everrinsly

[everrinsly]

a/n; holy spray here! i blame my cousin and tiktok haha, dedicated to all your favorite boys and for those wanting a little spice hehe thank you for reading! I'm sorry been slow again, olympic momager soon I promise, work is slapping my face (ಥ﹏ಥ)

take me back. smut (oral). nsfw. mature. very suggestive. mdni. fem!reader. | not proofread.

“listen baby, i know i was a bad girl... but c'mon, you'd have to be crazy... not to take me back.”

♡ For all your favorites, who'll always take you back.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

He’s mad. 

You know because he’s... withdrawing.

You can hear the faint hum of the fridge, the muted buzz of the streetlights outside, and the soft thud of your own heartbeat, but you can’t hear him. 

No low music from his usual late-night playlist drifting through the apartment, no lazy hums or absent taps of his fingers against the couch. Not even the casual, familiar call of “hey, pretty girl” that he always tosses your way when you walk in.

Okay, fine.

Admittedly, you deserve it. 

You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Instead, you got stuck at work and forgot to text him. His messages went from “you good?” to “yo?” to a very dry “m’kay baby.”

Which is code for: I’m fucking worried, so I’m not going to make this groveling shit easy for you.

And rightfully so, he did not make it easy for you.

“...Hey,” you murmur softly as you shuffle towards him on the couch. Maybe if you say it gently enough, he’ll look at you the way he usually does—fond because he’s got all the patience in the world for you.

But today, he just gives the barest flicker of a glance before his eyes slide back to his phone. It’s not mean, not sharp… just distant. And somehow, that stings worse.

Your pout deepens, your throat tightening around something awful, and before you can stop yourself, your eyes are welling up. You blink quickly, swiping at them with the back of your hand, hoping he doesn’t see… 

Except maybe you kind of do want him to see.

You drop to your knees between his legs, letting your hands slide up his thighs as you press a lingering kiss to his knee. Then another. And another. The material of his sweats is soft under your lips, but it’s the warmth of him beneath that makes your chest ache.

His fingers pause over his phone screen, and you feel the muscle under you tense.

“Are you really gonna stay mad at me… when I’m down here like this?” you whisper, voice trembling.

He finally looks down at you… really looks. 

And there it is—the shadow of heat behind his eyes, a twitch at the corner of his mouth he tries to suppress. You know that look. You live for that look.

“You crying on my thigh right now?” he asks low, a softness curling under it. “That your master plan?”

Your lip wobbles as you fake another kiss to his thigh, arms wrapping around one of his legs, hugging it. “Maybe…” you sniff, “Is it working?”

He lets out a slow breath; you’re testing his last nerve but he likes being tested. One hand drops to your head, fingers threading through your hair, stroking lazy lines along your scalp.

“Dunno,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your eye. “Keep kissing me, and I’ll let you know.”

So just to prove a point, you press your lips against the inside of his thigh, shifting just enough that the next kiss lands closer to the heat of him. You skirt over him, hovering right there, letting the tension simmer.

Your hands slide up over his legs, nails grazing lightly through the fabric of his sweats. Every time you feel his muscles tighten under your touch, you bite back a smile.

“Mm,” you hum against him, pretending to think it over, “you really gonna let me work this hard for a little forgiveness?”

He exhales through his nose, head tilting back against the couch, but you don’t miss the way his fingers flex in your hair. “You’re making it… interesting.” 

You smirk, sitting back on your heels just enough to look up at him through your lashes. “I can make it more interesting…”

“Yeah?”

“Listen, baby…” you murmur, dragging your hands slowly up to his hips, “…I know I was a bad girl…”

That earns you a lift of his brows.

“…but c’mon… you’d have to be crazy,” you finish, your voice dipping into something almost sultry, “…not to take me back.”

You watch the way his eyes darken, the subtle shift in his breathing. His hand is still in your hair, thumb tracing lazy, idle circles against your scalp, toying with the idea of pulling you in or letting you sit there and squirm for a little while longer.

But when his mouth twitches, you know you’re not getting off easy. 

“Really, baby?” he taunts. “You think quoting Shark Tale is gonna work on me?”

You hold back a smile. “It’s Lola, though.”

“And?”

“You literally said she was hot,” you remind him, tilting your head. “So, technically, I’m just… playing to my audience.”

“Didn’t say I wanted to be played,” he drawls.

“You also didn’t say you’d mind.”

“You’re lucky you’re cuter than a CGI fish.”

“So… it’s working?”

He huffs a quiet laugh, low in his throat, the kind that says it absolutely was, but he’s not about to admit it. His fingers tighten just slightly in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep your attention.

“You think you can pout a little, kiss my thighs, bat your lashes, and I’ll just fold?”

Your eyes drop to his lips, and you smile, all sweet and dangerous. “I know you will.”

He leans in, close enough that his nose nearly brushes yours, his voice a whisper now. “Cocky for someone who disappeared all night.”

“I said I was sorry…” you murmur, letting your fingers drag slowly up the line of his abs, teasing. “Thought I could make it up to you.”

He hums, pulling back a little to make you chase the closeness and flashes that lazy, shit-eating grin.

“Gonna take more than ‘pulling a Lola’ and a few thigh kisses, baby.”

Your pout returns, but there’s heat in your eyes now. “Fine,” you challenge, “I’ll try harder.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his mouth tugging into a faint, dangerous smirk. “Do that.”

𝜗ৎ ♡ 𝜗ৎ

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers tug at the waistband of his sweats slowly, and he lifts his hips just slightly—barely a gesture, but it’s permission. The fabric slides down his thighs, and your mouth waters at the sight of him, already hard and heavy, resting against his stomach.

His head tips back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as he watches you from above, his hand still in your hair. “You gonna show me how sorry you are with that pretty mouth?” he murmurs, smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

You meet his gaze through your lashes, your own lips parting just slightly before you lean in, tongue flicking out to trace the underside of his shaft. His breath hitches, fingers tightening in your hair.

You take your time at first: soft licks, open-mouth kisses. You drag your tongue up the length of him, suck gently at the tip, then ease him into your mouth inch by inch, swirling lazy circles as saliva trail after each pull. He twitches in your mouth, and you moan softly around him. Your lips stretch, jaw aches, but you don’t stop.

“Fuck, baby…” he mutters sharply. “You’re so—”

He cuts himself off with a groan when you sink lower, your throat constricting around him. Your hands press against his thighs for leverage, trying to take more, give more, everything all at once.

“—fucking perfect.”

It gets messy fast. Spit slips past your lips. Your jaw’s working, rhythm a little desperate because you need him to feel how badly you want to be forgiven.

And you’re not even pretending to be composed—not when your own hips start rocking subtly against the carpet, your thighs clenching with every low groan he gives you. You’re soaked, throbbing, rutting into nothing, hoping it’ll give you relief. And he sees it.

“You’re grinding like that? On the fuckin’ floor?” he laughs, breathless.

You whimper around him as his hand tightens in your hair, not harsh, just firm enough to make you gasp around him, to pull your mouth off with a wet pop. Your lips are red and swollen, a slick string of spit still connecting you as he leans back and looks down at you. 

You look pitiful; you look like his.

“Please, baby... forgive me?” Your voice comes out wrecked but so achingly sweet.

“Mmh… don’t know if you deserve it yet, baby.” His thumb strokes along your jaw, all condescending. “Look at you—tears in your eyes, drooling, humping the floor… all for my cock? That’s kinda pathetic, isn’t it?”

Your lashes flutter, and you lean in just enough to graze your lips over his tip without taking him fully in. “Mm… maybe. But you like it… don’t you?”

His eyes narrow. “Careful,” he warns. “You’re getting bold.”

You pout, leaning in to press a kiss to the head of his cock, innocent... mocking. “I said I was sorry…” you lilt. “But maybe you just missed me too much.”

His grip in your hair tightens. 

“You really tryin’ to brat your way out of this?” he asks, giving you one last chance to back down.

But you don’t. Of course you don’t.

You smile up at him, infuriatingly smug, and let your tongue trace the vein along his shaft. “Maybe I wanted you to miss me,” you say, breath ghosting against his skin. “Maybe I like when you get like this…”

“Like what?” he asks, voice tighter now.

You blink up at him with faux sweetness and reckless heat.

“Desperate,” you whisper. “Bet if I begged you to fuck my throat and not stop ’til you came, you wouldn’t last a minute.”

And just like that, all his restraint snaps.

You feel it in the sharp exhale from his nose, in the way he yanks you forward again. “So get back to it, baby. I'll take you back when you fuckin’ gag on me.”

[everrinsly]

a/n; your favorite boys are very needy hehe, hope you enjoy! thank you for reading!!! and my messages have been acting wacky (T_T) if you sent a message and I didn't reply, please send me again! have a good day/night!! slow updates still (ノωヽ)

pretty nails, pretty back. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when he pays for your nails just so you'll scratch his back.

♡ For all your ("Gimme back scratchies") favorites.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

You don’t think much of it when you tell him you’re getting your nails done. You toss it casually over your shoulder as you stand in front of the hallway mirror, fixing your hair—

"I’m thinking of doing that pastel pink, y’know? Something summer-y.”

He looks up from the couch, protein shake in hand, about to go for his run. His expression doesn’t change. There’s maybe a faint twitch in his brow. Or maybe that’s just how his face is when he’s trying not to care too much.

“You want me to pay for it?”

“Hm? What?”

“Your nails, baby,” he says. “Put it on my card.”

“…Yeah, but why?” you ask, pouting up at him. “I can pay.”

He shrugs. “I got it.”

“You never just ‘got it,’” you accuse, squinting at him suspiciously. “What’s the catch?”

A familiar smirk tugs at his lips. “No catch. Just wanna spoil my girl. That so bad?”

Okay… it wasn’t not believable. He did like to spoil you in that quiet way of his—“just because” flowers left on your desk, his hoodie thrown over your head when you shivered, snacks from that shop you mentioned once four months ago. But still, something about the way his voice curled at the edges made you wary.

You narrow your eyes. “I think… you want something.”

“Mm. Maybe.” 

He pushes off the couch, stretching lazily, then leans down to kiss the top of your head. His hand lingers on your hips for a second before giving your ass an encouraging little pat.

“Just come back looking pretty for me,” he murmurs, already heading for the door, earbuds in hand, leaving you stunned and flustered like always. 

So here you are, hours later—home from the salon, nails gleaming as you slip your shoes off at the front door. 

You went full girly for this one: baby pink with little white daisies on your ring fingers. Something sweet. Something soft. Something that, stupidly, kinda makes you want to bounce up to him, like look how pretty I am. 

Instead, you walk in quietly. He’s already on the couch, shirtless, sprawled out sore from his run. 

You swallow.

“Hey,” you say, slipping your tote onto the hook by the door. “I’m home.”

His head lolls toward you. “Yeah? Lemme see.”

He reaches for you, fingers curling gently around your wrist as he tugs you closer between his legs.

You bite your lip, cheeks warm, and hold out your hand, giggling softly. “Aren’t they pretty?”

His eyes flick down, then back up. Something dark settles in his gaze.

“Yeah. Real fucking pretty, baby,” he murmurs, almost too quiet. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

It’s uncharacteristically gentle and makes your chest ache a little, the way he lingers there, like he’s going to say something deeper—

“Butttt,” he drawls, still holding your hand, thumb lazily brushing over your fingers, “you owe me now. You know that, right?”

—Okay. Maybe not. 

“Oh, here we go.”

“I paid for your nails, so I need my return on investment.”

You’re unamused as you raise a brow. “What kind of return, exactly?”

He leans back into the couch, the perfect picture of entitlement. “Back scratches. Obviously.”

You blink. “That’s why you paid?”

“Why else would I do something nice?” he teases, flashing you a grin. “I’m a simple man. I see pretty nails on you and think ‘yeah, she should drag those down my back.’”

