you scowl, “how was i being unfair? you lost the game fair and square — the stakes were loser does the dishes.”

kenma sniffs, his nose crinkling at the thought, “but we have a dishwasher — it’s literally in the name —”

“but the nice wine glasses can’t be put through the dishwasher!”

you push yourself up onto your elbows even as kenma slumps back on the sofa, groaning loudly. still, he lets his head slump to one side to stare at the rapidly darkening patch of skin at the junction of your neck and shoulders. there’s something that feels dangerously like desire calcifying in the pit of his stomach and he weighs the pros and cons of leaning forward to give you another good bite.

really, dinner was great, dessert was better but — this.

suddenly, he understands what his teammates had always meant when they’d said they could keep on eating forever, even when their stomachs were full to bursting, even when they thought they’d be ill.

“stupid wine glasses…” he murmurs, leaning forward to prop his chin on your shoulder. you laugh, a soft, breathy thing as you reach out to tug a strand of hair from his low, messy bun.

“but the wine was good, no?”

kenma hums, letting his head loll back and forth, his eyes flickering down once more to the round ring of red now rising against your skin. he allows himself a tiny grin, leaning forward to press a kiss over the tender flesh. he makes note of the way you gasp, soft and expectant, the way your body seems to tense and then go laxed beneath his hands.

“yeah…” he whispers, smirking as he sinks delicate fingers into your hair, gently shifting your head to one side to allow him more access, “guess it was good…”

he presses another kiss to your neck, just slightly below the reddening hickey.

“g-guess? that was — a-an expensive bottle…”

“hmmm…” kenma trails his lips down over your shoulder, tugging lightly at your shirt, the wide collar falling away easily. when he finds yet another patch of unmarred skin, grazing his teeth over it, he feels the way you reach up to fist your fingers in his hair.

“’zume… don’t think you can get out of doing the dishes like this…”

kenma laughs, letting his breath puff out against your skin seconds before he opens his mouth and takes another soft bite. he doesn’t miss the way you whimper this time, doesn’t mistake the hitch in your breath for something like surprise when he knows better — and he knows you best of all.

“not trying to get out of doing it… just… we never specified when the loser has to do the dishes so…” he licks his lips, glancing up at you with a bright, devilish flicker behind his eyes, “i’m just taking my time with the meal. nothing wrong with that, right?”

tsukki.

it is a normal thing, for you to wake up in the morning and find remnants of the night before scattered across your skin like sand dollars littered upon a stretch of beloved beach. and tsukishima is never apologetic — ever.

if anything, he looks upon his work with pride, smirking as you tug at the collar of your shirt, tutting.

“tsukki… i told you not to bite so hard…”

“hmm… sorry, i must’ve forgotten,” he props a cheek on his hand, peering at you over his glasses, his tone the farthest thing from apologetic, “heat of the moment and all.”

you shoot him a reproachful look in the mirror and watch as his grin widens ever so slightly.

“the girls are the museum are gonna have a field day with this.”

tsukishima shrugs, slumping back into the bed with a loud, long sigh.

“dunno why girls have such a weird fixation on other people’s boyfriends. ‘s not like it’s any of their business.”

you tug listlessly at the collar of your button up shirt, resigned to the fact that you’ll never be able to hide the marks properly as you heave another sigh.

“it’s just how we communicate — it’s like… how guys sometimes just need to like… punch it out — or whatever.”

“or whatever?” tsukishima almost chortles, rolling over onto his stomach again. your schedules at the museum only overlap 2 days a week, and the rest of the days, either he’s off or you are. it’s a miracle the pair of you were able to meet in the first place, let alone hit it off like you did.

“yeah. i don’t know how guys communicate,” you say, even as tsukishima swings out of bed to come up behind you, looping his arms around your middle.

“we… don’t, really,” he admits, in a customary deadpan, propping his chin on the top of your head with obscene ease. you frown up at him, tilting your head back till it hits the middle of his chest.

“you’re gonna make me late again.”

“so?”

“so — unless you want me to get fired —”

“they’re not gonna fire you. you’re too good at… cataloging maps, or whatever it is you guys do in the cartography department.”

tsukishima spins you around his arms, pressing you lightly back against the mirror. he considers you for a moment, with eyes just sharp enough to pass for academic interest, but you see the darkness misting its depths, the pressure in his fingertips as he leans in to seal his lips over yours in a kiss that could only be called searing.

you break away gasping, only to feel his lips trail fire down your neck seconds before —

“t-tsukki — !”

he pulls back with a satisfied smirk; you can feel yet another bruise blooming along your skin.

“there. one more thing for you and your girlfriends to bond over, hm?”

kageyama.

it is a deliberate thing, the first time. but kageyama remembers the strange gravity, the tug just behind his navel, the persistent itch of curiosity as he leans forward to sink his teeth into your skin.

he likes the way you hiss, the way you go soft in his arms, the pair of you already a pile of tangled limbs on the massive sectional in the living room, the lights dimmed, half a bottle of red wine yet un-drunk on the coffee table.

“tobio… what —”

he hums, burying his face in your shoulder, fingers digging into your sides.

“… something i wanted to try…”

“hm?” you gently card your fingers through his hair, quirking your head to one side.

“it’s just —” he pulls back, a deep blush prickling his cheeks as he looks anywhere but at you, “something… i’ve wanted to try. for — a while,” he admits, looking shockingly small for a internationally renowned volleyball player, hunched over on the couch like this, his lips stained dark with wine.

you giggle, leaning up to tilt his chin back towards yours.

“sure. you can try whatever you want.”

you lay back, stretching out beneath him, pliant and willing, and kageyama goes still for a solid four seconds before he narrows his eyes, an un-namable hunger clawing at his insides as he pulls you beneath him and groans into your skin.

he likes the way the colors seep the surface of your skin, likes the way it’s so obvious against the bright of your collarbones. he spends all of the following day in an intoxicatingly good mood, to the point where his teammates are understandable suspicious. but he just tells them he slept well, that he had a good dinner last night, that wine was really, really delicious.

and that thanks for the recommendation.

hinata.

brazil has changed him, in more ways than you can count, but at the same time, in some ways, he is just, just the same.

“s-shou-you!”

“mmm —” he whines sucking a deep hickey into the junction of your neck, his pupils blown wide as he pulls back, lips split into a too-pleased grin, “what is it? did i hurt you?”

there’s the barest hint of a tease in his voice, and anyone else might’ve thought he’s completely serious, that he’s actually worried. and in a sense, he is — he’d never want to actually hurt you. but he also knows that — to a certain degree, you revel in this kind of pain.

you chew on your bottom lip, shaking your head.

“no… it’s — it’s okay.”

“yeah?” he sounds entirely too happy with himself as he reaches forward to thumb at the damp spot on your skin, “ah… that one’ll be pretty. just like you!”

he laughs, his joy so pure and infectious that it makes you blush. you look away.

“shou…?”

“hm? what is it, pretty girl?”

he bends back down to press a light kiss to your collarbone, peaking up at you with those would-be innocent eyes.

“don’t… don’t tease me.”

hinata laughs, that self-same, joyous sound.

“but i like teasing you!” he says, with no hint of malice, not a single sliver of shame.

you can only cover your eyes with your arm, turning your head away.

“aww, don’t do that —” he says, coaxing your hand away before pinning both of them above your head with a single, fluid move. your breath hitches.

