depressinglyobsessed

[depressinglyobsessed]

woah.

I absolutely love the fan theory that Chuuya got his choker from Dazai after he lost to him after those arcade games we see in season three of the anime. Therefore, labelling Chuuya as “his dog”. And of course our sweet boi Chuuya always keeps his word, as much as he loathes it. LOL.

But imagine Chuuya’s girlfriend, who also works at the port mafia found out this little tidbit, and got soooooooo jealous that she wraps him up in pretty red ribbons and bows, shibari style.

Our boi suffers all day through meetings, conversing with Mori (LOL!), speaking and coordinating with his subordinates. By the end of the day Chuuya is so wrecked. Dazai (I imagine its around when they’re eighteen when he is still in the PM) definitely finds out and joins in on the fun with Chuuya and MC.

Now the game of tug and dominance, begins. 

Choker or Collar

Nsfw

I had a lot of fun! I might have gotten a little carried away with it😅

Warnings: SMUT, begging, bondage, fight for dominance, submissive Chuuya, other sexual acts.

Summary: what do you mean your boyfriend’s choker is actually Dazai’s collar? Oh no no no, that will not stand.

You never thought much of the choker Chuuya wore. It just seemed like one of his usual fashion choices—stylish, sharp, and undeniably him. So it wasn’t until Dazai tilted his head at you one lazy afternoon, sipping his coffee with that maddening grin, that the seed of doubt was planted. “You ever get jealous?”

He said it so casually, like he was asking about the weather. You blinked. “Jealous? Of what?”

Dazai’s eyes flicked lazily toward the leather band around Chuuya’s neck—visible in a photo that happened to be sitting on the edge of your coffee table. The one where Chuuya was caught mid-smirk, hair windblown and wild, cigarette tucked behind one ear.

“Of the collar, of course,” Dazai said, tone dripping with amusement. “It is… mine, after all.”

Your body tensed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

He smiled wider, obviously thrilled to see your confusion. “Chuuya didn’t tell you? Ahhh, poor puppy. So loyal, so prideful… and yet so obedient.”

“Dazai.”

“It was a bet,” he continued, ignoring your warning tone. “Arcade games. Years ago. I told him if he lost, he had to be my dog for life.” Your eyes narrowed but he doesn’t stop. Dazai’s smirk was pure devil. “Guess he’s proud to be labeled.”

Your jaw clenched. “Labeled as what?

“Oh, come on,” he purred, leaning closer. “You’ve seen how he gets around me. All bark. Still follows the rules. Still wears the collar. I didn’t force him to where it, you know. He chose to. That’s the best part.”

You hated how your stomach twisted. How you suddenly couldn’t unsee the choker. Couldn’t un-hear the word obedient. Couldn’t help but wonder if Chuuya kept it out of stubborn pride… or something more complicated.

“…You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Dazai’s grin sharpened. “You could always ask him. Or maybe… tug on it next time he’s fucking you and see if he growls or whimpers.” You didn’t let him see the way your face heated, but you knew he saw anyway. He always did.

You didn’t even let him shut the door. “Is it supposed to be a collar?”

Chuuya froze mid-step, one hand still gripping the doorknob. His eyes flicked to you, then down to the choker around his neck—like he’d forgotten it was even there. A sigh left him, heavy. “You talked to Dazai.”

You stood, arms crossed. Chuuya clicked his tongue and shut the door behind him, boots scuffing against the floor as he tossed his coat on the back of the chair. “That bastard doesn’t know how to shut the hell up.”

“But he wasn’t lying, was he?”

Silence. Chuuya didn’t answer right away. He moved to the counter instead, grabbing a glass and pouring water like you hadn’t just asked him if the thing wrapped around his neck was a symbol of submission to another man.

You stepped closer, pressing. “Chuuya.”

His jaw twitched. The glass hit the counter a little harder than necessary. “…It was a bet,” he finally muttered. “Arcade games. I lost.”

You moved closer, voice quieter now. “So it’s a collar.”

“It’s a choker,” he snapped, then sighed again, this time more resigned. “It’s just… easier not to explain. People don’t ask questions. Dazai gets his laugh. Everyone assumes what they want.”

Your fingers brushed the metal clasp behind his neck. “And what do you want them to assume?”

His eyes met yours then—burning, frustrated, a little wild. “I want them to shut the hell up about it.”

You raised a brow. “Including me?”

A pause. “…No,” he said, softer this time. “Not you.”

You tugged lightly on the leather, just enough to tilt his chin up. “Good,” you whispered, leaning in. “Because if it is a collar… maybe it’s time we decide who you belong to.”

He growled low in his throat, but his hands landed on your hips, grounding himself. “You really want to play that game, doll?”

You smiled. “I’m not afraid to tug the leash.”

Morning sunlight spilled through the curtains of Chuuya’s apartment, casting a soft glow over the rumpled sheets and your tangled limbs. He’d tried to slip out of bed once already—some nonsense about “meetings” and “work” and “Mori will kill me”—but you weren’t done with him yet.

Not until you had your fun.

He was on his knees now, half-awake, arms behind his back while you tugged the last knot into place with a satisfied little hum. “Seriously?” he muttered, eyes narrowed as red silk crisscrossed over his chest, hidden neatly beneath his shirt. “You’re gonna have me walking around the Port Mafia with bows in my pants?”

You leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth. “They’re tastefully placed.”

“I’ve got one on my dick, sweetheart.”

“Exactly. A present. Just for me.” Your fingers danced over the pretty little bow you’d tied at the base of him—snug but not tight. “Think of it as motivation to come home.”

Chuuya groaned, tipping his head back. “You’re impossible.”

You just smiled, reaching for the final touch: a small red ribbon in your fingers, already looped and ready. You turned toward his dresser where the infamous choker lay waiting—silent, smug.

He clocked your intent immediately. “No.”

You glanced back. “What, afraid they’ll know you let me take the lead for once?”

“It’s not about—” He ran a hand through his hair, clearly exasperated. “It’s mine. I wear it my way.”

You raised your eyebrows. “So you’re defending the collar now?” His jaw clenched. He hated that you called it that. You walked up slowly, the ribbon between your fingers, until you were toe-to-toe. “Fine. Keep the choker. But I’m still claiming you.”

And before he could argue, you tied the little red bow right on the side of it—dainty, playful, and very visible. “There,” you said with a smirk. “Now everyone will know who you really belong to.”

He looked in the mirror. Glared at the bow. Glared harder when he saw the way you were grinning like you’d just conquered the Mafia. “I swear,” he muttered under his breath, “if Dazai sees this…”

“He’ll be so jealous,” you sang, pressing a kiss just under his jaw. “Now get going, pretty boy. You’re already late.”

Chuuya grabbed his coat, muttering curses all the way to the door.

Chuuya Nakahara was a lot of things. Port Mafia executive. Gravity manipulator. A damn good fighter. But as he sat at the polished table in Mori’s office, trying to look unaffected while the boss droned on about territory negotiations, none of that mattered. Because his dick was wrapped in a goddamn bow.

The silk was soft. Too soft. It shifted every time he adjusted in his seat, and he’d stopped adjusting—because that only made it worse. The pressure. The awareness. The fucking heat. He kept his arms crossed to hide the way his fingers twitched.

Mori, thankfully, didn’t notice. He was too busy entertaining Elise, who twirled in her chair and kept throwing not-so-subtle glances at Chuuya.“You’re awfully quiet today,” Mori noted eventually, smiling without warmth.

Chuuya forced a smirk. “Just listening, Boss.”

Elise tilted her head. “Your face is red.”

He almost choked. “It’s always red.”

“Not that red.”

Mori blinked. “Fever?”

“I’m fine.”

He wasn’t.

—

By midday, he was coordinating logistics with some of the younger subordinates. Training rotations, security shifts, new supply routes. One kept asking dumb questions. Chuuya clenched his jaw, keeping his tone even. “I said double the patrols on the south entrance, not the west. You deaf or just slow?”

“Ah—right, sorry, sir!” The new one scrambled to fix the note on his tablet.

Chuuya shifted, and the ribbon moved again. Soft, taunting. Just enough to make his breath hitch. He turned away fast. If anyone noticed the way he muttered “I’m gonna kill her” under his breath, they didn’t say anything.

—

By late afternoon, he was reviewing reports at his desk. Trying. His shirt clung to him under his vest—because of course you’d tied two bows around his chest, right over his ribs, like you wanted him to suffer every time he breathed.

One was tight enough to dig. Another rubbed every time he moved his legs. And his cock had been half-hard since lunch. Not fully, because that would’ve been unbearable. But enough to make the ribbon strain. Enough to make his teeth grit and his fingers curl into fists. He slammed the last report closed, shoved it aside. “I’m going home.”

“Sir?” one of the guards outside asked as he stormed past.

Chuuya didn’t answer. He had one thing on his mind. But he didn’t take the bow off. Not even when he passed Dazai in the hallway and heard the telltale, smug laughter echoing behind him. “Nice accessory, dog.”

Chuuya didn’t look back. He burst through the door, tossed his coat to the floor, and found you exactly where he knew you’d be: curled on the couch, reading, looking far too innocent for someone who had wrecked him for a full ten hours. You glanced up with a smile. “Hi, baby. Long day?”

His eye twitched. He didn’t answer. He stalked across the room, bent down, and kissed you hard—teeth and tongue, one hand fisting your hair while the other reached for your throat, gripping just enough to feel your breath catch. “I couldn’t fucking think today,” he growled against your lips. “You knew exactly what that shit would do to me.”

You blinked up at him, pupils blown wide, already breathless. “I did.”

“You tied a bow around my dick, doll face.”

“Did you take it off?” He stared at you. Didn’t answer. You laughed softly. “You didn’t. You liked it.”

He didn’t deny it. Didn’t speak, didn’t blink—just stared at you with heat rippling off him like steam, fingers still curled against your throat. You smiled slowly. “Thought so.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing yours, voice rough. “You think you’re clever—”

Knock knock.

You both froze. Chuuya’s entire body went stiff. “No,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

You raised an eyebrow. “Expecting someone?”

“No.”

Knock knock knock. Followed by a cheerful, singsong voice: “Ooooh, Chuuuyaaaa~ I see you wore my collar… but someone got creative with it.”

Your blood went cold. Or maybe hot. You weren’t sure anymore. Chuuya let out a strangled growl. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You were already heading to the door, despite Chuuya’s muttered “Don’t you dare open that—”

Too late. You opened it. And there he was. Leaning against the frame like he owned it, coat hanging loose, smile lazy and eyes sharp—like he already knew exactly what had gone down. “I knew it,” Dazai said, pointing to the red ribbon still neatly tied around Chuuya’s choker. “He didn’t take it off.”

You blinked. “So you came here to gloat?”

“Oh no.” His smile widened. “I came here to play.”

Chuuya stormed forward, half-buttoned shirt hanging askew, skin flushed from frustration and hours of suffering. “Get out.”

Dazai stepped inside anyway. “You think I wasn’t going to figure it out? You? Wearing a bow? You always telegraph when you’re getting fucked—”

“Dazai—”

“And knowing you, if there was one bow, there were others.” Dazai turned his gaze on you, amusement twinkling. “So? Where else did you wrap him up, pretty girl?”

You didn’t answer. Just folded your arms and tilted your head, playing the game now.

Dazai’s eyes flicked downward. “Chest, probably. You like symmetry. Legs, maybe?” He took a step closer to Chuuya, eyes narrowing, grin turning filthy. “…Cock?”

Chuuya flinched.

Bingo.

Dazai let out a laugh, slow and victorious. “I knew it. That explains why you were so tense in Mori’s office today. Poor thing.”

Chuuya snarled. “I swear to god—”

“You didn’t take it off though, did you?” Dazai’s voice was a low, smug whisper now, circling him like a predator. “You liked walking around with her claim on you. Like a pet. Just like old times.”

“She’s not you,” Chuuya snapped, voice rough.

“No,” Dazai said, looking at you again. “You actually listen to her.”

You stepped forward, fingers sliding up the red bow on his choker. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.”

Chuuya looked between the two of you—cornered, twitchy, furious. But hard. Visibly.

Dazai clicked his tongue. “You going to keep pretending you don’t want it?”

“Fuck off.”

“Or,” Dazai murmured, brushing his fingers over the edge of Chuuya’s belt, “you can let us decide what happens next.”

Your hand slid down Chuuya’s stomach, feeling the faint tremble there. “Let us pull. See who he listens to first.”

A beat of silence.

Then Dazai leaned in, lips near Chuuya’s ear. “Ready to play tug of war, puppy?”

Chuuya’s breath hitched. And he didn’t say no. He didn’t say no. That was all Dazai needed. He pushed Chuuya back by the shoulder, walking him toward the bed like a cat playing with its prey. You followed behind, slow and deliberate, watching Chuuya’s ears flush a deep scarlet under the soft fall of his hair.

“Clothes off,” you said softly.

Chuuya shot you a glare, lips curled like he might fight it— But he obeyed. Because of course he did. He always obeyed you. The shirt came off first, the red silk bows you’d tied earlier still pressed tight over his ribs, peeking from beneath the muscle. The pants next. Slower. A pause. You could see the hesitation before he unbuttoned them—his jaw set tight, breathing uneven. He knew what would be exposed next.

Dazai grinned like a devil beside you. “Don’t be shy, Chuuya. I already guessed.”

And then it came free. His cock, hard and flushed, wrapped perfectly in the final ribbon: crimson silk tied at the base, bow glinting under the room’s low light. Dazai let out a low whistle. “That’s one way to wrap a present.”

You came up behind Chuuya, sliding your hands down his chest, tugging at the ribbons just enough to make him squirm. “You’ve been hard all day, haven’t you?” He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. So you leaned in and whispered it right in his ear. “You liked it. Being owned. Knowing no one could see what she did to you.”

He let out a low growl.

Dazai stepped in from the front, pressing two fingers to Chuuya’s lips. “Bet you hated it, didn’t you? Acting composed. Meanwhile, your cock was aching—helpless, leaking, and all tied up.”

Chuuya’s breath hitched. You tightened your grip on the ribbon around his waist. “Say it.”

“I—fuck—” he gritted. “Yes.” You and Dazai exchanged a glance. A shared smirk. Perfect.

“On your knees,” Dazai said.

Chuuya hesitated. Then dropped. You followed, kneeling behind him while Dazai faced him. You reached around, dragging your nails lightly across his stomach, making him tense and shiver.

“Look at you,” Dazai murmured, tilting Chuuya’s chin up with two fingers. “On your knees, cock tied in a bow like a fucking toy. Who do you belong to?”

Chuuya clenched his jaw. You reached down and gave the ribbon a single sharp tug—not enough to untie, but enough to pull. He gasped. “Answer him,” you ordered softly.

“…You.”

“Both,” Dazai corrected, eyes glittering. “Today, you’re ours.”

You grabbed his wrists and pulled them behind his back while Dazai reached into his coat and revealed a coil of soft rope—always prepared, that bastard. Together, you bound Chuuya’s wrists, tight and beautiful, while he panted between you both.

“You gonna be good for us, pretty boy?” you murmured.

“I hate you both.”

“But you’ll still let us use you.”

His silence was answer enough. Dazai sat on the bed and pulled Chuuya forward by the leash-like choker. “Climb up. Hands stay bound. You don’t come until we say.”

You climbed up after, knees on either side of Chuuya’s thighs, pressing your chest to his back, lips brushing the nape of his neck. Dazai guided his cock into Chuuya’s mouth with a smirk. “Open.”

Chuuya obeyed.

And you reached down between his legs, rubbing just around the ribbon, watching him jerk in response. Not touching where he needed—just enough to keep him whimpering around Dazai’s cock.

“Fuck,” Dazai groaned, hand fisting in Chuuya’s hair. “He really is better trained now. You did good.”

“I taught him how to beg,” you whispered, fingers teasing the underside of Chuuya’s thighs. “Want to hear it?”

Dazai chuckled darkly. “Oh, I do.”

You pulled Chuuya back by the ribbon just as Dazai slipped free from his mouth, strings of spit trailing down his lips. He looked wrecked already—eyes glassy, chest heaving, cock twitching and still perfectly bound.

You kissed the back of his neck. “Beg.”

He tried to stay quiet. You tugged the ribbon again. Tighter. “…Please.”

“Louder.”

“Please,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Fuck, please, let me come—I need—”

“Not yet,” you both said at once.

Dazai leaned in, licking into his mouth again. “Not until we break you.”

Chuuya was trembling now. Sweat dripped down his chest. The ribbons had started to loosen with every desperate twitch of his hips, but that final one—the one you’d tied around his cock—held firm. It pulsed with the same rhythm as his ragged breaths, red and swollen beneath the silk.

You leaned over him from behind, fingers slick and cruel, barely touching where he needed you most. Dazai sat at the edge of the bed in front of him, one leg crossed, watching like a man admiring his favorite painting.

“I think he’s close,” you said.

Dazai smirked. “He’s been close for an hour.”

“Exactly.” You brushed your lips to Chuuya’s ear. “He wants to break.”

You reached for the coil of rope beside the bed. Dazai moved at the same time, hands on Chuuya’s hips, possessive. “I’ll do it,” you said.

Dazai looked up, eyes playful but sharp. “He likes my knots.”

“I don’t care.” Your voice was low and cutting. “Tonight, he comes for me.”

There was a pause. That still, tense moment where you both held your breath, the rope between your fingers, Chuuya gasping between you. Dazai’s smile twitched. “Fine.”

“Then get out of the way.”

Dazai laughed, moving aside—but not far. Just enough to stay close. Close enough to whisper in Chuuya’s ear while you went to work. You pushed Chuuya down on the bed, back flat, hands still bound behind his back. Then you tied his thighs apart, spreading him open with neat, practiced loops. Every knot was deliberate. Every tug of the rope had him moaning.

“You should see yourself,” you murmured, dragging the final rope around his hips, anchoring him down. “So desperate. So pretty.”

Behind you, Dazai sighed. “You’ve ruined him.”

“Hardly. I’ve made him better.”

You reached between his legs again—finally giving him real friction. Slow, steady strokes, your palm wrapping around the ribboned base. Chuuya’s moan broke. “Fuck—fuck—I can’t—”

Dazai leaned down to bite at his neck. “Yes, you can. You’re going to take every second of it.”

“Please—”

You worked him harder, grip tightening. “Please what?” you hissed, voice thick with possession.

Chuuya tried to lift his hips, but the ropes held him tight. “I need—need to come—can’t hold it—”

You stilled your hand instantly. He screamed into the mattress. Dazai laughed low, cruel, and hot against his ear. “Not until she says so.”

You bent over him, teeth grazing his shoulder. “You want to come?”

“Yes!”

“You want her to let you?” Dazai added, biting at the opposite side.

“Yes—yes, I’ll do anything—please—”

You met Dazai’s eyes across Chuuya. For a second, it wasn’t teasing. It was tension. Heated. Possessive. “He’s mine tonight,” you said.

Dazai’s eyes flickered. “Then ruin him.” You didn’t wait. You pulled the ribbon off. Chuuya sobbed when your fist wrapped around his cock fully, finally, dragging him toward that edge he’d been teetering on all day. Dazai kissed his throat while you pumped him mercilessly, your other hand teasing his inner thighs, hips, anywhere you could reach.

“I’m gonna—fuck—gonna—”

“Come,” you growled. “Now.”

He screamed as he came, back arching in the ropes, thick pulses spilling down your hand and over the ruined bow on the sheets. His body didn’t stop shaking, didn’t stop twitching, even as you kept stroking him through it—over and over, until his voice cracked and his hips trembled with overstimulation. You didn’t stop. Not when Chuuya begged. Not when he cried. Not even when he said your name like it was the only thing he remembered.

Chuuya lay sprawled across the bed, flushed and trembling, ropes loosened but not removed. His breath came in shallow bursts, hair clinging to his sweat-damp forehead, lips parted, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion.

You and Dazai stood on opposite sides of the mattress like opposing generals, watching your shared, ruined prize. “I did all of the work,” you snapped, dragging your fingers down Chuuya’s spine. “You don’t get to swoop in and act like you own the night.”

Dazai scoffed, his voice too calm to be harmless. “Please. You wouldn’t know what to do with control if it begged you for mercy.”

“I had control.”

“You had a trembling, overstimulated mess,” he shot back. “I would’ve had him singing for it.”

You rolled your eyes. “If by singing, you mean whimpering like a kicked dog—”

Dazai moved fast. One blink, and your back hit the wall, his hand wrapped around your throat—not hard, not choking, but claiming. Testing. “Careful, sweetheart,” he purred, leaning in. “You keep talking like that, and I’ll have to remind you where you fall in the chain.”

You grinned up at him, unafraid. “Try it.”

He did. He went for your wrist first, angling to twist and pin you, but you moved quicker—ducking under his arm, sliding behind him. You kicked his knee in just enough to throw him off balance and spun him against the dresser, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and slamming your mouth to his in pure defiance.

His tongue clashed with yours, more battle than kiss. He groaned into your mouth, grabbing your hips—just as you jammed your knee between his legs and flipped him over your shoulder. He hit the bed with a grunt, stunned, and you straddled his chest with a victorious grin.

“I have Port Mafia training too,” you whispered. “Still think I don’t know how to handle control?”

Dazai growled, twisting his hips just enough to knock your center off his stomach. In one blur of motion, he rolled—grabbing a coil of rope from the sheets, the one you’d used on Chuuya—and flipped you under him.

You gasped. Your wrists hit the headboard. Rough fingers closed around them. Tight. In seconds, you were tied. He stared down at you, breathless but grinning. Ferocious. “Tied by your own rope,” he whispered. “How poetic.”