You gape at him, but he just pats his lap. “C’mere, baby. Put ’em to work.”

You try not to overthink it as you straddle him slowly, knees on either side of his thighs, heart pounding. But the moment you settle, he shifts and flips you over gently, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck in the process until you’re lying along the couch with your head on the armrest.

He slots himself between your legs, arms wrapping around your waist. His head finds a home on your chest—right between your breasts. His back is bare, golden, toned, and waiting.

“Perfect,” he mutters, nuzzling in with a sleepy sigh. “Now mark me up.”

Your breath catches. “But—”

“Hmm?” You feel the rumble of his voice against your sternum. 

“You said you’d scratch my back. So scratch.”

Your lips twitch as a sudden wave of boldness flutters in your chest. Instead of obliging right away, you lift one hand and gently tangle your fingers in his hair—soft at the nape, slightly damp from his shower—and give a light tug… just enough to make him lift his head and look at you.

“Actually,” you tease, voice soft, “I never agreed to anything.”

He stills, then scoffs, expression utterly unimpressed, brows quirked up in that classic really? look.

“I paid for your nails.”

“And that’s the bare minimum, yeah? Not princess treatment.”

“Oh baby,” he drawls. He lifts his head to smirk down at you, eyes half-lidded. “You wanna go there?”

“Mhm,” you hum, pretending not to notice the way his weight shifts between your legs. “Since it’s the bare minimum… you don’t get prince treatment.”

He lets out a breathy little laugh, more of a heh, and cocks his head to the side, surely about to ruin you.

“Oh no, sweetheart,” he warns. “You don’t wanna go there.”

“Why not?”

“Who suffered through Tokyo traffic and drove three hours to Nagano to bring you back ramen takeout?”

“You didn’t have to—!”

“Who got you and your girls plushies because “we’ll die without them.”

“Hey! We chipped in—!”

“Who gives you a daily allowance just for looking cute? Hm? Who lets you use his card for ‘stress shopping’ every time work gets too much?”

“...Okay, that is not—”

“And,” he says, leaning in even closer, voice dropping an octave, “who fucks you when you’re needy, baby? Who makes it better when you’re all whiny and worked up and can’t sleep unless you’re dripping on cock?”

Oh. 

Shit. 

Your face heats, and you suck in a breath.

He grins smugly; he’s got you right where he wants you. His nose brushes your cheek, lips barely grazing yours. “So, go on, princess. Tell me again how I don’t get prince treatment.”

You glare up at him, cheeks flushed, voice a whisper now. “You’re such a dick.”

“Your dick, though,” he agrees. 

You hate how true that is; you hate it almost as much as you love it.

So you shut him up the only way you can.

By finally scratching down his back.

It starts slow—soft drags of your fingertips down the expanse of his back, nails tracing lazy, teasing paths along the tip of his spine, across the swell of his shoulder blades. You’re delicate, painting affection across him one scratch at a time.

He lets out a deep breath and shudders slightly, his body sinking heavier against you. And for the first time tonight, that smug, cocky exterior of his begins to fade. All that usual teasing melts into something quieter, something raw. 

“That good?” you ask shyly, unsure.

“Shit… yeah,” he mutters, rougher now, a rasp curling around his words. His shoulders slump, jaw slack against the curve of your chest. “Keep going.”

You drag your nails a little deeper this time—scratches that leave a warm sting behind. He shivers under your hands, breath hitching every time you hit a spot just right. His fingers grip your waist, grounding himself, holding you tighter.

“Harder,” he says suddenly, voice hoarse, almost pleading. “Baby, go harder.”

You pause for a moment only to dig in a little more with each stroke, scratching firm lines down the length of his back. The pressure leaves faint, blooming pink trails in your wake. He groans softly, barely holding it back, and the sound makes your stomach flip.

“That’s it. Fuck, that’s it… pretty girl. Just like that.”

His hips press down into yours steadily, a lazy grind that feels unconscious, chasing relief without realizing it. You gasp softly as the pressure hits just right, but you let him... let him move with you.

Your legs part a little wider. You meet the next slow rut of his hips with one of your own, your breath shallow as your bodies find a rhythm—unspoken and messy.

And when he moans your name, your touch grows bolder… needier. You let your nails bite into his skin, not enough to break it, but enough to leave you were here carved into him.

And you want it to be known you were here—

So you move with intention, tracing the first letter of your name just beneath his shoulder blade. One letter. Then another. And another.

He stiffens.

You finish the curve of the last letter, your name now scratched—subtly, possessively—into his back.

He feels it.

“Baby…” he breathes out, voice shaking, wrecked. “Did you just—”

You nod. “Mhm. Wrote my name.”

He groans, guttural, forehead pressing harder against your chest. “Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re so hot...”

And then—like he needs to do something, anything—he tilts his head and kisses the exposed skin just above your neckline. But it’s not soft… it’s hungry.

His lips part, and he sucks rough, teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. His hand slips under your shirt to steady your waist as he works at the spot, trying to leave a mark; his own name written in bruises, just like you scratched yours into his skin.

You sigh his name in bliss, barely holding back the shiver. “Feels good.”

“Yeah? It’ll feel more good if you keep goin’, baby. Scratch me up.”

You do.

And if that means keeping your nails pink and pretty for him to groan under your touch every day?

You’re in.

[everrinsly]

a/n; i'm aliveeee; this has my glorious king tendou haha, I hope you like! it's more cute and sweet than funny but I loved writing it, kind of rambly though but thank you for reading! sorry took so long (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ work is draining

a momager and her silly olympic team.

the chocolate shop. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

team japan visits tendou! and of course, chaos ensues in his chocolate shop.

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

They should have been resting.

Three days with no matches—the perfect time for recovery, light training, maybe reviewing game footage. Exactly the kind of plan Iwaizumi would have drawn up too.

But Team Japan never really listens to Iwa, do they? No, absolutely not.

It starts when Ushijima politely asks if he can visit Tendou’s chocolate shop in the 15th arrondissement—

You’re huddled over a clipboard with Iwaizumi, quietly discussing rotation patterns for the upcoming matches. The two of you have your “Serious Manager and Trainer and please don’t bother us” faces on, until a quiet shadow falls over your notes.

You both look up.

Ushijima stands there with the most earnest expression… except for the soft little crease between his brows that somehow screams very important question incoming.

“Can I request something?”

“Of course, Ushi! Why do you look so stiff?” You give him a playful squint. “We’re not Coach. You don’t need a written proposal.”

Iwaizumi snorts under his breath.

Ushijima, to his credit, takes a thoughtful pause, genuinely considering adjusting his posture.

“I wasn’t sure how to phrase it,” he says.

Your grin softens. “It’s just me and Iwa. You can ask anything.”

Ushijima gives a small nod. “I know you will be fine with it… but Iwaizumi might not be.”

Iwaizumi narrows his eyes, instantly suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I want to visit Tendou’s chocolate shop while we are here,” Ushijima says, perfectly straightforward. “We can all go together.”

You light up immediately. “Tendou? Really? I haven’t seen him in AGES! Oh my god—yes, of course—”

“Tendou?” Iwaizumi cuts in, voice flattening.

His eyes do that thing—that unfocused, distant thing—a man flashing back to a very specific moment in time.

The Interhigh Preliminaries. 

A city gym.

A center court. 

A redhead in a purple jersey popping up with inhuman timing to block him clean… and then waving his fingers at him, cursedly, like some creepy little gremlin.

“Tendou?”

“Yes.”

“TENDOU!?”

“Yes.”

“...The fuckin’ string bean who called me predictable?” Iwaizumi mutters darkly.

Ushijima blinks. “He said that because you always attack cross.”

“I know why he said it!”

You try, you really did, not to laugh. “So… that’s a yes?”

Iwaizumi gives you a flat look. “Nah.”

Ushijima nods, completely unfazed. “Okay. I’ll message Tendou. I can visit after the Olympics.”

“Wakatoshi.”

Before Ushijima can even reach for his phone, you grab his wrist, a protective volleyball mom on a mission.

“Nope. We’re going,” you declare firmly. “You’ve been working hard, you deserve this, and I wanna see Tendou too.”

Ushijima tilts his head, considering. “If you insist.”

Iwaizumi groans. “Oh my god…”

You turn to him with your deadliest weapon—a soft, little pout paired with wide, pleading eyes. “Hajime, it’s just a short visit… pleaaaase?”

Iwaizumi’s jaw tightens. He looks away for half a second, muttering something suspiciously close to a curse.

“You should look at her, Iwaizumi,” Ushijima says, stoic. “It would be more effective.”

Iwaizumi whips around to glare at him. “I’m not trying to be effective!”

You stifle a giggle behind your hand.

“Fuck, for the love of—”  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Fine. Yes. You win. Let’s go.”

Ushijima nods approvingly. “Thank you. He said he saved us a new flavor of chocolate truffles.”

You barely have a second to enjoy your victory before—

“WAIT—CHOCOLATE?!”

The shout echos from the far end of the suite hallway, where the boys’ rooms were. 

You, Iwaizumi, and Ushijima all turn in unison.

Bokuto, whose ears you can only describe as predator-like when it comes to keywords like day off, snack, or adventure or anything synonymous, hears chocolate and promptly launches himself over Ushijima’s back, a caffeinated toddler in the making. 

His eyes sparkle. “CHOCOLATE? WHERE?! WHO’S GETTIN’ IT?”

You and Iwaizumi exchange a knowing glance.

“Welp,” you sighed. “There goes that secret.”

Iwaizumi mutters, “Didn’t even last five minutes.”

But Ushijima, bless his heart, sees absolutely nothing wrong with this sudden outburst.

He gives a small nod. “Yes. Chocolate. We are going to Tendou’s shop.”

Bokuto gasps loudly. “TENDOU, CHOCOLATE, AND ADVENTURE! LET’S GOOOO!”

Iwaizumi groans. “Let’s hope Tendou’s okay with a stampede.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The streets of Paris don’t stand a chance. 

Because what should have been a casual stroll with Ushijima, you, Iwaizumi, and maybe one or two lucky teammates at most had turned into a full-on squad expedition.

It starts with Atsumu. Obviously. 

You barely make it two blocks before he spots a street vendor selling handmade keychains by the Seine. Instead of walking past like a normal person, he slides right up with that signature grin.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” Atsumu says, leaning an elbow on the cart. “How do I say… you make these? With those pretty hands?”

The poor vendor, an older woman in her sixties, blinks at him.

“Atsumu!” you hiss, rushing over with a mortified smile. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. He’s… um… a volleyball player. He doesn’t get out much.”

“On contraire,” the woman says dryly, clearly amused. “He gets out too much.”

You bow your head, apologizing again, but when you turn to scold Atsumu, he’s already giving you big, shimmering puppy eyes.

“You’re not mad at me, are ya, sweetheart?” he pouts, lower lip poking out. “I was just practicin’ my French… for you.”

You cross your arms, fighting a smile. “That’s not French. That’s flirting.”

“Same thing when you’re around,” he shoots back with a wink.

Before you can retort, Suna appears behind him and hooks a hand around his collar. “Let’s go, casanova,” he says flatly, dragging him away.

“I was bein’ friendly!” Atsumu yelps as he’s hauled off, arms flailing. “This is how diplomacy works!”

You wave sheepishly at the vendor again. “So sorry.”

“Good luck,” the woman calls back, cackling as Aran steps in and gives Atsumu a solid thwack on the head. 

“Quit embarrassin’ us, man,” Aran says, shaking his head.

“I’m an ambassador of love,” Atsumu argues, rubbing the back of his head.

“Ambassador of dumbassery,” Suna corrects.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

A few winding streets later, you catch a glimpse of something strange up ahead—Komori. 

Who somehow ends up right in the middle of a bustling tourist group, half-listening as a woman in the crowd excitedly points at a historic building and gestures for him to explain.

Which… honestly, you can’t even blame them.