“don’t hide from me…”

it’s too much to hope for that someone with eyes like his would miss such a thing. you watch as the dark, lightless centers of his eyes grow ever so slightly larger, threatening to overtake the honeyed ring of his actual iris.

“can’t… can’t help it…” you look away, feeling the waves of indomitable heat, wave after wave, washing through you, collecting at the base of your stomach to twist into something deeper, something harder.

“can’t help what, hm?” hinata laces your fingers with his; distinctly, you can feel his thighs flex on either side of your legs, locking you in place. the summers are hot in rio, but you can’t help but wonder if more than half the heat in the room might be coming from the pair of you alone.

all around him, the air wavers like a reflection in pond-water —

“shou… just —” you lick your lips.

“ah…” there’s a soft whine curling at the edge of his voice as he leans down, “you’re not playing fair at all…”

desire pulses like a heartbeat inside you.

“shouyou, please,” you beg, trying to wrest some semblance of control back from him but he’s having none of it. he pins your hands to either side of your head, his bed more than wide enough for the pair of you, with room to spare.

“mah… you gotta be a bit more specific than that,” he says, his voice almost casual as he noses into your pulse point right beneath your jaw. you hold your breath and a second later, the harsh sting of his teeth rakes through you, chasing pleasure down your spine.

“m-more —” you choke out the word against the heat of his lips and you feel rather than see him grin above you.

“i’ll be right back — i need to pee!”

“well pee quick,” he says, voice gravely from sleep as he shoves his face back into his pillows and tries not to mourn the you-shaped emptiness in the bed next to him. he wonders briefly how he’d lived so many years, slept so many nights just by himself in this bed, his body and no one else’s to keep him warm.

he counts backwards from twenty, knowing that by the time he gets to about seven or six, you’ll be crawling back under the blankets, nuzzling into his side. he gets to eight, seven, six —

“there, see?” you shimmy back into his arms and he sighs a sigh that could be misconstrued as exasperated. but you know him well enough (and he knows you do) to know it’s nothing short of absolute contentment.

“mm. sleep,” is his only mumbled reply as he once again buries his face into the soft bend of your neck and breathes.

02.

out shopping, even though he’d made such a fuss about not wanting to go, about how it’s nothing more than a pointless endeavor and only contributing to the economic monster that is capitalism — but the way you press a sundress to your front in front of a full length mirror, the light in your eyes, the bright smile on your lips — it stirs something inside him. it inspires quiet; it inspires… admiration.

you spin around, laughing, clearly delighted to have caught him staring.

“what do you think? does it look good?”

tsukishima purses his lips, schooling his expression back into a frown as he scoffs and casts his eyes up towards the ceiling.

“’s all the same to me.”

“aw… c’mon, you don’t mean that,” you say, twisting back around to tug at the dress, contemplating if it’s worth trying on.

“sure it is. i mean — i’d like you in whatever, so.”

and silently, he thinks that the way you blush at his words is worth the trip… and all the bags he has to carry along the way.

03.

over strawberry shortcake, with two steaming caramel lattes — you humming happily to yourself as you snap one picture after another of the delicious-looking assortment.

“camera eats first!” you declare, snapping your phone shut and reaching out to pick up a fork. you pause over the petal-pink of the shortcake, decorated with three glistening strawberries, the soft white cream light as clouds.

you bite your lips, “ah… it looks almost too good to eat!”

at this, tsukishima sighs, reaching out to stab straight through a strawberry, despite your squeak of indignation and alarm. he wordlessly presses the strawberry to your lips, smirking to himself as he watches the buttercream smear across your mouth before you have the sense to open it and take a bite.

“mm! it’s good!”

“hn. i’d hope so — it was 2,000 yen.”

tsukishima scopes another bite for himself before pausing, his eyes caught on the languid sweep of your tongue across your lips as you try to catch the remaining cream. and, thoughtlessly, almost as if driven by nothing more than instinct and that strange, animal magnetism, he leans forward to swipe a thumb across your lips, pressing the excess into your mouth.

slowly, you close your mouth around his thumb, and he feels the slight pressure of your tongue against his skin. he swallows; you suck, letting his thumb go with a slip pop that leaves tension swelling in his chest like an overfilled balloon.

later, caught just outside the cafe, with his fingers curling into your hair, tilting your head up to meet his — tsukishima thinks that there are some things, perhaps like the strawberry shortcake, too lovely to devour. and then — there are some things, perhaps like your lips, entirely too lovely not to.

04.

after practice, when the moon hangs heavy in the mid-summer sky and the cicadas are singing loud enough to shake loose the stars — tsukishima leans back against your legs, his head falling into your lap as you reach down to slip off his glasses.

“so… how was the training camp?” you ask, tracing your index finger along the high bridge of his nose.

“tiring. the little orange dolt thought it’d be a good idea to break in —”

“break… in?”

“yeah, he just showed up and — i dunno — prayed that no one would notice that he wasn’t invited. idiot.”

your laughter is summer-sweet and full-bellied, and it has you tipping back on your couch with your fingers still tangled in tsukishima’s slightly shower-damp hair.

“it’s — it’s not funny!” tsukishima twists around, frowning hard enough for you to burst into another fit of giggles, reaching forward to run your thumbs along the ridges between his furrowed eyebrows.

“i mean… i think it’s pretty hilarious. that takes balls, doesn’t it?”

tsukishima huffs, swiveling back around, shoulders hunched as he grabs for the remote and clicks on the tv, switching through channels at light-speed. his glasses lay forgotten on the sofa next to you.

“or he’s just too stupid to think about the consequences.”

you reach forward with an indulgent smile, looping your arms around his wide shoulders.

“oh, c’mon… cut him some slack. not everyone can be as tall, handsome, and talented as you are, right?” you say, nuzzling into his cheek even as he swats half-heartedly at you.

“quit it.”

you giggle, hugging him all the tighter until he spins around, pinning your wrists above your head with a speed not usually associated with someone of his height. he hovers over you, his head cocked to one side.

“oh yeah? and what’re you gonna do for your tall, handsome, talented boyfriend to make him feel better after such a stressful day at camp, hm?”

you hiccup, lashes fluttering as he bears down over you.

“i — ts-tsukki —!”

“hn. wrong answer — two more chances.”

you press your lips and glare at him with what you hope is a reproachful air. tsukishima only smirks, shaking his head even as he bends down to press into your space, your chests pressed, his body covering yours and then some. his lips brush the lobe of your ear and he revels in the way you shiver.

“fine line between stupidity and courage, i’d say… don’t you agree?”

05.

before the game with shiratorizawa, with his brand new glasses, and his head bowed low.

“don’t be scared,” you say, reaching down to link his fingers with yours. they’re so long, so strong. the palms peppered with calluses.

tsukishima scoffs, “i’m not scared.”

you smile, rocking up onto your very tip toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips. luckily, tucked behind a large column, around the corner to a deserted corridor, no one is there to see.

“you’re not a very good liar,” you say, falling back onto your heels, peering up at him as he stares down at you with slightly narrowed eyes. then, he bends forward to trap you against the column, his breath hot along your lips.

“and you’re gonna make me late for warmups.”

he pulls back at the last second, leaving you breathless. but the smile that dangles from his lips is less sanctimonious than usual. he reaches up and flicks at your forehead when you make no move to follow him.

“i’m not scared, i’m nervous. but… i guess seeing you in the stands would make that a bit better.”

you bite down on your bottom lip, linking your hands behind your back.

“well then, what are we waiting for?”