You struggled once—twice—but the knot was good. Too good. “Let me go,” you hissed, baring your teeth.

Dazai leaned down, brushing his mouth over your cheek, your jaw, your throat. His voice dropped low, smug and slow:

“No.”

He turned to Chuuya, who was watching with glassy eyes and parted lips, still dazed from the earlier onslaught. “You wanted to know who owns you?” Dazai said, voice like silk over steel. “It’s me. Always was.”

He sat up, pulled Chuuya toward him by the collar of that still-tied choker. “You’re hard again,” Dazai noted, smiling cruelly. “Pathetic.”

Chuuya whimpered softly, eyes flicking between your bound wrists and Dazai’s cock. Dazai tipped his head. “Be a good boy and use your mouth.”

And just like that, Chuuya obeyed. He crawled forward, hands braced on Dazai’s thighs, lips wrapping around him slow and deep. Dazai exhaled, hand fisting gently in Chuuya’s hair, not yet thrusting—savoring.

You tugged at the ropes behind your head, panting. Dazai looked at you then—triumphant, hungry. “Watch closely,” he whispered. “You look better tied anyway.”

And across from you, Chuuya moaned around his cock—like he liked the humiliation of being used in front of you. Like he liked being the thing you were both fighting for. The rope bit into your wrists with every tug.

You arched your back, grinding your teeth, straining against the bonds Dazai had tied—not carelessly, no, but with the same mocking precision he used for everything. “Still trying?” came his voice, low and amused. “God, you really don’t know how to lose gracefully, do you?”

He didn’t look at you. He didn’t have to. He had Chuuya between his thighs, on his knees, head bobbing obediently. And you? You were nothing more than the audience now. Tied and stripped of control—his favorite kind of theater.

You yanked again. The rope creaked but didn’t budge. Dazai tilted his head slightly toward you, lips parted in a lazy grin. “Every time you pull, the knot gets tighter. Haven’t you figured that out yet, darling?”

“Fuck you.”

“Maybe later,” he said cheerfully. “Right now, I’m a little busy.”

His hand tangled deeper in Chuuya’s hair, pushing him down until his nose brushed Dazai’s pelvis. Chuuya groaned around him—needy, eager, still slick from earlier, eyes glazed like he wanted to be used again. “Ohhh, listen to that,” Dazai sighed, eyes fluttering shut. “He likes doing this. Even after all that earlier. Such a loyal little thing. You could learn something from him.”

You twisted your wrists again—harder this time.“You think this proves something?” you spat. “All you’ve done is tie me up and play with your favorite toy. It’s not dominance—it’s cowardice.”

Dazai’s eyes snapped open. He pulled Chuuya off his cock with a wet pop and pushed him back by the throat, just enough to make him gasp. Then he turned to you fully, cock still wet, still hard, glistening from Chuuya’s mouth. “You want to test me, sweetheart?” he said softly. Dangerously. “Because you look so pretty like that—tied, flushed, seething. But I don’t think you’ve realized something important.”

He got off the bed and walked to you slowly, his steps lazy but his eyes locked on yours like a predator closing in. You swallowed. He crouched in front of you, one hand gently brushing hair from your face. “You’re not in charge anymore.”

He pressed two fingers against your lips—not hard. Just enough to remind you that he could. “I am.”

Then he stood, walked back to Chuuya, and snapped his fingers once. “On the bed. On your back.” Chuuya obeyed immediately, climbing onto the mattress, cock still leaking, his whole body flushed with that telltale combination of shame and need. Dazai looked back at you one more time, smug. “Now watch,” he purred. “Both of you belong to me now.”

And with that, he climbed onto Chuuya’s lap—slow, purposeful—while you could do nothing but pull against your ropes and feel every twist of heat burn in your stomach. Because you weren’t just watching. You were losing.

The rope burned against your skin, wrists straining behind your head as you watched Dazai settle into Chuuya’s lap, one long leg bent, hand curling around the base of Chuuya’s still-leaking cock. “You better not fucking come for him.”

Your voice cracked like a whip across the room. Chuuya froze. Dazai didn’t. “Ohhh,” he said, delighted. “There it is. Jealousy looks good on you.”

You ignored him. Eyes locked on Chuuya. “Chuuya, I swear, if you come for him—if you give him that satisfaction—I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” Dazai cut in smoothly, shifting his hips just enough to make Chuuya groan beneath him. “Punish him? Tie him up? Use him until he’s crying again?” He glanced over his shoulder, smile all teeth. “Because that sounds like a reward.”

You growled. Actually growled, and Dazai laughed, throwing his head back. “God, you’re fuming. You thought you could break him first, didn’t you? Thought you had him tamed. But look—he’s still twitching under me. Hard for me. Obedient for me.”

You snapped your attention back to Chuuya, your chest rising fast. “You better not,” you spat. “You better not fucking come, Chuuya, not for him.”

Chuuya’s face was flushed crimson, lips parted, head tipped back. He looked dazed—wrecked—his hips jerking involuntarily beneath Dazai’s slow grind. But when he looked at you? There was guilt. And heat.

“D-don’t say it like that,” he rasped. “I didn’t—I’m not—”

Dazai chuckled. “He’s not sure who to please. Poor puppy.”

Then he leaned down, mouth brushing Chuuya’s ear. “But if you want to take back some control… maybe you should shut her up.”

Chuuya blinked. “What?”

Dazai gestured to you lazily, like you were just another object in the room. “She’s been mouthing off all night. You’re hard, she’s tied. Mouth’s open. You do the math.”

Your eyes widened. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Dazai turned toward you, raising an eyebrow. “Oh? You’re the one always bragging about how well he listens.”

He looked back down at Chuuya, still grinding slowly against him. “So listen. Go on. Show us who you belong to.” For a second, Chuuya didn’t move.

Then?

He did. His hands landed on Dazai’s thighs to steady him—but his eyes stayed on you. He slid off the bed slowly, legs shaky, still hard, still panting—and walked toward where you lay bound and glaring, back against the wall.

You glared up at him. “Chuuya.” His jaw clenched. You spat, low and furious, “You do this, and I’ll own you for a week. No coming. No touching. Nothing.”

He crouched in front of you, cupping your jaw, voice low. “…Maybe I want that.” And then he pushed his cock into your mouth.

Dazai moaned behind him. “Ohhh, yes. That’s it.”

Chuuya held your head steady, thrusting slowly—eyes never leaving yours. He shuddered, hips stuttering, the pleasure from your mouth and the lingering pain of denial crashing over him. You tried to pull away. He didn’t let you.

Dazai sat back and watched like a king on a throne, one hand lazily stroking himself.

Chuuya was close. Too close. You felt it in the way his rhythm stuttered, the way his thighs trembled, the low groan building deep in his chest. His fingers tangled in your hair like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull away or fuck deeper. You locked eyes with him, defiant. Still angry. Still you.

And then—

Dazai’s voice, smooth as sin, cut through the room. “Stop.” Chuuya froze. Mid-thrust. Mid-breath. You blinked. He groaned in frustration, hips twitching, but he obeyed. His cock slipped from your mouth with a messy, desperate sound, strands of saliva still connecting you both.

“I said stop,” Dazai repeated, walking across the room with that maddening ease, like he had all the time in the world and every ounce of control. “You don’t come yet.”

Chuuya buried his face in his hands, shaking. Dazai crouched in front of you again, brushing his thumb across your wet bottom lip. “And you, my little viper, are still tied up.” You didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. He smiled. “That’s okay,” he murmured, voice lilting. “I’ll give you a chance. Just one.”

He reached behind your head and tugged gently at the knot—not loosening it, but reminding you it could be undone at any time. That he wanted to free you. That all it would take… was a word. “Tell me,” he said softly, “who’s running the show right now?”

You glared. “Come on.” His tone turned teasing, infuriatingly sweet. “Just admit it. Say it, and I’ll untie you. I’ll even let you punish him after, if that’s what you want.”

You clenched your jaw. Behind him, Chuuya was still kneeling on the floor, red-faced, panting, his hands curled into fists to keep himself from touching. “Say it,” Dazai coaxed again, tilting his head. “Say it, and I’ll let you use him again. Say it… and you’ll get everything you want.”

You stared at him. Silent. He leaned closer, breath brushing your ear. “Or you can keep playing pretend, keep being powerless, keep watching me turn him into mine.” You exhaled slowly. Your pride screamed. Your wrists ached. Your body burned. And still—

You hesitated. He kissed your jaw, smiling when you flinched. “…Tick tock.” Every part of you—your wrists from the rope, your jaw from Chuuya’s grip, your pride from the ache of watching instead of owning—burned like hellfire under your skin.

Dazai crouched beside you like a demon whispering in your ear. All smooth confidence and slick cruelty, his fingers brushed over the knot at your wrists like he was considering being merciful. But he wasn’t. No, this was never about mercy. It was about control.

“Say it,” he repeated, voice low and patient, like he already believed you would. “Say who’s running the show. Just for tonight.”

You didn’t look at him. You looked at Chuuya. Red-faced, panting, aching. He was still on his knees, still obedient, still fighting the urge to finish. All because Dazai told him to stop. All because you told him not to dare give in.

He was caught in the same leash you were. And that’s what made it worse. You exhaled through your nose. Slow. Measured. Then—finally—you spoke. “…You are.”

Dazai’s eyes lit up. “Mmm?”

You turned your face toward him, eyes molten with hatred and intent. “You’re running the show. Right now.”

He grinned, triumphant. Until you added, voice low and sharp as a dagger: “But the second these ropes come off, I swear to god, Dazai—I’m going to flip this whole fucking scene on its head.”

He blinked. And laughed—hard. “God, you’re delightful,” he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “Even bound and soaked, you’re threatening revenge. I’m almost scared.”

“You should be.”

“Mmm. Duly noted.” He tugged the knot at your wrist and it slipped free with a whisper of rope. You hissed as your arms dropped, the blood rushing back in tingling pulses. Dazai stepped back. “There. You’re free.”

You didn’t move. Yet.

He turned to Chuuya, who looked like he was barely holding himself together, sweat dripping down his chest, thighs trembling. “And now, as promised,” Dazai said, sliding behind him, one hand around his throat and the other slowly stroking him back into maddening need, “let’s give our sweet little dog a reward.”

Chuuya whined. But your voice cut through the tension like a blade. “No.” They both froze. You stood. Slowly. Deliberately. Eyes locked on Dazai, full of fire. “You don’t get to finish this without me.”

You walked toward them, dripping authority with every step. “And Chuuya—” you reached down, gripping his chin, forcing him to look at you, “—you can only come when I say so.”

He moaned, caught between your wrath and Dazai’s grip, body pleading for release.

Dazai raised a brow. “Careful, sweetheart. You might just start another war.”

You smirked, tugging Chuuya into your arms possessively. “Good.” You knelt in front of Chuuya and gripped his jaw. His eyes were wide, breath shaky, cock red and still dripping.

“Poor thing,” you murmured, dragging your thumb along his cheek. “Did he keep you waiting?”

Chuuya nodded slowly. “Y-Yeah…”

Your hand slid down his chest. “Did he make you beg?”

“…Yeah.”

You leaned in close, brushing your lips to his ear. “Then you don’t come for him.”

Chuuya shuddered. You pushed him gently back onto the bed, spreading his legs with yours, and straddled his face like a throne reclaimed.

His breath hitched, eyes blown wide as he looked up at you. “You want to serve me now, pretty boy?” He nodded instantly. You smiled. “Then use that mouth.” And Chuuya obeyed. His tongue licked a slow, reverent stripe up your slit, and your whole body arched. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dove in, desperate and eager—like every moment under Dazai’s control had been building to this.

You rolled your hips against his face, grinding down, panting, moaning, owning. And Dazai? He sat back in the armchair, shirt half-open, cock still hard, smirking like he was just enjoying the view.

You simply couldn’t let that stand. You told Chuuya to stay, that you needed a toy to help. your hand slid into the dresser drawer beside Dazai.

He didn’t even notice—until he felt the cold bite of steel around one wrist. Click.

He looked down, eyebrows lifting. “You wouldn’t.”

You did. You grabbed his other wrist and pulled them both behind the chair, clicking the cuffs tight before he could twist away. Click.

Dazai’s head tipped back in a laugh—low and full of disbelief. “Well played, darling.”

You leaned close to his ear. “No interruptions. No hands. You sit there and watch.”

He shivered. You sauntered back to Chuuya, who was still working you open with his mouth, moaning into your pussy like it was his only salvation. Your hand fisted his hair. “Make me come, baby.” And he did. Your legs trembled around him, pleasure crashing over you in sharp, delicious waves while Dazai sat bound—watching, aching, helpless.

When you were done—panting, smirking, still straddling Chuuya’s face—you turned your gaze to Dazai. “Now…” you said slowly, licking your lips, “what should I do with you?” Arms cuffed behind the chair, legs spread wide, shirt open and loose, his cock rock hard and untouched, twitching with every breath.

And still, even now—smiling. Smiling like he wasn’t completely fucked. “You have five seconds to let me go,” he said smoothly, voice thick with amusement—and tension. “After that, I stop being nice.”

You slid off Chuuya’s face with a smirk, wiping slick from your thigh. “Oh?” you purred, stalking toward him. “And what happens at six seconds?”

Dazai tilted his head, eyes dark. “You’ll find out.”

Behind you, Chuuya sat up, breathless and flushed, lips wet. He looked at Dazai—then at you—and something in his eyes shifted. He was in. “You want to help me, baby?” you asked sweetly, not breaking eye contact with Dazai.

Chuuya grinned. “Thought you’d never ask.”

You bent over Dazai, straddling one of his thighs. “Five…”

Dazai chuckled low, eyes sharp.

“Four…” You reached down and gently cupped his cock—just enough pressure to make his breath catch.

“Three.” Chuuya moved to your side, kneeling between Dazai’s legs.

“Two.” You leaned in, dragging your tongue slowly up Dazai’s throat.

“One.” You kissed him—deep and slow, just long enough to make him ache.

Zero.

You pulled back and slapped his length —not hard, not cruel, but enough to leave him blinking. “No mercy.”

“Fuck,” Dazai breathed, cock twitching in your hand. Chuuya leaned in then, brushing his mouth over Dazai’s hipbone, lips ghosting over the skin just above where your hand still teased his length.

“He’s really fucking hard,” Chuuya said, eyes narrowing.

“Edging will do that.” You tightened your grip. “Should we be nice?”

“Nope.”

Together, you worked him. Your hand gripped and pumped slowly, up and down the thick length of him while Chuuya leaned in and licked a long stripe along the underside, grinning when Dazai gasped.

“Tsk, tsk,” you said, circling your thumb over the head. “You thought five seconds was enough to warn me?”

Dazai was panting now. Arms flexing against the cuffs. He was trying to stay composed, but you could see the cracks. “Uncuff me now,” he rasped, “or I’ll make you both beg.”

Chuuya grinned up at him, mouth hovering just inches from his cock. “Try begging first,” he said. And then Chuuya took him into his mouth. Slow. Deep. Deliberate. You watched the way Dazai’s head tipped back, the sound he made low and broken. Your hand followed Chuuya’s movements, twisting where he didn’t, teasing where he pulled back. They were perfect, rhythmic, viciously in sync.

“You’re not going to last,” you whispered. “You’re gonna come in his mouth and be so fucking humiliated.”

Dazai growled. You squeezed. His whole body tensed. And then—you stopped. Chuuya pulled off with a pop. You let go. Dazai was shaking. “Don’t you fucking dare—”

“I told you,” you said sweetly. “No mercy.” He was shaking. Muscles taut, sweat slicking his throat, breath sharp and ragged. His cock twitched against Chuuya’s lips, strands of spit still clinging as you pulled away with a smug grin.

“You’re really not going to last,” you whispered, stroking a finger along the underside of him. “You’re unraveling.”

Dazai’s head rolled back against the chair. His voice was a rasped growl: “Is that what you think?”

You tilted your head. “You want to prove me wrong? Too bad you’re tied up—” click.

You froze. So did Chuuya. That sound. A soft metallic click. Too small to be dramatic—but loud enough to change everything. You whipped around to find Dazai smiling. A tiny, bent bobby pin sat between two fingers. “Did you really think I didn’t know how to pick a pair of cuffs?” he asked, standing slowly. The chair creaked behind him. His wrists were free.

Your stomach dropped. “You motherf—”

But he was already moving. In a blur, he grabbed your arm and spun you onto the bed, face-down, body sprawling across the sheets. Chuuya started to lunge forward—

Dazai shot him a glare that froze him in place. “Sit, Chuuya.”

Chuuya dropped like instinct. Dazai climbed over you, one hand gripping your nape and the other yanking your hips up until your ass was in the air, back arched, wrists pinned to the small of your back. “You wanted to take control?” he growled, voice low and vicious in your ear. “Tie me up? Make me beg?”

He shoved two fingers into your dripping pussy without warning, making you cry out against the mattress. “You should’ve known better.”

You writhed, trying to buck him off, but he pressed you down harder, fingers curling ruthlessly inside you, scissoring. “You thought you had me beat.” His fingers withdrew, gliding over your slick folds, then slapped between your thighs just hard enough to sting.

You moaned, angry and wet and breathless. He leaned close, licking a stripe up your neck. “You want to be in charge? Then take it from me.”

He thrust into you in one brutal stroke. You screamed. Chuuya let out a choked sound behind you, watching helplessly as Dazai pounded into you, dragging you back on his cock, one hand still gripping your wrists while the other fisted your hair. “Look at him,” Dazai snarled. “See what you did? He’s hard just from watching.”

You couldn’t breathe—you couldn’t think. Every thrust punched pleasure through your spine, forced you to submit with every drag of his cock against that devastating spot inside you. “You want to break me?” he growled, panting, hips slamming into yours. “This is what breaking looks like.”

Your legs gave out. But he didn’t stop. “Not until you admit it,” he hissed. “Who’s in control now?” You didn’t answer. He grinned. “Then I’ll fuck it out of you.” And he did.

You were ruined. Face-down, ass up, hips bruised from the force of it. Dazai’s cock pistoned into you, relentless and punishing, hand curled tight in your hair, the other still gripping your wrists like a leash. You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. You’d stopped trying minutes ago. But Dazai didn’t care. He wanted you limp. Wanted you broken.

You’d taken the reins. Now he was yanking them back. “Say it,” he growled, breath hot against your ear. “Say who owns you.” You shook your head weakly, teeth gritting. His hand came down hard on your ass. Your body jerked. Your moan cracked against the sheets. “Say it.”

“Fuck… you…”

“Wrong answer.”

He pulled out, grabbed your hips, and flipped you over like you weighed nothing. You landed on your back, legs spread and trembling, wrists still pinned in one bruising grip. He stared down at you—sweaty, flushed, cock dripping with your slick—and his grin was pure predator. “Last chance,” he said. “Say it—or I’ll come all over you anyway and leave you begging for more.”

Your pride warred with the slick heat between your thighs. Your body burned for more, even as your mouth twisted in a sneer. But he was right. He’d won. “…You,” you hissed. “You own me.”

He groaned low, eyes rolling back. “Louder.”

“You fucking own me.” And just like that—he came. With a shuddering growl, Dazai pulled out and jerked himself once, twice—before spilling hot, thick ropes of come across your stomach, your chest, your throat. Marking you. Branding you. You moaned despite yourself.

Dazai stood there for a moment—panting, flushed, gaze wild. Then you both turned your heads. Chuuya was still kneeling where he’d been ordered. Red-faced. Hard. Desperate. “Fuck…” he rasped, staring at your ruined form, hands clenched on his thighs. “Please…”

Dazai’s lips curled. “Well, look at that. Our little mutt wants to play.”

You propped yourself up slowly, smirking through the haze. Chuuya crawled toward you, his pride in shreds, his voice shaking. “Please… let me serve you. Both of you. I—I’ll do anything—”

You reached out and cupped his jaw, smearing Dazai’s come across his cheek. “Anything?”

He nodded quickly. “Yes. Please, I’ll be good. I want to be good…”

Dazai stepped behind him again, pressing one hand to the back of Chuuya’s neck. “Then start by licking her clean.”

Chuuya’s eyes widened. And then—without hesitation—he obeyed. His tongue traced up your stomach, across your chest, licking Dazai’s come off your skin with slow, reverent strokes. His mouth worshiped you. His moans were needy, breathless, broken. You tangled your fingers in his hair and let him work—let him prove himself.

Dazai leaned over, mouth beside your ear, voice low. “Now look at you,” he whispered. “Both of you ruined. Mine.” And you couldn’t deny it. Not anymore.

The room was wrecked. The air thick with sweat, sex, and the lingering echo of moans. Sheets tangled. Rope scattered. Skin flushed. Mouths bitten. You lay flat on your back, muscles trembling, legs spread limply, streaks of Dazai’s release still drying across your chest. Chuuya was half-draped over your thigh, panting like he’d just run ten blocks barefoot, lips swollen and face smeared with whatever hadn’t already been licked clean.

And Dazai?

Dazai sat casually at the foot of the bed, hair a mess, chest rising and falling with slow satisfaction, eyes heavy-lidded and utterly fucking pleased with himself. Nobody said anything for a long time. Just the sound of your breaths. The ache settling into your bones. The silence after the storm. Then—of course—it had to be him.

“…So,” Dazai drawled, stretching his arms over his head with a satisfied groan, “what I’m hearing is that I should crash your bedroom more often.”

You groaned. “Dazai.”

Chuuya didn’t even lift his head. “Shut the fuck up.”

But Dazai only laughed, falling backward onto the bed, arms flung out wide like a man basking in the sun. “You’re welcome,” he said smugly.

You reached for the nearest pillow and tossed it at his head. He let it hit him—still grinning.

