#mattsun

iwaizumi finds out your ex never made you cum and makes it his personal mission to give you as many orgasms as possible. his fingers, tongue, dick, thighs, he wants to get you off in every way possible and erase that idiot’s ineptitude from your brain. “you cum so easily, baby. the fuck was your ex talking about?”

makki loves when you talk back. it’s foreplay for him to take you out somewhere nice and relentlessly tease you all night, each of you trading good-natured barbs that run just a little bit nasty (he likes when you’re mean, what can he say). there’s always a line, though, and when you cross it, his hand grips the back of your neck hard enough to stop you short. "I think we should go home, don't you?"

oikawa is prone to toxic situationships that always result in hurt feelings (his own). he sees you out with other guys and it actually boils his blood to the point where he’s calling you, whining about how you don’t make time for him anymore, and when you come over, he fucks you face down on the mattress to remind you that he’s the only one who knows how to make you cum the way you like

he’s super embarassed about it, but kuroo has a little bit of a corruption kink. like the first time he goes down on you and you get all blushy and embarassed - he’s hard as a rock. soothes you with soft kisses on your neck and stomach as he tells you how beautiful you look, how good you are just for him. he’s gentle in how he eats but he’s determined to make you as crazy for him as he is for you

kenma is lazy this kenma is lazy that - kenma finds out how much you like to be tied up and learns everything he can about bondage play. he buys a dummy to practice on (kuroo absolutely loses his mind over this), he watches tutorials, boy is dedicated to finding out how to make you cum this way. when this skinny streamer guy asks you out, you have no idea you’re gonna be roped into a bondage belt with a happy strap grazing over your clit as you sob into his arms (but you're not complaining)

your first impression of shohei is that he’s never known the touch of a woman but HOO BOY were you wrong. this man is a FREAK between the sheets. you can’t believe that the mild-mannered dude who barely says a word forces your mouth open so he can spit directly onto your tongue. by the time he’s done with you, you’re fucked out of your skull, covered in scratches, hickies, and cum, and being asked if you want to order taco bell

it’s a normal wednesday, you’re just trying to buy a melon pan. that’s it. no cosmic alignment, no dramatic slow-mo, no birds chirping in b minor. just you, your hoodie with the little frog on the pocket, and the gentle hum of the convenience store freezer. you’re humming along to whatever generic pop song is leaking from the ceiling speakers, completely oblivious to the fact that matsukawa is currently crouched behind a stack of cup noodles like a very tall, very lovesick raccoon.

he’s got his phone angled just right, chin tilted like he’s about to drop the most fire selfie of the century. the flash is off (he’s not a monster), but the way he’s biting his lip in concentration makes the old lady by the tofu glance over twice. he snaps the photo. then another. then ten more in rapid succession, each one with you in the background—blurry, mid-bite, reaching for the last strawberry milk like it owes you money.

by the time you’ve paid and left, he’s already posted three of them on instagram with the caption:

“me and bae grabbing midnight snacks she doesn’t know we’re dating yet but that’s okay, i’m patient 💯”

the comments are immediate.

makki: bro that’s the girl from the library you’ve been stalking since october mattsun: observing iwa: you need jesus and a hobby mattsun: i have a hobby. it’s her.

𓏵

you find out a week later when your friend sends you a screenshot and says, “uh, isn’t this you?”

it’s a mirror selfie matsukawa took in the school hallway. he’s got his arm slung around the air next to him, like he’s holding someone invisible. in the background, you’re tying your shoe. the caption reads:

“date day :) she’s shy so she’s pretending not to see me 🥺👉👈”

you stare at it for a full minute. you zoom in. you zoom out. you consider the possibility that you’ve been hallucinating your entire life and this is actually a very elaborate coma dream involving bread and a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept since 2009.

you do know him. kind of. matsukawa issei: volleyball guy, permanent bedhead, walks like he’s always halfway through a nap. you’ve had three conversations with him, all of them about the vending machine’s tendency to eat your change. once, he gave you his pudding because you looked sad. you’d thought it was a kindness. now you realize it was a courtship ritual.

you go to his instagram. it’s a museum. a shrine. a documentary.