Because Komori is strolling along with a soft smile, hands clasped behind his back like a professional, wearing… a beret.

A freaking beret.

When did he even get that?

You blink at him from a few paces away, trying to process the sight of him smiling politely as a tourist hands him a pamphlet. 

“Oh—uh—uhh…” Komori stammers, looking around in panic.

“Motoya!” you hiss, slipping between two tourists and grabbing his hand. “What are you doing?”

“I—I don’t know!” he whisper-yells. “I was just looking at the building and someone gave me a pamphlet and now I’m leading a group—?”

You glance ahead and spot an actual guide, waving a little flag and speaking into a microphone… about twenty feet in front of you both.

“Okay, come on, Mr. Tour Guide,” you sigh, tugging his hand gently as you start weaving through the group. “Let’s get you back to your team.”

“Yes, ma’am…” Komori trails off, cheeks flushed, the beret slightly askew on his head.

“And where did you even get the hat?” you ask, giving him a sideways look.

He shrugs sheepishly. “Bo put it on me.”

You giggle softly and reach up, adjusting the slightly crooked hat before giving Komori’s nose a playful little boop. “Well… it actually looks cute on you.”

Komori’s cheeks tint just a bit, but before he can reply—

“WHO THE FUCK STOLE MY BERET?!”

A voice roars from behind.

Both you and Komori freeze.

You turn slowly—just in time to see a very large man waving his arms furiously from a café patio across the street, gesturing to a mannequin beside him that is… very much missing its display beret.

Komori goes pale.

You grab his hand again.

“Run.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

After that goose chase, everything is going fine… for a grand total of fifteen minutes.

Because Hinata starts slowing down.

At first, you think nothing of it. But then—

“Ughhhh,” Hinata groans dramatically, shoulders slumping as he drags his feet behind you. “I’m tired. My legs are tired. My soul is tired.”

You glance back with a laugh. “Sho, we’ve only been walking for twenty minutes… and you’re an athlete.”

“Twenty minutes is too long, and athletes need lots of breaks!” He pouts, stepping closer until he’s right beside you. Without warning, he gently reaches out, slipping his hand into yours.

“I just wanna hold your hand,” he says, eyes round as he intertwines his fingers with yours. 

Your heart actually melts a little.

“Okay, sunshine,” you say with a soft smile, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. It feels sweet, familiar—like those high school training camp days when Hinata would beg for attention after a long practice.

…And then.

Kageyama suddenly sidesteps into your other side.

Without a word.

Grabs your free hand.

Laces his fingers with yours.

You whip your head around.

Kageyama stares ahead stiffly, expression blank but ears visibly red.

“…Tobio?”

“I don’t want Hinata to get special treatment,” he grimaces out, gripping your hand just a little tighter.

You burst into a giggle. “So now we’re holding hands all around?”

Hinata beams. “Yeah! This is cute!”

And it is. It is cute. 

But unbeknownst to you, from further behind you, Atsumu’s eyes narrow, like he’s plotting a murder. “I can be cute too.” 

On either side of him, Suna and Aran casually lift their hands in sync.

“We got hands too, ya know,” Aran says with a slow grin.

“Wanna hold?” Suna deadpans, wiggling his fingers, like it’s the most natural offer in the world.

Atsumu whips his head between them. “BRO—THE FUCK!”

Aran shrugs, smirking. “Just tryna help you practice your game.”

Suna leans in with a shit-eating grin. “Yeah, Atsumu. We can practice… or play pretend… whatever you want.”

“I ain’t holdin’ your fuckin’ hands!” Atsumu hisses.

Suna sighs. “Tragic. He’s all bark and no hand-hold.”

Aran pats his shoulder solemnly. “Weak game, bro. Kita would’ve held our hands.”

“I hate you both.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

By some miracle, with you and Iwaizumi wrangling them like overworked babysitters, Team Japan finally reaches Tendou’s delightfully weird chocolate shop nestled on a quiet Paris street.

The storefront is quaint. Whimsical, crooked signage, and mismatched window displays feature chocolate sculptures—each one a tribute to Tendou’s love: Shiratorizawa, volleyball, and chocolate, of course. 

And there, leaning in the doorway, is him.

Tendou’s dressed in a purple apron dusted with cocoa powder, red hair now buzzed, and that same sharp grin on his face. At first, he looks completely at ease—relaxed, smug, expectant. His gaze lands fondly on Ushijima.

“Well, well, well…” he drawls, arms crossed. “If it isn’t Japan’s finest… and their very cute manager.”

He’s clearly expecting a wholesome little visit. Probably just Ushijima, maybe you… and possibly Iwaizumi if he was finally feeling mature and had decided to let go of their lingering high school beef.

You’re just about to say hi—maybe even something sweet and normal, like “Long time no see, Tendou.”—but Bokuto cuts you off with a full-bodied gasp and leaps past you, flinging his arms excitedly. 

“GUYS! IT SMELLS LIKE A DREAM IN HERE!”

And that’s the signal.

The rest of Team Japan pours in behind him.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

All but Sakusa, at least.

He visibly flinches and pulls a face like the air is contaminated. “…What’s the sanitary grade level here?” he asks Tendou, suspiciously eyeing the chocolate sculptures. “It has to be an A… minimum.”

Tendou grins, all teeth and menace. “C+, actually,” he drawls. “What are you gonna do about it, Germaphobe-kun?”

Sakusa recoils. “I knew it,” he mutters, already pulling out a mini bottle of hand sanitizer and dousing his palms. 

“You’re joking,” Komori whispers to you, wide-eyed.

You lean closer. “He’s not.”

Meanwhile, Tendou’s cackling, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Relax, it’s actually an A,” he says, still giggling. “But your reaction was so worth it.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes. “I hope your plumbing explodes.”

“...”

“M’kay… hope you’re sick for the next match.”

You gasp. “Tendou Satori!”

Everyone flinches a little—not because you’re scary, but because your Disappointed Manager Voice™ is a rare and mighty thing.

Tendou freezes mid-smirk, then slowly turns to you with wide eyes, a child caught red-handed.

You cross your arms. “Don’t curse our national team players! Especially not the germ-sensitive ones!”

“But it was funny,” Tendou defends, wilting under your glare.

You narrow your eyes.

“Okay, okay—just kidding!” he says quickly, waving his hands. “He’s got lovely lungs. Sparkling clean intestines. The whole package!”

Sakusa lets out the longest sigh of his life.

Tendou leans toward you with a cheeky grin. “C’mon, you missed me. Admit it.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Hinata gasps, eyes wide and glittering as he points dramatically at a display near the counter, “Are those chocolate-covered strawberries? They’re SHINY AF—!”

You blink. “Okay, you did not just say AF.”

“I did,” he says proudly, bouncing in place. “Come on, I wanna share with you, Sweets. C’mere!”

He grabs your hand, about to whisk you away… only for Kageyama to suddenly step in, scowling. “No. She’s busy. She’s helping me find the chocolate milk.”

“We’re in a chocolate shop… like… not the supermarket…?”

Kageyama nods seriously. “Exactly. It should be here somewhere.”

Tendou, leaning against the counter, raises a brow. “Huh… I didn’t even know we had chocolate milk.”

Kageyama slowly turns to him. “...You don’t?”

Tendou shrugs. “We’re more of a truffle, bark, mousse vibe.”

Kageyama looks personally betrayed. His eyes shift slowly, tragically, to you. “I need my milk,” he says quietly, voice thick with devastation. “Otherwise… I can’t function.”

“Tobio, you literally just inhaled a croissant and half of Rin’s breakfast sandwich.”

“That wasn’t milk,” he argues. “My system’s unbalanced now. My calcium levels are off. I can feel it.”

“You’re being dramatic,” you say, though your voice is laced with affection.

“I’m being honest,” he pouts.

From behind him, Hinata chirps, “It’s true! He didn’t poop for a whole day at Worlds ‘cause they ran out of dairy at the dining hall! Remember?”

“YOU FUCK ASS RUNT—!”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You glance around the shop, the noise from the rest of the team reaching a dull roar, but one particular absence from the chaos draws your attention.

Suna.

He’s suspiciously quiet—no phone out, no snide comments, no recording the disaster like he usually does for his private collection of blackmail material. Instead, he’s sitting at the corner table near the window with Aran.

You walk over slowly and lean a little closer. His eyes are unfocused, vaguely glaring at a chocolate sculpture of Tendou doing a flying block.

“Hey Superstar,” you whisper to Aran, because Suna’s energy is giving “do not disturb” vibes, “what’s wrong with him?”

Aran just sighs. “Nationals.”

“Wasn't he fine before?”

“Yeah... but we stepped in and he said Tendou's air gave him PTSD... whatever that means.”

You wince. Ah. Right. Shiratorizawa vs. Inarizaki—the final battle that still lives rent-free in a lot of heads, apparently. Especially Tendou’s.

And as if summoned by the very mention of cursed history, Tendou appears with drama in his eyes, slinking up behind you with that signature smile.

“Oh looky looky,” he purrs. “If it isn’t Mr. Contortionist.”

Suna doesn’t even flinch. “Don’t.”

But Tendou’s already sliding in, plopping down beside you. “Remember that match, huh? Oooh, you were so close. And my final block—mwah!” He makes a dramatic chef’s kiss gesture. “Cinematic.”

“I blocked Osamu-kun’s soul into the floor that day,” Tendou adds helpfully. “You remember, don’t ‘cha?”

“Why are you like this,” Suna mutters flatly, not even lifting his head.

“Because,” Tendou says brightly, “trauma is best shared between friends.”

There’s a beat of silence—brief, but oddly comfortable. It’s kind of pause that settles between people who’ve known each other too long, who’ve already hurled the worst insults and still come back for drinks… or chocolate, rather. 

Then Aran perks up, eyebrow raised as he leans forward with a slight smirk. “But Tendou,” he says casually, “you never really fully blocked Suna, ya know.”

Tendou tilts his head, mock offended. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Aran continues, half-grinning now, “you got ‘Samu, ‘Tsumu, Gin, even Kita, Ren, and I a few times, sure, but Suna? Nah. Maybe you touched a tip or two, but you never got a clean one.”

Tendou stares off dramatically, sifting through his mental archives. His eyes narrow slightly, and you can tell he’s thinking. That one match is stored in 4K Ultra HD in his brain.

“…Huh,” he finally murmurs, almost fond. “You’re right.”

He looks back at Suna, who’s still half-slouched, pretending he doesn’t care, but his fingers still. Tendou’s eyes gleam, a bit more genuine now.

“You were annoyingly consistent,” Tendou says, tapping a long finger against his temple. “Always there. Always calm. Like a shadow, right where you needed to be.” He smiles. “I’d never say it on court, but… you were a fuckin’ bastard to read.”

Suna just hums, his mouth twitching faintly. “That’s because you kept guessing wrong.”

You grin, watching as something settles between them. No more taunts, no backhanded jabs, just quiet respect buried under ten layers of sarcasm.

Tendou leans forward suddenly, elbows on the table. “Uh huh, so, Rin-kun. What angle do you spike at now?”

Suna finally looks up, eyes glinting with menace. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Tendou gasps. “Oh, scandalous. Did you just flirt with me?”

“You wish.”

“I do.”

“Shut up.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Tendou’s laughter still lingers in the air from the last round of teasing when his gaze drifts to the corner of the shop where Ushijima is sitting quietly, half-shadowed by a crooked display shelf.

He’s crouched slightly, brows furrowed in concentration as he peers at the chocolate sculptures—his attention locked on one in particular: a pocket-sized chocolate figure of himself, captured mid-spike, arms raised, expression stoic and determined, rendered in rich, dark cocoa with impressive detail.

Tendou stalks up behind him, arms loosely crossed, and leans in just enough to smirk beside Ushijima’s head.