06.

after the shiratorizawa match, when everyone is still running high on adrenaline, puffy-eyed with happiness, you bound down to meet him, skidding to a halt just outside the giant gymnasium doors. there are bandages on his fingers and sweat dripping down the tip of his nose.

his cheeks are pink with exhaustion, but his eyes are clear and bright and wanting.

“guess you didn’t have any reason to be nervous after all,” you say, trotting up to meet him as the rest of the team parts around the pair of you like water around a river rock. yamaguchi glances over his shoulder even as he herds hinata and kageyama away, the pair bickering over this or that.

tsukishima crinkles his nose, but his eyes narrow at the sight of the redness beneath your eyes. he reaches up his uninjured hand to trace along the dried tear-tracks along your cheeks.

“what’re you crying for?”

you sniffle, shooting him a glare.

“just because you weren’t scared doesn’t mean i wasn’t either — but you won — so that’s all that —”

he quiets you down with a kiss, standing there, in the open gymnasium hallways, the chattering of hundreds of students ebbing around you both. distantly, you can swear you hear tanaka whoop, only to be cut short by what sounds like sugawara smacking him painfully upside the head.

tsukishima frowns as he pulls back, “y’know… i’d prefer if your mind wasn’t on other things when i kissed you.”

“wh-what — i wasn’t —”

his lips thin into his trademark smirk as he tugs your chin towards him with two fingers, his hold more gentle than it looks.

“hm… seems like you’re not a very good liar either but… guess i don’t really mind that much.”

your retort dies on your lips as he leans down again, and this time, you don’t think about how the pair of you are still standing in the middle of a very visible hallway, how people are probably starting to stop and stare.

“hey there, mr. ceo.” you smirk, twisting round to run your fingers through his hair, tugging out the loosening hair tie and cocking your head. kenma huffs, crinkling his nose, shaking his head as you continue to comb through his hair with your fingers.

“i hate it when you call me that.”

“mm, then… what would you prefer? mr… streamer boy? mr. stock trader? oh — i’ve got it! mr. simp-man.”

kenma scoffs, jerking forward so that you’re trapped against the hard edge of his gaming desk, his arms locking you to him. he’s grown since high school, but even so, his lithe build betrays the strength still hidden within his limbs from the endless hours of training, of playing.

“there’s no winning against you, is there?” he asks, his voice muffled by your skin, and you bite back a groan at the way he’s trailing his lips along the hard ridge of your collarbones. he peers up at you, a sharp, feline glint to his eyes, a hand reaching out to set your half-drunk beer on his table before hoisting you up with one arm. you squeak, the gesture taking you by surprise even as he carries you to the futon set up in strategically in the corner of the game room, put there for the nights when you’d lie there and watch him stream, when you’d close your eyes and let the rgb lights flicker across the backs of your eyelids like the northern lights, like so many midnight rainbows.

“well… seeing as you’re winning in so many other aspects in life,” you say, your voice nothing more than a sigh as he lays you down, fingers already tugging at the thin straps of your dress, “a little losing here and there might do you good, hm?”

“mm…” kenma hums, contemplative, even as he leans back and runs an appraising eye down the length of your body, “i mean… i did let kuroo talk me into joining the volleyball club back in highschool so… i guess you can say… in my own way… i’m sort of a sucker for punishment.”

tsukki.

“ah… that looked like a brutal practice,” you say, peering around the bathroom door. the sound of water splattering down skin echoes wetly through the enclosed space.

“aren’t they all?” tsukishima drawls, setting down the large wooden bath ladle to squint at you through the hazy mist. his glasses lie fogged and forgotten, set to the side.

you smile, slipping into the room with a fresh towel.

“i’ve got miso soup being warmed on the stove and an icepack in the freezer. take your time though — o-oh!”

a pair of arms reaches out to pull you down, and you barely catch yourself on the edge of the large wooden bath.

“t-tsukki! what —”

“it was a brutal practice.”

you barely hear the smirk in his voice as he sighs and props his chin on your thigh, the water from the bath staining you thin dress in seconds. you fight the urge the roll your eyes, reaching down to run your fingers through his damp hair, absently massaging at his scalp.

its rare to see him like this — rarer, even, to see him so openly vulnerable, even if there’s still the barest hint of a tease lurking beneath the tired rhythm of his voice, his breathing. like this, his long lashes are daggered into points by the steam, his normally pale skin made even more so by the bright bathroom lights.

through the water, you can see the new bruises blossoming along his thin legs, the old ones barely fading. thoughtlessly, you lean in and dip your hand in the water to trace a finger along one particularly large one at his right knee.

“what happened?” you ask, though you basically already know the answer — practice for a v2 league team happened. still, tsukishima glances down at the bruise with an oddly disembodied gaze and shrugs.

“dunno. dove to save a ball a few times.”

you laugh, tilting your head to one side as he leans back to press his cheek to your now damp thigh.

“wow, in practice? other team must’ve really pissed you off.”

at this, tsukishima crinkles his nose and scoffs. you hike an expectant eyebrow and wait.

“the jackals were over for a practice match.” his voice is clipped, but you feel your own laughter bubbling up in seconds. of course.

you bite back a giggle, “and… did you guys win?”

he glares up at you, eyes narrowed, “they’re a division one team. what do you think?”

“hm… but i thought hinata’s been off with a rolled ankle so…”

again, he scoffs, “that team’s plenty of other players who are just as annoying.”

you clamp down on your bottom lip, “wow. high praise.”

he whacks at the surface of the bath, splattering your dress even as you break into a bright peal of laughter. you reach down to flick him with a bit of water as well but he catches you wrist in his, fingers wrapping around your arm, the warm bath water slicking down your skin in thin rivulets, dripping off your elbow. you gasp, heart suddenly thrumming behind your eardrums.

the lopsided, slightly sadistic smile that slits his lips is stomach-twistingly familiar.

“tsukki… there’s miso soup —”

“mm. think i want something else for dinner instead.”

the low murmur of words is the only warning you get before you’re pulled bodily into the warm bath, the water soaking your dress, making the material cling to your skin in seconds. you squeak against his lips, rough and insistent and just a little pleading. you know it’s futile to struggle, so you let him kiss you, his teeth digging into your bottom lip as you groan, your fingers finally finding purchase along the slick skin of his shoulder.

“you — you’ve ruined my — my favorite dress…”

“hn.”

tsukishima doesn’t look at all bothered by your admonishment, shrugging, “it’ll dry.”

water sloshes over the side of the bathtub, now dangerously full with the both of you soaking in it’s steaming depths.

“was it really that bad?” you ask, affecting your voice into a soft coo, trailing wet fingers over the soft of his cheeks.

“if i say yes,” he asks, peering down at you as a lepidopterist might study a new specimen of rare, and newly captured butterfly, “would you try to make me feel better?”

you lick your lips, feeling your mouth go dry, despite being literally submerged in water.

“depends,” you say, “on if you’ll let me go turn off the stove first — wouldn’t want the miso soup to burn.”

tsukishima rolls his eyes, fingers tightening around your wrists, pulling you closer. there’s a dangerous light flickering behind his eyes; a dull ache pulses at the base of your stomach, singeing up your spine as you tip forward for another long kiss.

“thought i said already… i don’t think i really want miso soup for dinner anymore.”

hinata.

there’s a certain magic in watching him play — the way he treats every win like his first, or his last. the way the world seems brighter right around his edges, as if his own shimmer and shine might infect the universe if it would only let him.

he is incandescent with joy after the olympic qualifier games — scoring a ticket is no mean feat, and it’s not every day that you see bokuto cry.