[depressinglyobsessed]

Only a Genius could love a Woman like She

— ♬ "Oh my God, you're the lock and I'm the key. I got everything you need. Well, only a genius could love a woman like me."

— ♬ featuring: Ranpo Edogawa, Dazai Osamu, & Fyodor Dostoevsky. SFW, fem reader, the reader is a smart girlboss in this ok? flirting, tension, bsd men being down bad, 8.7k words, no beta

— ♬ wow this took so long because I got lazy and stuck on some parts, but this has been on my drafts for a loooong while, glad to have it finally out here

"Pity Pastries" — Ranpo E.

It wasn't unusual for Ranpo Edogawa to receive a call from one of the investigation units in Yokohama. After all, his reputation snatches the interest, attention, and even irritation from the ordinary detectives in the city. Although it fed his pride to have other detectives call for his assistance, Ranpo knows better than to expect a lot from them. He could count all the times he solved a case with another detective where he felt absolutely bored or disappointed, understimulated by the lack of common sense people seem to lack.

Of course, Ranpo knows he's different from other people—the president of the Armed Detective Agency has reminded him several times—but he couldn't help it if he couldn't fit in. It's not his fault; he was way out of their league, or his standards are too high for them. However, the detective does hope to find someone like him, someone different, someone who didn't fit in the crowd like he did.

Ranpo knew he should've declined. There were better ways to spend the rest of his shift, eat his favorite treats, play some video games on his desk, or even read a novel or two. Crossed armed and frowning, Ranpo stands by the entrance of the train station to meet up with an 'exceptional' detective regarding a difficult case. Now, he'd heard enough rumors and information to form a perception of this detective. From what he gathered, the detective was female, several years younger than him, and had made a recent breakthrough by solving cold cases back-to-back in less than a month.

The detective huffed. He would rather do a hundred laps until his lungs collapse than admit that it was impressive. He didn't want to get his hopes up only for it to come crashing down if this woman turned out to be like one of the idiots who called themselves detectives. He scoffs, considering inventing an excuse to retreat back to the Agency when his ears pick up the sound of footsteps.

You arrived at the train station dressed in your professional attire, carrying a leather satchel. Ever since you transferred to one of Yokohama's investigation units, you began hearing stories of the famous Edogawa Ranpo, who solved countless mysteries and crimes in less than a minute. You were skeptical of his ability: 'Ultra Deduction'. You wanted to confirm if it was legit. You weren't expecting much when you finally met Ranpo's emerald eyes.

"Good afternoon, Ranpo-san"

Your voice meant business, and it brought a smirk on Ranpo's face. You seemed uptight, like one of those serious-faced and boring detectives who try to look cool with their stern demeanor. Ranpo had a particular distaste for people who were too professional.

"So, you're the exceptional detective who cracked a lot of cold cases in under a month. I wonder why you wanted to reach out to me when you seem so capable of doing this case on your own."

Ranpo began, but it doesn't throw you off. You were prepared for what kind of attitude the great detective exhibited, and you're not going to let it affect you. Ranpo watched as you opened your satchel and handed him a folder containing information on the latest cold case. It was the murder of an old, rich man. There were two main suspects: the old man's daughter and the caretaker.

"Shall we go to the crime scene, Ranpo-san?"

You asked, Ranpo begrudgingly follows you inside the train station and travels towards the crime scene. You both arrived at a huge old mansion and inspected the old man's large bedroom beyond the yellow tape. The two of you separated to gather clues from the environment. Ranpo already had a theory in less than a second of looking around. He scoffed when he found you taking your time inspecting every corner of the room.

"I bet you think the old man killed himself. Based on the autopsy, he overdosed on his medication. And he left a note stating: 'I made peace with the end'. Sounds convincing for the average detective."

Ranpo chuckled and scanned you from head to toe. When you approached, you shook your head and took a confident stand in front of him.

"It's too typical, Ranpo-san. So, is the theory that the caretaker unintentionally gave him too much medication and the daughter being the real culprit then framing the caretaker. Or vise versa"

You spoke and this causes Ranpo to raise a brow. Oh? Was that a speck of common sense or was it only a flicker of feigned intelligence. Ranpo circles around the room.

"Both theories are too obvious but nothing seems to align with the old man's death"

"Exactly. It's either the old man truly ended his own life or—"

"There's another person involved"

Ranpo finished, and you nodded. The detective chuckles and reaches into his pocket for a lollipop. You watched as he unwrapped the candy and placed it in his mouth.

"Alas, but there's no evidence that points to another person being involved. And based on the report, only the old man's daughter and caretaker were present in the house when he died."

"They could've snuck in and left no trace"

"Possible"

Ranpo was starting to enjoy the exchange with you a little too much for his liking; a part of him still doubts that you're more than an ordinary detective. You trailed closer to him with a hand under your chin.

"It's possible because it happened."

"Hm? And your proof?"

You laid out your answer articulately. But Ranpo was getting bored, even yawning when you repeated the evidence found and used it to correlate it to your answer. He stops you midway with a raised hand.

"Okay, I gotta stop you there because that sounds pretty boring and cliché"

"You barely paid attention to what I said, Ranpo-san."

"Because none of that matters, and besides, I already know who the culprit is."

"If you think it's the old man's estranged son, then you're wrong."

You watch Ranpo freeze. He blinks as he turns his head to gaze owlishly at you with his emerald eyes; the lollipop on his mouth almost slips out. You look at him as if you've read his mind, and he shudders momentarily. He clears his throat and tries to play off his initial surprise.

"You're bluffing. We all know about the old man's family drama and how likely his children wanted him dead for the inheritance"

"Of course, but neither his son, daughter, or caretaker is the culprit"

"Yes, because the real culprit was—"

"The old man's best friend"

Ranpo's breath hitches when you two meet gazes. His heartbeat stutters at your glimmering [Eye Color] eyes, looking at him as if you can see the deepest corners of his extraordinary intellect. And you've managed to catch up, or dare he say, surpass him. An impressed smile blooms on the detective's face.

"Glad to see that you live up to your reputation, [Name]-san"

"I don't know about yours, Ranpo-san."

The corners of your lips twitch up in a rare tease and Ranpo feels his heart skip a beat, he was glued in place, captivated by your presence.

"I've already concluded the case the moment we walked into the room. It's inconspicuous, really. But typical. Who wouldn't question the old man's childhood best friend from across the street, who happens to be mysteriously absent on the night of his death?"

"Hm, clever. An interrogation has to take place for confirmation, yeah?"

"And you'd accompany me?"

"Of course"

An interrogation was swiftly arranged for the old man's best friend. You entered the interrogation room first, as Ranpo lazily followed. The best friend raised a brow as you both sat across the table. You clasped your fingers together while Ranpo looked like he was expecting a show.

"You claimed to be in a dinner date with your wife on the night of your best friend's death, correct?"

You asked immediately, and the man across from you nodded.

"Yes, we were celebrating our anniversary."

The man replied. Ranpo was curious how you would prove his alibi wrong, but still viewed the interrogation as a challenge, a competition against you. The detective leaned forward and smiled.

"Oh? But there's no reservation. No staff recall. No security footage. So you paid in cash that night? 

"Correct"

"Hm, how convenient

You squinted your eyes towards the man; the latter began to shift in his seat under your gaze, and it made Ranpo act giddy beside you. The detective grins.

"You know what else is convenient? Your wife being absent"

"She went out with her friends for a few days."

"But the cracked silver watch on your property tells a different story."

Ranpo watched you dig into you leather satchel to pull out a photo of a cracked watch found in mud, the time was stuck at 2:45 AM, the same time the old man died. Talk about symmetry. You looked at the man across the table, swallowing before gathering his response.

"You...you think I killed my wife?"

"I don't think, I know"

You replied with sharpness as you produced another photograph and slipped it into the cold tabletop. Ranpo blinked as he processed the picture of a pale, dead woman. He leaned closer and subtly got a whiff of your perfume; his thoughts momentarily came to a halt to imprint the scent in his brain.

"The autopsy came back. Skull fracture, blunt force trauma. An angled swing"

The man stiffens in his seat at your words. Ranpo tried to pull his head back into the game and clicked his tongue.

"The grave was shallow. Mud covered her face. You didn’t even finish burying her. What happened? Couldn’t stand to look at what you did?"

"Did you see your best friend's face too when you killed her?"

You raised a brow at the man who had clenched his fists under the table and tried to keep the remains of his composure intact. Ranpo was beginning the revel in the blooming chemistry between you and him during the interrogation; this was going beyond and better than his expectations. Everything fell into place thanks to your matched or dare he says, greater intellect. The man discovered an affair between his best friend and his wife, so he killed them both, emotionally, poetically, but pathetically amusing for Ranpo. The detective takes the lollipop out of his mouth and points it at the culprit from across the table.

"You killed your wife out of jealousy."

"And your best friend out of spite."

You leaned back on your chair and watched the guilty clench his jaw and avoid both you and Ranpo's gazes.

"...They...they betrayed me"

"And you decided to play executioner."

You said. In a moment, Ranpo leans to his left to whisper towards you in a hushed tone.

"You're terrifying, [Name]-san"

You glance at him and folded your arms, you leaned to your right to whisper back.

"Are you terrified, Ranpo-san? Or...turned on?"

Ranpo chokes on a breath and briefly looks at the man across the table, who was too busy being shaken by his guilt to register his attempt at flirting. The detective pulls on a smirk.

"I mean, is there a third option?"

You rolled your eyes and set them back to the murderer in front of you. His gaze was stuck on his lap as he drew in a shuddered breath.

"I saw them...together, in my own damned house"

"And thought to make them disappear with an overdose and blunt-forced trauma?"

The man finally looks up at you with wet eyes, tears dying to trickle down his face to cement his guilt for the crime. While you met him in eye, Ranpo's gaze was stuck on you, utterly mesmerized and hypnotized by your low voice, his lollipop merely fell from his mouth again.

"That was personal, that wasn't revenge."

"You don't get it. I lost everything."

"No, you took everything."

Ranpo finishes, both you and the criminal looked at him and he almost smiles with pride, thinking how impressive he must've appeared. The interrogation was wrapped up with a satisfying conclusion and arrest. Ranpo follows you out of the room with a grin, god he had never felt excited and properly stimulated by someone before. The stern look on your face, your unshakable character, and your shuddering questioning got the detective hooked. He caught up beside you as you walked in the hallway.

"Did you know there's a cafe that serves burnt caramel that makes one bite feel most crimes are forgivable?"

"Is that so? Are you planning to confess something, Ranpo-san?"

You spare him a gaze as you fixed your hair and coat, the detective sends you a toothy grin.

"Only to a fondness for sharp flavors and excellent company. I figured you'd want something sweet to balance out the bitterness in there"

Ranpo points his thumb behind his back to the interrogation room. You stop to face him fully, there was an amused glint in your eye that makes his knees feel soft.

"Are you asking me out, Ranpo-san?"

"Not if you say it like that."

Your gaze was unwavering that the detective felt like he was going to melt like ice cream the longer you looked at him. Ranpo gulps and continues, trying to sound less smug but more sincere.

"I thought smart people like good desserts. And good company. You’ve clearly got the first part covered"

"And the second?"

"I'm offering"

Ranpo watched you hum, his breath stutttered as you took a step closer until he could smell your perfume again. His skin felt flushed when you gave him a narrowed look.

"Hm, you don’t strike me as the type to share dessert."

"I'm generous to fellow geniuses such as myself, [Name]-san"

The familiar tension rises between you two, and it's making Ranpo squirm; the chemistry tasted faintly sweet but appetizing. His eye catches a subtly upward curve of the corner of your mouth.

"I'm sorry, but I don't do pity pastries."

Ranpo's shoulders dropped as his heart whined with disappointment. However, the smirk on your face becomes prominent now, and it brings a touch of hope for the detective.

"What a shame, I thought you had good taste."

"How about less gawking and more deducting next time, Ranpo-san?"

You turned and walked away with calm grace towards the elevator. Next time? Ranpo blinks once, twice, before a childish smile spreads across his features.

"I'll have that noted."

The detective watched as the elevator doors closed, catching a glimpse of a rare smile on your painted lips. Ranpo understands now why people found him difficult to please. It's only reasonable that a genius woman such as yourself would have such high standards, and Ranpo thinks he's more than qualified.

"Take a Guess." — Dazai O.

Fingers patiently tapping on the table, you leaned back in your seat as you scanned the familiar interrogation room. It's tactical that they didn't make it unbearable, they wanted to make whoever was being interrogated to feel cozy and convinced that whoever would be asking the questions that their answers won't be manipulated against them. 

Fifteen minutes have passed since you were brought here—well, rather, you beat them to it and willingly put yourself to be interrogated. Your mind suggested ideas on who will be interrogating you. It's an easy play if it were Kunikida Doppo, a chess game if would were Edogawa Ranpo (which you highly doubt because of how 'busy' he claims to be). You guessed it would be—

The door softly opens and shuts as the brown trenchcoat came into view. You exhaled through your nostrils as your lips curved up to an expectant smile.

"Lucky me"

You mused as you made eye contact with those amber-brown eyes. You watch him settle down on the seat across from you with a chuckle.

"Expecting me, [Name]?"

"Merely, not that Ranpo would dare to make himself available anyway."

"Ouch. You know, people are always eager to see me."

You rolled your eyes at him. When you crossed your arms, he pulled on his signature smile.

"Are you finally doing work for once, Dazai?"

"I always was, my dearest [Name]! I just finished doing paperwork thirty minutes ago!"

"The dried drool on the corner of your lips says otherwise."

Dazai blinked before shaking his head and wiping the lower half of his face with his bandaged arm, boyishly. You tilted your head back and gave the detective a lookover. His brown hair was ruffled, definitely from a good nap on the office couch. There were wrinkles on his coat, not that such details mattered. Your eyes trail up to his face, and nothing seems to have changed since you left the Armed Detective Agency. You guessed that Dazai feels different now that you're on the other side.

"As tempting as it sounds to catch up with you, there are pressing matters that demand answers, my dear."

The brunette had a glint in his eye as he rested his chin on the palm of his hand, his elbow comfortably settled on the tabletop. Somehow, you and Dazai got along weirdly. Maybe it's because you can tolerate his personality and he understood you better than anyone, or perhaps both of you were the opposite sides of the same coin. 

You worked with him in the Detective Agency for a long time before switching sides to the Port Mafia. You never expected a promotion, but you had a preminition that you'll never stay forever in this side.  It must've been the alcohol buzz, the adrenaline, or the serotonin at the party, but when you said you're going to quit the Agency, most of them smiled it off or brushed it off their shoulders. Maybe it's the way you said it that made it seem like a joke, but you saw Dazai's eyes that night, and you remembered it vividly when he looked intently at you. Like he knew you we're going to leave. If he did, did he think about stopping you?

"I've had the feeling that you're capable of committing crimes, [Name]"

Dazai's voice pulls you back to the present. You let seconds pass intentionally before pulling on a grin.

"Of course you do, you watch me the most during work hours, Dazai."

You reply. He decides to copy your grin; it suits his facial features devilishly well.

"Don't be too assuming, belladonna. To think that we all had those times together, you decide that being one of the top executives at the Port Mafia was more fun than my company."

"Oh, you're keeping some tabs on me? Obsessive"

Dazai scoffs, but he followed it with a playful smile; you know he was beginning to reel you in. To make you feel at ease with the familiarity of the conversation, and then catch you when you least expect it. No, you know his style. Subtle and seductive. Dazai wants you to be honest, to strip you bare and display your flaws, then use them against you. Cruel, sure, but impressive. You drew a breath in when he leaned forward.

"We know it was you. I know it was you, [Name]. You killed one of the senators."

His voice whispered low; it sounded rich and enticing. You leaned towards him and tilted your head.

"You have no evidence to prove it, so you're now relying on a confession."

"Kunikida was tasked with the evidence. I suggested that we might as well get a confession from you for good measure."

"I think you're looking for a different kind of confession, Osamu."

You felt it. You felt his breath hitch at the use of his given name. Dazai draws back and raises a brow before letting out a strained chuckle. You bit your lip to not let an amused sound slip past your mouth.

"You're getting cheekier, darling."

"Learned from the best"

"Oh, I'm the best?"

"Quite opposite"

Dazai's shoulders slumped as he dramatically pouted at you. The brunette fixes his posture and rests his bandaged forearms on the table's surface.

"Although I spent my growing years at the Port Mafia, I don't have the slightest clue what could've appealed to you to switch sides."

"Looking for better company than yours."

"If you're trying to wound me, you have to try harder."

"Feeling masochistic, eh?"

You can feel the bubbling frustration beneath the detective's skin. But you know better than letting your guard down for a second. After all, Dazai tends to grow more clever when he's desperate. The brunette's expression twitches for a moment before pushing back his chair and standing up to pace around the room. Your eyes follow him.

"You're doing this because you want something from us, don't you?"

He stops by the window to lean to his side and look at you with a neutral face. He takes in your full appearance from a distance. Your fashion hasn't exactly changed since you left months ago. You were wearing more jewelry, you got your hair trimmed, and the shade of your lipstick was darker. Dazai's eyes lingered on your lips.

"I don't want anything from the Agency, Dazai."

You said and pretended not to smile when his eyes snapped back up to yours. He clears his throat.

"Oh? But why did you willingly get yourself interrogated?"

"Because I guessed that it would be you I would be facing."

"...Well, I'm here. Did you want something from me?"

Dazai gazed with concealed glee when you nodded. He lingers by the table, not daring to return to his seat until he knows what you want from him. The corners of his lips curved up.

"You should've asked, darling!"

"As if you're willing to give something without a deal or exchange"

You leaned back on your seat and crossed your arms with a raised brow. Dazai chuckles; there was the familiar mischief on his features.

"I taught you how to read people, I should've been wiser and kept a few tricks to myself."

"Oh, please, I learned how to read you before you decided to teach me."

"That's hot. Think you can guess what's on my mind right now?"

The detective smirked as he rested his forearms on the backrest of the chair and bent forward, his eyes anticipating your answer while you squinted at him. You scoffed.

"Something inappropriate?"

"Do you really think that lowly of me, [Name]?"

Dazai theatrically sighs and frowns while you roll your eyes before glancing at the old clock on the wall.

"You can't blame me, your face looks like you're always trying to undress someone with your eyes."

"I'm trying to undress your brain, my dear. I'm trying to find out what you want from me."

"Why don't you come a little closer so it would be easier?"

The brunette raises a brow. He cautiously returns to his seat and furrows his eyebrows at you. His spine was erect as he kept his hands on his lap.

"I know you have something to do with everything, I just don't know why."

"Out of all people, you should understand the most that sometimes you have to remove something or someone from the equation to get what you want."

"And what is it that you want to gain out of all of this?"

"Take a guess."

You watched Dazai cross his arms with a challenged grin. The brunette throws a leg over another and leans forward.

"Killing a senator doesn't seem to have any perks."

"I never said I killed a senator."

"Oh, really? And what's with the hints?"

"You know that doesn't count as evidence."

You knew an intuition isn't enough; there has to be proof. Dazai knew this as well, and it was deliberately chipping away at his patience. He trusted his instincts well enough to know that you killed the senator, but all you're giving him are clues, not a damned confession. This isn't supposed to be personal, but he hoped you can't tell how much you affect him. 

"You want me to guess your motivation? It says to me that you're involved with it somehow."

"I neither confirmed nor denied anything, Dazai."

"You're purposely wasting time, belladonna"

"Did you hope I was spending it with you, Osamu?"

Dazai sucked in a breath when you held his gaze. There was a conflicted look on his face, like he wanted to smile but he couldn't trust himself at the moment. His mind was racing with ideas, but nothing was sufficient to hold on. You weren't budging. Knowing you was both an advantage and a disadvantage. The brunette thought he should go closer, but there's a knot warning him in his stomach that if he did, he can't turn back.

"You weren't this bold back in the Agency."

"I didn't want to make the first move."

"Aw, does the lady want the gentleman to take the lead?"

"You're not a gentleman, 'Samu. And I never said that I didn't want to take the lead."

"If you didn't want me to take the lead and make the first move, what are you waiting for?"

A toothy grin spreads across your face, and his eyes widen for a second. Dazai realized that he might've mistakenly taken your bait. He wanted to prove you guilty, and yet the only thing he's proving here is how you're way ahead of his game. Why the sudden display of intellect? You had the chance at the Agency to use your intellect for good, but you're using it against him. The brunette looks up to meet your gaze. Were you looking for an equal or an inferior? He doesn't tear his eyes away; he thought that if he blinked, he would fall behind.

"What's with the look? Afraid that I'll explode right in front of you, 'Samu?"

"You're fucking with me, [Name]"

"Don't you wish?"

You barked out a laugh when his face easily burst into color. The world was unfair, and he's about to lose the remainder of his patience if you keep fucking around like this. He promised a confession, god, he hoped Kunikida had at least one substancial evidence against you. His pride prevents him from fetching Ranpo to use his Ultra Deduction; he wanted to prove you guilty in his own style, which was growing futile.

"Tick-tock, detective, you're running out of time."

"You're not getting away from me easily, belladonna"

"Okay, and if Kunikida can't find any evidence against me? Are you going to send for Ranpo?"

"I can do this on my own."

"Damn, you're not willing to share, are you?"

Dazai looked like he was tempted to leap across the table towards you. The look he had was amusing. When you feel like you've stalled enough, the brunette's phone rings just in time. Dazai peeks to see Kunikida's number. He stands from his seat and answers the call at the window.

"How's the interrogation, Dazai?"

"She's unmovable."

"I'm starting to doubt it. From what I have gathered, there's no link to her."