“Oh, doesn’t he look nice,” he sings. “Strong jawline. Impeccable form. I wonder who the artist was. Oh wait—me.”

Ushijima doesn't look away from the sculpture. “You made my arm longer.”

“Artistic license,” Tendou replies breezily. “You’re welcome.”

Then he leans against the shelf beside him, grinning slyly. “So, how’s it feel? Y’know… carrying the entire Olympic team on your broad, cocoa-molded shoulders?”

Ushijima blinks slowly. “I don’t.”

Tendou cocks a brow. “Oh?”

Ushijima finally turns to look at him, calm and certain. “It’s you and Iwaizumi who carry the team.”

“Wait, what—?”

“You both carry the emotional weight,” Ushijima adds. “I simply do my job.”

Tendou stares at him for a beat, caught off-guard by the sincerity, before a soft chuckle slips from his mouth. “God, I missed how weirdly sweet you are.”

And just as the moment threatens to go soft and tender—

“WAKA! BRO! THIS CHOCOLATE EAGLE LOOKS LIKE YOU!” Bokuto’s voice pierces the air. 

“MOVE, I WANNA SEE IT!” Atsumu barrels in from the side, tripping slightly over the corner rug and slamming into the display.

“DON’T TOUCH THE WAKA ART!” Tendou shrieks, lunging dramatically to shield the chocolate sculpture of Ushijima.

Ushijima merely steadies the sculpture with one large hand, unfazed. “It does not look like me,” he says, staring at the chocolate eagle with mild disapproval.

From the back, Iwaizumi raises his voice just enough to cut through the chaos. “Alright, that’s enough sugar for one day—Coach is calling. Let’s move.”

A symphony of groans breaks out.

“But I didn’t even try the matcha ganache!” Hinata whines.

“I was only up to my third box of truffles,” Bokuto pouts.

“And I think I deserve a treat for not freaking out more,” Sakusa mutters, holding a box already tucked neatly under his jacket.

You squint. “Is that… contraband?”

“Not if you don’t see it,” Suna murmurs from behind you, casually slipping two chocolate bars into his jacket. 

“Ya, what he said,” Atsumu chimes in, mouth already stuffed full of caramel chocolate, cheeks puffed. He’s got a suspiciously lumpy shape under his shirt, which he clutches protectively.

You raise a brow. “Atsumu…”

“It’s for ‘Samu!” he blurts out. “Swear on my left knee!”

“He said that last time too. Pretty sure the box never left his room.”

“It did! Just… not right away.”

Tendou watches the attempted heist unfold with crossed arms, sighing dramatically. “I should make you all pay double for emotional distress. But…” He glances at you and Ushijima, smile softening, “...I’ll let it slide. Just this once.”

The boys immediately cheer, high-fiving and tossing thanks over their shoulders.

“But!” Tendou calls after you all. “Next time you visit—it better be just you, Wakatoshi, and maaaaybe Iwaizumi. That’s the only level of energy I’ll tolerate again in this sacred cocoa ground.”

You flash him a smile as you usher the team toward the exit. “Deal. Next time, just the calm squad.”

Behind you, Komori goes, “Wait, I thought I was part of the calm squad—”

Aran immediately pipes up, looking mildly panicked and a little sweaty. “Hey! Wait, me too. I’m calm. I’m cool. I’m chill as hell.”

You sigh, already halfway through dragging them both toward the door by their sleeves. “Yes, yes, my calm boys,” you console them gently. 

“So… we’re invited next time?”

Tendou snorts. “No,” he says, pointing a dramatic accusatory finger. “Because you both smuggled chocolate too.”

Aran freezes mid-step, eyes darting guiltily toward his bulging jacket pocket. Komori immediately goes wide-eyed and innocent, like he’s totally never even heard of chocolate in his life.

You glance back with a smile, herding the chaos out the door. “Bye, Satori. Try not to haunt your customers.”

“Haunting is part of the experience!”

And just as the door starts to close behind the last of the group, Ushijima’s deep voice rumbles calmly from the middle of the pack. “Make my arms longer and bigger next time.”

Tendou grins.

[everrinsly]

a/n; holy spray for this obscenity, i blame by cousin for the idea and for showing me some fanarts. but it's dedicated to all your favorite boys and for those wanting a little spice hehe thank you for reading! I'm sorry been slow, olympic momager soon I promise, work is smacking me (ಥ﹏ಥ)

his measurement. (soft) smut. nsfw. mature. very suggestive. mdni. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when he measures how deep he'd be.

♡ For all your ("I'm not doing anything sus... just measuring") favorites.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

It starts innocent—strong arm slung over your waist, fingers spread, possessive even in sleep—until he shifts, a warm exhale fanning across the back of your neck. His palm slides down, knuckles grazing the hem of your oversized sleep shirt, where the fabric’s bunched slightly from your shifting. 

His fingers trail lower, barely brushing the soft curve of your stomach. Calloused pads stroke across your skin; he’s memorizing it, learning you in the stillness of morning. His thumb smooths side to side, aimless at first, then with purpose as he drags the tip of his index finger just beneath your belly button, tracing faint circles, a gentle spiral that tightens, until you're squirming slightly against him.

You think it’s nothing at first. Just him being touchy, needy for you like you are for him. 

But then, his fingers slide lower. 

Just a little.

Then a little more. 

Until his entire hand is splayed against your lower stomach, and his pinky dips and teases just under the waistband of your sleep shorts.

He taps.

Once.

Twice.

And spreads his thumb and index finger out.

Wide.

You inhale softly. “What are you doing?” you ask, quietly.

He hums, barely audible, breath warm against the top of your head.

“…Measuring.”

You swallow. “Measuring what?”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Hm? What are you measuring?”

“How deep I’d be.”

Huh?

Oh. 

Oh.

You freeze, and your whole body prickles. You feel your thighs twitch, your heart climb up into your throat and stay there. You’re not sure you heard him right.

He doesn’t pull back. His fingers keep moving, little by little, spreading over your soft stomach again, pressing down gently like he’s thinking, calculating, imagining.

Your voice comes out breathy. “You—”

“Shh,” he murmurs. “I’m trying to focus, baby.”

You feel heat bloom in your chest, racing down to your hips. Your thighs press together involuntarily, but he doesn’t tease you for that. Not out loud, at least. He only presses his hand heavier on your stomach, fingers curling. He’s picturing it, feeling it—like he could see himself inside you, see how far he’d reach, see how deep he’d fill.

His hand trails upward, searching for something, tracing lazy shapes into the plush stretch of your skin. One more inch and he’s brushing beneath the curve of your ribs, clearly aiming for the spot where he thinks he’d leave a mark if he filled you just right.

You whisper, barely holding in a laugh, “That’s… definitely not where it would show.”

You feel him smirk against your neck.

“Sure it is,” he mumbles, thumb dragging idly in a wide arc like he’s measuring again. “I’m big. Bet you’d swell all the way up here.”

You shake your head with a breathy giggle, cheeks warm. “Anatomy doesn't work like that.”

“That’s how my anatomy works,” he murmurs, impossibly smug. His hand flattens once more above your belly button. “Besides… you wouldn’t be complaining.”

You don’t say anything but let out a bashful sound as you curl in closer to him because he’s right. You wouldn’t complain. Not even a little.

“But for real, baby…” he continues.

His hand trails just slightly downward again, until the tips of his fingers find the soft dip of your button. He pauses there, toying gently, thumb circling the little curve before he gives it a playful squeeze. 

And then—

“You think I’d show… here?” he asks, voice full of heat. 

You snort, tilting your head slightly as you glance back to catch his eye, “I told you… that’s… that’s not how that works.”

He hums, completely unbothered. “Big dick energy. You wouldn’t get it.”

You nudge him with your knee beneath the blanket. “Mm. Sure.” 

He pauses for a moment before speaking in the driest, most fake-wounded tone possible. “Oh. You’re doubting me?”

You turn to peek at him, trying hard not to smile, but it’s already tugging at the corners of your lips. “A little,” you tease, coyly. 

He exhales, slow and dangerous. His fingers trail lower on your stomach again, just enough pressure to make your heart flutter. “Uh huh... so where do you think I’d be, pretty baby?”

Your breath hitches. “Mm… maybe a little lower.”

He stills for half a second before dipping down to kiss your shoulder. “Yeah?” he rasps, hand gliding down to press lightly on the center of your lower stomach. “Here?”

You shiver.

“Or… maybe here?” 

His fingers slip beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts with ease, and he cups you fully, palm firm and warm against the soft swell of your mound. You choke on a sound that might’ve been a yes—twisting shyly against him, but his other arm only tightens around you, keeping you tucked close.

“Right here?” he murmurs low against your ear, lips brushing the shell of it. “That where you’re feelin’ me now?”

You nod, stuttering softly, “R-right… right there.”

He watches you, his gaze dark and steady, lashes low over that slow-burning hunger in his eyes.

“Mhm. I agree. But you’re forgetting something, baby.”

You blink up at him, dazed, mind foggy, high off his touch. Your lashes flutter, gaze unfocused, and you let out a confused, “Hmm? What is it?”

“I can stretch you,” he says, almost casually. “So... yeah. You'd actually be feeling me all the way up… here.”

He taps, right beneath your chest, dead serious.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out except a stunned, shaky exhale. You're too gone to argue, too flushed and glassy-eyed to remind him that’s not how the human body works. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “You’d take it. You always do. My sweet girl.”

His hand drifts again, down this time, sweeping over your stomach, smoothing the path he’d take inside you, tracing the imprint you’d make around him. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” he asks, almost teasing. “Let me fuck you like that? Let me come inside? Fill you up, ruin you a little?”

You whimper, eyes fluttering shut, the image too much. The heat curling in your stomach tightens, spreads, and your hips shift against him without meaning to. 

He turns you gently, his hand sliding from your stomach to your hip, and you land soft against his chest. You nuzzle your face into his neck, trying to hide the helpless sounds you make, but he hears them anyway. 

“Say it,” he whispers. “Say I’d be deep.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand still pressing just low enough to make you ache. “Say it.”

You gulp. “You’d be… really deep,” you mumble, barely audible.

His grin is lethal. “Attagirl.”

୨ৎ 𖹭 ୨ৎ

And later, you’re on your back, wrists pinned above your head, chest heaving. Your legs tremble, wrapped around his waist, the slick drag of his length inside you hitting that spot again and again, just a little deeper each time, testing your limit and stretching you past it. Your pliant body arches on instinct, chasing every stroke, greedy and raw and shaking.

He leans over you, hair falling over his forehead, sweat-slick skin gleaming faintly in the dim light. “Right there?” he murmurs, voice ragged, cock buried to the hilt. “Feel me?”

You nod, tears in your eyes. It’s too much, but not in a way that makes you want to stop; it’s too much in a way that makes you cling.

And he knows. Of course he knows. “Yeah,” he pants, breath hot against your jaw. “That spot right under your ribs, baby. Right where I said I’d be.”

And shit—you feel it. You actually feel it.

Not just the stretch between your thighs, not just the thick, relentless push inside you. You feel him high. Deep. Every nerve in your body is tethered to him now, stretched taut and burning with pleasure.

It shouldn’t be possible, but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s him.

Because you always bend for him.

Because, somehow and someway, even the rules bend for him.

He draws back deliberately slow and pushes in even slower, watching your face twist, waiting for that exact moment when your mouth drops open in a soundless cry.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Told you. All the way up here.”

One hand trails down above your belly button again, pressing flat and firm over that same spot beneath your chest. You sob out a moan, the pressure intensifying everything, the feeling of him there, of him everywhere. Your whole body clenches around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls, forehead pressing against yours. “So soft, so tight—taking all of me like you were made for it.”

You whimper, fingernails digging into his arms, body breaking apart under him, around him.

He fucks you through it, like he wants to melt into you. And when he comes, thick and hot and pulsing inside you, it adds to the pressure, the warmth, the fullness—

And yeah, you do feel him up to your chest.