“congrats, shouyou!” you’re one of the first to greet him after the press stint (and a shower), but you can still see the brilliant, glazed look to his eyes that tells you he’s still riding his high. his smile is wide enough to split the sky as he spots you, jogging over to hoist you up into his arms, spinning you round with almost comical ease.

“haha — thanks!”

he leans up for a kiss, one that’s sweet as it is heady. when you pull apart, you are still weightless, and his smile shines like a smile on pause — it makes you want to unpause it, and watch it unfurl.

you trace the pads of your thumbs along the tiny freckles dotting his cheekbones — souvenirs from his time in brazil.

“so! are you gonna come watch us?” he asks, making to walk down the decidedly not deserted hallway with you still in his arms. you blush at the thought, giving his shoulders a slight squeeze.

“shouyou… you can put me down now — and of course i’ll come! it’s not everyday that your boyfriend makes it to the olympics.”

several people chuckle as they watch him parade passed, you still firmly held aloft, your elbows propped on his shoulders to give you some semblance of balance. your cheeks burn as hinata hums, waving at a fellow teammate, reaching out for a fist bump.

“shou…” you fight the urge to bury your face in his shoulder as he finally rounds a corner into a much more private hallway. he grins, completely unabashed, as he pushes through an unmarked door to a what seems to be an empty locker room. it’s sparse, but well-lit and quiet.

“hm?”

he sets you down on one of the benches and drops a quick kiss onto your shoulder.

“i could’ve walked…”

“didn’t feel like putting you down,” he says, his voice dropping in register and taking on that darker, baser veneer — you hear the frayed edges, the sandstone texture, a tell-tale sign of a deep-seated hunger. a very specific brand of shouyou-flavored want.

“n-ngh —” you make a soft noise as he dips down to nuzzle into the dip of your collarbone, a tiny groan festering up the back of his throat as he sighs.

“been thinking about this…” his fingers dance up your sides, light enough to tease, but solid enough to remind you of just how close you both are to a ruthless press and the oogling public.

“sh-shou let’s wait —”

hinata whines, shaking his head, his hair tickling at the skin of your neck, “don’t wanna.”

and you sigh, weighing the option of pushing back or giving in. each has dangers and merits, but you know better than most that when hinata gets like this, indulgence is usually the only answer that will satisfy.

“plus… i just won a ticket to the olympics! don’t you think that deserves some kind of —” he casts around for a good enough word, pulling back with a smile that, in the right kind of slanted, locker room light, might just look like a smirk, “reward?”

you cock your head and blink up at him, letting your fingers tangle in the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck, “what? the olympics ticket wasn’t enough of a reward for you?”

at this, hinata pouts, pushing his bottom lip out far enough for you to lean forward and bite it. the movement makes him groan, his whole body tipping forward to cage you back against the row of cool, metal lockers.

“you shouldn’t do that if you don’t think you can finish the job,” he says, pulling back just far enough for the heat of his breath to fan across your spit-slick lips. you lave your tongue across them, shifting beneath him as he cocks his head to stare down at you, his eyes wide and dark and misty.

“and… what job might that be?” you ask, breathless even as he dips down again to catch your lips in his, reaching down to tug you bodily up the length of the lockers before pinning you in place. once upon a time, it was easy to forget how strong he is — but now, it’s even easier to spot the stretch and flex of muscle beneath his sun-kissed skin, feel the strength of them as he holds you still with a single hand, the other tugging down the neckline of your top.

“mm… the job —” he skims his teeth across your skin; you gasp, eliciting a small, satisfied chuckle from him, “of being an olympic athlete’s girlfriend, of course!”

kageyama.

it is never the losing, and always the aftermath, and by now, you know the shades and slivers of all his specific kinds of silences so intimately that you know without him having to say how the practice match had gone.

“hey.”

you greet him by the door with a soft, placatory kiss. he grunts, toeing off his shoes before dipping down to wrap both his arms around you and pull you close. you let out a breathy laugh as you feel his nose digging into the curve of your shoulder.

“want some dinner?” you ask, reaching up to stroke his sweat-soaked hair even though you already know the answer.

“later,” he says, making no sign of wanting to let you go. instead, when you try to pull away, he leans down and scoops you up to place you on top of the kitchen island, slotting himself between your knees, and re-burying his face in your shoulder.

“then…” you let your voice trail off, feeling the exhaustion pour off him in waves. you dig your fingers into the tense line of his shoulders and feel them tighten up before they fall slack again. for a few minutes, he contents himself with letting you massage the worst of the knots from his shoulders.

“hn.” he lifts his head only to lean forward and find your lips with his. the kiss is slow and just a bit tired — as sweet as it is thorough. in the beginning, you’d worried that dating someone like kageyama would end up being the kind of short-lived thing that all the tabloids and magazines had warned you about — that he might grow bored after a week, a month, maybe half a year. after all, someone like him, with that insatiable need for more wouldn’t be suited for the kind of so-called ‘domestic bliss’ as it’s prescribed of most long-term relationships. but he’d surprised you, in more ways than one. he’d not only not grown bored, but had seemingly become ever more… entranced.

the pair of you had grown into each other, each day steadily getting closer. until the space the two of you shared became so inextricably linked there’s no telling who’s breath was caught in each of your lungs, of who’s scent it was that lingered in the fine linen lining of all your pillows and sheets. it’s become your’s. in the most cliche way possible.

kageyama contents himself with kissing you, breaking for small breath, and then kissing you some more. one kiss falling into another, and another, and another. till you’re breathless in just way he likes, till he’s breathless, in the way that he gets sometimes during a particularly intense rally. he knows he’s sweat-sticky and probably stinks of the gym, but the way you smile up at him when he pulls away makes his whole body go soft.

“let’s take a shower before dinner,” you say, tracing a finger along the shell of his ear. he bites back a frown.

“not a bath?”

you laugh, shrugging, “we could — but the food’ll go cold.”

“we’ve got a microwave.”

you smile, a smile that inspires — no, demands — another kiss. and so he does. you make a tiny, exasperated noise but don’t make to pull away. kageyama reaches down to pick you up, settling your thighs on either side of his hips as he maneuvers the pair of you towards the bathroom.

“food’ll be there when we’re done,” he mutters, gently placing you down on the side of the bathtub and reaching over to turn on the hot water. the steam rises in thick sheets from the surface of the water, and already, kageyama can feel his limbs loosening at the thought of a nice, long soak. he catches you watching as he strips off his practice clothes.

“see something interesting?” his voice is so measured you’d never know he’s teasing, save for the tiniest hint of mischief in his eyes. you blush and look away, tugging off your own clothes in an attempt to distract yourself. the water sloshes around his ankles as he steps into the bath, and you join him a second later, curling up against his chest as he winds his arms around you, the pair of you settling against each other like nesting spoons, cut perfectly for each other’s every bend and curve. or perhaps like russian dolls, one encasing the other — wholly and completely.

“when’s practice tomorrow?” you ask, turning to watch him lean back, his eyes falling shut to the soft trickle of water over skin. you know the answer, and so does he. but he shifts and answers you anyway.

“not till noon.”

“good,” you say, turning back to rest your head on his shoulder, “we can have a proper breakfast.”