When Dazai's amber-brown eyes moved to your figure, you smiled brightly at him as a tease, and it made his eyebrow twitch. You've had everything cleaned up before any of them could latch on, fucking fantastic. He peels his eyes away and tones his voice down.

"I know [Name], Kunikida. Trust me on this."

"I don't know, I'm considering calling Ranpo-san—"

"No!—I mean, that won't be necessary. I can do this by myself."

"Dazai, you're wasting time. If she's got nothing to confess, then let her go."

Kunikida's stern voice was followed by the line cutting off, and the brunette shoved his phone in his coat's pocket. Dazai turns to you by the table, you should be lucky he had abandoned his old ways when he left the Port Mafia, because if he didn't, he could've gotten everything he needed to hear from you—much more than that in fact. Fortunately, he's a changed man, but you're challenging him to prove it. The brunette lets out an audible sigh as he puts on a pout.

"It seems that I have to let you go, darling."

"How tragic, do you have to escort me out of the building, too?"

"If the lady allows it."

A soft smile graces your lips when you rose from the chair. The detective waited eagerly for your response.

"Lead the way, detective."

The walk outside the interrogation room was peaceful, the air was less tense than before, Dazai would even dare say nostalgic even. The way you walked beside him reminded him of back then, when you two would head to lunch or clock out after the shift. Everybody at the Agency knew he saw you differently. Atsushi would say he's softer with you, Kunikida would add he's doing his work more because of you, Yosano would chime in and point out how he's eating more because you'd always invite him to lunch, and Ranpo would agree to all three with a nod. The brunette could lean into this illusion of familiarity, like you didn't practically betray them or even leave him with a sting to realize you've switched sides.

Dazai opens the door for you, and your eyes meet. You tilt your head at the hesitation written on his face.

"Want me to say 'hi' to Chuuya for you?"

You snickered when his features immediately morphed into disgust as he let out a gagging sound.

"To think you're now on that slug's side, how disheartening."

"Don't worry, we're not that close, anyway."

"Good, I shall sleep peacefully with that fact."

"You're a selfish man, Osamu."

Dazai chuckles, and you find yourself shaking your head and giggling along. When he stops, he takes a noticeable step closer to you, and your heart almost skips a beat at the near proximity and the drastic height difference.

"I'll catch you eventually, belladonna"

"And when's that?"

"One of these days, I will. You can hold me to that."

"Exciting. But if I were you, I'd be more careful, things have a way of blowing up when you least expect them."

"But now, I'll have to figure out why you're doing this."

"Take a guess."

You left with those parting words as you casually walked down the steps and spared him a knowing grin. Dazai watches you disappear in the common crowd of one of Yokohama's streets. He stands there silently for a while, letting the previous moment sink in his memory to reminisce about later. He's interrupted by his vibrating phone in his coat's pocket; it was Kunikida again. He answers with a happy tone before being unexpectedly yelled at by his colleague.

"Where are you?"

"At the Agency, I escorted [Name] out."

"Well, we've got another situation."

Dazai can pick up the disaster from the other line, people screaming and running around, and there were sirens in the background.

"What happened?"

"Another high-profile disaster, a massive explosion occurred in the Senate's office. I think an ability user did this, and I need your ass here as soon as possible."

As soon as he heard it, Dazai's mind went back to you. Your smile, the shine in the irises during the interrogation, the faint smell of your perfume when he walked you out of the building, and your parting words: 'Take a guess.' He can feel his gut clench with intuition. It was you. 

And he hated that he couldn't prove shit yet. But anyone smart would understand him; it's too much for a coincidence, and it was clever timing. God, he can't believe you were subtly dropping hints of your crime but he's too caught up in his feelings to pick up! You're probably laughing back at Port Mafia headquarters, laughing at how stupid he becomes when he's around you, at how much of an idiot he is for having feelings for you. Well, if being the stupidest fool alive was the only thing that would make a smart woman like you laugh the hardest, he hopes you're ready for the last laugh.

"Better Luck Next Time" — Fyodor D.

The evening was cold but serene. The Sky Casino was bustling with its patrons, with luxury clinging to the atmosphere. The place sounded like a dream, unreal and tempting. Fyodor Dostoevsky knows it perfectly well. Perhaps it's because the fact that he was involved with the Sky Casino's creation that he's responsible for everything, and that he controls everything, even the casino's 'owner'.

The Sky Casino was made to be temporary, to sell an illusion. Once its purpose is fulfilled, it will undoubtedly be removed. Fyodor doesn't often spend his time here; the place was artificial to fool anyone, but it didn't impress him. However, there are circumstances where the book he's reading has a mediocre plot or he ran out of music to play on his cello. Truly, Fyodor was a busy man and would rather keep to himself than linger with others. But tonight was rare, driven by a seldom impulse that Fyodor gets on occasion.

He always wanted his senses to be stimulated, his fancy to be entertained, and maybe find someone to toy with. Fyodor sat calmly on his plush stool, his left hand's fingers tracing the enormous pile of chips as his right hand handled the two cards. The unsettled features of the middle-aged dealer almost amuse him with how many times he has won. So many times, in fact, that boredom was creeping in. Fyodor sighed as he revealed his cards and received his payment for the nth time that evening. He was about to retire for the night until an unfamiliar flash of yellow came into his peripheral vision.

Fyodor was stunned for a fraction of a second; he was unable to sense immediately that somebody had approached the blackjack table.

"Hi! Is this where you play blackjack, right? The one with the cards?"

A new feminine tone catches his ears as his eyes subtly glide to the source of the voice. Bright golden cocktail dress, elegant and playfully styled hair, and vibrant facial features. Fyodor hummed. You appeared ordinary enough to fit in but strangely out of place in this atmosphere. The middle-aged dealer pulls on a sympathetic smile and nods towards you.

"Yes, that's correct, miss."

You smiled as you took the vacant seat on Fyodor's left, one empty chair separated you two. You turned to the dealer with an eager grin.

"So, how do you play?"

"Pardon?"

"How do you play blackjack?"

You asked. For a second, the dealer and Fyodor exchanged brief, bewildered looks. The latter almost scoffs when the dealer's lip twitched, fighting back a smile. His dark violet eyes trailed back to you. Fyodor picked up a sense of naivety and curiosity from your expression. He attributed it to your youth, naturally. There was nothing wrong with a curious woman; he just hoped your head wasn't filled with air. When the dealer opened his mouth to reply, Fyodor properly faced you with a knuckle against his cheek and a neutral expression on his features.

"The objective is to get as close to twenty-one without going over. The dealer gives you two cards. You can ask for more; that's called a 'hit'. But if your total goes above twenty-one, you lose, a 'bust'"

He explained. Fyodor decided to entertain you; he could easily ignore you after, however, you gave him the brightest eyes he had ever seen. He smothered the initial shock with a raised brow; you looked like he had just revealed to you the universe's secret. It's not the first time that someone was in awe of him, but the innocence swirling in those [Eye Color] orbs made his lips quirk up with interest.

"Oh! So I just stay under twenty-one?"

"Not quite. You're playing against the dealer. If your total is higher than his and still under twenty-one, you win."

"Gotcha. So, all I have to do is get close to or exactly twenty-one and beat the dealer?"

You inquired, and Fyodor nods. You give the impression that he's teaching a child, which wasn't entirely unwelcome. The middle-aged dealer spares you a hesitant look before dealing you two cards. Fyodor almost scoffs when you hold the cards close to your chest before cautiously peeking down at them. There was puzzlement on your face, like you're trying to figure out a riddle rather than reading the value of your cards. He angled his chin upwards when you turned to him.

"I got uh...a ten of spades and queen of clubs"

"Hmm, that's worth twenty."

He murmurs, and your eyes widen. You gasped as a smile beamed from your face, and Fyodor and the dealer almost winced back.

"So, did I win?"

Fyodor smirks as he shakes his head with a chuckle. Your shoulders deflated as you pouted in your seat.

"Not yet. You could stay with twenty—a smart choice. Or you could take another card, but a new card might make you go over twenty."

He explains. Fyodor watches you looking back at your cards and at the dealer, evidently contemplating. He can tell that taking a risk makes you nervous, an amateur's natural trait. The dealer asks if you're going to stay with your cards or ask for one more. You sucked in a breath and said you're sticking to your ten of spades and queen of clubs. Fyodor barely bats an eye when the dealer flips his own cards, a nine of hearts and an eight of diamonds, a total of seventeen. He hears you rejoice.

"Oh my god, I won!"

You grinned and threw your hands up. The dealer sends you a polite smile and a clap. When you turn to Fyodor expecting the same, but he only stares at you. Of course, this was only a test round to see if you knew what you're getting yourself into. Fyodor predicted that by the fifth round, you're going to lose all your chips from taking too many risks or being too afraid of making a bold move. 

Fyodor casually slides ten chips forward. He peeks at you, betting on only three. He counted and realized you only had eight chips in total. It's probably your lucky number—an imbecile move on your part. The dealer slides both of you two cards. Violet eyes took in the jack of hearts and ace of clubs: a blackjack. He curiously peeks at you.

"So, the face cards are like worth ten in total?"

You watch Fyodor only nodding before turning back to your cards. There was a defeated pout on your lips, which clearly tells that you didn't get the total you wanted. When it's time to reveal your cards, he notices that you got a ten of hearts and seven of spades, with a total of only seventeen. The dealer reveals his total of nineteen, which makes Fyodor the winner. He quietly accepts the twenty-five chips, adding them to his mountain pile. He glances at you, almost sparing you a pitied stare for having five chips left and losing.

Another round resumes, Fyodor bets the same amount, while you cautiously bet two, wise but humiliating. A jack of clubs and an ace of spades, another perfect blackjack. He smirks towards the dealer, and the latter shrinks in his place, knowing that he has won another round. Somehow, Fyodor's eyes can't help but linger curiously on you; he wanted to see the expression on your face at the moment. Subtly, his eyes slid to you. There was a focused knit on your eyebrows as you stared at your cards, then you timidly asked the dealer for another card. He watched with a silent scoff when your face dropped in disappointment; he knew that your cards went over twenty-one.

The dealer reveals having twenty in total, while you went beyond with your ten of diamonds, eight of hearts, and a jack of diamonds. Another twenty five chips for Fyodor, as you remained with three chips left. There was a hopeless look on your vibrant face that the dealer almost took pity, maybe even considering sliding an additional five chips for a poor soul like you. Fyodor chuckled as he proudly turned to you.

"Looks like your beginner's luck has run out, zaichonok."

You tilt your head at him. Within a second, an unfamiliar glimmer flashes within your eyes. Fyodor raised a questioning brow and felt temporarily stunned. He shakes his head and fixes his gaze forward. He bets the same amount as you gave your remaining three chips.

"Do you believe in luck?"

You asked out of the blue, Fyodor doesn't incline his face back to you. He plays with the singular chip in his left hand as the dealer once again gives you both two cards. He hums.

"No, not at all."

He replies. You carefully picked up your cards and gave a brief glance, a smile returned to your lips—a different kind of smile that Fyodor completely misses.

"I think everybody deserves a little bit of luck."

You added. Fyodor's nose twitched unpleasantly at the ten of clubs and ten of hearts. He kept his cards under his palm, deciding to keep the amount he had instead of asking for a hit; the dealer gave a tiny sigh of relief. His eyes immediately set on you when you asked for another card, and a carefree expression now rested on your features.

"It's unwise to rely on luck."

Fyodor says as he reveals his cards. He watches you flip your cards to show a king of diamonds, a jack of hearts, and an ace of spades: a sudden blackjack. His eyes narrowed. The dealer only had a total of twenty as he slid you eighteen chips as payout for the win. Fyodor blinks, since he tied with the dealer, he gets to keep his chips but gains nothing. He decides to play it off with a tight smile and a practiced laugh.

"What a coincidence."

You grinned and giggled towards him. Fyodor caught the glimpse of childish mischief on your face—harmless but charming. It somehow compels him to stay a little longer and play several rounds with you tonight until your charm wears off, as he expects it to be with every woman he encounters.

Suddenly, his intuition feels a quiet shift in the air. His gaze cautiously lands on you without turning his head. In the corner of his eye, he sees you betting the same amount as him: ten chips. Fyodor fights back a smirk.

Someone's getting bolder

Your movements still reeked of clumsiness, but there was determination. Fyodor knows it all too well, when humans gain even less an ounce of hope to win, they go beyond their drive. Admirable but destructive. Excitement blooms on your face as you ask for a hit; your cards are getting better. This round, you both managed to beat the dealer. Your oozing happiness almost repels him when you look at him.

"I think I'm getting the hang of this!"

You beamed at him. Adorable, he thinks. Fyodor predicts that you will blow your chips eventually in one go, as quickly as you rose, you will soon fall. He clings to that thought as the game carries on. However, you began to arouse his suspicion. Although the worth of his cards isn't faltering and he hasn't lost since he began playing, you, on the other hand, are making unusual moves.

Whenever Fyodor would 'stand' with his cards, you would hit and get the perfect card. He would notice you standing with a weak hand when the dealer has a high card, and later on, the dealer would 'bust'. Your betting chips are getting higher and higher as your pile grows bigger. It was recklessness driven by the thrill of the win, Fyodor thought. He has seen it before, and people would chalk it out to luck. But he's beginning to suspect there's something else to you.

You strolled to this table with all your bright naivety and curiosity to gamble with eight chips out of all things. You could have played with anybody else but felt compelled to approach this sole table with only Fyodor in it. He knows nobody wants to play against him, even with him. His suffocating intellect and cunning nature draw them away; his unnatural intelligence disturbs them. Fyodor understands it, after all, he hasn't met anybody who was his equal. And he thinks anybody superior to him would be just a myth. Though he can't help but get curious about your story—your intentions—of being willing enough to play with him. There's a chance that you haven't heard of him; you were a new face. A face that his eyes can't stop trailing back to and consuming every detail of your facial features.

The dealer was just as suspicious as Fyodor at this point. You were clumsily playing at the beginning, but now you're being aided by dumb luck as your pile of chips began to rise. He watches cautiously at the rising tension between you two. Fyodor's eyebrow would twitch with attention whenever you made a weird move. The innocent smile on your face was faltering. The smirk on Fyodor's face would linger a bit longer. You start to handle your cards gracefully in your hands. The dealer knows you two are essentially playing against him, but he's getting the feeling this is shifting into a competition against each other.

Fyodor finds his attention drawing away from the dealer, away from his cards; he was watching you now. He felt irritated that he couldn't decipher you as quickly as he anticipated. Whenever you win with a risky hand, he realizes it wasn't a coincidence or fucking luck anymore. It felt like you're trying to outplay him. Fyodor's jaw clenches whenever you rake a stack of chips. The audacity.

Are you dumb not to sense the danger of going against Fyodor Dostoevsky? But you've barely glanced his way now that you're getting greedier by each round. Is it pathetic that he feels offended that you're unaffected by him? He clicks his tongue with a frown. Fyodor begins to bet higher after every round, trying to catch up to you to set the score and put you in your place.

It was baffling that you're getting better cards than him. When he looked for an ace, it was already in your hand. When he got two kings, you got blackjack. Fyodor's composure was wavering in his seat when he saw your pile of chips grow bigger than his. And at the same time, your facade melts away.

Oh, you weren't a clumsy bunny. No innocent bunny can intelligently take risks and stun the dealer. No naive bunny smiles like a fox. And no bunny can lure his attention like an experienced seductress. Fyodor registers your leg over your other, your lip trapped between your teeth, and the dangerous sparkle in your eye that he failed to notice earlier. Before he knows it, he's distracted.

"You're falling behind."

You smirk behind your cards as you finally catch him staring. Fyodor regains his composure and scoffs.

"Hm, planning to make me chase you, lisichka?"

"You're already doing that, sweetheart."

The nickname incites a throb in Fyodor's chest. The chips slide, a new set of cards. Your lidded eyes landed on his.

"You could use a little luck."

"I don't need luck"

"Everyone does, even devils."

You flip your cards to reveal another perfect blackjack. Fyodor couldn't hold back a chuckle as he showed his cards worth only of twenty, the fucking ace wandered in your hands again when he needed it. He gazes darkly towards you.

"And what are you, to lecture the devil?"

"I'm the gamble he shouldn't take."

You grinned as you slid all of your chips to bet. Fyodor's breath hitches at the reckless but brilliant display. The dealer's mouth was agape, and he asked to confirm if you're really betting all of your chips. You nodded. Fyodor swallows; his pride couldn't allow him to let you get away with that, so he copies you—sliding all of his chips to the dealer. The dealer blinked several times and shook his head. This was ridiculous. This should be the final round for tonight. He gives you your last two cards.

Fyodor's palms felt cold when he saw his cards: a jack of diamonds and a ten of hearts. It was a good hand, but wants to hit thinking you got another blackjack. He absolutely hates the foxy grin you're sending his way as you hold your cards. All three of you took a hit. The air grows thin when it's time to reveal the cards. 

Fyodor's head spun, and he felt like he was on the brink of fainting. The dealer's eyes widened as Fyodor 'busts' for the first time tonight with cards worth thirty, the same amount as he—all three face cards. Both of their eyes slowly turned to your cards, both hearts stopping at the unmistakable blackjack made out of pure diamonds of queen, king, and ace. With trembling hands, the dealer slides you double the chips you have bet.

The Russian's eyes felt hot as he stared at you, unable to choose if he was feeling seething anger or growing admiration. What kind of creature are you? Who are you, and how did you manage to beat him? Fyodor sat there motionless, trying to get his bearings, but the loss stung him further. He merely wobbles when he rises from his chair, his deep violet eyes pinned you while your fingers toyed with your chips.

"That was... an impressive play"

You watch him grit his teeth, and it makes you laugh. He clenches his fists but controls his barely steady composure.

"It looks like Lady Luck doesn't find you favorable tonight."

"I do not care for luck, and I know what you did wasn't pure luck."

"It was fun, though. Playing with you... Oh, I haven't even asked for your name!"

Fyodor watches you burst into laughter, his eye twitches as he takes a step closer. He felt particularly violent inside with how you're basically belittling him after his loss, making his pride hiss in pain. He clenches his teeth.

"It's Fyodor Dostoevsky."

"Better luck next time, Fyodor."

You pronounced his name with a roll of your tongue that makes him shudder. Nobody has ever said his name in that way that it obliges his hand to reach for your forearm without thinking. You jumped in your seat as your eyes trailed from his cold grip up to his eyes. A teasing smirk rises on your lips.

"If you're going to touch me like that, at least buy me dinner first."

"Well then, shall I treat you to dinner, lisichka?"

"I don't think dinner tastes good with losers."

Fyodor staggers slightly as you pry his hand off your forearm. You stood from your seat and went closer to jab a finger against his chest; his heartbeat stuttered at the contact.

"Not only did you lose, you also suck at flirting."

"Excuse me?"

"I can feel your eyes on me the entire time. No wonder you lost. You're not focusing on the game, sweetheart."

You purred. If Fyodor wasn't with you in public, he could've grabbed you by the neck and kissed you. He shakes the thought away with a low laugh.

"I'll keep that in mind for the next game."

"Oh? Asking for a rematch?"

"Konechno. I intend to beat you before taking you out to dinner."

When a toothy smile blooms on your face, Fyodor can feel his insides churn with delight.

"Okay. Until next time, then, Fyodor."

"Wait, you haven't given me your name."

"Consider it as a prize to win when we play again."

You smirked and walked away with that glimmering dress, carrying your stacks of chips. He felt stupid for forgetting to ask your name when he had the chance earlier. But Fyodor can't help it, he was enamoured—obsessed—with you. Having displayed your cunning intelligence to win against his own favorite game of gambling. You were one of a kind, something he couldn't easily let go of. A genius woman who has gone beyond being his equal, Fyodor loves a game of fighting for superiority—a challenge to the dynamic. He needed to prove that he deserves you just as you deserve him. Fyodor would be foolish not to gamble to win you on the next encounter.

©kitasgloves (do not steal or copy)

[depressinglyobsessed]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

── .✦ "3 AM SHENANIGANS" — Suna Rintaro, Akaashi Keiji, Kuroo Tetsuro, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Bokuto Kotarou, Iwaizumi Hajime, Miya Atsumu, Miya Osamu, Kozume Kenma, Oikawa Tooru

in which you catch your boyfriend talking in his sleep Sleep-talking boyfriends >>> therapy. content : fluff. multicharacter. post timeskip. 2000 words

SUNA RINTAROU

It’s late, and the room is quiet, except for the occasional shuffle from Suna, who’s already half asleep beside you. You’re about to drift off when you hear him mumble, his voice low and irritated.

“Are you serious right now?” Suna grumbles, not fully awake. “Atsumu, you can’t be this extra all the time.”

You freeze. Wait, is he... talking about Atsumu?

You glance at Rin, then casually grab your phone. With a grin, you hit record, knowing this is going to be top-tier content. “You look like a damn highlighter, Atsumu,” Rin mutters, sounding genuinely disgusted. “Who told you neon green was a vibe? Was your mirror broken that day?”

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh. This is already better than anything you could’ve expected.

“And that ‘sexy smirk’ you keep trying to pull off?” Suna continues, totally unaware of his roasting abilities. “You look like a kid who just learned how to wink and is way too proud of it. Cut it out, bro.”

You snicker, barely able to keep your cool. I’m definitely sending this to Atsumu in the morning.

“Honestly, just stick to your usual ‘I’m better than you’ routine,” he grumbles. “At least that’s believable. But seriously? You think anyone’s buying this ‘heartthrob’ act? You look like a failed shampoo commercial from 2009.”

You choke on your laugh, clutching your stomach as you snort. Suna, meanwhile, is still in his own little world.