You don’t know where your body ends and he begins.

All you know is… his measurement is right.

[everrinsly]

a/n; i'm sorry I've been so busy but here's something cute, it's a little long i think haha, but i hope you like! for all your girl dad boys who can't do hair, thank you for reading!! i am also working on the olympic momager series! i promise

bow ties with bunny ears and octopus arms. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when your niece wants him to tie her hair like yours before her back-to-school shopping trip... but he can't seem to get it right.

♡ For all your favorites, who have trouble with girl hair.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

The morning light is golden and filters through the soft hum of weekend life. It’s the kind of day that smells like laundry detergent and fabric softener with the windows cracked open just enough to let in a warm breeze and the distant sound of kids riding bikes down the street.

You’ve been puttering around the apartment, keeping busy while you wait—packing snacks, refilling water bottles, scrutinizing items on your niece’s back-to-school shopping list because why does she need four pairs of plastic scissors? 

You don’t hear much coming from your bedroom, only the occasional creak of the floor and the soft snap of a hairbrush being dropped again. And again.

You sigh and stretch your arms above your head, peeking down the hallway just as—

The bedroom door is slightly ajar, and the sound of your niece’s voice spills out in a frustrated whine.

“Noooo, not like that! You’re tying it like a shoelace!”

There’s a pause, then his flat voice, that same bone-dry tone he always uses when he’s pretending he’s not actually trying. “Princess, it is a shoelace. Just pink.”

Your niece lets out a small gasp. “It’s not!”

She turns around to face him with the most appalled expression a five-year-old can muster. “It’s a ribbon! For pretty hair! You can’t put it in your sneakers!”

He blinks down at her, utterly unmoved. “I could. If I wanted to.”

She gasps again, mouth wide, hands flying to her cheeks. “No! You’d ruin it!”

“Nah. I think I’d look cute.”

“No. You’d look weird.”

That finally earns a low, amused breath from him—barely a laugh, more of a nose exhale. 

“I just want it like Auntie’s!” she points, tiny arms gesturing wildly. “Hers is floaty. Yours is droopy.”

“Droopy is the new floaty.”

“You’re not even trying!”

“I’m trying enough.”

“Try more!”

You stifle a laugh and peek inside.

And instantly, your heart softens.

He sits on the edge of the bed, legs spread comfortably, your niece standing between them—pouty and impatient in her baby blue dress, the one he bought her for her birthday last year, now a little shorter but still her favorite because “Uncle picked it out.” 

He’s already brushed her hair out, surprisingly neat for his usual half-effort approach, and gathered the top half into a small ponytail with a clear elastic. He clumsily wrangles one of your pink ribbons around the elastic, long fingers trying to loop and tug it into something that resembles a proper tie. It slips once, twice, and he sighs deeply like he’s been low-key (high-key) struggling for the last ten minutes.

Your niece huffs dramatically, tapping her foot against the floor as if that might speed him up. “It’s not that hard,” she mumbles, clearly one breath away from snatching it and doing it herself.

“Then you do it,” he says flatly as he tries again. “I’ll sit on the bed and complain instead.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re the grown-up.”

“Debatable.”

He finally gets the ribbon looped and tugs it tight, fingers pausing as he examines the result with a painfully neutral expression.

And the bow is… well, it’s a bow. Technically. It exists. 

But one loop is way too big and the ends hang uneven, the knot looking suspiciously loose, like it might unravel if she so much as breathes wrong.

Your niece tilts her head, first to the left, then to the right, just feeling the weight of it. “It… it feels lopsided.”

“You’re lopsided.”

“Am not!”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he mutters, pulling gently at one end to fix it, which somehow only makes it worse.

She groans, stomping her socked foot gently against the floor. “It’s supposed to look pretty! Like Auntie’s!”

“She’s got more hair,” he replies lazily. “More hair means better bow structure.”

“No,” she insists, turning to squint at him accusingly. “That’s not it.”

He raises a brow. “It’s definitely it.”

She shakes her head. “Mama does bunny ears. Auntie does bunny ears. You’re not doing bunny ears. That’s why it’s lopsided!”

“I don’t speak rabbit.”

“Everyone speaks rabbit! You make two loops, like bunny ears, and then you cross them and pull!”

He stares blankly at her. “So, a shoelace. I was right.”

“It’s not! It’s a technique!” she says, hands flailing for emphasis.

His face doesn’t change, but the corner of his mouth twitches just a little. “Pretty sure I do this technique better than Mama and Auntie.”

“You don’t,” she deadpans. “Because you’re doing… like… octopus arms.”

“Octopus—? Well, aren’t you harsh on me today, huh, princess?”

He says it lightly, teasing, expecting her to puff up and giggle, maybe roll her eyes and call him weird again. But instead, she goes quiet.

Too quiet.

She’s still, fidgeting with the hem of her dress now, and when she turns to glance back at him, there’s a tight pull to her mouth. Her shoulders curve in, just barely, like she’s trying not to show it; but he sees it, the shine in her eyes before she turns and blinks it away.

She's not crying, but the tears are there, glassing over her lashes. Her lips are wobbly, and the pout on her face is trembling, real and honest—the kind of disappointment that doesn’t need words.

His heart drops clean out of his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer. “Baby.”

She sniffles once. “It’s not the same,” she mumbles. “It doesn’t look like Auntie’s. And I want it to be the same.”

He blinks slowly, watching as she tilts her head all the way back to look up at him upside-down, bottom lip jutting out.

And something in him just… breaks.

He’s quiet for a moment, then shifts his hands to cradle her tiny face gently in both palms. His fingers dwarf her cheeks, but they’re soft, so soft, and her pout falters a little under the weight of his steady gaze.

“Don’t cry, princess.”

“I’m not,” she whispers back, but her lip trembles, betraying her.

He leans in a little closer, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “You're the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. Bow or no bow. Got it?”

She nods, barely.

“And for the record…” he adds, brushing some of her bangs back, “I think yours looks better. Way better.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Really, baby.”

She finally smiles, cheeks pink, and lets out a small, breathy giggle. “Because you tied it?”

He leans down and presses another kiss to the center of her forehead, lingering there for a second longer, his lips warm against her skin. “Yeah. Obviously.”

“But,” he adds, like it’s no big deal, “if you really want it fixed, I guess I can go get Auntie. She’s probably out there laughing at me right now.”

She shakes her head fast, clutching the hem of her dress with both hands. “No, it’s okay!”

“You sure?” he teases, already reaching for his phone. “She’s right outside, probably waiting to rescue you.”

But she stomps her socked foot again and spins on her heel, throwing her arms up around his neck. “Nooo, it’s okay because you did it!”

He goes still for half a beat, then his arms wrap around her, like muscle memory, like instinct, pulling her effortlessly into his lap. She fits there so easily, tucking her head beneath his chin.

And then, he smothers her in kisses: sloppy, noisy ones to both cheeks, one after the other, with exaggerated “mwah” sounds that have her giggling so hard she nearly topples out of his arms.

“That tickles!”

“Can’t hear you, sorry, I’m too busy kissing the cutest girl in the universe,” he says, punctuating each word with another kiss to her temple, her jaw, her cheek. “Most patient. Most stylish. Most perfect.”

You finally step in from the doorway, smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, heart practically swelling out of your chest. He glances up as you approach, one arm still wrapped securely around her tiny waist. 

Your niece turns in his lap the second she hears your footsteps, her whole face lighting up. “Hi, Auntie!” she chirps, arms reaching out, fingers wiggling in grabby little waves.

You melt instantly.

“Hi, sweetheart,” you coo, walking over and taking her outstretched hands in yours. He shifts slightly to make room, and you settle beside him on the edge of the bed, your knee bumping his.

She immediately leans into your side, wiggling close, cheeks flushed from all the attention. You reach up to touch the ribbon he tied in her hair. “This turned out so cute,” you say, smiling down at her.

“Because he did it,” she replies proudly, beaming like she won something.

You glance at him, then back at her. “Well then… think you could help me fix mine? I want it to look exactly like yours.”

Her gasp is dramatic, tiny hands flying to her chest. “Really?!”

“Really, sweets,” you nod.

She nearly wriggles out of his lap in her excitement, scrambling onto the bed behind you, carefully gathering your hair with her small fingers. You sit still, a little hunched forward to give her room to work, while her little hands tug and fluff and pat like a tiny hairstylist on a mission.

You feel the bed shift slightly beside you, and then he leans in, his hand brushing lightly against your arm before he presses the softest kiss to your cheek—barely there, but somehow it settles straight into your chest.

You blink, surprised, then glance sideways to see him way too smug for someone who’s supposedly indifferent.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you could’ve asked me. I tied her bow.”

You raise a brow, grinning. “Mm, yeah. I saw that.”

“And?”

“And…” you hum, turning slightly so he can see your smirk, “I think not.”

He gives you a slow blink. “Wow.”

“You’re talented,” you tease, “but I wanted bunny ears instead of octopus arms.”

From behind you, your niece squeals. “Seeee?!” she cries, dramatically throwing her hands in the air. “Even Auntie says you did octopus arms! And she didn’t even watch you!”

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh, peeking over your shoulder at her. 

“I felt it, Auntie,” she says, completely serious, tiny fingers still fussing with the loops of your bow. “He twisted it all weird, like… squiggly. Like an octopus with too many jobs.”

You giggle. “I know, baby. Can’t do bunny ears for life, can he?”

“Nope.”

He stares between the two of you, blank-faced.

“A whole room full of betrayal today,” he says flatly, leaning back on his hands. “Can’t believe my girls.”

You huff a quiet laugh, nudging your knee against his. “Yeah, well…” you murmur, voice gentler now, “your girls still love you.”

His eyes flick to you, and that soft pull at the corners of his mouth returns—a smirk this time. You can see it. The way that one line breaks through his composure. The way you always get to him, even when he pretends otherwise.

He turns toward your niece, who’s still behind you, carefully adjusting your bow like it’s a crown. His hand finds her back again, fingers curling lightly into the fabric of her dress.

“Do you, baby?” he asks, low and teasing, but there’s something tender underneath it, something real.

She grins, flashing all her little teeth. “I do!”

[everrinsly]

a/n; I wish i could get a glimpse of precious suna's insta haha, thank you for reading!! this one also kind of long but it's my rambles I can't help it hahah

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

white heart with suna. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

a deep dive into suna's instagram highlights, featuring “🤍” (it's you).

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

Suna’s Instagram is just too good.

Like, objectively. It’s irritating.

Clean lines, muted colors, photo dumps that feel like poetry—just the right balance of white space and warmth, black and tan filters that make every frame look like it's stolen from an editorial spread. 

The man doesn’t post often, but when he does, it’s always a little too perfect.

Even his stupid Highlights have a theme.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

One for EJP Raijin—⚡—a perfect mix of sweat-slick intensity and that curated brand of cool.

It opens with dim-lit gym clips, the floor gleaming under floodlights, volleyballs spinning in slow motion. You can hear the faint squeak of sneakers, the low thud of spikes, voices echoing in rhythm. 

There’s a shot of Komori’s Super Receive—text overlaid in lowercase white: gravity’s got nothing on him—as he flings himself across the court, arms outstretched, hair a blur. 

Then comes Washio's Wall, an iconic mid-air shot where Washio blocks a spike so clean you’d think the footage was rendered. 

And of course, the post-win shots.

Suna never posts them first. He lets them sneak in at the end—blurry, slightly sun-soaked, a slow pan across the locker room with half-laughed victory shouts. Jerseys peeled halfway down chests, bandages loose on knuckles, every player glistening with sweat and smugness. 

There’s one frame that stays longer than it should: Suna leaning against the lockers, hair damp, chain sticking to his collarbone, lips barely parted in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Just enough to drive his followers crazy.

Just enough to drive you crazy.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

The next for Fam—🏡—soft, warm, and quiet in a way that feels like a relaxing exhale. 