“we always have a proper breakfast.”

you laugh, absently walking your fingers up the length of his bent leg, drawing tiny circles on his exposed knee, poking out of the water like a pale island amidst the green-tinted water.

“i can grill mackerel tomorrow — i’ll have the time.”

outside, the moon is white and full with love, the sky bloated with countless shimmering stars. inside the gentle quiet of your home, kageyama leans forward to trail a kiss to the bend of your bare shoulder; you reach back to cup his cheek. when he turns your face for yet another kiss, it is sleepy and happy, long and lazy. full, weighted, soaked through with the kind of surrender only known to those who love and are in love.

“the food’ll really be cold —” you gasp, twisting away from kageyama’s growingly insistent lips, “if we keep going like this.”

“f-fuck —” kageyama nearly keens as you swirl your hips, his own kicking up into yours, nearly bouncing you off his cock as you hiccup, head tossing back. he digs his fingers into the flesh of your hips, hissing as he forces you back into a semi-coherent rhythm.

“th-there you go — that’s — that’s good —”

it shouldn’t be this hot — seeing you riding him in his old high school jersey, facing away from him towards the mirror propped at the foot of his bed, but then again, he’s always had a thing for you in his clothes. how the sleeves are always too long, how no matter what it is, it always seems to swallow you whole, how the knowledge of your body inside something that is so intrinsically his makes his stomach tense, his mind spin, his cock throb painfully. so painfully.

because it makes him think of being inside you — of fucking you silly with nothing but his jersey on, of pinning you beneath him, your hair splayed out over his sheets, of the color of your skin contrasted against the dark of the material, of his number printed along the ridges of your spine, marking you as his. just his.

“to-tobio — tobio —” your voice is a wreck from how hard he fucked your throat when he first got home to find you, stretched out on his bed, his old jacket slung over your shoulders like an afterthought. it’s cold, you’d said, smiling up at him, smiling that knowing smile because of course you knew. how could you not? how could you have imagined this night going any other direction, when you’d purposefully picked out this jersey of all his jerseys?

“t-turn around — i wan-wanna see you…” he whispers, pulling himself up to wrap his arms around your middle, to press his hands to your stomach, to feel himself pushing up into you, making you keen, your head lolling back onto his shoulders as his name breaks over your lips like prayer.

you’re soft and pliant in his arms as he slowly turns you around, you whining when he briefly pulls his cock from you, the sound making him smirk as he teases at your soaked folds, amusing himself briefly with the thought of edging you till you cry but —

“please tobio — please —”

tonight is not the night, so he nods, letting out a thick moan as he thrusts back into you with a single, fluid motion, letting his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs as he hoists them over his hips. your ankles lock at the base of his spin as you rut up against him, fingers scrabbling at his biceps, begging for more for harder for faster, faster, faster!

he feels your juices slicking down the front of his thighs as he fucks you and he resists the urge to pull out just to bury his face between your thighs for a taste.

“t-tobio — tobio! i-i’m so —”

“hm — ngh —” kageyama drops one hand to the mattress by your face, all coherence gone, stolen from him by the sight of you, so fucked out beneath him, so desperate for release, and yet so helpless to get there. he grins, a hungry, roguish thing as he leans down to press a sloppy kiss to your lips, licking into your mouth, swallowing down the little mewls and moans bubbling up the back of your throat. he feels your closeness, feels it in the way you clench around him, your entire body shuddering as he pounds into you, deep enough to be almost painful, deep enough for you to squirm beneath him even though you know that it’s a futile struggle.

he holds you close, pins you still, “s-so what, hm?”

and he’s not unaffected, you know he isn’t — how could he be? after all this, after the way he’d frozen in the doorway, the way he’d dropped his sports bag, crawled onto the bed and caged you in beneath him, kissed you with a vicious, mounting hunger behind his teeth. he doesn’t like to pretend, so he doesn’t.

“so f-full —”

he lets out a ragged gasp, buries his face in your shoulder as his hips jerk against you, forcing a hand between your bodies to thumb sloppily at your clit, his fingers sliding in the wetness gathered there, unable to find purchase.

“goddamnit — fuck — c-close —” he is breathless, mindless, his whole body buzzing with the pleasure, the warmth, the twist and burn of the familiar tightening coil, but he pulls back to look at you, to find your eyes in the darkness, framed by tear-stained lashes, your pupils blown wide and dark. he sees himself reflected there, sees the way you search his face for the same things he searches for in yours — for a thread, a grounding, anything to hold on to as he finally finds your clit and runs tight circles around it, making you keen in pleasure.

your head tips back, your body drawn taut as you come, and kageyama feels his own orgasm punch through him like a wave, crashing against the jagged edges of his crumbling desires. he groans, gasps, reaches for a breath he knows he will not find and latches onto your lips instead.

you kiss for what feels like centuries.

when you finally break apart, both of you are panting, your bodies more liquid than solid, your thoughts more breath than air. he rolls off you, pulling you into him all the closer, curling you into his chest even as you groan out something incoherent about being too sensitive, about all of this being a mess, about the sheets —

“fuck the sheets,” he murmurs into the back of your neck, unable to muster a full frown as you twist in his arms to face him, his jersey still somehow wrapped around your body, though now it resembles nothing more than very rumpled muffler, twisted around your middle.

“no, don’t fuck the sheets,” you say, crinkling your nose as you nuzzle into his chest, attempting to get comfortable without having to take the jacket off, “we don’t have time to do laundry tomorrow.”

“i could just fuck you again instead,” he says, though the sleepiness eating at his limbs says otherwise.

“do it tomorrow,” you say, your voice already drifting, and then, “i’ll pick a different jersey to wear.”

kageyama laughs, reaching down to tug the blankets up around you both, pressing a kiss into your hairline.

“do the olympic one — that ones nice.”

“why not your ali roma one?”

“cause…”

you pull back slightly to look at his face, and even in the dimness of his room, you can see the blush crawling up his cheeks.

“cause?”

you lean back in, tracing a finger along his lips even as he scowls, fully this time.

daichi.

the first time he sees you, he’d… well, he had doubted. because, you see, he’s never been one for fairytales but you were the new hire at suga’s school and he’d seen how good you were with the kids, how they adored you, and he thought that maybe, just maybe, he could adore you like that too. and he did — still does, in fact. he’d known later that night, when suga had dragged him to an after school thing, shoved him down at the table and ordered a round of drinks, though daichi’s sure he’d already been drunk on the sound of your laughter, bright and sparkling and champagne sweet. he’d known later that week, when you’d shown up outside the station with a colorfully wrapped bento and the sweetest smile, saying something about having made too much food the night before, and that the station’s on the way to work anyways. he’d known then that you were the one, the only one for him. and you see, daichi’s never been one for fairytales but he does believe in magic — there’s the magic of meeting, the magic of knowing, and so much the magic of falling in love. and he wakes up every morning, smiling, knowing that he’ll taste that same magic every moment of every day, because he gets to spend all those days and all those nights with you.

sugawara.

the first time he sees you, he knows you’re the one — he knew like he’d always known himself, implicitly and without question — he knew, and he told everyone in the world — except for you. of course, he could never tell you — not yet, not till he’s gotten it perfect, the perfect confession, the perfect day, the perfect time — except a part of him also knows that there’s no such thing as perfection (except, of course, for you) and that all he’s doing is stalling and sure, even tsukishima had called him out on it but he’d convinced himself that not yet. it takes three months for him to ask you out on your first date. and three days after that for him to have a wedding fully planned in his head. the first time you kiss, you kiss him, and he can’t really remember what the pair of you were doing but he can remember it was cold — it was winter, and then suddenly, your lips were on his and he wasn’t cold anymore. he wasn’t anything anymore other than happy — so, so stupidly happy. he knew then, like he’d known for so, so many days and months before, that you were the one. the kiss — well (so he tells you later on, many years later), the kiss just sealed the deal.

