washio tatsuki

you shove the note into his hands after practice and bolt, legs pumping, convinced he’ll just shrug it off. nope. you don’t make it five meters before a shadow falls over you—washio’s already caught up, calmly walking while you’re sprinting like your life depends on it. his long strides are ridiculous. when he finally snags your wrist, he doesn’t even look winded. “you think you can just… hand this to me and run away?” his voice is soft, but his grip says otherwise. he tugs you back against his chest, lowering his head so his lips brush your hair. “don’t leave me hanging like that. i’m not letting you go until you say it out loud.” the firmness in his tone makes you realize: there’s no outrunning him.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

sarukui yamato

you slide the letter into his open locker and slam it shut before sprinting off, heart hammering. seconds later, you hear a crash—sarukui’s just knocked over an entire bench trying to get to you. “WAIT—YOU—YOU SAID YOU LIKE ME?!” his voice cracks like glass. he barrels forward, arms pinwheeling like he’s running for his life. when he finally tackles you into the grass, he’s crying and laughing at the same time. “i thought—i thought nobody would ever—” he cuts himself off, pressing his forehead against yours, babbling incoherently while hugging you so tight you wheeze. “don’t take it back. i’ll die if you take it back.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

bokuto kōtarō

you leave the letter taped to his water bottle, knowing he’ll find it instantly. you barely make it to the gate when a deafening scream rattles the gym walls: “Y/N LOVES ME?!” next thing you know, bokuto is full-speed sprinting, face redder than a tomato, tears streaming. he crashes into you so hard you both tumble to the ground. he straddles you, holding the letter like it’s the olympic gold medal. “say it again!! say it in my face!!” you stammer out a repeat, and he just—kisses you. hard, sloppy, desperate. when he pulls away, he’s grinning through wet lashes. “i’m the luckiest man alive. i’m never letting you leave.” he hugs you so fiercely you swear you hear your ribs creak.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

akaashi keiji

you slip the letter under his notebook, expecting him to quietly read it and keep it together. wrong. he freezes mid-sentence, ears blazing pink, and then—he’s running. sprinting, full speed, straight toward you. you panic and take off too, but he’s so much faster. he corners you in the hallway, palm flat against the wall beside your head, chest heaving. “why would you run?” his voice is low, controlled, but his hand trembles when it catches yours. “you wrote this—so you have to mean it.” when you nod, his expression softens just enough before he leans down and kisses you. it’s careful at first, then hungrier when he realizes you’re kissing back. he breaks only to murmur against your lips, “don’t make me chase you like that again. i can’t take it.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

konoha akinori

you casually pass him the note during a water break, then dash. he stares at it for all of one second before letting out this strangled yell: “WHAT THE HELL—YOU—YOU LIKE ME?!” his ears go bright red, his whole body locking up. then he short-circuits. literally malfunctions. one second he’s standing frozen, the next he’s sprinting with tears in his eyes, face twisted with pure joy. when he catches you, he spins you in a circle so fast you’re dizzy. “do you know what you just did to me? i’ll never recover!!” he’s grinning like a maniac, pressing rapid-fire kisses to your hair, your cheeks, your hands. “you broke me, y/n. but i don’t mind.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

anahori shūichi

you slip the letter onto his lap mid-lunch, then take off. he doesn’t even read it at first—he just stares, mouth open. when he finally processes the words, he bolts upright so fast his chair crashes down. “no way—no way—no way this is real.” he’s mumbling to himself while running at insane speed, nearly plowing through teammates in his rush to find you. when he spots you, he doesn’t slow—he tackles you into a hug so tight it knocks the wind out of you. “i thought i was dreaming,” he murmurs into your neck, shaking like a leaf. “say it again. just once more. i swear i’ll never need anything else.”