He rarely shows it, but you know he adores them.

There’s a shot from his sister’s graduation, her in cap and gown, Suna ducking low to fit into frame, one arm slung around her shoulder and the other holding a mini bouquet of sunflowers.

Another of his mom’s cooking—steam rising off a clay pot, and in the background, Suna’s hand stealing a piece of pork belly, caught mid-motion. 

And then there’s the rare, grainy video of him playing volleyball in the yard with his dad, both barefoot in the grass, the Aichi landscape stretching out wide behind them—golden fields, an overcast sky, the kind of silence that settles in your bones.

But your favorite, easily, is the one from his birthday.

He’s sitting on the couch, hoodie loose, hair fluffy and unstyled, and his sister and mom are on either side of him, both leaning in to press the cutest, most affectionate kisses to his cheeks. Suna’s eyes are closed, lips tugged up in the softest, sleepiest grin, like he’s trying not to melt and failing miserably.

You’re pretty sure it’s his favorite, too.

He never takes it off. It just… lives there. Quiet and safe. Like family.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

The third is Crew—📸—the one with all the chaos.

It’s the messiest, most unfiltered highlight on his page, and somehow, it still fits his aesthetic. Warm-toned mayhem. Candid disasters. A side of faint laughter in the background. 

There’s a special brand of Miya Twin Madness—Atsumu in a yakiniku restaurant, mid-air tossing a grape that Osamu is 100% not ready to catch. The next clip? Osamu side-eying him from across the table, lips tight, the unmistakable expression of someone who’s already done with the night. 

Gin’s gym students make frequent appearances, cartwheeling across hardwood floors while Suna films from the bleachers, monotone voice narrating like he’s on a nature documentary.

Sometimes, there are glimpses of his senpais.

A low-lit clip of late-night ramen with Aran, both of them slouched in a booth, soup steaming, the table messy with napkins and empty bottles. 

A wholesome cut of Suna helping Akagi’s PE students learn how to spike, wearing a whistle he definitely stole from Gin. 

A stupid blurry selfie from an airport bathroom mirror captioned: will i get caught if i take 20 tubes of wasabi to tokyo lol @ renomimi.

(Ren later responds: Yes. Don’t call me to bail you out, @ sunarin.)

And then there’s the rarest gem of all: Suna in the countryside, visiting Kita.

The clip is quiet—green stretching as far as the eye can see, sky low and heavy with summer.

Suna’s wearing a bucket hat and glaring at his phone camera he handed to Kita to pan around. Sweat drips down his temple, sleeves rolled up, hands in the soil. 

The caption reads simply: captain said it was gonna take 2 hrs max. been here 4.5. send help.

But Kita makes sure the camera lingers just long enough for you to catch the tiniest smile tugging at the edge of Suna’s lips.

Somehow, even here—in all this chaos—he always makes room for softness. Always makes space for the people who feel like home.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

And then there's the fourth.

Just a single emoji: 🤍

No name.

But it's you.

It’s always been you.

It's the softest highlight on his entire page—intimate in ways no one else would even notice.

A quiet boomerang of you twirling in his jersey and a miniskirt on one of his game days, shy smile on your face. The clip is cut just before you reach up to fix your hair.

He takes it that morning, right before leaving for the match.

You come out of your room wearing his jersey—oversized, soft, hanging off one shoulder—and a little black skirt that makes your legs look longer than they are. You’re fidgeting, pulling at the hem, clearly unsure if it’s too much. But Suna looks up from tying his shoes, pauses, and just stares.

Then, flat as ever, he says, “Do a spin.”

You blink at him. “What?”

“Spin.”

He lifted his phone. “For science.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks warm, but do it anyway.

You think he deletes it.

He doesn't.

There’s a photo of you and his sister when she visited, matching sleepy grins on both your faces, your head tilted toward hers. 

It’s taken after your shopping spree—an unplanned, chaotic one that ends with your arms full of bags and your feet sore from walking half the city. His sister swipes his black card without shame, declaring, “He won’t care.”

And she’s right.

Suna doesn’t care.

How could he, when it’s for you both? When the two of you look so happy, cheeks flushed from the wind, shopping bags hanging off your arms, giggling like best friends who share secrets he’ll never understand?

He just leans against the doorframe when you both walk in, arms crossed, eyes soft, saying nothing.

Like a memory he doesn’t want to let go of.

Another clip: you laughing with your whole body when he takes you to Onigiri Miya. Your hand covers your mouth, eyes shining, and he films it without thinking, the sound tucked low in the background.

That laugh? Music to his ears. He plays it sometimes when he’s alone.

Next—your back to the camera, walking ahead of him, hair swaying with your steps. You wear that soft linen sundress he likes, the one that dips low in the back. Your fingers trail the metal railing of a pedestrian bridge, city lights just starting to blur in the distance.

He takes that photo one evening in early spring.

It’s after a late practice—he’s exhausted, sore, quiet in that way that means his mind is running faster than his body can keep up. You insist on getting fresh air, tugging him out for a walk without waiting for him to say yes. He doesn’t protest.

You wander aimlessly, sharing a 7-Eleven egg sandwich and a grape-flavored soda, your voice filling the silence while he just listens, too tired to talk but not too tired to watch. The sun dips behind the skyline, painting the world in soft golds and lavenders. And you, in that dress, in your sandals, hum under your breath as you step onto the bridge.

He lifts his phone without thinking.

Captures it in one shot.

Doesn’t edit a thing.

Posts it.

Now, it lives.

Frozen.

Like the moment never ends.

And then there’s that quiet frame no one notices unless they look closely.

Your hand resting next to his on the center console of his car. Pinkies barely touching. His rings catching the sun. Your fingers tapping twice against the leather like they’re remembering his warmth.

He doesn’t look at you when it happens—just keeps driving, sunglasses low on his nose, music humming soft through the speakers. But you feel it. That stillness. That shift. Like even though he’s not saying anything, something important just happens.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

This sits with you for days. Weeks? Months? Years? Maybe. Most likely.

You try to ignore it, pretend you don’t think about it when you see the white heart hovering at the top of his profile. You tell yourself it’s just a Highlight, just a symbol. But it sticks stubbornly. 

You know the “🤍” has been there for a long time.

Since college, actually. Since you’re barely friends and somehow still end up sharing a dorm floor, then group projects, then late-night snack runs, then an apartment. He adds it one night without a word. You think nothing of it then.

But now?

Now it’s different.

You don’t know why it suddenly matters.

Only that it does.

And so, one quiet night, curled into the corner of the couch with your knees drawn to your chest and the TV buzzing in the background, you finally ask.

“Why a white heart?”

Suna doesn’t even blink.

He stretches out beside you, phone in hand, wrist dangling off the edge of the cushion. “It’s quiet,” he says simply, eyes still on his screen. “Soft. Easy on the eyes.”

 And then—

“It also matches my grid.”

You bite back a laugh. “That’s it?”

His lip twitches, just barely. “Not entirely.”

You glance over at him, your breath catching.

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “It’s constant.” 

But then he adds, a beat softer, not looking at you, but meaning it, “Just like you.”

You freeze, warmth blooming slow and deep in your chest.

He doesn’t follow it up or elaborate—just unlocks his phone again with the most casual movement in the world. He scrolls lazily, and you swear he knows exactly what he’s doing, casually tapping his “🤍” Highlight and letting it play.

The clips loop.

Your laughter fills the room in quiet waves.

And Suna just leans back, head tilted toward yours, a ghost of a smile on his lips. 

Like he’s home.

Because you’ve always been his favorite highlight.

[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to all your favorite boys, thank you for reading! This one is a little long hehe but i hope you like or see the vision at least haha, I'm sorry been slow, busy these days (ಥ﹏ಥ)

strappy heels. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when he helps you take of your strappy heels after a girls' night out.

♡ For all your ("I will take care of you when you're tipsy") favorites.

more of your favorite boys!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

The door clicks open with a soft creak, and he doesn’t even need to look at the clock to know you’re later than usual. He hears the muffled shuffle of your keys hitting the tray, the distant, light, breathy giggle, and the way you whisper “oops” to no one in particular when your purse slides off your shoulder and hits the floor.

You’re tipsy. Definitely tipsy.

He exhales through his nose, dragging himself up from the couch, where he’s been watching a rerun of your favorite anime—the one he once flatly declared, “I hate that shit,” without even giving it a real shot. 

(And yet… here he is, halfway through the episode because it reminds him of you).

He’s not worried. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re out with your girls, but he does count the minutes until you’re home again—just a little. 

You hum, delighted when you spot him walking toward you, towering and rumpled in a black hoodie and grey sweats. “Hiii! I’m back.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

His tone is dry, but you don’t miss the subtle flicker of relief in his eyes. He looks you over, like he’s making sure all your limbs are intact, checking for twisted ankles and bruised egos.

“How’d it go?” he asks, already reaching to steady you by the waist when you wobble closer to him.

You’re a vision of chaos and glitter, all flushed cheeks and glossy lips, in those ridiculous five-inch strappy heels. The ribbons are starting to slip loose from one ankle, and your steps are full of drunk determination—unsteady but prideful, like you’ve conquered something just by making it to him.

Your arms reach out blindly because you knew he’d catch you before you ever had to think about falling.

(And he does. Of course he does).

You grin up at him, doe-eyes wide and shiny, hands gripping his forearms. “Baby! Baby! You won’t believe what I did!”

That gets a slight raise of his brow. He’s not quite alarmed—more so curious in that lazy, slow-blinking way of his.

“I danced!”

His mouth twitches. “You always dance when you’re drunk.”

“No no no! I danced danced!” you emphasize, grabbing onto his hoodie strings, like they're your anchors. “Like—slutty.”

He pauses. “Slutty,” he echoes flatly.

You nod, so proud. “I was in the center. In a circle. Lights flashing. It was very dramatic. I did this thing—” 

You break off to demonstrate some vaguely suggestive body roll that almost knocks you off balance. His hands immediately catch your hips, grip tightening instinctively.

“Okay, okay,” he mutters, holding you still. “You’re banned from moving.”

“No, wait—this one girl screamed, ‘Go off, queen!’” you say with a giggle. “I think I was possessed. My hands were, like, on my knees. I was dropping low, like, so low. I don’t even do squats. And, like, I could feel God watching.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then he exhales, long and slow, as if trying very hard not to react.

“Baby… you’re so fucking weird,” he says finally.

You beam. “But hot-weird, right?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at you, then moves his hand from your hip to your jaw, tipping your face up just slightly.

“You’re always hot,” he says simply.

It’s so straightforward that it short-circuits your brain. Your mouth opens, some kind of automatic protest on the tip of your tongue, but nothing comes out because he means it, because he’s looking at you like that again, taking his time, like he enjoys how flustered you get under his gaze.

Then, finally, he lets his hand fall from your face, dragging it down your arm in a grounding stroke.

“Aight, pretty girl,” he mutters, eyes flicking down to your feet. “That’s enough for one night. Get out of those heels before you sprain something.”

You blink at him, lips tugging into a playful pout. “They’re cute, though.”

He crouches slightly to eye them again, hands sliding to your waist. “Yeah. They are.”

Your brows lift. “Then why do I have to take them off?”

His eyes flick back up to yours, a hint of smugness creeping into his expression.

“‘Cause if you do,” he says, voice dipping lower, “I’ll give you something cuter in return.”

You squint, suspicious but intrigued. “What kind of something?”

He shrugs, like he didn’t just offer that in a voice that made your knees feel like warm jelly. “Guess you’ll find out.”

“You’re bribing me now?”

“I’m motivating you,” he corrects, already nudging you gently backward until your knees hit the couch, and you drop down with a soft thump.

He kneels in front of you, hoodie sleeves bunched up at his elbows, fingers already brushing against the intricate straps that crisscross up your shin. 