tsukishima.

the first time he sees you, he knows you’re the one — of course he doesn’t tell anyone or do anything about it, because there’s no reason to make a fuss, is there? he knew like he’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he’d never really be able to give up volleyball, that he loved it and loves it still. he knew, but knowing and acting on the knowing are two totally different things and see — he had no reason to think he and you might have anything in common, him with his quiet, museum-job, you with your summertime smile and sun-bleached hair, powdered sugar dusting the front of your apron as you greeted customers at the sweets shop down the street from the museum. he’d never had a beignet before he met you and yet — the first time he takes a bite, he thinks he might start to believe in love at first sight. when you ask him what he thinks, it takes everything in his power not to say i think i might be in love with you. he doesn’t say that, of course he doesn’t — he says something else he can’t remember, something casual and nonchalant, but you’d grinned like he said what he meant to say anyway. he takes another bite of the beignet and licks his lips. there’s powdered sugar everywhere and he finds that he doesn’t really mind.

osamu.

the first time he sees you, you’re talking to his twin brother. and it’s not a strange thing, atsumu’s always been the more outgoing on of the two, but he pauses nonetheless, pauses to stare even though he knows it’s rude, but… well, he can’t really help it. not when it’s you. and then atsumu is laughing and introducing you to him, saying something about you being the new assistant manager of the team but osamu’s entire world shrinks to the size of this counter, of a bowl of rice and the white of your teeth as you stretch your lips into a smile. the shop isn’t open yet, and you help him with tea. the whole team is there but osamu doesn’t remember a single thing anyone says — he just remembers the smooth of your skin when your leg had brushed up against his under the table. he remembers thinking then — ah, this is it, isn’t it? and so, it had been. it takes a week for atsumu to figure it out, and by then, osamu’s already taken you on three different dates to three different places. you’d laughed when he told you later on that atsumu had been pissed because apparently, he’d thought you were cute first. but you’d shaken your head, taken his hand in yours and swung them between your bodies, saying that y’know, the first time i saw you… i knew it’d be you.

atsumu.

the first time he sees you, you’re walking out of his brother’s shop — there’s a grain of rice at the edge of your lips and he nearly bumps into you because he can’t stop staring. he leans in to flick the rice grain off your face before he even knows your name, and that is how he knew. your blush had been too cute, your wide-eyed surprise to sweet for him to let go of. the rush of adrenaline making his whole body feel heady and light, the weight of the summer sky draped across his shoulders. he smirks, cocks his head, asks if you’d like another drink — on the house. he never imagined you might say no — and you don’t. atsumu’s never told anyone he believes in love at first sight — he’s never needed to. osamu has always known. they’d found volleyball together, hadn’t they? and hadn’t that been a decided thing too? the second he landed his first ace, he had known. and so, he claims, it had been like that with you. he’d ducked back into the shop, met osamu’s eyes, slung an arm around your shoulders and grinned. he knew, and you too, you’d known, even though it had taken him a while to coax it out of you, but he says the way you smiled gave it away. and maybe it did — not that it matters. he’d seen you that afternoon, coming out of his brother’s shop and he’d known there’d be no one else but you.

daichi.

he wakes up early — he cooks you breakfast; he doesn’t tell you about the hundred or so texts he’d sent the rest of his team trying to crowdsource what exactly to make you that day. there are flowers on the bedside table and a glass of your favorite juice on the breakfast tray and the apartment smells like cinnamon and waffles and the slightly burnt edge of toast. he wakes you up with a kiss, a smile, a whispered happy birthday; he doesn’t tell you about the three minutes he’d spent at the bedside, counting your even breaths like counting stars — one, two, three — twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two — he doesn’t tell you about the way he’d ghosted his finger along the bend of your cheek, bit his own lips as he bends down to kiss you, hesitating just a second to swallow back his heart, thudding at the back of his tongue, threatening to leap from his mouth to yours. your smile is radiant and sweet enough to evoke the jealousy of honey-bees as you open your eyes and see him, and he thinks that he might like to wake you up like this every day, birthday or not — because he’d never tire of kissing you awake, of beginning his day with the length of your smile.

sugawara.

he spends the whole day pretending that it’s a day just like any other, grinning over his morning coffee (thank god your birthday is on a weekend this year), nodding towards your cup, ready-made and steaming, one cream and two sugars, just like every other weekend morning you’d spent together. he hums as he flicks through his phone, asking what you’d like to do, interrupting you with a mild exclamation that “ah! we need to go grocery shopping! we’re out of onions and there’s only one sweet potato left!”, leaning down to give you a swift kiss before sweeping off to get changed, leaving you pouting at the dining table, wondering if your darling boyfriend had truly forgotten about your birthday. and so you go grocery shopping, and you’re preoccupied enough not to notice that he’s surreptitiously picking all your favorites, leading you through the ice cream aisle and making note of all the flavors you pause over. the early afternoon is spent dragging you around the farmer’s market, where you linger over the freshly picked flowers before he tugs you away without once asking if you’d like some. and by the time you both get back to your shared apartment, you’d made up your mind to at least remind him about it — it is your birthday after all. but the moment the front door opens, you’re greeted with an avalanche of glitter and confetti, a loud shout of “surprise!!!” making you nearly leap out of your skin. in the three seconds it takes you to realize what your boyfriend had done, he’d leaned down to press a sweet kiss to your cheek, tugging you into your own surprise party, decorated with all the flowers you’d lingered over, the fridge piled with all the ice cream flavors you’d just been looking at this morning. “c’mon, did you really think i’d forget your birthday? i just needed a bit of time to prepare is all! now, let’s get this party started!”

tsukishima.

he is caught between equal parts dread and excitement, because to be honest, he’d never quite understood the appeal of birthday parties. but then he’d seen how your cheeks glad glowed when the team had put up a party for hinata in the middle of summer, a handful of balloons and streamers in the locker rooms, and a good few pounds of well-cooked bbq meat — he’d seen the glitter in your eyes, the unabashed joy as your lips pulled up into a smile — and he’d never admit it out loud but he decided then that he’d do whatever it takes to make you smile like that for him. so when the day comes, he spends too long fretting, paces across the living room of his apartment (much to the barely disguised glee of his brother, who had thankfully offered to help drive around and gather all the things), scowling as yamaguchi shows up with the cake and the flowers, and kiyoko-senpai shows up with the balloons and the streamers and it irks him to no end to have so many people all at his house, but it was the only place he could’ve asked you to come without you questioning him about it but… the way you’d smiled when you stepped into the room to find them all there, to find the same balloons and the same streamers, to find the matcha layer cake next to a slice of strawberry short cake, to find him, standing there, twisting his fingers, his cheeks positively sizzling with heat… well. he thinks that it was worth it. but it isn’t till later, when all the guests have gone and all the cake’s been eaten, when it’s finally just you and him, curled up on his bed, you in his lap, his chin resting against the top of your head that he leans down to tug you to him, press a soft kiss to your lips, “there… been thinking about doing that all day.” but the way you blush when he pulls back has him smirking and dragging you down for another, and then another, his voice going dark as he smirks against the skin of your neck as he whispers, “so now that everyone’s gone… how about we get to your real present, hm?”

pt 2 ft. kageyama, hinata, & miya twins coming soon

your words are cut off by a pair of large, warm palms squishing your cheeks together, forcing your face back up to meet dark, honeyed eyes. they’re narrowed as atsumu levels you with a frown.

