful. Even when you’re annoying.”

You poked his ribs.

But you were smiling.

KYOTANI KENTARO

You groaned, face buried in the pillow, your stomach twisting like it was training for a wrestling match. The cramps hit you so hard, you barely had the energy to reach for your heating pad.

Then—knock knock—your bedroom door creaked open.

“Go away,” you muttered, not even turning to look. “I look disgusting.”

Kyōtani stood there, frozen for a second. He stared at you, disheveled and clearly in pain. His ears turned a little red.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, stepping in. “You don’t.”

You peeked through one eye, just in time to see him drop a small plastic bag onto your desk like it was nothing.

Inside: your favorite chips, a pack of sour gummies, a weird milk tea you mentioned once, and—somehow—your favorite brand of pain relief patch.

You blinked.

“…You went to the store?”

He didn’t look at you. “Was already out.”

That was a lie.

You knew it.

He knew you knew it.

But neither of you said anything.

Instead, he awkwardly stood there, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, hovering like he wanted to help but didn’t know how.

You groaned again as another wave of cramps hit. You clutched your stomach and curled tighter into the blankets, trying not to cry.

That did it.

Kyōtani took off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, silent but sure, like it was instinct. He didn’t say a word, just let you lean into him.

But the pain didn’t go away.

And before either of you could process what was happening, you climbed into his lap, straddling him, face buried in his chest like he was your personal heating pad. You let out a shaky breath and stayed there.

“Wha—” he froze, muscles stiff like he’d been turned to stone. “What are you doing???”

“Shhh,” you mumbled. “It hurts. You’re warm. I’m sleeping here now.”

You passed out within minutes.

He sat there, hands up like he wasn’t sure where to place them, cheeks burning, heart racing like he’d been spiked straight through the soul.

Eventually, his hands settled on your back—carefully, gently. He even leaned his chin on your head and closed his eyes.

“…Idiot,” he whispered softly, barely audible. “Don’t say you’re disgusting.”

Because even like this—messy, tired, pained—you were everything he secretly adored.

SHIRABU KENJIRO

You were bundled in a hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a messy bun, and a heating pad across your stomach like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

Your phone buzzed.

Shirabu: Outside. Open up.

You groaned. Noooo.

You shouted toward the door: "Don’t come in, I look like trash!"

But it was too late. The door opened a crack—and there he was. Backpack slung over his shoulder, hair slightly messy from rushing over, and his ever-present frown on full display.

“I’ve seen you cry over animal videos,” he said flatly. “You’re still out of my league.”

You blinked.

“…You’re annoying.”

“Good. I brought vitamins and warm towels. Don’t waste my effort.”

He walked in and started unpacking like this was a mission. You sat up a little, trying not to grimace from the cramps, pretending to scroll on your phone like you didn’t just feel like sobbing two seconds ago.

Shirabu caught the way you winced and muttered, “Tch. Idiot body. I’ll beat it up if I have to.”

You giggled at that, and he looked away, cheeks faintly pink.

When he finally sat beside you—arms crossed, like he wasn’t here for emotional support—his shoulder barely brushed yours.

And you?

You really wanted to lean on him. Just a little.

But no.

Too embarrassing.

So instead, you scooted just a tiny bit closer. Not enough to make it obvious. Just enough to feel the warmth of his sleeve.

He noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but his arms slowly, so slowly, uncrossed. One hand rested on your blanket. The other tugged you in by the hoodie strings like you were a cat being scruffed.

“…You could just say you want to be held, you know,” he muttered under his breath, placing your head gently on his shoulder.

“I don’t,” you whispered stubbornly, face already heating up.

“Sure,” he said sarcastically, wrapping an arm around you anyway. “That’s why you're basically glued to my side.”

You snorted and sank into him, pretending you were asleep so he wouldn’t tease you further.

But when he leaned down and whispered against your forehead, “Even your trash days are my favorite,” your heart skipped.

Maybe being clingy wasn’t so bad—if it was with him.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

You curled up tighter under the covers, the heating pad already losing warmth and your cramps flaring like they had a personal vendetta. The light knock at your door barely registered.

“Go away,” you groaned. “I look ugly right now.”

The door creaked open anyway.

“I don’t care how you look,” Sakusa said gently, stepping in. “I care that you’re hurting.”

You peeked out from the blanket burrito you had made yourself into. There he stood—messy curls, fresh clothes, a pink mask (was that the one with the tiny peaches?), and a tote bag full of comfort items in his hand.

“Kiyoomi…” you mumbled, embarrassed.