“And for the love of God,” he adds, “stop flexing like you’re auditioning for a bodybuilding competition, because nobody’s impressed. We see your ego in every room, and honestly, it’s exhausting.”

You just can’t stop giggling, holding your phone up to get every word. This is absolute gold.

“Seriously, Atsumu,” he mutters, voice slurring as he shifts slightly. “I’m just trying to sleep, and you’re out here acting like you’re the main character in a K-drama. Take that energy to the next level, bro.”

You whisper to yourself with a grin, “Suna's literally sleep-roasting him like he’s on a talk show.”

Suna rolls over, still completely unconscious, and you stop the recording, already looking forward to showing this to Atsumu. You lean back and snicker under your breath, "This is so going viral in the group chat.”

AKAASHI KEIJI

It’s late, and you got up because you were thirsty. You’re just about to go back to sleep when you hear a mumble from Akaashi next to you.

“Did I leave the oven on...?” he mutters groggily, his voice low and concerned.

You blink, confused. Wait, what?

You glance over at him, only to find him still fast asleep, looking completely unaware of his own panic. “Keiji...?” you whisper, half-jokingly. He mumbles again, his tone slightly more urgent this time. “The oven... I think I left it on. Did I...?”

You try not to laugh, but you can’t help it. Seriously? In his sleep, he's worried about the oven? “Hey Keiji...” you try to get his attention, but he continues as if he’s in the middle of a full-blown crisis.

“I swear, if I burned the house down...” he mutters, shifting slightly in the bed. “I was just trying to make toast...”

You’re now fully awake, trying to hold back laughter as you watch him talk about something as mundane as burnt toast while still completely unconscious.

“I know I should’ve checked the timer...” he continues, his voice tinged with regret. “Why do I always forget the basics?”

By now, you’re trying your best not to laugh out loud. This is too funny, and you decide to take full advantage of it. You tap him on the shoulder gently, but he doesn’t react. He’s still spiraling in his sleep. “Babe, it’s fine. The oven's off,” you say in a teasing tone, hoping it’ll snap him out of it.

“But what if I didn’t turn it off...?” he mutters again, his concern reaching new heights. “What if... what if the fire department has to come? I’ll never hear the end of it.”

You sigh, finally giving up on holding it in and letting out a chuckle. Akaashi, always the over-thinker—even in his sleep. With a smirk, you nudge him once more, and he finally lets out a small sigh of relief, still half asleep. “I’ll deal with it in the morning...”

You shake your head, still smiling. Next time, maybe check the oven before going to bed.

KUROO TETSUROU

The night is calm, the kind of stillness that’s perfect for deep sleep—or so you thought. You’re peacefully dreaming when you suddenly feel a hand on your arm. Kuroo shift beside you, his body going rigid all of a sudden.

“No, no, no... why is she—” he mumbles in his sleep, his voice growing more frantic by the second.

You blink, slowly waking up as his random murmurs continue. "Tetsu?" you ask groggily, unsure whether to just ignore it or poke him awake.

"She’s... she's drooling—WHAT THE FUCK, WHY IS SHE DROOLING?"

You furrow your brows, still half-asleep and confused. "What? Drooling? What are you talking about?"

Kuroo starts thrashing around a bit, looking like he's trying to dodge something invisible. "No, no, NO—this is bad. This is so bad. It’s... it’s—LILY ROSE DEPP! GET AWAY! GET AWAY FROM ME, YOU'RE GONNA GET ME WITH THE DROOL!"

Pause. Why the fuck is he dreaming about Lily Rose—

It hits you like a lightning bolt. He's dreaming about the movie you saw today.

You can’t help but snicker at the absurdity of the situation, but Kuroo is clearly in full-blown panic mode, hands swatting at the air like he’s trying to fend off some kind of horror movie monster.

"Tetsu," you whisper, trying not to laugh too loudly. "Chill out, it’s just a movie. Lily-Rose Depp is not going to drool on you."

"But she’s... she’s just standing there tweaking out! WHY IS SHE DROOLING LIKE THAT?! SHE'S GONNA MURDER ME!"

You can’t hold it in anymore. "You are literally freaking out over fake drool. It’s not even real!"

He freezes mid-squirm, looking like he’s just realized he’s been fighting invisible drool this whole time. "Wait... I’m... I’m dreaming?"

"Yes, babe, you’re dreaming," you say, trying to get him to relax. "It was just a weird movie scene, chill. No one’s gonna drool on you in your sleep."

He mutters something under his breath, clearly still processing, but then—BOOM. He jolts awake, blinking in confusion and looking around wildly. "Did I... did I just fight off a drooling woman?"

You can’t help but laugh, running your fingers through his hair. "No, baby, you’re good. There’s no one here. Just weird movie dreams."

Kuroo lets out a deep sigh of relief, but not without one last dramatic comment: "But seriously... that scene? Unsettling. Why did she even do that?" He shudders dramatically as if he’s still trying to shake off the absurdity of it.

You laugh, rolling your eyes. "It was just a weird artistic choice, Tetsu. Just go back to sleep, dream about something less gross."

Kuroo pulls you closer, still looking a little frazzled, but at least he’s relaxed enough to go back to sleep. "If I dream about drool again, though, I’m going full superhero on it," he mutters.

“I’ll hold you to that,” you say, stifling a giggle. "Goodnight, hero."

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

The night is quiet, and you’re just about to drift off when you feel something unexpected: a weight on your waist. You blink, confused, only to find that Sakusa—who's usually the least touchy person you know—is clinging to you like a koala in his sleep.

"Mmm… no… no, not again..."

You blink a few times, still half-asleep. "Omi?"

He doesn't respond, but you hear him muttering something under his breath.

"Stay back, Atsumu..."

You sit up a bit, eyes wide in confusion. "Atsumu?"

His grip on you tightens, and you feel his body tense against yours as if he’s trying to protect himself from an invisible force. "No… no, you’re too sweaty! I can’t breathe… germs… germs everywhere!"

You rub your eyes, not sure if you’re dreaming or if Sakusa’s really having this conversation in his sleep. "Wait, what?"

"Germs…,” he mumbles again, still clutching you like you’re his lifeline, as though Atsumu—who’s clearly not here—is about to attack him with sweat.

You can’t help it. You snort, more amused than anything else. This is the guy who gives you a 10-minute lecture about disinfecting your phone, and now he’s sleeping like a cat glued to your side.

"Omi," you murmur, trying to suppress a laugh. "You’re literally dreaming. There’s no sweaty Atsumu here. Calm down."

But he’s not listening. His voice gets more frantic, and his arms tighten even more around you. "I can't… I can’t touch him, Y/N... it’s… it’s everywhere. The germs, the sweat, it's all over..."

You blink, stunned at how clingy he’s gotten. Normally, this guy wouldn’t touch you unless you had a very good reason. And now? He’s practically attached to you like a backpack. "You’re really going all in with this, huh?" you tease softly. "Do you need me to disinfect myself before I sleep with you too?"

"Need bleach...,” he mumbles, still not awake. "We need bleach. Stat."

You burst into quiet laughter, shaking your head. "You’re fine babe. There’s no germs here. I promise. It’s just you and me."

His response? He pulls you closer, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck like he’s shielding himself from a storm. You almost fall out of bed from how tightly he's holding you, and the absurdity of it all finally hits you.

"Omi," you chuckle softly, "I can’t believe you’re this clingy when you're asleep." You can practically hear his mind working as he sighs in his sleep. "Thank you... you're so clean..."

You're starting to enjoy the chaos now, though you’re still trying not to suffocate under his sleep-induced clinging. "Well, if I'm so clean, maybe you should calm down before you suffocate me," you tease, lightly pushing him off.

He doesn’t budge, still clinging to you like a human koala.

"I promise, no one’s getting sweaty near you," you murmur, shaking your head in amused disbelief.

Sakusa finally relaxes a little, still holding onto you, though not as desperately. It’s almost sweet… if you ignore the fact that he's sleep-clinging to you like a lifeline and muttering about germs.

"You're so soft," he mutters sleepily, finally drifting back into peaceful slumber, his hand still gently gripping your waist.

You blink down at him in confusion.

You can’t help but snicker. Looks like, for once, you’re the one who has to play the role of the calm, reassuring one. Not that you mind—just as long as he doesn’t try to disinfect you in the middle of the night.

BOKUTO KOTAROU

It was late—too late—when you felt something shift next to you. At first, you ignored it, already half-asleep, curled under the blankets. Then, suddenly—

"HEY HEY HEY!!"

Your body jerked awake at the sheer volume of his voice. "What the—?!"

Your sleep-addled brain barely had time to process before Bokuto fist-pumped the air—WHILE STILL ASLEEP.

"BEST SPIKER ALIVE, BABY!!" he cheered.

You blinked in the dark, completely disoriented. "Are you serious right now?" He didn’t answer. Because he was still asleep.

You groaned, rubbing your face, trying to slow your heartbeat down after that sudden wake-up call. "Bokuto, shut up," you muttered, voice raspy with sleep. But he wasn’t done.

"THAT WAS PERFECT!! DID YOU SEE THAT, Y/N?!"

"Oh my god," you whispered, realizing what was happening.

He was sleep-talking. Again.

"Ko, babe," you sighed, poking his forehead, hoping to shut him up before he woke up the whole building. "You’re dreaming. Go back to sleep." But instead of calming down, he suddenly turned towards you, grabbed your wrist, and squeezed it like a coach hyping up a player. "Y/N, YOU SET ME UP SO GOOD, I COULD KISS YOU!!"

You froze.

Your sleep-deprived brain took a moment to process the words before your lips parted. "…Bokuto Kotarou, I don’t even play volleyball."

"DON’T EVEN NEED TO! YOU’RE JUST THAT GOOD!!"

You sighed deeply, trying not to laugh. Sleep-talking Bokuto was something else. "Okay, okay, I’m amazing, got it. Now, can you go back to sleep?" Bokuto let out a content sigh, rolling back onto his side. "Mm… MVP… my Y/N…"

And just like that, he was out cold again.

Meanwhile, you stared at the ceiling, still awake, because somehow you just got dragged into an imaginary volleyball match at 3 AM.

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

The night was supposed to be peaceful. A rare moment of rest. No stress, no overthinking—just warmth, a comfortable bed, and the sound of Iwaizumi’s steady breathing beside you.

And then—

"Damn… look at those biceps…"

Your eyes snapped open.

For a second, you just lay there, blinking at the ceiling. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe you were dreaming.

Then, another sigh. "Shit… those arms… they’re unreal…"

Slowly—very slowly—you turned your head.

Iwaizumi was out cold, brows slightly furrowed, face relaxed in sleep. Yet his lips still moved, muttering nonsense into the darkness.

You stared at him. "Excuse me?"

He inhaled deeply, like he was taking in the sight of something majestic. "Damn, Ushiwaka…"

You nearly choked.

"USHIJIMA?!"

Nothing. No reaction. Just more soft, reverent mumbling. "Man… wonder what his arm day looks like…" A dreamy sigh. "Bet he curls, like… baby cows or somethin’…"

Your mouth fell open. For a solid ten seconds, you just laid there, processing. Then, slowly, a grin crept onto your face.

Leaning in, you whispered, "Hajime, do we need to have a conversation?"

A twitch. Then a small, sleepy grunt. "Mm… nah… ‘M gonna get bigger… even bigger…" His fingers twitched against the blanket, like he was mentally curling dumbbells.

You bit back laughter. "Bigger than Ushiwaka?" His brows furrowed, serious even in his sleep. "Tch… obviously…” A pause. "…probably…" That did it. You had to shove your face into the pillow to keep from bursting out laughing.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get any better—

"Y/N… ya think I’d look cool in a whey protein commercial…?"

You lost it. Grabbing your pillow, you smacked him upside the head.

MIYA ATSUMU

The night was peaceful, quiet, and exactly what you needed after a long day.

Then—

"THAT LYIN’ SNAKE—"

You shot upright, heart slamming against your ribs as you whipped toward the source of the outburst.

Atsumu. Still completely asleep.

His brows were furrowed, his mouth twisted in pure betrayal, and his fingers twitched against the blanket like he was plotting a murder. You exhaled sharply, flopping back onto the pillow. "God, Atsumu. Go back to sleep."

But he wasn’t done.

"I KNEW IT," he muttered, voice thick with righteous fury. "OSAMU’S BEEN WORKIN’ WITH THEM ALL ALONG…" Your brows furrowed as you turned to face him, half-exasperated, half-amused. "With who?" Atsumu’s breathing hitched. Then, in a voice so low it was almost conspiratorial, he whispered—

"The pigeons."

You blinked.

"What."

"They ain’t real, Y/N…" he continued, jaw clenching. "Government spies. Watchin’ us. Waitin’."

Your face went slack. "You’re joking."

"First it was the onigiri… now it’s full-blown espionage…" Atsumu grumbled, gripping the sheets tighter. "I gotta stop him… I gotta—"

Then, abruptly, his whole body relaxed. His face softened. His lips curled into a stupidly fond smile. "Mm… Y/N, ya smell good…" Your soul left your body.

"WHAT?!"

"Like… bread…" he sighed, completely content. "I love bread… ‘M gonna marry bread…" You stared at him.

Then, without thinking, you smacked him with your pillow.

"WAKE UP, YOU MENACE."

Atsumu just rolled over onto his stomach, mumbling something incoherent. But then, just as you were about to settle back down… "Not if Osamu gets to it first… damn bastard takes everythin’ from me…" You buried your face in your hands.

It was too late at night for this.

MIYA OSAMU

It was past midnight, and the only sound in the apartment was the occasional hum of the fridge. You were comfortably asleep—until you heard mumbling beside you.

At first, you thought you imagined it. But then— "No, that’s mine, ya greedy pig…"

Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned your head toward Osamu, who was lying on his back, looking completely relaxed. His lips parted slightly as he mumbled, his voice low and grumbly from sleep.

"Didn’t even leave me a single bite… selfish ass…"

Oh. He was sleep-talking. You had to physically restrain yourself from laughing.

Carefully, you shifted closer, resting your head on his shoulder. "What’d he take this time?" you whispered, playing along. Osamu sighed like a man who had suffered greatly. "The last onigiri…"

You bit back a grin.

"That bastard," you whispered dramatically. "Didn’t even ask?" Osamu's brows furrowed, his head tilting slightly. "Didn’t even share…"

You lost it. You absolutely lost it.

You pressed your face into his shoulder, shaking with silent laughter. This was too good. Then—"That was my favorite one, too…" Osamu sounded genuinely heartbroken.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes from holding in your laughter. "'Samu, baby, you own a whole restaurant."

There was a beat of silence.

Then, with the most serious expression—still completely asleep—he muttered: "DON’T MEAN I WANNA SHARE, Y/N." You immediately rolled onto your back, gripping your stomach, wheezing.

That was it. You were bringing this up tomorrow.

And if Osamu thought for one second that you wouldn’t record it next time? He had another thing coming.

KOZUME KENMA

Kenma was a silent sleeper. Most nights, you barely even noticed he was there—except for the occasional shift when he curled closer, or the faint glow of his phone screen if he stayed up too late gaming.

Tonight, however, was different.

Because at exactly 3:12 AM, he mumbled—

"No… no… lag… not now…"

You blinked awake. For a second, you weren’t sure if you imagined it. But then—"Tch… stupid server…" Kenma shifted slightly, brows furrowing in his sleep. "I swear if I d—if I d—if I d—" He twitched.

You squinted. "Kenma?"

"—if I d—if I d—if I d—"

You sat up. "Are you… lagging?" Kenma twitched again. His lips parted slightly, his voice glitching. "N—not n—now—lag—s-stu—pid—"

It took everything in you not to burst out laughing. "Kenma, baby, you’re buffering."

"Ngh… Y/N…" His fingers twitched, his face contorted in distress. "They’re—th-th-they’re stream sniping me…" You bit your lip. "Who?"

"Sweaty… 12-year-olds…" He exhaled sharply. "Little monsters…"

At that, you lost it. You flopped back onto the pillow, shaking with silent laughter.

"Kenma," you gasped. "You’re getting wrecked by children in your dreams?" "They—they won’t stop emoting on my body…" He turned his face into the pillow, like he was actually suffering. "Disgusting…"

Tears pricked at your eyes from holding back laughter.

Then, suddenly, Kenma’s breathing evened out again. His fingers stopped twitching.

Silence.

Until—"…Kuroo, stop taking my loot…"

You rolled over and smacked him with a pillow.

OIKAWA TOORU

The bedroom was quiet, you and Oikawa in a peaceful slumber, until, you’re woken up in the middle of the night by Oikawa’s voice, soft but unmistakably confident.

“...Y/N, I’m telling you, I can do a backflip. I’ve practiced, I swear.”

You blink, groggily trying to process what he’s saying. "A backflip? Sweetheart, where would you even try that?"

He doesn’t answer, but you can hear him shift in his sleep. Then, his voice comes again, louder this time, as if he’s trying to convince the whole room. “I’m serious! Just wait ‘til I show you. I can totally do it. You’ll see.”

You squint at him, slightly confused. “A backflip? Are you actually dreaming about impressing me with acrobatics?”

He sighs in his sleep, as if this whole conversation is just basic stuff to him. “I’m not just impressing you, Y/N. I’m proving I can do anything. You’ll see...”

You can’t help but laugh quietly, shaking your head. "Okay, Oikawa. When you land that backflip, let me know."

His voice is muffled as he mutters, “Just wait... I’ll do it in front of the whole team... they’ll be amazed…”

You roll your eyes, utterly entertained. "Sure, sure. I’m sure they’ll be floored, Oikawa."

He mumbles something unintelligible, then goes silent again, clearly satisfied with his dream logic. You shake your head, already half asleep again. "Whatever you say, superstar."

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

Taglist (OPEN). / @cherrysurf @arwawawa2 @itsmeaudrieee

[depressinglyobsessed]

TEXTS W SHOYO! ✯

★ f!reader, third year shoyo, dark-ish humor? suggestive, pre established relationship

©ctrlkenma, 2025.

[depressinglyobsessed]

plots getting good 😋😋😋

LOVE OF THE GAME

unluckily lucky

wc: somewhere around 2k. not proofread at all, may read as 2 chapters being smushed into 1 (cause that’s what i did). content: nekoma and fukurodani mentioned, finally finding out who readers ex is. please do not jump him..

being caught in this awkward situation with oikawa wasn’t what you were hoping for, especially now that the two of you were in tokyo. granted, you didn’t have to be around each other though the chances of running into one another were heightened drastically. it didn’t help that iwaizumi was trying to force oikawa into a position to confront his feelings.

“listen, as long as this doesn’t amount to more problems for me, i could care less what you’re trying to get him to do,” was your response. he still hadn’t responded to your texts and you weren’t going to keep chasing him for an answer.

the evening came and went; iwaizumi walked you back to your hotel room and wished you a good night. yachi caught you up on the plan for tomorrow, explaining that it would be relatively laid back for the managers. “they might need help with food, though that’s about it!”

as the sunlight seeped through the curtains, the two of you got dressed in whatever was considered appropriate for the weather. you were supposed to meet everyone else in the lobby before heading off towards the campus. it was another game of “avoid oikawa as much as possible” because if you were one thing, it’s petty. as both coaches did a headcount, you found yourself with nishinoya.

“you know, i’ve only been to university of tokyo, nekoma once or twice. i think you’ll like it, it’s just as nice as aoba johsai was,” he commented. and just like that, the two school teams headed off.

it was about a 15 minute walk. nekoma’s campus was massive, though it was to no one’s surprise. as a tokyo university, it was well funded and had many top notch amenities. the boys had set down their bags in the gym, opting to help the others set up. from the little bits of conversation, you figured that their captain was the #1 player with messy black hair. it was through his commentary that you deduced that their setter was the apathetic, tired #5. kuroo and kenma. you didn’t have to make much of an effort though, with kuroo coming up to you and introducing himself. he offered himself as a tour guide, stating that “whatever you may need, i’ll be here to help you” with a wink. charmer, isn’t he? he also said that kenma could assist with whatever was needed, though with the blonde’s reaction, you figured it was best if you didn’t provoke him.

you and yachi opted to sit up in the viewing area, a safe distance away from the chaos of it all. you two talked about everything and nothing at all, looking down upon the three teams warming up. they had set up two courts, each team claiming one of the four quadrants as theirs for warming up, though the one across aoba johsai was left empty.

“is there supposed to be another team?” you asked yachi.

“oh i forgot to tell you who else was coming! we have us, aoba johsai, nekoma obviously and-”

she was cut off by the doors slamming open, more sunlight shining through the doorway. everyone glanced over to see who had opened the door so aggressively, though there were coaches and managers bowing, apologizing for their energetic captain.