“oi oi oi, don’t you dare doubt us now — this ain’t the u-19’s for nothin’!”

you make a valiant attempt at rolling your eyes, even as atsumu holds your face steady.

“right. so… everyone else here’s supposed to be just as good, no?” you grin cheekily up at him as he finally lets go of your face to wipe his palms on his jersey.

“alright, alright — that was a great series of scrimmages, but you all must be hungry! dinner time!” the coach hibarida says, clapping his hands, a wide, fatherly smile crinkling the edges of his eyes.

“don’t forget to stretch properly!” he calls as the crowd of teenage boys start to break off a few at a time, heading for the gymnasium doors.

“yeah, ‘tsumu — y’hear? you gotta stretch properly,” you parrot, grinning as atsumu whips around to glare at you, halfway through reaching down for his gym bag.

it is not the first winter break you’d spent with atsumu (and by extension, his twin osamu), but it might be your last for a few years, though neither of you knew it at the time. because youth, as everyone no longer considered youthful by an standard knows (painfully, immutably), is truly wasted on the young.

wasted because it is never treasured the way it ought to be. wasted, because time isn’t yet a concept that they’ve been caught victim to.

“you really think you’re invincible, don’t you?” you ask, one night, towards the end of training camp, when the air is still cold enough to make you tug your jacket around your shoulders.

atsumu hums, spinning a volleyball absently with one hand, a grimace digging its way between his brows as he looks at you.

“why’re you always askin’ me stupid questions?”

“how’s that a stupid question?”

“cause you already know the answer, duh.”

atsumu rolls his eyes, tossing the volleyball up and catching it before bumping it lightly on the top of your head.

“i’m asking you because i’m not sure about the answer. i… i know what you might say, but… i don’t know that you will. not… a hundred percent…” your words trail off as atsumu blinks down at you, looking nonplussed.

“ha? i mean — i don’t get half’a what you just said but — uh — i guess i do think i’m invincible. why? don’t you?” there’s a twang to the end of his words, like a tease or a test. you pause to cast your eyes up at the moon, round as white as a rime of rice —

“i think… that whatever you believe… you’re right.”

you smile, satisfied with your own answer, even as atsumu makes a strange, low-level groaning noise that sounds something like a car engine refusing to start. your smile lopes into a smirk as you turn to glance at him.

“eugh… you’re so weird.” atsuma shivers, tossing the volleyball up again. he twists away before you can see the inexplicable heat washing into his cheeks; he speeds up his pace, forcing you to jog to keep up with him as he makes his way back to the youth camp dorms.

“t-tsumu! wait!”

he only twists around to stick his tongue out at you before turning to dash off, cackling into the night. you chase him all the way to the entrance of the dorms, where he swivels around to catch you round the middle, the pair of you toppling into a patch of manicured lawn. you yelp as you realize that the grass is still damp from a recent bout of watering, but atsumu’s hold is firm and you can’t get free, no matter how hard you try.

so you allow yourself to go slack in his arms, laughing and laughing, your face pressing into his chest. his whole body shakes because he’s laughing too, but at a certain point, he quiets down just to watch you, to listen to you, to soak in the rich, generous sound of your laughter.

“c’mon, we’re gonna get in trouble!” you say, still laughing, your eyes bright beneath the darkened sky, cut with shiver shafts of moonlight.

“mm, didn’tcha know? trouble’s basically my middle name,” atsumu says, though he lets himself be pulled up, one hand clasped in both of yours. and your smile, when you look back up at him, is bright enough to put every single star to shame.

—

“it’s alright — you can say it,” atsumu says, a few months later, walking off the spring tournament court, karasuno’s cheers and shouts still fresh in all your ears. you bite your lips, shaking your head.

“i… i don’t know what you want me to say…” you admit, head drooping as osamu slams a hand into the locker room door and atsumu buries his fingers in his hair.

“say — say that you knew it! say that you told us so! y-you’re always sayin’ we goof off too much so —”

“but that’s not true,” you say, your voice steady, even as your heart thunders behind your ears, blood rushing into your head, your cheeks, the backs of your eyes, until your whole head is pounding and you have to steady yourself against one of the faded metal lockers.

“you asked… if i thought i was invincible,” atsumu says, his voice low — too low for the rest of the team to hear. faintly, you feel rather than see osamu shift by the door, his sweat-drenched hair still covering his eyes. but you know he’s listening.

“i — i did,” you admit.

atsumu sighs, “i… i guess i’m just not smart enough to doubt stuff like that.”

your eyes flash up, catching his with such a sharp look that he almost stumbles back. you purse your lips, curling your fingers into your palms hard enough to sting. there are bruises on your legs from all the late nights you’d stayed to help them practice, scars and scuffs on your arms from all the times a stray volleyball had flown out the court and found you instead.

“yeah, well —” you find your voice oddly steady as you press him back against the lockers with a firm hand, your eyes hard and certain —

“i’m smart enough not to.”

—

he does not win his first game with the jackals, but at least you’re not there to see. not there in person, at least. because when atsumu gets off the court to check his phone, he sees a missed call and another one incoming.

he sighs and picks it up.

“if you’re just callin’ to rub it all in —”

“you did good,” you say. and it stops him in his tracks. and then —

“well. not good enough.” his voice is quiet, is flat, is not quite like himself.

“so you’ll do better next time.”

“hn. could’ve done better this time.”

there’s a silence across the line that makes atsumu pause, makes him straighten up as he tugs open a bottle of sports drink and chugs half of it before wiping the back of his hand across his lips, feeling the sweat slick off his skin.

“there’s no such thing as could have,” you say, your voice even, your words solid and steady as the passage of time itself.

neither of you are children anymore. but you’re still young enough to act like it, sometimes.

atsumu grins, chuckling as you stares down at the sports drink in his hand, “yeah. guess there ain’t. just gotta do better next time.”

he can hear your smile in the way you breath out, “yep. simple as that.”

—

they do not win the olympics, but they get close enough.

“we’ll get the gold next time,” atsumu says, leaning back as hoshiumi loudly challenges bokuto to another drinking game and hinata hiccups, laughing with kuroo.

in the corner, osamu is grinning as he chats with some old high school friends, kita and aran each nursing a beer each, though osamu is still wearing his server’s apron.

all around you, people are drinking and laughing and eating.

you run a thumb around the lip of your drink, a bubbly cocktail of some sort that’s probably too alcoholic for your own good.

“i’m sure you will.”

“what? you don’t believe me?”

you laugh, shaking your head, “it doesn’t really matter what i believe, does it? you’ll get what you want, no matter what.”

your voice is soft, and atsumu pauses, his eyes flickering down to your lips. your entire body stills as you notice him noticing you. you fight the urge to purse your lips.

“ah…” atsumu turns to face you properly, setting his drink down with a dull clunk. you swallow, unable to help the way your heart flutters inside your chest. you thought you’d done a good job of keeping your feelings to yourself. you thought you’d gotten home safe.

because you’d grown up friends — hadn’t you? best friends. with him, and his twin and — your eyes skip over towards the corner where most of the inarizaki grads are sitting; you find osamu watching the pair of you with a knowing smile. the moment he catches your eyes, he cocks his head and has the audacity to wink before letting his gaze slip back towards aran and rintaro.