“I brought your favorite snacks. The heat pad. Extra pads, the tea you like, and…” He trailed off, fishing something from his bag. “…the fuzzy socks you said felt like clouds.”

Your eyes watered a little—not from the cramps this time.

He crossed the room, set the bag on your desk, and placed a perfectly folded blanket at the edge of your bed.

“You didn’t have to,” you whispered.

“I wanted to,” he replied, gently placing a hand on your forehead, mask still on. “You're always taking care of others. Let someone take care of you.”

He pulled down the mask slightly—just enough to lean in and press a soft kiss to your temple, then one to your cheek.

“Even when you feel your worst,” he murmured, “you’re still the person I love the most.”

Your face heated faster than your cramps hurt.

You tried to hide under your blanket again, but he was faster—he slipped in beside you, gently pulling you into his chest as he tucked the warm heating pad between you.

“Rest,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Kita’s phone buzzes just as he steps out of the shower, lighting up through the thin film of steam that’s developed as he towels off after his post-fieldwork clean. He finishes drying himself and picks it up, eyes narrowed in curiosity. You never text him while you’re at work.

lover

can you bring me my travel sewing kit?

asap pls 🤲

It’s a strange request, but he obliges, taking it from its customary place on the lower shelf of your nightstand and walking up the street to the general store where you work. The bell on the door dings as he pushes his way in, curious brown eyes scanning the space for you.

“Oh, thank goodness,” you say, emerging from the door behind the register where employees take their breaks. “Shinsuke, come here, please!”

You disappear back into the break room. He crosses behind the counter cautiously, still wary of going into employee-only sections even though he knows rationally that it’s perfectly acceptable for him to be there.

“I thought I wasn’t allowed in here after last time,” he says. The last time he was in the break room was in high school, the two of you a new couple, and you had delighted in convincing him to break rules in ways very unlike the routine-oriented, straight-laced Kita Shinsuke.

“Don’t be cheeky,” you roll your eyes, then consider for a moment. “Well. And don’t let my father see you. Just close the door.”

He closes the door carefully behind him, drinking in the flustered state of you. Your hair is frizzing up around your head like you’ve been running your hands through it repeatedly, your cheeks are flushed down to your décolletage, and you have your left hand clamped over your right shoulder.

“Are you alright?” The last detail has him hovering by you like a mother hen over her eggs, his bigger hand brushing against yours, asking you to show him.

“Yeah,” you blush. “I’m not hurt, you can relax. I just—I leaned over to empty the wastebaskets and myboobsexplodedmyshirt.”

You say this in such a rush that he has to ask you to repeat yourself.

“My. My, uh, chest was too,” you make a curving motion with your right hand and he might be blushing too, now, from the heat of his cheeks. “And the seams burst on the straps of my top.”

He blinks at you.

“It’s such a bad problem to have,” you drop your chin, your words muffled. “I don’t know how, I popped a button off of a shirt last month too. At least nobody was in the store.”

Kita wordlessly lifts the sewing kit.

“Thank you,” you say, all your breath whooshing out of you. “You’re a god. Do you mind holding these for me? Shinsuke?”

As you speak, you peel your hand away from where it’s been clamped, the material of your top sticking to your skin but slowly following, the shredded straps slithering away. You neatly thread a needle, wetting the crimson filament with your lips and making absolutely nowhere in your vicinity safe to look at. The divot between your collarbones is fluttering with your pulse; he could reach out and touch it, put his thumb in that hollow, trace it all the way down to—

“Shinsuke?” You say again, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Shin? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he nods, his voice embarrassingly hoarse. “What did you need?”

“Can you just hold the corner—” you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger. “And the strap so I can pin it?”

He takes the fabric from you, noticing a tremor in his hands that he immediately tries his hardest to squash. The backs of his knuckles brush against your soft, sun-kissed skin. He is going to be in terrible trouble with the father-in-law.

“Am I very red right now?” He asks quietly. You lean back and study him, your perceptive gaze matching his.

“Yes, actually.”

“I thought so.” He sounds resigned.

You stitch up the torn pieces on one side, Kita watching your deft little fingers work with a kind of adoring fascination, and have just pinned the other when the bell dings again, signifying the arrival of a customer.

“Shit,” you swear. “I guess I’ll just—”

“Take mine,” Kita offers immediately.

“What?” You shake your head. “It’s fine! This should hold.”

“Please,” he’s already reaching behind him and grabbing the collar, bunching up the fabric and pulling it over his head. You stare at him, pupils expanding and mouth agape (and thus unable to argue), as he offers it out to you. “I’d prefer you wear this over until you can sew the other than risk anything.”