“that’s our last team, fukurodani.” the name you had dreaded so much. the name that you were hoping, pleading with some higher being that they wouldn’t be at this training camp. because you had kept tabs on the fukurodani team, you knew about their players and positions. you knew one of them a little too well. because 3 years ago, you had spent your high school years by their side, cheering them on at their games. you spent your free time with them, working on your homework or enjoying an outing with them. you watched as they slipped through your fingers into obscurity, the last conversation being a call while you were countries away.

akaashi keiji, your first and only boyfriend from high school. the infamous ex that left your brother conflicted with feelings of resentment for your relationship’s end and adoration of his volleyball skill. 3 years of no contact all fell apart with a simple week in tokyo.

you felt frozen in time; he had changed so much. he had matured more into his face and had grown taller. of course it was still the akaashi keiji you knew, but he wasn't your akaashi keiji anymore. it was too late to hide anyways, your eyes were on him and his were on you. your brother, nishinoya, iwaizumi, they all noticed. most of all, oikawa noticed. he saw how you looked at each other and yachi could swear she saw his eye twitch.

it was the summer before your 3rd year of high school. 

if there were two words to describe your situation right now, it would be unluckily lucky. on a whim, you applied for a 2 year study abroad program that would take place during your junior and senior year of high school. as luck would have it, you got in. you celebrated that acceptance email with your family, your friends, and the boy who had pushed you to apply. akaashi keiji.

no one would’ve expected you two to be friends, much less to be dating. the two of you kept it lowkey, neither of you being one to flaunt your relationship status to anyone. it also helped that the two of you went to different high schools, just close enough that you’d see him at the occasional practice match. it was easy to keep it a secret, to hide your weekend outings and after school study dates. he was a year older than you, the two of you got to know each other after running into each other at the same cafe a few days in a row. you had recognized him from the team your brother played against, he recognized you as the girl waiting outside to walk home with kageyama. it became a routine to meet at the cafe, order your drinks and snacks, share a table, and work through whatever homework you had. of course, meetings weren’t super frequent as he had practice often, though you exchanged numbers to keep your little tradition alive. 

it wasn’t a surprise that something so peaceful and innocent had bloomed into something more. kageyama caught on quickly, sensing your small changes. twin’s 6th sense, or something. it also didn’t help that you were constantly out of the house; the days you did stay inside, you were in your room on the phone with someone. one day, he just asked you out of the blue who your boyfriend was. there wasn’t any point to lie so you were honest. 

after that, your relationship was solid as the two of you balanced each other out well: his overthinking was grounded by your honesty, while your worries were grounded by his thoughtful approaches. it was perfect, almost. 

“what’s the tab you have open?” he asked, leaning to look at your laptop screen. it was getting later in the day, both your drinks half empty and only crumbs left on your plates. 

“ah, it was a study abroad program i was interested in. i thought it would be fun but…”

“you’re worried about everything you’ll miss here.” without missing a beat, he knew all your worries and concerns. it’s what you loved about him. 

“yeah, you practically took the words out of my mouth. i mean it would look good on my college applications, though a new country is scary when you’re alone. plus, everything i know and love..”

“i think you should apply, you don’t have to accept it if you get in. but you’ll regret it if you don’t take this chance.”

so you did it. you applied on the spot with him helping you through the process, helping you fill out the boxes you didn’t quite understand. by the time it was dark outside, you had submitted your application and he rewarded you with a kiss to the forehead, before he packed both your belongings and slinging both bags over his shoulders. of course he was going to walk you home. 

it was quiet and dark, peaceful almost. you couldn’t help but ask him. 

“keiji, are we going to stay together if i go abroad?” he didn’t answer right away, you could tell he was thinking about all possibilities. 

“of course we will.” that was enough for you at the time. 

not anymore though. 

if you were to look back, you could tell he was lying. when you tried to bring the memory back to your mind, you could see that he was tense. he couldn’t meet your eyes, much less face you. his tone was flat and there wasn’t much to him that seemed convincing. but back then, love alone was enough for you to look past it all. you knew why he did it too: chances were, he said that because he knew if he didn’t, you would’ve rescinded your application the second you got home. so he let you believe that no matter what, you two would be okay. 

the first week abroad was the hardest of them all. it was your third year of high school, his fourth. with time zones and schoolwork, it was hard to stay in touch. you were constantly working overtime; whether it was trying to meet new people, exploring the city, or working extra hard on your classwork, you had too much to do and not enough time. akaashi found himself in a similar predicament. he was touring nearby schools, volleyball practices, his college applications. it left barely any time for the two of you to talk. you tried, though. you both tried for a month. you knew what was coming though, or at least, you should have. 

his responses were growing shorter, if you got them at all. it could be days without hearing anything, even if you double or triple texted. you weren’t proud of it, you were just waiting for his response. and even when he did respond, there was not much substance to it. it wasn’t shocking receiving the text, even if it hurt like hell. 

“i think we should break up. we just don’t have time for each other.”

you couldn’t fight it, you haven’t even seen him. of course the assumptions ran through your mind; maybe he cheated, maybe he fell out of love. it didn’t matter though, there was no way to confront him. that night, you cried on the phone to your brother. that night, you cried until you had no tears left (even then, tobio could hear your sniffles). you cried yourself to sleep for the next week. thankfully you didn’t have a roommate or they likely would have been annoyed with how miserable you looked and sounded. 

it was difficult, you found him in everything. in the cafes you frequented, in the classwork you did, even when you tried to play volleyball you would hear his voice, his meticulous yet loving advice. so you spaced yourself from it all. you stopped visiting cafes, did the bare minimum to pass, dropped playing volleyball all together. because maybe if you could get away from what reminded you of him, you’d forget him all together. 

it worked for a while, even if you still were barely getting it through it all. no one could blame you, had they known what was going on. you did your best to keep the truth from your parents, you lost contact with many of your high school friends. the only person at the time who knew how miserable you were was your brother. in the free time you did have, you found yourself just wandering around the city alone. it’s how you pulled yourself through your third year. 

even though students were offered the option to return back home for the summer, you remained in the city abroad. if you had left to go back to japan, to your hometown, you knew that there was nothing that could get you to return and finish your studies. that, and you weren’t ready to face your family with your horrible grades (they were just as bad as your brother’s, at this point). you were still miserable, still suffering. on the occasional phone or video call with your family, you found yourself acting as if all was okay because you couldn’t let them know. deep inside though, you wanted help. you needed help. 

you found it in the form of a lost tourist. through yuu nishinoya, an unlikely friend that somehow helped you pull through it all. you never told him the full truth of it all, though you promised you’d meet him again one day. that was enough for you to pull through your final year of high school, graduating high school with a smile on your face. a genuine one.

even after it all, much to your brother’s dismay and disapproval, you kept tabs on akaashi. it was easier knowing than not knowing. to be able to plan your moves just in case you ran into each other. before your split, you knew he applied to fukurōdani academy. it was his top choice, you knew he was working hard to get there. he told you that everything he was doing was so he could get into the school with a scholarship. through instagram, you found out that he had gotten in and became their star setter. knowledge was power, knowing made it easier to avoid it all. 

it was futile though; though nothing could help you predict the situation you were in, that you were running from. 

love of the game — tooru oikawa x f!reader smau

masterlist ✧ prev | next

[name] has not talked about her relationship with akaashi before this point. the only person that knows the story is kageyama, though even he is missing many of the details

[name] also has a separate instagram and twitter to keep tabs on the fukurodani team, mainly to see if they were coming anywhere near karasuno. unfortunately, there was no way to prepare for this encounter

let’s be honest, no one is surprised by nishinoya’s favorite manager being you.. but shoutout to (maybe ooc) kageyama being a sweet brother awwww

guys please do not shoot akaashi i love akaashi almost as much as i love oikawa iwaizumi suna and nishinoya PLEASE

summary — being tobio kageyama's twin, it was no surprise that were one of the karasuno managers. yet even after seeing team after team, there was only one player that caught your eye. the problem? he plays for the rival team, not to mention the deep history between him and your brother.

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[depressinglyobsessed]

THEY MAKE ME SICK 💔💔

[depressinglyobsessed]

is it too much to ask?

is it too much to ask?

is it too much to ask?

the end of the strongest duo (;-;)

[depressinglyobsessed]

stop this is cute

"Honey," you say, peering around the door frame into the office. Your boyfriend is backlit only by the light of his computer screen and the faint glow of only two lamps. "Hajime?"

"Hold on," he says into his headset, "my—yeah, she needs something. Give me a second. What's up, princess, was I being too loud?"

The way his voice softens when he's addressing you in comparison to anyone else never fails to make you melt. His thick eyebrows quirk at the sight of you still leaning on the door instead of crossing all the way into the room.

"No, you weren't too loud," you say, a half-lie. Hajime is not a quiet man, but you enjoy the sound of him shouting death threats into the mic in the evenings. It's relaxing. "I don't want to bother you if you're busy—"

"I'm not," he says immediately. "Just shooting the shit. What do you need?"

"I just—I think I'm, um, having ventricular contractions," you say shyly. "Like, abnormally." Within a moment Hajime is out of his chair, ripping off his headset, up in your space.

"Holy shit, baby, you let me waffle—fuck, you didn't want to bother me? Does it hurt at all? Are you having trouble breathing?" He sweeps you up in his arms, bracing one behind your knees, the other supporting your back.

"A little shortness of breath," you say, made more breathless by the bridal carry. "Doesn't hurt."

"Okay, that's good," he says, laying you out on your shared bed. You run a hand over his shoulders, trying to soothe him, trying to smooth the worried crease of his brow.

"I don't think it's that big a deal," you say, "I just freaked myself out with the online med forums and thought I'd come ask you—"

"Of course it's a big deal," he frets, "should I call 119?"

"My big, strong medical professional," you say over his worrying. "Well, let's talk about my symptoms first."

"Okay," he relents, looking at you with eyes like dark chocolate sucked into a black hole, his pupils dilated with fear. "You're sure nothing hurts?"

"Yes, I promise," you tell him, putting your hand over his heart. He does the same, one hand stroking your wrist, unsubtly feeling for your pulse, the other over your heart. "Well, I was in bed, looking through my photos and I landed on that one of you rope climbing, you know, the course we did last month—"

"You little—" Hajime starts, mouth kicking up at the corner as he catches on. "You're ridiculous."

"Some bedside manner," you huff. "Let me finish. So then my heart started beating really fast and I felt kind of faint, so I looked up ventricular contractions. Then I went to go talk to you and you're so handsome and I'm so lucky you love me enough that you live in my house and I can go look at you whenever, and I started experiencing shortness of breath."

"You are sick," he says drily, "but only up here." He raps your skull with his knuckles.

"Mean!"

Hajime, like any good medical professional, curls his body over yours while you giggle uncontrollably, hiding his face in your shoulder though you can feel him shaking with laughter.

"I was worried about you!" He snaps, but his tone conceals something fonder, warmer. "You're a danger to my health, how about that? Gave me a fuckin' heart attack." You shake your head and wrap your arms around him, hooking a leg around his waist, octopus-like.

"I'm still not feeling so good," you insist. "Since you're here, doc, you should finish examining me. Really, really thoroughly."

[depressinglyobsessed]

best smau I've ever read

NONSENSE

an oikawa tooru social media au

pairing. celebrity!oikawa tooru x f!reader

synopsis. you were oikawa tooru’s #1 fan, until you became his #1 hater. you hated him so much you went viral on twitter (accidentally) and literally became known as “the oikawa tooru hater”, doesn’t help that he keeps fueling the fire by subtweeting you. everyone is all in for this new drama. what isn’t known to the public, is that this particular drama’s been on hold for three years (him being your ex and all).

tags. social media au, celebrity smau, college au, exes to lovers, second chance romance, idiots in love, crack, humor (hopefully), fluff, and perhaps a little angst? ehe (groveling !!)

warnings. time stamps dont really matter unless i say so, cursing, some drinking alcohol n stuff and sometimes suggestive but nothing graphic

status. completed (01/15/23 - 02/11/24)

— playlist.

teasers

teaser 1—teaser 1.5—teaser 2

profiles

[name]’s pe(s)ts|in need of medical attention

episodes !

(⚘) — has narrative parts

ACT I

01. rid me of my despair

02. murder is ethically wrong

03. he’s literally everywhere

04. i’m NOT petty (⚘)

05. i think i’ve seen this film before

06. he’s back !

07. baby girl of all baby girls

08. the famous friend

09. forget me not

10. why are you running!? (⚘)

ACT II

11. blast from the past

12. i despise you (⚘)

13. villains are hot (⚘)

14. adulting and other important stuff (⚘)

15. what we look forward to

16. a nightmare dressed like a daydream

17. antithetical girlie

18. this is the tactic (⚘)

19. honey it hurts (⚘)

20. exes and ohs

21. takoyaki cravings

22. kill me with kindness

23. tell me, tell me (⚘)

24. do you think about me?

25. wish u were sober (⚘)

ACT III

26. you look like shit (⚘)

27. a taste of fame

28. reminds me of

29. helpless, breathless (⚘)

30. oh how you woo me

31. all over again

32. disconnected

33. this love is so illogical

34. don’t care if you ruin me (⚘)

35. hate clingy men

36. need you like oxygen (⚘)

37. media craze

38. hard to love (⚘)

39. coming home

40. only your love

EPILOGUE

41. new friends

42. love languages

43. utterly nonsensical

end

✦

bonus content

post break-up [name]

don’t you know that i’m intoxicated !

you said you liked the way i spoke

unsent letter #1

one of the boys

kuroo being a menace for 12 panels straight

kodzuken mayhem

taglist is CLOSED !

to be REMOVED from the taglist you can just send an ask or comment :)

notes. hey so i’m starting my first smau series?!!? *squeals and kicks feet in excitement* i hope i get to finish it lmao i plan to not make it that long prolly around only like 30 chaps! hope u’ll enjoy reading it as much as i’ll enjoy making it! also thank you everyone for 200 followers! i rlly appreciate it <3

icons used as pfps are not mine but the content of this smau is. please do not repost this on any other platform. © idlerin 2023

[depressinglyobsessed]

osamu and you leave your daughter with her uncle atsumu for the weekend. chaos ensues.

___

“i woulda felt better leavin’ her with kita or aran.”

you let out a snort at your husband’s statement. “over your own brother? her blood relative?”

you and osamu were driving to a weekend getaway in the mountains. while the two of you were excited for a break and some quality time, there was no denying that there was some apprehension in the car.

it was the first time you’d be away from your baby daughter. as great as a vacation sounded, it would be a lie to say the two of you weren’t reluctant to go.

in order to ease your nerves, a suitable babysitter was chosen.

only osamu didn’t have a lot of faith in your choice.

“exactly, he’s ma brother, so ‘m the only one who understands just how much of ‘n idiot he truly is.”

“but you saw how happy he was to offer to watch her! atsumu loves being a uncle, he won’t half-ass taking care of her. besides, if he ends up needing help your mom is just a call away.”

“ma’s hostin’ her book club this saturday, she can’t just drop everythin’ if tsumu’s dumbass ends up needin’ help.”

you let out a sigh. “samu, just try and relax. i’m sure everything over on his end is fine.”

____

“COURT BABY! COURT BABY! COURT BABY!”

hinata and bokuto chanted as they watched your daughter crawl across the shiny floor of the msby practice gym.

having grown tired of the play mat and toys her uncle atsumu had laid out for her, the little one decided exploring her surroundings would be far more exciting.

“she’s crawlin’ earlier than most babies would,” atsumu chimed proudly. “must’ve got ma athlete genes.”

sakusa rolled his eyes from behind the fake blonde.

“she’s really going fast! let’s time her to see how quick she can move!” hinata suggested, fascinated by the little human on the ground.

“we’re supposed to be doing passing drills-“

“GREAT IDEA HINATA!” bokuto shouted.

“i give up,” the masked brunette said, moving to sit down on the bleachers since apparently no one was going to actually bother to follow instructions.

atsumu smirked while watching his teammates fawn over his niece. he knew it would be a good idea to just bring her to friday practice. the vibe for fridays was always a little more laid-back, and he knew having a cute little baby around would earn him brownie points with his excitable teammates. who didn’t love babies?

his brown eyes shifted over to sakusa momentarily, who was gazing at his niece with a look of disdain on his face.

okay, maybe he didn’t enjoy kids, but the rest of the team sure did!

“hey hey hey, baby miya! let’s see how quick you can crawl to your uncle tsum-tsum!”

atsumu grinned, moving to kneel on the ground so he can encourage his niece to move towards him. seeing the familiar face of her uncle- who shared a face with her father- had her happily babbling away as she pushed towards him.

“awe, she’s trying to talk!” hinata cooed, lip wobbling as he watched the precious exchange.

“alright, everyone,” a voice boomed. everyone turned to see a muscular figure with a head of spiky black hair enter the gymnasium.

“your coach asked me to come over to ensure you boys were actually practicing,” iwaizumi hajime (27) athletic trainer stated. “i have some specific stamina exercises i want everyone to participate in. we’re gonna start by-“

movement in the lower peripheral of iwa’s vision caught his attention and the former ace found his gaze turning toward the floor.

“…why the hell is there a baby here?”

“don’t fuckin’ curse in front’a ma niece!”

“you just- nevermind,” iwa grunted, trying to be as patient as possible considering there was a literal infant present.

slotting his clipboard into the junction of his shoulder, the athletic trainer bent down to gently pick up your daughter. balancing her on his hip as if he’d done it a million times before, he turned back to the team.

“alright, jumping jacks and high knees, i want those heart rates getting up!”

before atsumu could open his mouth, iwa shot him a pointed look.

“i’ll hold your niece, miya, now get moving.”

the squeaking of shoes against the linoleum floor began to sound off. after ensuring everyone was properly following his instructions, he turned to the baby in his hold.

everyone knew iwaizumi was tough, but few knew how much of a complete softie he could be at times. giving your daughter a small smile, he lifted his hands to wave his fingers at her, to which she smiled back and tried to mimic his movements.

he let out a light laugh. “motor skills coming along there, i see-“

“iwaaaaa-chaaannnnn,” a voice sounded off from behind him.

iwaizumi froze. that voice, that stupid nickname, he knew it from anywhere. he began to turn his head to look behind him, gradually as if he was moving in slow-motion.

there was no way…

“guess who flew all the way from argentina to surprise you with his presence,” oikawa boasted as he stepped into the room. “that’s right, me-“

the seijoh grad fell silent as his chocolate colored eyes fell on the small human in his best friend’s hold.

oikawa blinked once. twice. three times. then-

“since when did you have a kid?”

“tooru, this isn’t-“

“how could you keep this from me?”

“will you please just-“

“a whole child? when?”

“shittykawa just shut up-“

“STOP CURSIN’ IN FRONT’A HER!”

“-and listen to me for a second!”

oikawa finally stopped his tirade, moving towards iwaizumi to study the baby in his arms. he bent down to be eye level with her, the both of them staring at each other curiously.

the brunette hummed to himself, reaching a finger out to poke your daughter’s cheek. “she doesn’t look like you.”

“wow, what an observation, it’s almost like she’s not my kid.”

“then who’s is she-“

“she’s my niece,” atsumu growled out, pushing oikawa away from the baby he was prodding at. he fixed the other man with a glare, well aware of who he was and what position he also played. the fact that this potential rival thought he could casually touch his flesh and blood had the fake blonde heated. “i’m takin’ care’a her for the weekend, which means i ain’t letting no lesser setter lay’a hand on her.”

“lesser setter?”

“oh boy,” iwa said, moving away from the two ego-fueled players. he could tell they were about to scuffle and he couldn’t let a baby be anywhere near that.

placing your little girl safely to the side, iwa crouched in front of her, sounds of “never saw ya at spring nationals” and “let’s see what your stats are, huh?” airing in the background.

“you stay right here, i’m gonna go get them to knock it off.”

standing a few meters away from all the chaos, sakusa watched as iwaizumi tried to wrench the two setters apart. sighing, he shifted his gaze to your daughter sitting unattended on the ground, babbling at nothing in particular.

sakusa grimaced. he really didn’t like babies. they were so…germy. and gross. but, he supposed the babies themselves couldn’t really help that fact. it wasn’t their fault they were so little and had such new immune systems.

a shadow then loomed over your daughter, bokuto and hinata standing over her. now that iwaizumi was too distracted to lead them in workouts, the two’s attention was back on the infant.

“i know!” bokuto exclaimed. “let’s do passing drills with baby miya! we can pass her back and forth to each other!”

“she’ll feel like she’s flying! like she’s a little crow!”

“or an owl!”

“you two will be doing absolutely no such thing with this child,” sakusa interjected, scooping your daughter up and going to sit down on the bench with her.

“but ki-“

“no.”

he wasn’t a fan of babies, but considering your daughter’s uncle was currently holding oikawa in a headlock, sakusa figured he could keep an eye on her for just a few minutes. it wouldn’t be too much longer before iwa finally decided he’d had enough and smacked the shit out of both of them.

hearing a little gurgle from below him, the brunette cast his eyes downwards. your daughter’s sight was transfixed on him, a smile coming onto her face when she saw she had the spiker’s attention.

from behind his mask, sakusa felt the corners of his lips twitch upwards.

okay, maybe babies were a little cute.

[depressinglyobsessed]

Crazy | Osamu x Reader

Ft. Atsumu

Atsumu feels like he’s going crazy.

“I swear to you, they are,” he says, trying his best to keep his composure despite his teammates’ growing, and annoying disinterest.

“I don’t know,” Hinata replies, polite but impartial. “Osamu doesn’t seem like that kinda guy.”

“We’re twins, so I’m telling ya right now, he can be just as bad as me.” Atsumu huffs, crossing his arms as Hinata raises an eyebrow.

There’s only a beat of silence before it suddenly hits him that he’s just badmouthed himself. He flushes before mumbling, “Forget it. Sorry for bothering ya.”

Before he can change the topic, Hinata stops him with a hesitant hand on his arm.

“Wait, wait, hold on. Just, start over from the beginning,” Hinata says, a little awkward but well-meaning. “Why do you think your brother is dating his only employee?”

‘There are too many damn reasons.’ Is Atsumu’s first thought, and the same one he swallows down as he forces himself to mirror Hinata’s earlier thoughtfulness.

“He’s so nice now,” Atsumu says, scowling. He thinks back to all the times he and Osamu used to go at it over the smallest things.

Hinata laughs, clearly amused. “Yeah, but he’s always been the nicer twin.”

“Yeah well, not like this,” Atsumu grumbles, thinking back to your first day at the restaurant.

When he met you, Osamu’s first ever employee, there wasn’t any of the weird tension between you and his brother that he could feel now. He was just your boss and you were just his employee, both professional and still a little awkward around each other.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em.” Atsumu had joked, your looks having been one of the first things he noticed.