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

komi haruki

you hand him the letter while he’s mid-sip of water, then sprint away. he chokes so violently he sprays water everywhere, face crimson. he stares down at the note with wide eyes, then explodes into a sprint that would make olympians jealous. “NO. WAY. YOU MEAN IT?!” he’s shrieking, absolutely losing it. when he catches you, he collapses onto his knees in front of you, clutching the note to his chest. “y/n… i don’t deserve this. but i’m never letting you change your mind.” he grabs your hand, pressing frantic kisses all over it until his nose actually bleeds from sheer overwhelm.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

onaga wataru

you tuck the note into his hoodie pocket when he’s not looking, then bolt. he doesn’t notice until he’s halfway home. the moment he reads it, he turns on his heel and SPRINTS, like a madman, yelling your name into the night. when he finally spots you, he runs so fast he almost wipes out, but still manages to grab you in a bear hug that lifts you off the ground. “do you know how long i’ve wanted this?!” his voice cracks, his grip bruising. “you can’t run from me anymore. you’re mine now, and i’m never letting go.” he buries his face in your shoulder, practically shaking with joy.

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

‎♡‧₊˚✧ ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა ✧˚₊‧♡

a/n: being in love is so fucking painful. why did i have to fall for him

© showhay — don’t copy nor translate without my permission. i do not own any of the photos that i have used. credits to all the rightful owners. (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)

otoya eita

shidou ryusei

karasu tabito

reo mikage

bachira meguru

sugawara koushi

daichi sawamura

iwaizumi hajime

konoha akinori

suna rintarou

a.n : had a random idea ab this LMAO

you pull one on today — a faded, comfy one with his name on the back — and the second the fabric touches the underside of your belly, your skin tightens. not painful. just… wrong.

you immediately grimace and tug it back off.

Bokuto appears in the doorway with his usual dramatic energy. “BABE! I—” he stops mid-sentence, staring at the shirt in your hands. “…why’d you make that face?”

you exhale. “my skin’s weird today. this shirt feels… scratchy?”

Bokuto gasps like you told him the shirt committed a crime.

“SCRATCHY? MY SHIRT? MY SHIRT???”

you laugh. “it’s not the shirt. it’s me. pregnancy. skin sensitivity. it’s normal.”

he does not hear the normal part.

he grabs the shirt from you, holds it up to the light like he’s examining evidence.

“this is UNACCEPTABLE,” he mutters, totally serious. “my baby and my baby’s baby deserve the SOFTEST FABRICS ON EARTH.”

before you can even answer, he vanishes down the hall.

you blink. “…Koutarou?”

silence.

then— rummaging noises closet doors slamming open a dramatic “AHA!”

he returns with an armful of shirts. not one. not two.

every soft shirt he owns.

he drops them on the bed like offerings.

“okay,” he declares, hands on hips, “we’re doing a fabric test.”

you stare. “…a what?”

he picks up the first shirt — a huge white tee — presses it flat against his own cheek, and rubs it up and down.

“SMOOTH,” he announces proudly.

you choke on a laugh. “Koutarou—”

he grabs another. rubs it on his face. immediately recoils.

“NOPE. TOO SCRATCHY. OUT.” he yeets it over his shoulder with zero hesitation.

you’re wheezing.

he tries a third shirt, rubbing it on his cheek with exaggerated concentration. eyes closed. thinking deeply. like he’s a sommelier of fabric textures.

“…this one’s good,” he decides, pressing it gently to your belly. “try this.”

you take it, slip it on carefully — and your skin sighs with relief.

Bokuto BEAMS.

“YES! PERFECT! SEE? I KNEW I COULD FIND A GOOD ONE.”

you shake your head, smiling. “you didn’t have to do all that.”

“uh, YES I DID,” he says, puffing out his chest. “you’re sensitive now. and that means your shirts need to be SENSITIVE TOO.”

you laugh softly, touched.

“thank you, Kou.”

he brightens even more — which you didn’t think was possible — and steps in close, hands sliding instinctively to your hips, forehead touching yours.

“your comfort,” he says softly, “is my new number one priority.”

your heart melts.

he leans down, kisses your nose, then pats your belly gently.

“also,” he adds brightly, “now that I know your skin is picky, I’m throwing out EVERYTHING SCRATCHY.”