“oi. where’dyou think you’re lookin’, hm? ain’t we supposed to be celebrating my insane olympics debut?”

your attention snaps back to atsumu, now leaning down way too far, pressing into your personal space.

you purse your lips, “celebrating you? it’s the national team, right?”

atsumu rolls his eyes, leaning back with a soul-heavy sigh, “ah — you’re no fun.”

you bite back a laugh; he’d always been so good at making you laugh.

atsumu’s arm brushes against yours, and all of a sudden, you feel your stomach lurch, your entire body on high alert as he reaches over to sling his arm casually over your shoulders, pulling you close.

“so. you think we got it in the bag next time?”

you’re stiff for three seconds before you force yourself to relax. it’s not the first time he’s been this touchy, not even the first time he’s held you like this, looped into his side, tucking you into his body as if that’s just where you’d always belonged.

“in four years?” you ask, peering up at him as he reaches up to tug at the ends of your hair, “sure, if you think so.”

“if i think so? hm… you’ve always said weird stuff like that.”

“have i?”

he ruffles your hair, and you reach up to swat at his hand, but he catches your wrist, tracing up your skin till he slots his fingers through yours, and suddenly, he’s pressing you back into the bar, the hard edge digging into your lower back as he looms over you with that god-forsaken smirk — sweet and lazy as a summer moon.

“tell me,” he drawls, letting his vowels stretch out on his tongue like toffee, his voice dipping dangerously low, “if i were to ask you to kiss me… what’dyou think you’d say?”

“w-what do i think?”

“mhm,” he nods, leaning in further, till his nose is almost brushing yours.

you’re stomach-twistingly aware that you’re both standing in the middle of an izakaya, rented out by the japanese national team, filled to the brim with people who have know the both of you for far too long.

and still, all it takes is one smooth sweep of his dark, thick brows for your world to spin down to a single turning point — to him and you and the negative space caught between the pair of you, to the gravity of your lips and his, to your shared breaths twisting in the solid, stagnant air.

“i think… that you’re… not as stupid as you make yourself out to be,” you say, quietly, so that no one else can hear. but somehow, you wonder if everyone can hear you, because you can’t seem to hear anything else. not the ruckus of the karasuno alums, not the clink of chopsticks on flatware, not the dull thunks of glasses being put down and picked up and put back down again.

“see?” atsumu says, cocking his head, seemingly satisfied with your answer, though he makes no move to hide the fact that his eyes track down the length of your face to fix on your lips.

where they stay, and stay, and stay.

“i-if you were to ask me for a kiss… what do you think i’d say?” your words are breathless. eager. in a way that you’ve no power nor wish to take back.

atsumu’s grin stretches as he makes a mock contemplative noise.

“i think… that whatever i believe… i’m right.”

“a-and… what do you believe?”

atsumu’s lips are so close to yours you almost feel the weight of them against your skin; you let out a sharp exhale, your chest aching like an open wound.

“well… i believe…” atsumu traces a finger along the line of your jaw, holding your face still as he cocks his head to one side, watching you with those dark, hungry eyes of his —

“that you’re mine.”

you inhale, the sound sharp and short and wanting.

“and,” he adds, tugging you in till it’s really a miracle there’s any space left between the pair of you at all, “that you’ve always been mine.”

“then…” your lashes flutter; his thumb draws tiny circles against your chin, “i guess… you’d be right.”

faintly, you register that his lips taste like overpriced beer and ricecakes. faintly, you register that someone is clapping, that someone else is cheering, and then that someone else is telling the first two people to shut the fuck up and mind their own business.

you don’t care — because there, atsumu is kissing you. and you’re kissing him back. and of all the things you’ve thought and believe, you don’t know if you’d ever thought this would come to pass, if you’d ever believed hard enough that he might even feel the slightest bit the same way that you do. that you’d always done.

but it doesn’t matter, because clearly, he’d believed enough for the both of you.

when he pulls away, it’s with a satisfied smirk, your lips slick with spit, your breath coming in short, staccato pants.

“ah — tsumu —”

“mm… always wondered what my name’d sound like comin’ out your mouth like that…” he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair absently from your cheek, before trailing his finger down your face to tip your head back up towards his again.

“h-have you?”

“mhm,” he nods, humming as he traps you against him with his free arm looping around your middle, “sure have.”

“that’s — why — why didn’t you — earlier —” words tumble from your mouth, and atsumu seems content to catch them between his lips as they fall. he grins at your relative incoherence, pulling back with a wicked grin.

“cause… i was a stupid, volleyball-obsessed kid. still kinda am sometimes…” atsumu cocks his head to one side, slow and steady, his eyes dark, half-hooded as he blinks down at you, “but i’d like to think i’ve gotten… a lil bit smarter. though you were always smart ‘nough for the both of us, hm?”

he taps your nose affectionately, and suddenly, it’s as if someone’s turned the volume back on in the izakaya, and all the sound comes flooding back in. you bury your face in his chest, curling your fingers into the front of atsumu’s loose-fitting shirt.

“don’t really feel smart right now,” you murmur, squeezing your eyes shut as your cheeks begin to burn.

atsumu tuts, running his fingers through your hair, “ah… don’t go thinkin’ bout stuff that could’ve been — i’ve told you before, right? there ain’t no could have. only did and didn’t —”

“can and couldn’t —” you finish for him, lifting your head back up to meet his soft, certain gaze.

“though… i think i’ve learned enough to add one more to that list…” atsumu runs a thumb along your bottom lip, his dark eyes going even darker as his pupils dilate at the parting of your mouth.

“bet i can guess,” you say, feeling the spark of that familiar, youthful recklessness bubbling up inside you.

“oh yeah?”

“sure — will and…” you lean in, reaching up to tangle your fingers into the hairs at the nape of his neck. your revel in the way he gasps.

“kiss me,” you say, batting your lashes, “won’t you?”

atsumu hisses as you tug on the ends of his hair; when he twists to look back down at you, all the light’s gone from his eyes. all you see there is a deep, dark, unrelenting hunger.

the diners

he likes to take it slow, likes the show, likes the rose petals and red wine, the black lace, taking his time. he likes spreading you out beneath him, pinning your arms above your head, kissing you deep, teasing you till you break apart for him, likes it when you have the entire night splayed out before you, when he can paint pleasure across every inch of your skin.

"hm... like that, princess? how about here? ah -- that feels good doesn't it? how good? tell me... use your words now, pretty girl..."

and he thinks nothing looks so delicious as the sight of you, the taste of you as you come over his tongue, his fingers, fuck you into hypersensitivity before he'll give you what you really want.

KUROO, tsukishima, AKAASHI, oikawa, iwaizumi

the 69'ers

he likes it quick, likes it dirty, likes it hot and heated, likes losing himself in you and the way you lose yourself in him too, all eager fingers and sloppy lips -- the both of you panting, whining, hissing when he hikes up your skirt, pushes three fingers into you, groans when he feels how wet you are already, whispers all the nasty things he wishes he could do to you --

"think you'd like that? hm? yeah -- oh fuck you're so tight -- shit --"

thinks he could lose his mind just from how tight you are over his fingers, keens when he finally thrusts into you, his hips quick and arhythmic, the both of you drunk on the feeling of each other, intent on chasing your own pleasures.