You're trying to comfort him and tell him its ok, you dont mind, these things happen (never with you. And you assume never to Kita. But its not unheard of, and you consider it flattering in a way?) You're scratching at the nape of his neck, trying to soothe him with praise because you can feel his stuttering breath on your neck and you're kinda afraid he's going to cry because he's shaking like a leaf and his grip on your hips is almost bruising. Then he says - murmurs it into your collarbone, really - "It's never gonna go down if you keep doing that" and you're so focused on his lips moving against your skin that you don't really register the words at first. It clicks, eventually, and you move your hand away from his neck with a bashful "Oh! Sorry."

Osamu will never give him credit 😭🏐

Incorrect quote credit: @kuroos-left-testicle

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GN!reader | Matsukawa, Iwaizumi, Kuroo, Atsumu, Suna, Osamu, Sakusa, Hinata, Tsukishima

CW: suggestive jokes (Matsukawa, Suna, Osamu a little)

MATSUKAWA’s sprawled on the couch, waiting to see the new outfit you bought. You had excitedly texted him before coming home, hiding the contents of your bag as you ran to change. It’s been a few minutes when he teasingly calls out, “You okay in there, babe? Need help?”

“No, actually I don’t, Issei,” you reply before walking out of the master bathroom. You do a slow turn, smoothing out the fabric that seems to hug you in the most perfect way. 

“Oh goddamn.” Issei gets up so fast he stumbles on the rug beneath him and slips onto the wooden floor.

“I don’t know when i’m gonna wear this, but it’s really nice, right?”

“Really fuckin' nice,” he agrees, grinning. “Respectfully and in love with you, I humbly ask, do you want to immediately get out of this and make out right now?”

Your car breaks down right in front of his garage, and you’re already steeling yourself for the usual routine: a sky-high bill, too much time wasted, and a mechanic who barely looks up. Instead, you get Sukuna, who’s so offended by your previous mechanic's scams that he takes it upon himself to teach you enough to make sure it never happens again. Unfortunately for him, fixing your car is a breeze, but getting you out of his head? Not so much.

cw: mechanic!sukuna x f!reader, mostly sukuna pov, sukuna has a crush, yearning sukuna, pining sukuna, sukuna is bad at feelings, kinda slow burn

wc: 10.4k, one shot

notes: based on these two asks: first and second! thank you nonnie for the idea <3

main masterlist ◦ ao3 ◦ sukuna art by @/hunnismokah

It's barely past dawn, and as Sukuna drags the shutters up, the ungodly morning air hits him with a brisk, damp chill, cooling the coffee in his hand. He’s banking on a quiet hour to sort through the mess of inventory, maybe even enjoy the silence, before the first scheduled appointment pulls him away.

Down the road, maybe a hundred meters away, hazard lights blink through the gray mist. A hatchback sits stranded on the shoulder with its hood open. You’re there beside it, looking entirely defeated, with your shoulders hunched as you rub your arms against the biting chill that cuts straight through your jacket. You're pacing in small circles, your breath blooming in white puffs that vanish into the fog.

Taking a long sip of his coffee, Sukuna watches the scene for a beat. It’s obvious that this mess is about to become somebody's problem, and with how close you are to his driveway, that somebody's him. He lets out a resigned grunt, sets the mug aside, and starts the slow, reluctant walk down the slick, dark stretch of asphalt.

-smau, no written contents, vv short-

synopsis: you dated atsumu in hs but broke up a few years later. years have passed since the breakup and he now plays for the msby black jackals, but he still hates you for breaking up with him.

status: finished

introduction: yn & her bfs ✿ tsumu & his bros + yn’s bfs

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

୨୧ chapters ୨୧

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight pt1 | pt 2

nine

ten

hidden kisses- matsukawa issei x reader || wc: 721 || tags: slightly suggestive, making out, small spaces, caught making out, kiss marks, teasing, flirting, || masterlist || taglist form || prompt list

“Issei, someone is gonna find us,” you murmured against his lips. He smiles against your lips and pulls you closer to him. The storage room is dark and cramped as he has you pushed against the furthest wall. You can only just barely make out the outline of his face in the dimly lit room. 

“Yeah?” You can already hear the smirk in his voice as he moves his head to kiss your jaw before trailing down to your neck. “We’ll be fine.” His breath tickles your neck and his hand pushes your shirt up slightly with his hand. 

prove me wrong! directory // haikyuu uni part two - where partners are assigned