The moment feels thick, suspended—quiet and slow, like the night’s paused just to make room for this.

He doesn’t rush.

His touch is gentle, purposeful, as he slips a finger beneath the nearest loop of ribbon, grazing the warm skin underneath. The delicate strings wind high on your legs, wrapped just tight enough to indent slightly into your skin, and he follows the pattern with his eyes like he’s memorizing it.

(He kind of already has).

He could do this without thinking. He’s seen you wear these before, tie them with a bow behind your calves, legs bent, brows scrunched in concentration while sitting on the edge of the bed. He knows how they work, knows exactly how to undo them.

But tonight, he doesn’t.

Not right away.

His fingers skate deliberately over your shin, dragging along each knot with a kind of reverence, letting the loose ends of the ties slip through his hands. He could’ve unraveled them in seconds, but instead, he watches the way they unravel over your skin, like he’s unwrapping something he’s waited all night to touch.

Your legs look so fucking good.

Too good.

The lighting’s soft and golden, catching the sheen on your skin, the subtle dip of muscle beneath softness, the way your thighs shift slightly as you settle. He’s still kneeling, still eye-level with all that bare skin, and for a moment—just a moment—his thoughts tip filthy.

He imagines you in the club with your girls, hips moving to the bass, doing that stupid slutty dance you mentioned, legs flashing with every twist and turn. These legs. Your laugh echoing, hands in your hair, eyes bright. He pictures them wrapped around him instead, loose and trembling. He can practically feel it.

He blinks, jaw tight, breath caught somewhere deep in his chest.

Focus.

He tugs gently on the first ribbon, unwinding it with care, his knuckles brushing up and down your calf as he follows the path up your leg. One loop. Then the next. He’s quiet as he works, but his hands keep brushing higher, sliding over the smooth skin of your shin, your knee, the edge of your thigh.

“You’re stalling” you murmur, breath catching.

(He is).

“Mm,” he hums, barely glancing up. 

He keeps going, unwrapping you—one slow tie at a time.

When the last ribbon slips loose and the heel finally drops from your foot, he doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even pretend to. He just lets his palm rest over your ankle, thumb drawing soothing little circles over the bone.

And then, he reaches for the other foot.

This one takes longer. This one’s worse.

You shift a little under his touch, and his eyes flick up for just a second—just long enough to catch the way your lips part, the way your breath shallows, the way you're watching him watch you.

He lets out a low breath, something that's barely restrained.

The second heel comes off in the same slow ritual, the straps dragging over your skin, like whispers. And when it’s done, he smooths his hands up the length of your calves again, until they settle on your thighs—fingers spread, thumbs brushing little arcs into the skin there, grounding himself more than you.

He looks up.

His eyes are dark but burning, like his restraint is made of thread; it’s starting to fray.

You swallow, pulse fluttering where his thumbs press into your thighs.

Then, softly, breathlessly, and a little shy despite the heat curling in your stomach, you murmur, “You said you’d give me something cuter once the heels are off.”

He tilts his head, eyes flicking up with amusement. “Right. I did, pretty.”

His gaze doesn’t waver; it dips back down your legs. And his hands slide lower.

“You want it now?” he teases. 

Your breath stutters. “Y-Yeah.”

That smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth—lazy, crooked, all trouble.

“‘Kay.”

He leans in, and you feel it before you see it: the press of his mouth against your ankle, warm and soft, lips lingering, like he’s sealing a promise. Then another kiss, just above it. And another, higher still. He trails them up the inside of your calf, slow and steady, like he’s tasting you, mapping every inch.

You inhale shakily as his hands slide up to cradle the backs of your knees, guiding them apart just slightly, just enough to make room for him between.

Your pulse skips, and almost without thinking, your hands reach out, threading through the dark strands of his hair. It’s soft, warm from the room, and a little messy from how he’s been moving—impossibly touchable. Your fingers curl in deeper, tugging gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to make him look up at you through his lashes.

His eyes flash dark, something smug and heavy simmering beneath the surface.

“You trying to distract me?” he murmurs, voice low, but you can feel it in your stomach.

You blink down at him, flushed, lips parted. “Maybe.”

He smirks like you’ve just challenged him to something he knows he’s going to win.

“Try harder.”

“You're mean.”

“Mm. Worth it?” he murmurs into your skin, breath hot where he pauses at your shin.

You giggle, dizzy. “Uh huh.”

“Good. Means I’m doing it right.” 

He takes his time, pressing a kiss to the delicate skin beside your knee, then the other, alternating sides like he's trying to make you squirm. 

(He’s succeeding). 

You feel his fingers splay wider, curling around your thighs again, thumbs pressing in purposefully. He kisses just above your knee, mouth barely brushing the hem of your dress, and your hips twitch before you can stop them.

His smirk returns, heavier this time, eyes flicking up without lifting his head. “You always this squirmy or is it just me?”

You let out a weak laugh, fingers threading nervously through the hem of your dress. “It’s definitely you.”

“So what happens if I keep going?”

You don’t answer right away. You can’t, really. Your brain’s too fuzzy; your skin’s too hot. He watches you for a moment longer and press one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.

Then, he pulls back, towering over you, hoodie sleeves still shoved up, hair slightly tousled from where you tugged on it.

You pout instinctively. “That’s it?”

He tilts his head, eyes lidded. “For now.”

“For now,” you repeat, muttering. “Cruel.”

He leans down again, but this time his hands frame your face, palms warm against your cheeks as he kisses you—full and close. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw as his tongue coaxes at your lower lip. You sigh into him, mouth parting instinctively, and he takes the invitation without hesitation, slipping his tongue past your lips.

His lips move against yours like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

When he finally pulls away, his voice is lower, gentler.

“You’re home. You’re safe. That’s enough for me.”

And that’s enough for you too.

[everrinsly]

a/n; friends!! so sorry this took a while. work has been busy so I only have time on the weekends mostly. this is just chaotic energy and crackheads together hehe, very long too, but I hope you like!

a momager and her silly olympic team.

2x spicy buldak… and ref, do something! fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

team japan tries the spicy noodle challenge on their lunch break... only to realize they have a game against the team that gave them the buldak... sabotage—?!

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

It was lunch time for Team Japan, and the chaos should have ended with the final whistle.

Keyword: should have. 

Because if there was one thing Team Japan excelled at, besides volleyball, it was turning carbs and free time into absolute freedom-fueled delinquency—like ‘our mamas ain’t here, so we can do whatever we want because our manager’s an angel’ energy.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The match against Canada had just wrapped—gritty, sweaty, loud—but a win was a win. With no immediate press or post-game debrief, most of the boys lingered near the sidelines of the court, sprawled out across the floor, jerseys half on, hair messy, all basking in that post-victory energy and ready to ruin lives with their ‘flirt for fun’ faces for no reason whatsoever.

You and Iwaizumi remained near the bench area, cleaning up athletic tape, recovery wraps, and empty water bottles while muttering about how no one ever put their towels back in the ‘need to be washed’ duffle bag.

“Why are there three banana peels under this seat?” you grumbled, holding one up by the neck. 

“Bokuto,” Iwaizumi said flatly.

Of course.

You let out a long-suffering sigh and raised your voice just a little. “Bo…?”

There was a pause before Bokuto poked his head around the bench, already wearing his best ‘I didn’t mean to’ face.

“I told you to use the trash bag,” you said gently, walking over with the peels still dangling. “I even labeled it for you.”

“You… did?” Bokuto blinked.

You nodded, holding up the clear plastic bag with the words ‘Team Japan’s BANANA GRAVEYARD’ written in bold marker and covered in dramatic doodles of haunted fruit.

“Oh… I thought that was a joke!” Bokuto said, genuinely distraught. “Like, I thought it was haunted bananas… not actual trash!”

“It was haunted,” you said pointedly. “By your mess.”

Bokuto let out a tragic little whimper and slumped against the bench like someone had told him the Olympics were canceled.

“Hey, hey,” you cooed, reaching out and gently fluffing up the front of his hair where it had flopped sadly forward. “It’s okay. You’re not in trouble.”

“You’re not mad?” he asked, peeking up at you.

You grinned. “No. But I am mildly haunted.”

“Haunted by bananas?”

“By your inability to read labels.”

Behind you, Iwaizumi muttered, “And the fact that I stepped on one earlier.”

Bokuto gasped. “Wait—Iwa, are you okay—?!”

“No, thanks to you and your potassium trail of doom,” he grumbled.

You giggled and gave Bokuto’s hair another little spike. “There. Emo mode off. Crisis averted.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

And then it happened. 

It started with one sentence from Hinata.

“Let’s do the spicy noodle challenge!”

You and Iwaizumi paused mid-trash bag tie.

“No,” you said immediately.

“I second that,” Iwaizumi added without looking up. “You’ve got a second match in a few hours. Eat something that won’t destroy your stomach lining.”

But did Hinata listen?

Absolutely not.

He was already pulling something out of his gym bag with the sort of smug pride only a man planning his own funeral could wear.

Three big red packets of 2x Spicy Buldak Noodles.

“Where did you even get those?” you asked suspiciously, walking over as the rest of the boys gasped and leaned in.

Hinata beamed, waving the crinkled black and red packaging. “A South Korean player gave them to me! He said they’re only mildly spicy—mostly sweet!”

“Sweet?” Sakusa echoed, eyeing the warning labels printed in bold red across the back. “‘2x Spicy’ doesn’t sound sweet.”

“It’s marketing!” Hinata chirped. “You know, to scare people!”

Atsumu snatched a pack from Hinata’s hands. “I’m in. How bad could it be? I’ve had ramen with, like, loads of red pepper before.”

From beside you, Iwaizumi didn’t even look up from where he was crouched near the bench, dragging out an alarming collection of empty protein bar wrappers with a look of pure disappointment. 

“That was chili oil,” he said flatly, flicking a wrapper into a trash bag. “And Osamu made it with extra soy sauce and sugar for you because you’re a wuss.”

Atsumu’s scandalized gasp echoed through the court like he’d just been personally betrayed. “You take that back!”

Iwaizumi stood up, raised an unimpressed eyebrow, and dusted off his hands. “He told me himself. Also said you cried over the level one mapo tofu.”

“I didn’t cry, I sweated with emotion!” Atsumu shot back defensively.

“Oh, yeah?” Suna drawled, shifting just enough to dig into his pocket with one hand, the other lazily resting on Aran’s shoulders. “Because I got a picture.”

“No, you don’t,” Atsumu said instantly, eyes narrowing. “You wouldn’t—”

Suna had already pulled out his phone, casually flipping it around for everyone to see. “Behold. The moment our local golden boy met his match.”

Atsumu lunged. “DELETE IT—”

But it was too late.

The photo was zoomed in perfectly: Atsumu, hunched over the table, red-faced, eyes glassy, lips visibly swollen from spice overload. A single tear tracked dramatically down one cheek. 

“Oh my god,” Komori wheezed, doubling over. “You look like you were going through a breakup and getting pepper sprayed.”

Kageyama let out a little huff. “He deserved every bit of that.”

“I told you to stop slurping,” Aran said, voice muffled with laughter.

“That was an allergic reaction!” Atsumu whined, flailing as Suna tilted the screen toward Ushijima, who blinked and offered a quiet, “You appear to be in great distress.”

“It was emotional damage,” Sakusa muttered.

Atsumu looked deeply offended, like a man wrongly accused in court. “You guys are dramatic. I’ll prove it. I’ll eat the whole thing. No water.”

“Make it two packs then,” Bokuto grinned, ever the instigator. “For science!”

“You people have zero survival instinct,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

“C’mon, sweets,” Hinata strolled up to you with a bounce in his step and the kind of wide-eyed pout that could shatter nations—certainly your self-control. He gave a little tug on your sleeve, swaying side to side like a pleading puppy.