400 photos. 400. all taken over the course of four months. all with you somewhere in the frame.

you in the library, asleep on a pile of chemistry notes.

you at the bus stop, holding an umbrella with a duck handle.

you laughing at something on your phone, mouth wide open, eyes crinkled like you’re made of sunshine and marshmallow fluff.

every single one is captioned like you’re the love of his life and he’s just waiting for you to notice.

“she wore yellow today. i almost died.” “she dropped her pen and i picked it up. she said thanks. i said anytime. we’re basically married now.” “she sneezed and i said bless you. she said thank you. i said i’d die for you. she didn’t hear the last part but i meant it.”

you’re not sure whether to be flattered or file a restraining order. both feel valid. but then you see the one from yesterday:

“day 127. she smiled at me. not the polite one. the real one. i felt it in my spleen.”

and something in your chest goes soft. like a warm rice ball left in your pocket. like a secret you didn’t know you were keeping.

𓏵

the next day, you look for him.

you’re not even subtle. you loiter outside the gym like a victorian ghost with unfinished business. you’ve got a granola bar in your pocket and a speech in your head that starts with “so i saw your instagram” and ends with “do you want to maybe take a selfie with me knowingly?”

he shows up exactly when you expect him to—slouching, hoodie half-zipped, hair doing that thing where it looks like he just rolled out of a wind tunnel. he sees you. he freezes. like a deer in headlights. like a man who’s just realized his browser history is now public.

you hold up your phone. “so. 400 photos, huh?”

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. “i can explain.”

“okay.”

“…i like you. like, like like you. like, if liking you was a sport, i’d have olympic medals and a sponsorship from gatorade.”

you blink. “that’s… a lot of metaphors.”

“i’ve had time to think about them,” he says, sheepish. “you’re in my brain 24/7. you’re like a screensaver. but, like, emotional.”

you laugh. you can’t help it. it bubbles out of you like soda. “you’re such a weirdo.”

“your weirdo?” he offers, hopeful and cringe and so earnest it makes your teeth ache.

you step closer. “only if you promise to ask before you take my picture next time.”

he lights up like you just handed him the moon on a stick. “deal. can i take one now?”

you roll your eyes, but you’re already leaning in. “make it cute. i have standards.”

he takes it. you’re both blurry and laughing and your foreheads are touching. he posts it immediately with the caption:

“she knows now. she’s smiling. i’m gonna cry into my pillow for three weeks straight.”

𓏵

after that, it’s worse. in the best way.

he holds your hand like it’s made of glass and dynamite. he brings you melon pan every morning. he learns your coffee order and writes it on his arm in sharpie so he doesn’t forget. he starts sitting next to you in the library and asks before he takes your picture. sometimes you take them together, your faces squished cheek-to-cheek, his smile so wide it looks like it hurts.

you find out he’s been keeping a list of things you like. not in a creepy spreadsheet way—more like little notes folded into his wallet.

“she hates the smell of this but loves this one.” “she always sneezes twice. never once. never three times. exactly two.” “she hums when she’s happy. it’s always off-key but it’s my favorite song.”

you kiss him for the first time behind the vending machines. it’s awkward and too wet and your nose bumps his, but he makes this sound—like a sigh and a gasp and a prayer all at once—and then he crumples. like you just unplugged him. he presses his face into your neck and whispers, “i’m so glad you exist.”

you whisper back, “me too.”

𓏵

six months later, he still takes photos. but now you’re looking at the camera. at him.

you’re in the foreground, stealing his hoodie, wearing his socks, asleep on his chest with your mouth open.

the captions change.

“she’s my person. like, legally. i have receipts.” “she drooled on my shirt and i didn’t even flinch. that’s growth.” “i asked her to marry me. she said ‘ask me again when we’re not in a grocery store.’ i’m gonna ask in a bakery next. she loves croissants.”

you’re not just in the background anymore. you’re in everything. his lock screen, his home screen, his wallet photo, his future.

he still photobombs strangers’ pictures if you’re in them, but now he runs back to you like a kid who just got away with stealing candy. “did you see? i ruined their photo. it’s art. it’s our art.”

you kiss the top of his head. “you’re ridiculous.”

he grins, sharp and soft and yours. “only for you.”

and you believe him. because you’ve seen the 400 photos. because you’ve read every caption. because he looked at you like you were the sun long before you ever looked back.

and now you do.

every day.

on purpose.

n: this is for you, seijoh4 addict @yunadln

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© 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 !