“Shut it.” Osamu grumbled, clearly overwhelmed having to train someone new when he’d barely figured out what he was doing himself.

Atsumu had found it endlessly amusing watching his brother struggle to share his personal space. He needed the help, desperately, but it also meant letting someone else into his kitchen and by association, life.

For your first day, you did incredible. Seriously, if Atsumu hadn’t been there to witness himself he would’ve never believed someone could hold themselves together so well. The more Osamu seemed to crumble, the more you pulled it together: a true dream team.

“Please keep takin’ care of him.” Atsumu had teased, jokingly bowing before saying his goodbyes and leaving you both to finish up your work. Back then, he was completely clueless to the chemistry brewing between you and his brother; one that went beyond the workplace.

-

The first real hint he picked up on was an inside joke. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember the punchline, just how he felt seeing the two of you laugh without him. He was having a quick lunch and paused mid-chew, glancing over at his brother with an expectant look.

“It’s nothing.” Osamu tells him, and the way he’s still smiling like some kinda idiot confuses him more than irritates him. Still, he brushes it off then because it is nothing. Or at least, it was. Until it became two, then three, and then a whole bunch of ‘jokes’ he couldn’t wrap his head around and ‘Samu still refused to explain.

“They have like, inside jokes.” Atsumu grumbled and Hinata laughs.

“The whole team has inside jokes.” He says, rationalizing what he clearly sees as Atsumu’s irrationality almost effortlessly.

“No it’s different, it’s not platonic like us.” He explains, motioning between the two of them as if to emphasize his point.

The two of them had grown pretty close, whether it was because of their positions as setter and spiker or their personalities was anyone’s guess. Regardless, his innocent friendship with Shoyo wasn’t anything like whatever the hell was going on between you and his brother.

He suddenly starts to reminisce on all the different occasions he had stopped by and gotten a glimpse of your blossoming bond.

-

He was only at the restaurant because Ma asked him to drop off some paperwork for Osamu, something about taxes but he hadn’t bother too much with the details. He figures he’ll get a free onigiri out of it, so he’s not complaining.

It’s slow when he walks in. Just a couple people left, it’s the tail end of the lunch rush going into the dead hours. He spots you behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something Osamu’s saying in that all-too-familiar voice Atsumu grew up listening to.

He’s halfway to tossing the folder onto the nearest table when he hears it:

“Don’t forget about your grandma’s pickled onions,” you call over your shoulder, casual as anything.

Atsumu freezes mid-step.

You don’t even notice him, just mindlessly wipe down the counter like you didn’t just say something that should’ve been a secret.

Atsumu stands there, folder dangling from his fingers. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Nothing can come out.

Because…how the hell would you know about the pickled onions?

That wasn’t small talk. That was…private talk. Intimate stuff. Family stuff.

He swallows it down, slapping the folder onto the table harder than necessary. Osamu shoots him a look, but doesn’t say anything.

Atsumu doesn’t either. Not yet at least.

-

Back in the present, he rubs a hand over his face, trying to explain himself without sounding jealous.

Because he’s not jealous. He’s just… curious. About you, about Osamu, about your relationship. About why ‘Samu hadn’t told him anything yet.

He knows they had probably grown apart with Osamu being a full time business owner and his own career as an athlete, but still. They were family, brothers; twins.

“She knew about the pickled onions Shoyo,” he mutters.

His stomach churns at the thought, and he’s annoyed at himself for even caring what a hard ass like ‘Samu even did with his life.

“Onions?” Hinata repeats, cocking his head.

“Yeah. Pickled onions,” Atsumu repeats, sharper than he means to. He drags a hand through his hair, frustration prickling under his skin.

Hinata doesn’t say anything, just leans forward a little, waiting, patient as ever.

“It’s not just that,” Atsumu mutters. “It’s—everything.”

He throws his hands up, voice getting louder before he can stop it. “It’s so obvious somethings going on.”

And it sounds dramatic but it’s true. The next time he stops by the store on one of his rare free days, you two are practically glued at the hip.

-

“Atsumu, welcome in.” You say, and he can’t even stay mad at you when you say his name so sweetly. The cute smile on your face doesn’t hurt either. He suddenly feels like he’s too aware of just how good you looked up close.

Osamu seems to read his mind, greeting him in his own way with a hard flick to the forehead.

“Hey, unprofessional.” He whines, going to soothe the stinging between his brows.

“Are ya ordering something or just here to loiter?” His brother asks, a little too protectively for someone who’s just supposed to be a manager.

“Two of my usual please.” He says, taking a seat right up front to keep on eye on you two.

When you go to make him his order, Osamu stops you by gently nudging your shoulder with his own as he walks by to make it himself, ignoring Atsumu’s complaints that he wanted his ‘favorite’ employee to do it instead.

“You guys are so funny.” You comment, trying to make conversation which makes Atsumu perk up a bit.

“Really? Never thought of ‘Samu as a funny guy, just rude.” He responds, saying the last word loud enough for his brother to hear in the back of the kitchen.

You laugh again, a sound that’s light and inviting. He can’t tell if you’re being nice cause he’s a customer or because he looks just like your manager. Regardless, it feels nice to be in your presence. For a moment, he thinks he can understand why his brother hired you to begin with.

It makes his heart drop in a funny way, the feeling that you were being kept a secret. If you were important to ‘Samu then you’d definitely matter to him too. Didn’t his brother know that?

“I know he’s my boss so it sounds like I’m kissing ass but, he can actually be pretty nice.” You say, and even though the compliment is plain the way your eyes shine with something makes Atsumu raise an eyebrow.

“Did he get ya that pin for your hat?” He asks innocently, having noticed it when he first walked in but not having gotten a chance to comment on it till now. Honestly, he made the connection on a whim and expected you to say no.

“Huh?” You squeak out, clearly surprised he had pointed it out. The way you tensed up and averted his eyes has him widening his own.

“Oh yeah, he did.” You mumble out, a little too shyly. Like you had just been caught. Upon closer inspection, he can see the smallest tinge of red on the tip of your ears.

Atsumu blinks. Then squints. Then leans in a little, like somehow getting closer to you might make you more honest.

“You’re blushin’,” he points out with a grin, almost sing-songy.

“I am not,” you huff, quickly busying yourself by wiping down a spotless part of the counter. It’s the weakest cover-up he’s ever seen which just makes it even funnier.

Osamu finally returns with Atsumu’s food, sliding it across the counter with a short, “Here.”

“Hold on. Ya bought her a gift?”

Osamu doesn’t even flinch. “Employee appreciation.”

“Employee appreciation, my ass!” Atsumu whines, pointing at the way you’re basically trying to sink through the floor. “When have ya ever appreciated me?”

“I haven’t,” Osamu says, so flat it makes you exhale against your will.

Atsumu gasps, hand going over his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. He then leaves just as dramatically, doing his best not to scream that you’re both terrible liars as he walks back home.

-

Back in the present, he suddenly grabs Hinata’s shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts as that specific memory resurfaces.

“He bought her a gift.” He says, dead serious, like he’s delivering life-or-death news.

Hinata just laughs again. “He’s gotten me a gift.”

“Food doesn’t count as a gift, Shoyo!” Atsumu whines, and to his immense relief, Hinata actually looks like he might agree with him this time.

“Ugh, whatever. I’m just being a creep anyway,” Atsumu grumbles, suddenly drained by the conversation he himself had started.

But Hinata doesn’t let drop it. “What if you noticed it before they did? You’ve got super insane senses when it comes to people on court, maybe it’s the same off of it too.”

Of course sweet, innocent Shoyo would find a way to tie this mess back to volleyball.

Though, to his credit, they were sitting in the gym post-practice, both waiting for a ride from Osamu.

“Maybe,” Atsumu mutters, and right then he hears the gym doors creak open.

He looks up, expecting to see Osamu waltz in with his usual lazy wave.

Instead though, he sees you.

He feels his mouth go dry as Hinata keeps talking beside him, his words dissolving into meaningless noise.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” Atsumu calls out, his voice sharp with surprise, forgetting his manners entirely.

You flinch, like you hadn’t expected to be called out so quickly, and Atsumu immediately regrets the way the words came out. He’s just… shocked.

Because why were you here? And why were you wearing Samu’s jacket?

“Oh my god. You were right,” Hinata chokes, half-laughing beside him, recognizing the worn out Ongiri Miya branding on the jacket almost immediately. A staple in Osamu’s wardrobe.

You shift awkwardly under their combined stares, clearing your throat before speaking.

“I’m here to pick you up. ‘Samu got held up,” you explain, flustered, too flustered to realize you’d called his brother by the same casual nickname Atsumu always used.

“And this—” you tug at the hem of the jacket, grimacing, “was actually not my first fashion choice.”

You start to shrug it off, like you’re desperate to shed the evidence, but both teammates jump to stop you.

“I know,” Atsumu says quickly, hands up in surrender, his mind racing a mile a minute. “He forced ya.”

And for a second, it’s like he’s a kid again, watching Osamu pile his love onto the people he cared about, whether they liked it or not. It had always been easier for him to show it rather than say it.

And now, here you were. Wearing it. Showing him. The most obvious message one could send.

It should’ve been cathartic, relieving but instead, it just felt disappointing. Since when did him and his brother stop sharing everything? Probably a long time ago but you felt worth mentioning.

But then you spoke up, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You know… it’s kinda because of you, ‘Tsumu.”

He blinks at you, slow. “Because of me?” The way you say his nickname has him feeling nervous, like you already knew more about him than you let on.

Probably cause of Osamu. He thinks to himself.

You nod, like it’s obvious. “You kept coming around, poking your nose in everything… if you hadn’t, I don’t think we would’ve ever realized we were being so weird.”

Atsumu lets out a weak scoff, not sure if he should feel offended or proud of his observations.

At least he wasn’t going crazy after all.

“Ya well, yer welcome.” He mutters, scratching the back of his neck. He wants to ask if his brother ever talks about him. If he ever says he misses how things he used to be. If he ever misses him.

“Wait—I wanted to show you something.” You say, reaching into the pocket of the jacket as he and Hinata exchanged a curious look.

“Don’t tell ‘Samu.” You say, half-joking but both teammates nod in agreement, having faced his wrath before.

You pull out a folded napkin, opening it up to reveal scribbled and messy handwriting. Osamu’s handwriting.

On it is a list of dates and times, which he doesn’t recognize at first. Was this another inside joke?

“Oooohhhh, it’s our upcoming matches!” Hinata exclaims and the realization makes Atsumu’s chest ache in a quiet way.

He stares at the napkin for a bit longer, thinking about how he must’ve written them all down every time he had visited the restaurant to chat. The same days he thought his brother hadn’t been listening at all.

“Idiot,” he mumbles, voice a little rough. He clears his throat before speaking again, “Please keep takin’ care of him.” The softness and sincerity has you and Hinata exchanging a look of your own.

“Of course.” You reply, placing your hand over his arm and giving him a light squeeze. He feels awkward having you comfort him but he also feels better, lighter even.

“Didn’t know my little bro was such a big fan.” He teased, trying to take attention away from him and back to the napkin in his hands.

“‘Little bro’? But he said you were the younger twin.” You stated, tilting your head to the side.

“What?” Atsumu deadpanned.

Silence.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“That bitch.”

[depressinglyobsessed]

a/n; my friends!! sorry this took so long crying (T_T) I've been working a bit of overtime haha, this features my precious osamu and cute miya twin moments ahhh, I hope you like! they means a lot to me hehe thank you for reading! (thank you for the sweet messages too, someone commented about onigiri miya in the previous story with tendou so I added my 'samu here!)

a momager and her silly olympic team.

special delivery. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when the onigiri man visits team japan and brings the flavor in a court full of sweat! (p.s. atsumu loses his cool).

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Atsumu is cranky.

So cranky because when he walks into the Team Japan lounge, yawning into the back of his hand, he sees his twin standing at the center of the room.

Genetic photocopy. Womb-mate. Culinary menace.

Paris. Olympics. Team Japan. 

On his turf.

“‘Samu!”

Osamu barely has time to register the sound of his name before you’re running toward him full-speed, shoes thudding against the tile, arms already outstretched. He manages to steady himself just as you launch into him, throwing your arms around his neck and practically knocking the wind out of him.

“Oof—easy now, darlin’ girl,” Osamu laughs, catching you with a grunt, one arm winding around your waist. “Ya tryin’ to kill me or just testin’ my reflexes?”

You grin, eyes bright, cheek pressed to chest. “Maybe both.”

“What if I dropped the food?”

Your head lifts immediately. “You brought food?”

He jerks his chin toward the sleek, oversized suitcase parked besides the door, black with a silver zipper and suspiciously large for a trip.

“Insulated. Onigiri. Limited flavors. Special editions… and maybe some of your favorites,” he says with a smug glint in his eye.

You gasp, fingers digging slightly into his shoulders. “You absolute legend.”

“You say that now,” he murmurs, “but wait till you try the spicy miso. It’s grilled.”

“Grilled?!”

“Charred edges,” he adds with a boop to your nose, seducing your soul with rice.

And right as you’re about to lose your mind—

“EXCUSE ME!”

—Atsumu’s voice cuts through the lounge. 

“The hell are you doin’ here, ‘Samu?! Showin’ up unannounced, flirtin’ with my manager?!”

Osamu just smirks, not even trying to hide the way his arm’s still casually looped around your waist. He lifts his free hand to ruffle your hair, gentle but annoyingly fond and a little too pleased with himself. “Relax. I brought gifts. Hugs were the natural consequence.”

Atsumu turns to you, completely offended. “Are ya kiddin’ me?! You never run at me like that!”

“Because I don’t trust you to catch me.”

“Sweetheart,” Atsumu drawls, flinging his arms out. “We’ve known each other for years!”

“And I still have knees I’d like to protect,” you say, pulling back slightly as Osamu chuckles under his breath.

“She’s got a point, ‘Tsum.”

Atsumu stares at the two of you—at your arms still loosely wrapped around Osamu’s neck, the way you’re smiling up at him—and his whole face crumples. He slumps on the nearby couch, whining something incoherent. 

“So what,” he grumbles, lower lip actually wobbling, “ya just see my face on his and suddenly forget who the Olympic-level twin is?”

You snort, clearly amused, and begin to ease away from Osamu’s arms—who, to his credit, lets you go without complaint. He’s got that soft, knowing look on his face, like yeah, yeah, go cheer up the dramatic one.

“C’mere, drama queen,” you murmur, leaning down and gently pinching Atsumu’s cheek. His skin squishes between your fingers, and he blinks up at you with a pouty glare that’s barely holding together.

“I see you, ‘Tsumu,” you say, tugging just a little. “But I see ‘Samu too.”

He swats your hand half-heartedly. “He ain’t even wearin’ the uniform—!”

“Yeah,” Osamu cuts in, smirking, “but I brought onigiri. So I win.”

“Bro—that’s not even—that’s not how winnin’ works!”

“You bring sweat. I bring flavor. Tell me honestly, which do you prefer?”

And on cue, the lounge door creaks open.

Suna pokes his head in, face blank. “Flavor,” he says flatly. “Obviously.”

Aran appears behind him, stepping into the room with a knowing grin. “We prefer flavor, duh.”

Atsumu’s mouth falls open as he shoots up from the couch. Osamu smiles cheekily. 

“YOU… JACKASS—!”

Before either twin can escalate, you step forward and reach up to pinch both of their ears between your fingers.

“Ow—!” they cry out in perfect sync, squirming in opposite directions.

You tug just enough to make your point. “I prefer flavor…” you say sweetly, then give each ear a little tug. “And sweat.”

The twins go still.

“You guys hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Loud and clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You huff, letting go of their ears and stepping back. “Now… don’t start fighting here.”

Atsumu glares at Osamu. “...He started it.”

“I’d win,” Osamu replies without looking up.

“OH MY GOD—”

You throw a napkin at both of them. “Behave. Or I’m switching to Ushijima.”

“Wait, what—!” Atsumu whips around. 

And from behind you, a deep voice calmly replies, “Yes. I possess flavor and sweat.”

“MY GUY’S GOT RANGE, ‘TSUM-‘TSUM!” Bokuto shouts, barreling into the lounge.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The team finishes the last of the onigiri on the walk over. Hinata swears the spicy miso made him run faster, and Bokuto loudly insists he's "emotionally stronger" now.

The court they’ve reserved is wide open, nestled within one of the main Olympic training centers, and a few spectators and media types have started gathering around the fences, phones out, murmuring excitedly. It’s hard not to stare; after all, Team Japan is stretching at the far end of the court, full of gold medal potential and chaotic charisma.

You settle onto the bench just off the sideline, stats clipboard balanced on your lap. Iwaizumi is beside you, reviewing serve patterns on a tablet. Osamu plops down on your other side, lazily popping open a fresh onigiri he smuggled in under the radar.

"Seaweed and salmon," he mumbles, holding it out in case you want the first bite. You take it without hesitation.

“Feels wrong to eat while they’re sweating,” you mutter between chews.

Osamu shrugs, biting into the other half. “Balance. They provide the sweat, I bring the flavor, remember?”

You roll your eyes and reach up to flick his forehead with a light snap of your fingers.

“Ow. The hell was that for?”

“You’re too smug,” you say, trying not to smile. “And too proud of your rice.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “And somehow you’re still everyone’s favorite today.”

“I earned that.”

The three of you watch as Team Japan starts moving through warmups, the controlled chaos of routine drills unfolding across the court. They cycle through sharp serve patterns, one after another—clean tosses, sharp footwork, bodies moving like a well-oiled machine with just enough mess to still feel human.

You catch the bickering mid-rotation—Bokuto screaming “I GOT IT! I GOT IT!” while absolutely not having it and colliding with Hinata, Sakusa judging all of them silently from the back line, and Suna sneaking his phone up to snap a picture. 

But your eyes drift, repeatedly, back to Atsumu.

He’s serious when he plays, sure. But today, there’s something different about him.

“He’s been more obnoxious than usual since you got here,” Iwaizumi mutters, glancing up from the tablet just in time to catch Atsumu flashing a very flirty grin at a girl in the stands.

You follow his gaze and sure enough, Atsumu’s running a hand through his hair mid-drill, doing entirely too much for someone not currently being televised.

Osamu unwraps another onigiri. “He’s always obnoxious.”

“But you know what I mean,” Iwaizumi says. “He’s performing.”

Osamu hums. And yeah, he does know what Iwaizumi means.

Because Atsumu’s been louder since his brother arrived—snappier, more dramatic, borderline theatrical. The little grumbles, the fake offended gasps, the “why are you even here” rants? Classic deflection. Typical ‘Tsumu.

But Osamu sees it.

The way Atsumu’s grinning when he plays. Not his usual serious, laser-focused look—no, this is different because it’s looser… lighter. He’s calling out sets with a spark in his voice, cracking jokes between rotations, laughing when Suna bumps into him mid-pass, talking back when Aran scolds him, and even listening when Kageyama yells at him to toss higher. 

He’s got bounce in his step again.

Osamu watches him for a moment—how easily he slips into rhythm with Hinata, how quick his smirks come when the crowd reacts, how he serves with swagger instead of just pressure.

And how every so often, in between drills, he looks toward the bench… toward Osamu.

Yeah, his presence probably threw him off for half a second. Twins are annoying like that. 

But it’s clear as day to Osamu—

Atsumu’s happy.

And maybe a little smug that his brother’s on the sidelines to see it.

Osamu chuckles under his breath, popping the last bite of rice into his mouth. “He missed me.”

Iwaizumi side-eyes him. “Don’t tell him that.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Osamu grins. “I’m savin’ it for when he screws up his next serve.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You two are unreal.”

Osamu leans back on the bench, eyes still on his twin—quietly proud and not saying it outright, but... yeah.

He’s glad he came.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Practice is going fine until Bokuto happens. 

As usual. 

He’s been sprinting, diving, and yelling for thirty minutes straight. And finally, mid-receive, he skids to the sideline, chest heaving, hands on his knees.

“I… I need a break,” he pants. “I’ve… used up all my power points.”

“Your what?”

“No more power points.”

His shoulders slump, his once-bouncy hair now drooping pitifully over his forehead. He blinks slowly, dazed from pure enthusiasm burnout, sweat clinging to his skin in streaks. Then, with zero warning, he lets out a tiny, exhausted whine and lunges toward the bench, digging into Osamu's bag. 

“EMERGENCY ONIGIRI!”

Osamu watches him, mildly horrified, from his seat.

“Ya good, Bo?”

Bokuto nods while ripping open the onigiri and taking a bite. He points a single, rice-sticky finger at Osamu then towards the court.

“‘Samu-‘Samu,” he says, mouth still full. “You’re up. Sub in for me.”

Osamu blinks, clearly caught off guard. “...Me?”

He glances at Bokuto, who's still sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching away at his onigiri, then at the open court, where Hinata is already waving excitedly for him to hurry. He laughs under his breath, but it's quiet and a little uncertain.

“C’mon, ‘Samu,” you nudge, elbow brushing his. “You know you still got it.”

He hums low in his throat, brushing a hand through his hair. “Don’t know about that. Haven’t touched a game ball in months.” He gestures vaguely toward his sweats and hoodie. “Ain’t exactly dressed for it either.”

“That never stopped Bo,” you point out, grinning.

He doesn’t smile back right away but looks out at the court—at the blur of red jerseys, the sound of shoes against hardwood, the rhythm of calling and movement. Something settles in his chest… or maybe something stirs.

“You could still hang with them,” Iwaizumi says simply. “Easy.”