“don’t you dare—”

he’s already halfway out the room. “Babe, I GOTTA PROTECT YOU AND THE OWLET!!”

you drop onto the bed in helpless laughter.

this man would fight a coarse cotton blend with his bare hands if it even looked at you wrong.

Washio Tatsuki

you’re not in pain.

not really.

your fingers just… feel wrong.

puffy. tight. stiff in a way that makes even the smallest movements feel frustrating. you try to twist your ring gently, but it doesn’t budge the way it usually does — your skin is swollen just enough that the metal bites a little.

you sigh under your breath, rubbing your thumb along the band.

washio notices.

he always does.

from across the room, he closes whatever he’s reading and walks over without a sound. he doesn’t ask what’s wrong — he just sits beside you, reaching for your hand with a quiet, steady touch.

“let me see,” he murmurs.

you hesitate, embarrassed. “it’s just swelling. pregnancy stuff. it’s stupid.”

he shakes his head once. not disapproving — just firm. your hand rests in his large, warm palm as he studies your fingers with calm focus, thumb brushing lightly over the puffiness.

he hums. “normal.” a soft verdict.

you look down, cheeks warming. “it’s annoying. I can’t get my rings off.”

“don’t try,” he says gently. “you’ll hurt yourself.”

before you can respond, he stands and disappears into the bathroom — returning a moment later with a small bowl of cool water, a towel, and your lotion.

he sets the bowl on the table, sits beside you again, and takes your hands like something precious.

“here,” he says quietly. “let them soak.”

the water is cool against your warm skin — soothing instantly. washio holds the bowl steady, making sure none spills, making sure you can relax into it.

after a minute, he lifts your hands onto the towel and dries them slowly, thoroughly, every motion unhurried and careful.

then he picks up the lotion.

“give me your hand.”

you do.

his thumbs press gently into the swelling — soft circles, minimal pressure, working from your knuckles downward. not rushed. not mechanical. just slow, warm motions that ease the tightness one breath at a time.

you exhale, shoulders lowering.

washio’s voice stays low. “tell me if anything hurts.”

“it doesn’t,” you whisper. “it actually feels… really nice.”

he nods once — not taking credit, not making it dramatic — just quietly continuing until your fingers relax and the swelling softens.

he tries your rings again — and they slide off easily this time.

your eyes widen. “oh. that… helped so much.”

he sets the rings on the table, taking your hand again, holding it between his own.

you laugh weakly. “sorry. I feel needy lately.”

washio looks up.

his expression is soft, steady, and impossibly gentle.

“you’re not needy,” he says simply. “your body’s working hard. it’s allowed to ask for help.”

your throat tightens.

“and,” he adds, brushing his thumb across the back of your hand, “I want to do these things for you. all of them.”

you lean into his shoulder, and he rests his cheek lightly against your hair — the quietest affection, the kind that settles deep.

“thank you,” you murmur.

“it’s nothing,” he replies softly.

and he keeps your hand cradled in his own, warm and safe, long after the swelling fades.

Akaashi Keiji

pregnancy changes your energy in ways you don’t fully understand.

some days you’re fine. some days you’re slow. some afternoons you hit a wall so hard you need to lie down within minutes.

you don’t always talk about it. you don’t want to feel needy. you don’t want to say “can you come home early?” when you know how much work he has.

but Akaashi… notices everything.

little things, at first — the messages you answer more slowly, the small pauses in your voice when you say you’re “okay,” the quiet moment you take before standing up.

you don’t see the adjustments he makes.

but they’re there.

he shifts all his morning meetings an hour earlier. he stops staying at the office to finish edits and brings them home instead. he loops with assistants to redistribute deadlines. he leaves notes for his authors so they don’t expect immediate nighttime replies.

he gets home every day before the sun sets. not dramatically. not loudly. just… consistently.

you start to realize it weeks later.

it’s nearing evening, the sky turning a soft gold, and he’s already at the door when you walk into the living room — coat off, bag set aside, slippers on. completely relaxed.

you blink. “Keiji? You’re early again.”

he glances up, offering you that small, warm smile he only uses at home.