"hey. long time, huh?"

you stare at him because you physically cannot do anything else. "iwa? what the hell?! when did you get this—" you gesture helplessly. hot. you add in your thoughts.

he blinks, then smirks in that barely-there way that somehow makes it all worse. "this what?" and when he steps closer, his big, warm hand settling on your lower back to let someone pass, you swear your soul leaves your body.

he knows.

he knows exactly what he's doing.

⛧ — matsukawa

you go out for drinks and the universe immediately decides to play games: fucking mattsun is at the bar. leaning against it. hair tied back. tattoos you're 99% sure weren't there before. shirt rolled at the sleeves like he wants you to suffer.

he spots you, lips curling into a smirk that should come with a safety warning.

"well, look who it is," he drawls.

"oh, shut up," you say, because your brain is melting. "when did you… evolve? you weren't this hot before."

he raises a brow, easy and lazy. "wasn't i?" he leans in just enough for you to smell his cologne and a hint of smoke, voice dropping. "c'mon. i think you just finally noticed."

you're pretty sure the bartender is judging you but you cannot look away because: those hands.

fucking. hell. those. hands.

⛧ — oikawa

you're on a completely normal café run until you look to your right and see the toru oikawa in glasses and a soft sweater, reading a book like he's auditioning for the role of man who accidentally steals your heart.

he notices you, brightens instantly. "is that who i think it is?"

you narrow your eyes. "toru. what... what happened? when did you get… handsome? like handsome in a way that should require a license?"

he gasps dramatically. "you think i'm handsome now?"

"i think you're a menace," you correct.

he pats the seat across from him. "come sit. i promise not to blind you with my beauty."

you sit. mistake. because he pushes his glasses up and gives you a tiny, knowing smile like he planned this glow-up personally to ruin you.

⛧ — bokuto

you walk into the gym and immediately regret it because there bokuto is, shirt tucked up to wipe sweat, muscles out in 4k cinematic IMAX surround sound, beaming like a beefy golden retriever.

he sees you and yells your name across the room loud enough to echo. then he sprints over, sweaty and glowing and entirely too happy, scoops you into a hug, and lifts you off the ground.

"bokuto!" you croak, "what the fuck?! when did you get this hot? this is unfair!"

he sets you down with a wide grin, tilts his head, thinking hard. "hmm… i dunno! but i'm glad you noticed!"

you absolutely did not need him to flex, but he does when he stretches his arms behind his head. and you have to look away for the sake of public safety.

⛧ — atsumu

you're minding your business when someone jogs past you and—nope. no. absolutely not. that's not atsumu miya. sweaty, glowing, hoodie tied around his waist, hair pushed back like he's starring in a sports commercial.

he slows down when he sees you, grin widening. "hey there, darlin'. didn't expect t'see you."

you throw your hands up. "that's it. i'm done. when did you get hot?! who approved this glow up?! i need names."

he laughs, wiping sweat from his forehead in a way that absolutely does not help. "i been hot," he says, winking.

you open your mouth to argue but he steps close enough that you forget how words work. "if ya need a better look," he says softly, "just say so."

you do not say so. your brain does. very loudly.

⛧ — osamu

you walk into his restaurant by accident. big mistake. huge. because osamu turns around from the counter wearing rolled-up sleeves, a fitted apron, and the most annoyingly attractive smirk you've ever seen.

"well look who wandered in," he says, drying his hands.

you stare. "osamu. no. when did you get… this handsome? since when?"

he leans forward on the counter, forearms flexing like he practiced in the mirror. "since you last saw me, seems like."

you swear the air gets thicker. then he asks if you want to "stay for lunch," and somehow the invitation sounds a lot less culinary and a lot more dangerous.

when did you get hot? all the sudden i could look you up and down all day

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