Osamu scoffs softly, wanting to argue but can’t quite bring himself to. “Dunno ‘bout that,” he mutters. “I’m more built for kitchen sprints now.”

Iwaizumi snorts. “Then sprint to the net. I wanna see something.”

Osamu doesn’t move as he watches Atsumu set a clean toss and Hinata spikes it down the line. His jaw tightens.

You lean toward him, voice gentle. “You miss it, don’t you?”

“…Sometimes,” he says eventually. “Not the grind. Not the press. But bein’ out there?” He nods toward the court. “Yeah. It felt good. Real good. Back when it was just… us. Just playin’. 

“Then go play. Just for a bit. 

You tilt your head toward the court, a teasing note in your voice.

“Some blondie’s waiting.”

Osamu holds your gaze, searching for something in your expression. Reassurance, maybe.

He turns back toward the court, and his eyes find him.

Atsumu stands at the far side of the net, one hand resting on his hip as he pretends to be distracted by something Kageyama is saying. His expression is neutral.

But he keeps glancing toward the bench, stealing quick little looks—at you, at Osamu, at the empty spot that used to be filled beside him. His body doesn’t show it, but his fingers tap lightly against his thigh, buzzing with something unspoken: that specific restlessness he only gets when he’s waiting for his twin to catch up.

He doesn’t call out to Osamu, but he’s standing just off to the side, leaving space.

Osamu watches, and you can tell he sees it. The quiet anticipation. The part of Atsumu that still remembers what it felt like to set for his brother and wants that, even if he’ll never admit it.

You nudge Osamu’s arm again.

“Go on,” you murmur. “He’s already making room.”

When you slap his back, like come on, he exhales a little laugh and finally stands, brushing his hands on his thighs and stretching his arms overhead.

“…If he sets me something short just to mess with me,” he mutters, “I’m rollin’ it straight at his face.”

You grin. “I’ll let you.”

He jogs toward the court with no knee-pads, no warm-up, and no prep—and yet still manages to blend in with Team Japan.

Iwaizumi smirks from beside you. “Watch him steal the show.”

“Yeah. He always does.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The second Osamu sets foot on the court, something shifts.

It’s subtle at first. He moves easy, smoothly. Takes a serve in perfect form, pivots without overthinking it, reads the blockers like he’s been doing it yesterday instead of years ago. But when Hinata tosses him a ball on a broken play—something off-tempo, awkward, meant to be recovered—Osamu adjusts mid-air and absolutely buries it down the line with a loud, satisfying crack.

The gym goes quiet for a second.

Then a few fans in the stands erupt.

“OH MY GOD.”

“GODDAMN.”

“HE’S STILL A BEAST.”

“OSAMU!”

“I thought he’s just an onigiri man!”

Atsumu stares from across the court, jaw slack, arms frozen in mid-set stance. “Wait. The fuck—”

Osamu lands with a light bounce, retrieves the ball, and tosses it casually back to Hinata.

Atsumu squints. “You… you said you were outta shape.”

“You just assumed I stopped winning,”  Osamu calls back.

Suna coughs loudly from the back line. “That’s tough, bro.”

Bokuto, half-recovered, cheers wildly from the floor. “HE’S STOLEN THE SPOTLIGHT!”

“I’M THE OLYMPIAN!” Atsumu yells, voice cracking. “Why is nobody remembering that?!”

Hinata doubles over laughing, Komori can barely receive the next ball, and even Sakusa has the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes as he mumbles something about ego collapse under his breath.

They rotate again, and Osamu slips smoothly into the setter position. 

“Wait, wait. ‘Samu’s setting?” Hinata says, wide-eyed. 

“I wanna get it!” he calls out, practically skipping to the front line, already bouncing in place, hands shaking with excitement. “‘Samu, I’m open! Right side, give it to me!”

Osamu smirks, lifts his hands, and jump-sets with perfect, effortless grace—a soft, arching toss that hangs like art in the air.

And then, a shadow moves in.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

BOOM.

Out of nowhere, Ushijima appears.

He steps in front of Hinata at the last second with silent, terrifying efficiency and steals the set out of midair.

SMACK.

The ball explodes off his hand and slams down into the opposite corner. The gym reverberates.

Hinata just stands there, mouth open, mid-jump, frozen. “Ushi-kun… that—that was mine.”

Ushijima turns slowly. “It looked graceful,” he says simply. “I wanted to try it.”

Atsumu screams from the sidelines, “GRACEFUL?! I HAVE NEVER BEEN THIS DISRESPECTED IN MY LIFE.”

Osamu’s smiling as he walks to retrieve the ball. “Was that good for ya, Ushi-kun?”

“Yes. It was perfect. The tempo was excellent.”

“OKAY, NO—!”

“SWEETHEART, GET HIM OFF THE COURT!”

“HE’S LITERALLY TAKING MY JOB!”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Later that night…

The chaos has finally settled. 

The gym lights fade. The chatter dims. The city hums.

Shoes have been kicked off. Towels tossed. Hair damp from quick showers and limbs heavy with a good kind of soreness.

You step out onto the small balcony connected to Team Japan’s shared suite, the cool breeze brushing over your skin. The Eiffel Tower twinkles in the distance, glittering gold against the deep blue of the sky. It's quiet now—soft, late-night quiet, just the hum of the city below and the warmth of a long day behind you.

Osamu is already leaning against the railing, a hoodie thrown over his head, sipping from a bottle of water. He looks peaceful now, thoughtful. He’s got a fresh onigiri in one hand—of course—and a far-off look in his eyes, like his mind’s still on the court.

You drift toward him quietly.

"Not bad for a guy who claims he only runs kitchen sprints," you murmur.

He chuckles under his breath. “Gotta keep the legend alive somehow.”

"Did it feel good?" you ask quietly. "Being out there again?"

He nods. “Yeah... it did. Still fits better than I thought.”

You smile, reaching for his hand. “Told you it never really leaves you.”

“I thought I was done with all that,” he continues. “The pressure. The grind. The constant... noise. But bein’ on that court today... it just felt… easy.”

You hum softly. “Like breathing?”

He nods once. “Exactly… but… it’s different now,” he adds. “‘Tsumu’s the one chasin’ medals. I’m just the guy makin’ lunch.”

“The guy makin’ millions off rice triangles.”

That earns a smile from him.

You bump your shoulder into his. “‘Samu… you didn’t quit volleyball. You just started feeding the whole damn country instead.”

“That’s dramatic.”

“It’s true,” you say, nudging him again. “And besides... it’s not like you can’t still play. You stole the spotlight today in joggers and no warm-up.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I should.”

“You’re right,” you shrug. “You should just keep cooking... and casually humiliating Olympic athletes on your days off.”

He looks at you then, and there’s something soft in his gaze—something raw.

“You think I made the right call?”

You don't hesitate.

“I think you made your call,” you say, eyes steady on his. “And you made it big. You didn’t follow someone else’s dream. You built your own… and it’s feeding people. Comforting people. Like me.”

Osamu stares at you, eyes dark under the soft balcony light. His lips twitch, about to say something but doesn’t quite believe he should—like he wants to take your words in, but can’t fully let himself.

So you sigh, reach out, and pinch his cheek.

Not gently.

“Hey. Listen to me.”

He jerks slightly, swatting at your hand. “Oi—what was that for?”

“That was for looking at me like I just said something stupid,” you say, still holding his cheek between your fingers. “You do comfort people. You feed them. You run entire restaurants. You built an empire out of rice. That’s insane.”

He grumbles, but doesn’t pull away.

You soften just a little, thumb brushing his cheek now instead of squeezing it. “It is you, y’know.”

He tilts his head, skeptical. “What’s me?”

You grin. “The big deal. The success story. The secretly hot one.”

Osamu snorts. “Secretly? Wow, thanks.”

“I’m serious!” you laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Sure, ‘Tsumu made it big... Olympics, stadiums, fame. All that jazz.”

He raises a brow, waiting.

“But you?” You point at him. “With your restaurants all over Japan? Your millions in revenue? Your rotating seasonal menu, guest chef appearances, chef groupies—”

“Chef groupies. Christ, darlin’.”

“Oh, trust me—! They exist!” 

He groans, dragging his hand down his face, but he’s laughing now, eyes crinkling at the edges.

You lean back against the railing beside him, smug.

“Point is,” you say, a little softer now, “you made something that’s yours. You didn’t ride with ‘Tsum. You built your own, one grain of rice at a time… besides, who gave him his muscle gains, hm? All those protein-packed onigiri? That was you. You built him too.”

“Yeah, sure,” he muses, unconvinced. 

 “No ‘Samu, I’m serious! You literally handed him his macros with a side of wasabi! He might’ve made it to the Olympics, but you kept him fueled enough to get there.”

“You done makin’ me sound like his personal chef-slash-parent?”

You tilt your head, playful. “Are you denying it?”

His lips quirk up. “...No. Made that boy from rice and spite.”

You bump his side with yours. “Damn right.”

The teasing fades for just a moment, replaced by something quieter.

“You know he’s proud of you, right? Even if he doesn't show it.”

Osamu's jaw ticks once, chewing on the thought. You know he knows, but it’s different hearing it out loud.

“Yeah. I know.”

You smile gently. “He wears number eleven. For you.”

That gets him.

“…I know.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You and Osamu are just about to head back inside when the sliding door creaks open.

“Sweets?”

Hinata pokes his head out, hair slightly messy from his shower, hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin. His eyes are big and pleading, the universal expression for I am small and require affection.

“Can we join you?” he asks sweetly. “Bokuto said we’re having a team bonding moment.”

Before you can respond, the rest of the door slides open behind him—the gates of chaos breaking.

Bokuto appears next, already halfway through dragging out two throw blankets, face glowing. “I brought supplies!”

“Not a bonding moment without snacks,” Komori chimes in, slipping out after them, holding a bag of gummy worms in each hand. 

“Did ya really start cuddlin’ without me?” Atsumu demands, coming through the door. 

“Ya don’t deserve cuddles,” Osamu deadpans, but you can already see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I agree,” Suna murmurs, sliding into a corner of the balcony, phone in hand.

Aran follows, exasperated but resigned. “Y’all have no concept of personal space.”

“You’re still here though,” you point out.

He sits anyway. “Yeah, yeah.”

Kageyama walks out next, face red. “I didn’t ask for cuddles, I just didn’t want to be excluded.”

You smirk. “That sounds like cuddle-adjacent behavior to me.”

He mutters something inaudible and folds himself into the corner furthest from the pile, but you catch him scooting closer five minutes later.

And then, Ushijima emerges… silently… with a pillow. “I believe physical proximity promotes trust.”

Bokuto gasps, eyes shining. “That’s what I said!”

You giggle softly, shaking your head, then glance up to see Iwaizumi lingering by the door.

Arms crossed.

Leaning on the frame.

Trying very hard to look like he’s just checking on everyone and not remotely interested in joining the chaos.

You raise an eyebrow. “Ooh… look who’s creeping closer.”

Iwaizumi glares halfheartedly. “I’m not creeping.”

You pat the open space beside you. “C’mon, Iwa. Join the Trust Circle.”

“I’m good right here,” Iwaizumi insists.

But then Komori shifts to something on Suna’s phone, Hinata flops to steal Kageyama’s gummy worms, and suddenly there's a very convenient open spot right next to you.

You pat it again. “Hajime.”

And somehow, without any formal plan, blankets are layered across the balcony floor, pillows are tossed down, and Team Japan turns into a puppy pile of national athletes, settling shoulder to shoulder, knee to thigh, sprawled in sleepy heaps.

“I don't wanna sleep,” Atsumu grumbles from somewhere near your feet.

“You’re literally half-asleep on Bo’s leg,” Aran says.

Bokuto beams. “I radiate comfort.”

From the other side of the pile, Sakusa sighs. “If anyone so much as breathes on me—”

You smile and reach over instinctively to tug lightly on a strand of his hair.

“Hey!” he scowls, vanishing beneath the blanket.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

A few seconds pass in silence. Breath slows. Bodies shift into comfort. The occasional mumble drifts between teammates.

“Look! Sparkles!”

You all look up just in time to see the Eiffel Tower burst into glitter—thousands of golden lights flickering to life against the ink-blue sky, dazzling and unreal.

For a moment, none of you speak.

Because in the heart of a city full of light, surrounded by warmth and limbs and the soft weight of people who feel like home—

Yeah.

This is the real gold.

[depressinglyobsessed]

fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t. 

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics. 

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it. 

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less. 

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction. 

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest. 

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep. 

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed. 

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him. 

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

 ***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

 ***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

 ***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it. 

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

[depressinglyobsessed]

for @ruby-rube | event master post ☀️

beach day with oikawa

the bright sun beams over the hot sand on the beach as you walk side by side with oikawa, bags in hand. you find a spot to set up camp, him laying down a large blanket on the ground as you dig through a tote bag for sunscreen.

“turn around,” you tell him, holding up a spray can of spf.

“i don’t need sunscreen,” he whines. you just roll your eyes and try to contain the smirk on your face.

“i’m not listening to you cry over having to put on aloe vera when you get burnt. turn around.”

he pouts and sends you a last resort puppy eyed look (that doesn’t work) before letting you spread the sunscreen over his bare back. it takes everything in you not to ogle like an idiot over his toned muscles and the way the light from the sun highlights every groove.

“let me do yours,” he says when you’re done, taking the can from your hand and massaging your back with the spray. he kisses your shoulder, now oily with the smell of sunscreen, before running off towards the shore.

you assume he’s going to take a dip in the water, so you just dig through the cooler to set up the lunch you packed for when he returns: watermelon cut into bite sized cubes, sliced sandwiches, ice cold seltzers, and bags of chips. you lay down on the blanket, basking in the comforting warmth from the sun that’s still high in the sky at mid afternoon. you close your eyes as the salty breeze rushes by and tickles your skin.

after a while, you hear the shuffling of sand and a dramatic grunt from oikawa as he takes a seat beside you. his legs are covered in sand, particularly his knees, probably from kneeling on the ground. he grabs a few pieces of watermelon and chucks them in his mouth.

“i have something to show you,” he declares in between bites of fruit, running his fingers through your hair that’s gone wild from the wind and pulling the messy strands out of your face.

you hum as you open your eyes, squinting to adjust to the brightness of the outside. “lead the way.”

he grabs you by the hand and brings you to the place at the shoreline where the sand begins to turn into mud. along the shore are pictures he drew with his fingers. there’s summer themed designs like suns and seashells, but there’s also hearts and a poorly drawn stick figure work of you and him holding hands that makes you have to stifle a laugh. in the center of his masterpiece is a big heart with your initials written inside, a reminder of one of the countless cheesy ways he used to tease you back in high school.

“it’s the story of us,” he smiles, wrapping an arm around your waist.

“the story of us is stick figures and sunshine?”

he laughs, nodding. “yeah, something like that.”

“now i’m in the mood for making a sandcastle. go get the buckets. shovels too.”

“yes ma’am.” he runs off, returning with castle shaped bucket molds and colorful plastic shovels.

you spend the afternoon making creations in the sand and occasionally chasing each other through the water to cool down, laughing through sips of sparkling canned drinks and sunscreen reapplication. you leave your mark on the beach as the sun starts to set, your creations of palaces and stupid looking drawings left behind as you walk home hand in hand with oikawa.

© evamame 2025. all rights reserved. please do not repost, modify, steal, plagiarize, or translate my work.

tags: @scoupsworld @mires765 @amaliaaliena @lazytheoristflower @nanasrkives @frozen-waffle

[depressinglyobsessed]

The enemy of my enemy – Oikawa x reader wc 428 – gn!reader, brother!Ushijima

If Oikawa Toru thought he heard you should have come to Shiratorizawa too often, he should walk a day in your shoes. Ushijima Wakatoshi was your brother, and you decided to go to Aoba Johsai.

Which Seijoh’s starting setter didn’t actually know. Not when he first noticed you, and certainly not when he asked you out on a date to the arcade.

Not even on the date, as the two of you were giggling over your poor attempt at a dancing game where Oikawa ended up sabotaging yours instead of staying on his side, stating that if he couldn’t win, no one could.

Overall, the date was thoroughly enjoyable. He wasn’t that bad when he got comfortable, showing you more of who he was and perhaps even making you… return his crush.

As you were looking at the different claw machines together, hoping to win something to remember the date by, you heard an agitating, grating voice.

“We should totally get plushies! The dorm gets lonely when Semi-Semi won't cuddle me.”

You looked up so fast that you didn’t even notice the matching look of horror on Oikawa’s face.

It was just your luck that Tendo Satori would drag the third years to the arcade at the same time as your date.

“On second thought, I’m hungry,” you said quickly, patting Oikawa’s arm to make him look at you.

“I agree, starving,” he agreed just as quickly, intertwining your hands and pulling you along towards the exit.

“Y/n! Hey!”

“Tendo… oh, and the rest of you… hi…” you greeted, slowly turning around. Your eyes flicked to Ushijima, then to Oikawa at your side. Yeah, he looked quite confused. “What are you-”

Interrupted by an overly dramatic gasp from the redhead, you pursed your lips. “You’re holding hands, is this a date? Are you dating the enemy?”

“The enemy of my enemy is my date,” you challenged, sticking your tongue out at him.

Meanwhile, Oikawa had a staring competition with Ushijima. The two didn’t exactly have the room to speak yet, but Oikawa wondered how the hell you knew them.

So he squeezed your hand, making you stop the childish argument and look at him sheepishly. “Toru, you’ve probably met them before, but… this is my brother and his friends.”

When Oikawa’s line of sight followed your other hand’s gesture to Ushijima, his face paled.

Lord have mercy, he’s got the hots for an Ushijima.

“He’s your brother?” he repeated just to confirm, jaw dropping when you nodded.

“You should both have come to Shiratorizawa.”

“Oh, shut uuup.”

masterlist

requested by @toge-maki for my event, anything for you <3 /big thanks to @cottonlemonade and her wonderful brain for the help

[depressinglyobsessed]

“Get ready with me to breakup with my fiancé-“

“BUUUUUULLSHIT YOU ARE!”

Immediately, as soon as your first words are uttered over the recording video, Rintaro’s booms down the hallway. You laugh and smack your hand on the counter, trying to keep it as quiet as you can as you hear him continue to yell.

“THE FUCK YOU THINK THIS IS? WE’RE LOCKED IN, WHAT THE FUCK!” Socked feet barrel down the hall and you’re quick to hide the camera behind a bottle of mouthwash. His body quickly comes into the frame, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. “You got something you want to tell me?”

You pull your lips down in thought before shaking your head, “no. I don’t think so. I didn’t even know you were home.”

“Oh!” He says dramatically, clapping his hands together. “So you’re just always talking about dumping me to your little Internet friends?”

“Only in my fantasies,” you hum, tossing your arms around his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. He pouts, and you giggle and kiss him again, “but if I ever do decide to dump you, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

This, has him blinking unamused at you. Then, his hands leap up to grab your cheeks, and he pulls you in for a loud, wet kiss, his lips pressing kisses over your laughing mouth, teeth, and lips. “Listen to me.”

“Rinnie!”

“No. Shush. Listen to me.” He pulls back and rests his head against yours, hands still squishing your cheeks. “I have shit out an engagement ring for you. I have your name tattooed on me. I got clawed to death by your rat fuck cat, and I have a shirt with your face on it that I wear when I go out. We’ve shared a toothbrush, you pinch my nipple when I’m showering, you text me and ask me if I’ve pooped, and I know damn well you take ugly pictures of me when I’m sleeping.”

“Your point?”

His nostrils flare, “you so much as THINK this relationship is ending, I’m going to tattle on you.”

“Oh, please-“

“To Komori.”

This, has you paling, and you nod softly and gently grab his shoulders, “no, okay, you’re right, you’re right baby, I’m sorry.” He nods as you press a kiss to his lips, “but in all seriousness-“

“Oh, I’m serious, too.”

You snicker, “in my seriousness, I’m never going to leave you.” You flash your engagement ring to the camera and purse your lips out, and he smiles down at you. “who else is going to poop out a ring, then lie to the salesman about why we’re returning it, and get me a new one, hmm?”

“Thankfully, I’m the only one who will.” He kisses your forehead, then looks at you with sad eyes. “We’re locked in?”

“Yeah baby,” you giggle, kissing his nose. “We’re locked in.”

[depressinglyobsessed]

Listen to me.

LISTEN. He's THAT type.

"When she's a little crazy, but you lowkey love it."

From that TikTok trend.

Somehow, you two got into an argument over the lamest, smallest thing ever.

"Oh yeah? Just wait and see. If this will be over-" but he can't finish his sentence before you showed him towards the couch.

"THIS. US. will NEVER, I mean NEVER be over." You grab the collar of his shirt, looking down on him as you're standing while he's sitting down.

"YOU'RE MY MAN. You can't leave. Do you understand? Do I NEED to make you understand? So if you think this can be-" you hiss at him, showing him back and forth by the collar of his shirt, accentuating your words.

"You're NOT going anywhere. YOU'RE STUCK. now and forever."  As you show him the obvious shiny rock on your ring finger. "Don't even get me started-"

Bla bla bla..proper name..place station..backstory stuff... THIS MAN HAS THE LOOK OF LOVE AND YEARNING IN HIS EYES.

You cannot tell me he didn't fall in love again after your attack. Like you're still barking at him while he is just smiling like an idiot in love.

"Do you understand?"

"Hm? Oh-yeah yeah..mhm.." he blurts out.After some silence, your ragged breathing from earlier fills the room.

"Have I told you, you look sexy when you're mad?" He grins, his hands sliding up to your hips, giving you a squeeze that makes your knees almost buckle

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH-"

kiss.

Another kiss.

And another.

"You're the worst."

"I'm the worst" he mumbles between your lips.