“am I?”

you nod slowly. “you have been. for a while now.”

he tilts his head, considering. “I suppose that’s true.”

you narrow your eyes. “why?”

he studies you in that gentle, measured way he always does, stepping closer, hands slipping carefully to your waist — not possessive, just grounding.

“you tend to get tired around this time,” he murmurs. “I’d rather be home when that happens.”

your breath catches. you look down. “you didn’t have to rearrange anything…”

“of course I did.” his voice is soft, but there’s no room for argument in it. “I don’t want you feeling alone when your energy drops. I want to be here. That matters to me.”

you swallow, emotion tightening your chest. “still… you work so much. I don’t want you stressing because of me.”

he lifts your chin gently with two fingers — a slow, fond gesture that makes heat rush to your eyes.

“you’re not a stressor,” he says quietly. “you’re my partner. my family.” a pause, deeper and more vulnerable. “and right now, you and our baby are the priority. everything else fits around that.”

the words hit you harder than you expect.

your eyes drop. “Keiji… thank you.”

he leans forward and kisses the side of your head, nose brushing your temple, voice a low whisper against your skin.

“come sit,” he murmurs. “I’ll warm dinner. you can rest.”

you let him guide you to the couch, his hand steady on your lower back, his movements gentle and sure.

you sink down into the cushions, and when he drapes a blanket over your legs, you ask softly:

“are you sure this isn’t too much for you?”

Akaashi looks down at you — soft, steady, lovingly certain.

“no,” he says. “this is exactly where I want to be.”

and something inside you settles — a quiet, deep warmth that only comes from being seen, supported, and chosen in every way that matters.

Konoha Akinori

you’re both just walking.

nothing dramatic, nothing tiring — just a slow afternoon trip to grab coffee and maybe wander a bookstore for a bit. it’s easy, comfortable, domestic in that way being with Konoha always is.

but pregnancy changes the way crowds feel.

not dangerous. just… a little overwhelming.

the sidewalk gets narrow as more people join the flow of traffic, and you instinctively shift closer to him. not much — just a few inches. a subtle lean, a tiny pull toward his warmth.

you think he won’t notice.

he does.

without breaking stride, without even glancing down, he adjusts.

one step. one smooth angle of his body. just enough to position himself between you and the closest cluster of people — his shoulder setting the boundary, his arm loosely at his side like a quiet barrier.

someone brushes a little too close. Konoha’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes cut sideways in a look sharp enough to slice concrete.

the person veers instantly.

you almost laugh.

as the crowd thickens, he moves again — not dramatic, not possessive, just subtly shifting so you’re always tucked into the safest part of the walkway. you don’t have to ask. you don’t even have to think about it. he simply pays attention and adjusts.

after a few minutes, the path widens and you both fall into an easier pace. you exhale, finally relaxing your shoulders.

Konoha glances at you then — just a small, sideways look. “better?”

you nod, a little embarrassed. “sorry. I’m just… more sensitive to crowds lately.”

“you don’t have to apologize for that.” his tone is steady, blunt in that comforting Konoha way. “you looked uncomfortable. that’s enough reason for me.”

your chest softens.

you walk a few more steps, fingers brushing his, and he links them without hesitation — thumb tracing slow circles against your knuckle.

you murmur, “thanks for… you know. doing all that without making a big deal.”

he scoffs lightly. “it isn’t a big deal. I’m not going to let people bump into you.”

you smile. “protective much?”

he gives you a wry look. “don’t get used to it. ruins my image.”

you bump his shoulder gently. “you like protecting me.”

“yeah,” he says simply, squeezing your hand once. “actually… I do.”

your throat warms in the best way.

Konoha’s voice drops softer as he guides you toward the café door, stepping ahead just enough to hold it open and shield you from the person exiting:

“stay close, okay?”

you nod.

already planning to stay close for a long, long time.