“You gonna deny your favorite boys one little taste adventure?” he asked, voice dripping with mock innocence as his bottom lip wobbled just a little too perfectly.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I know that tone. That’s the ‘I’m gonna start chaos and pretend I didn’t’ voice.”

“What voice?”

And unfortunately, the rest of the team had already latched on.

“Please?” Komori added with puppy eyes that should be banned by the Olympic Committee.

“Yeah, boss,” Aran chimed in with a grin. “What’s a little spice among national treasures?”

You looked at Iwaizumi, defeated.

He met your gaze, entirely unfazed. “They need to suffer.”

“Iwa!

“They’ll learn.”

Spoiler: they didn’t.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Within five minutes, the entire national team—grown men, national representatives, your supposed pride and joy—huddled in a ‘not-so-hidden’ corner of the athlete tunnel, squatting and whisper-yelling at each other in a circle like some shady back-alley spice cult. 

They had procured exactly three items:

A Tupperware container that was unmistakably yours—fished from your purse, thank you very much—now clutched in Kageyama’s guilty hands.

A stream of steaming hot water being poured very seriously from Ushijima’s stainless steel thermos.

And of course, Hinata’s super suspicious packs of 2x spicy Buldak noodles, which he had failed around happily earlier despite it being rather sad-looking because it had also been squashed under Bokuto’s warm-up gear.

You stood a few feet away with Iwaizumi, watching it all unfold with the dulled horror of someone who had simply seen too much idiocy. 

Bokuto had taken it upon himself to stir the noodles with a lone chopstick he found in his duffel bag, wrapped in a napkin of deeply questionable origin. No one knew where it came from. No one dared to ask. 

He twirled the noodles, grinning, face flushed from the steam. “They need to steep.”

Sakusa let out a slow, exhausted sigh, already pinching the bridge of his nose because this was surely shortening his life span by the second. “Maybe close the lid, so it’ll cook better. Like trapping the heat. Like literally every ramen instruction ever written.”

Bokuto blinked. “Oh. That’s smart.”

“It’s basic,” Sakusa hissed.

Kageyama, ever the eager helper, reached for the lid—your poor, warped Tupperware lid—and attempted to snap it shut with the grace of someone who had never handled Tupperware in his life.

It didn’t fit.

The container had puffed up from heat and noodle expansion, and Kageyama just sat there frowning at it, trying to push one corner down. But when he got one side to settle, the other popped up. He kept pressing it down over and over, like that would suddenly solve the problem through sheer brute force.

Eventually, he just gave up and gently placed it on top like a sad little hat.

“Perfect,” he said confidently.

“That’s not even secure,” Sakusa muttered.

“It’s a metaphorical lid,” Komori offered helpfully.

“For what? Failure?” Sakusa snapped.

But before the said metaphorical lid could settle, Bokuto had already popped it off again—completely disregarding whatever steam had managed to build—and eagerly jabbed at the noodles with his lone chopstick. “Hey, they’re… kinda soft now.”

“They’re crunchy,” Aran said flatly. “Still literally crunchy. That’s not cooked.”

“They have texture,” Bokuto argued.

“They have resistance,” Sakusa corrected.

“That’s called ‘al dente,’ right?” Atsumu added, peering in and instantly tearing up from the rising steam. “Ow, it bit me.”

You pressed your hand to your forehead. “It’s just steam, ‘Tsumu.”

“It’s violent steam, like steam with knives, ya feel?”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Regardless of common sense, they had declared the noodles done, which meant it was time for the sauce.

A moment of triumph hung in the air. Bokuto was bouncing. Hinata had already torn open the terrifyingly red sauce packet with his teeth.

And then—

A real question suddenly emerged. 

“Alright, smartasses,” Iwaizumi said dryly, watching them prepare to stir in the sauce. “You think that’s how you prepare Buldak noodles?”

The boys paused.

“...What do you mean?” Kageyama asked, blinking.

“You gonna strain it?” Iwaizumi prompted, raising a brow. “Before adding the sauce?”

“...Strain?”

“We need to strain?”

“What do you mean strain?”

“What’s strain?”

There was a beat of silence as all of Team Japan collectively realized they had, in fact, not thought that far ahead.

“That’s a really good point,” Aran muttered, squinting down at the sad, floating noodles sloshing weakly in the Tupperware. 

Then—

“I have knowledge,” Ushijima said gravely.

Everyone turned.

“Of course you do,” Sakusa muttered under his breath, folding his arms.

Ushijima stood up and took a step forward, hands behind his back like a professor about to give a lecture. “I have watched multiple mukbangs on South Korean noodle preparation. You must leave approximately three tablespoons of cooking water in the container and strain the rest. This particular flavor, 2x spicy Buldak, is intended to be eaten as a dry noodle.”

“Dry?” Bokuto asked, blinking. “Like… no soup?”

“It is a stir-style ramen,” Ushijima continued, unfazed. “The concentrated sauce is meant to cling to the noodles. If you eat it as a soup, the spice dilutes and the flavor profile is compromised.”

“Flavor profile,” Suna whispered, staring at Ushijima in awe.

“That was beautiful,” Komori murmured, clutching his chest.

“What the hell do you mean you’ve watched mukbangs?” Atsumu demanded.

“I find them calming,” Ushijima replied without hesitation.

“Ushi-ushi,” Hinata said reverently, mouth slightly open. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“Should’ve led with that,” Aran added, elbowing him.

There was a collective moment of quiet—of respect, of finally realizing Ushijima Wakatoshi was the secret mukbang master of Team Japan.

But then—

“…Wait,” Kageyama said, brow furrowed. “What do we strain it with?”

The second silence that followed was painful.

Until Suna, unbothered as ever, casually leaned over to his duffel bag. “Got it.”

He pulled out a tennis racket.

There was a pause.

A long one.

“…What the actual fuck—?” Atsumu finally whispered.

“Why do you have that?” Aran asked, scandalized.

Suna just shrugged. “Got bored during training week. Komori and I were playing tennis with rolled-up socks.”

“I won,” Komori added proudly.

“It’s… technically a strainer,” Hinata offered. “Holes, surface area, net—”

“No,” Sakusa said sharply. “That’s not how hygiene works.”

Suna walked past him, completely undeterred. “Ushijima, tilt it.”

Ushijima, stoic as ever, picked up the Tupperware and dutifully angled it as Suna positioned the racket over a nearby trash bin.

And to their utter horror, the racket… worked.

Water drained through the strings.

Steam hissed into the air.

One noodle slipped through and plopped into the bin.

“NO!” Bokuto screamed, diving with the kind of desperate reach usually reserved for a match-point receive. “WE COULD’VE SAVED HIM!”

Iwaizumi palmed his face so hard it looked like he was trying to erase it. “This is the dumbest team in Olympic history.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

You were about to respond, probably something sweet and patient and undeservedly kind, when a soft murmur rippled through the stadium speakers.

Unbeknownst to Team Japan, the jumbotrons had caught wind of their ‘we definitely know how to cook noodles, like definitely, for sure’ underground operation.

One of the roaming camera crew had been filming filler footage for the Olympic recap stream. That footage now filled the big screen in the arena, streamed live to all in-stadium monitors, and no doubt, broadcasted internationally.

The commentators, already halfway through wrapping up their post-match discussion, paused.

“Uh…” one of them said, blinking. “Can we get a shot of what’s happening back there with Team Japan?”

The camera zoomed in. 

On Suna. 

Holding a tennis racket like it was Michelin-starred equipment.

“…Is that… is that a tennis racket?” the other commentator asked, voice tilting somewhere between amusement and deep concern. “Why does Suna Rintarou have a tennis racket?”

The first one squinted. “I don’t know, but if he ever plays tennis professionally, I’m betting he’d sweep the league too. Look at that wrist control.”

The feed cut to Bokuto, who was now dramatically mourning the lost noodle with his forehead against the trash bin.

Then it panned to Hinata—wide grin, eyes sparkling—tearing open the fiery red sauce packet and dumping the contents into the still-too-crunchy noodles like he was summoning a demon.

“Oh my god,” one commentator said slowly, as the horrifying realization clicked into place. “Are they doing the 2x Spicy Buldak Noodle Challenge?”

“They have another match in two hours!” the other commentator shrieked. “Who approved this?!”

“Wait a damn—so they use a tennis racket to strain noodles?”

“Holy shit—!”

“Smartest team in Olympic history, don’t you think?”

“I agree. On court and off court.”

Back in the athlete’s tunnel, you and Iwaizumi shared a long, soul-deep sigh as the faint echo of the jumbotron’s live feed filtered into the background.

“We’re on camera,” Iwaizumi muttered, expression murderous.

You patted his arm gently. “Smile. We’re about to go viral.”

From somewhere behind you, Atsumu yelled, “THE SAUCE IS IN! WE’RE EATIN’, BABY!”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Like wolves released into the wild, the boys pounced.

Bokuto was first, poking aggressively at the noodles with the single chopstick he’d been holding this whole time. Aran used two protein bar wrappers he folded into shape, muttering something about “innovation under pressure.” Hinata was just using his fingers, screaming about how it was too hot but refusing to stop. Sakusa stared at them all with the quiet resignation of someone who knew this would end in disaster but had no energy left to fight it.

And then, because chaos had no boundaries, Kageyama dove for your purse again.

“Tobio!” you hissed. “Stop going through my stuff!”

He looked up with absolutely zero guilt. “I’m looking for chopsticks.”

He pulled out the emergency wooden chopstick pack you always kept for lunch breaks. “These’ll do.”

“Tobio—!” you started, hands on your hips, already preparing your Mom Voice™.

But then—then he hit you with it.

Those eyes.

Big, round, slightly panicked but still somehow devastatingly sincere. The classic Kageyama ‘I’m a good boy’ look that you were absolutely not immune to.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he said quickly. “Reusable ones. Pretty. Pink. With… with flowers… or cute little animals on them. Sparkly, if you want.”

You blinked.

And blinked again.

Your heart cracked just a little. “Okay, okay,” you relented with a sigh, trying not to melt. “But only because you offered sparkles.”

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

The second the boys took their first bites, it was as if the air around them combusted.

Disaster.

“Oh—FUCK—!”

Hinata made a noise like a squeaky bike brake, face flushing crimson in an instant. “HOT—IT’S HOT—I CAN’T SEE!”

Bokuto let out a wheeze so dramatic you thought he was choking. “WHY IS IT—WHY—MY EARS ARE RINGING!”

Aran’s whole soul appeared to evacuate through his tear ducts. “I can feel it in my knees, bro—why my knees!”

Even Sakusa, who’d tried to maintain a shred of dignity, looked personally betrayed by life. “I-I shouldn’t have done this.”

Next to him, Ushijima calmly blinked, face flushed but posture unwavering as he chewed… and chewed… and then slowly reached for his water bottle.

Only to remember: the boys had used all of it to cook the noodles.

He stared down at the empty thermos in silence.

Atsumu hiccuped violently, then immediately hiccup-sobbed again. “WHY IS IT SWEET FIRST AND THEN HELL—!”

Komori was fanning himself with a paper napkin. “My tongue is numb. Am I okay? Look. Do I still have a tongue?”

“SWEETHEART, CAN YA CHECK—”

“NO, SHE NEEDS TO CHECK ME FIRST—”

“ME FIRST, BRO!

Meanwhile, Iwaizumi was already sitting down, arms crossed, watching the entire scene with the stone-faced detachment of a man who had absolutely no sympathy left in his body.

“I hope every single one of you remembers this moment the next time I say ‘don’t do it,’” he said evenly.

“WAIT—IWA!”

“No.”

“IWA, I-I DIDN’T EVEN SAY—!”

“The answer’s no.”

“SHIT—”

You were scrambling—scrambling—around them with your emergency napkin stash, a bottle of water, a sports towel, your poor little hands wiping sweat and tears and (unfortunately) snot from your giant, overgrown crybaby athletes.

“Atsumu, blow. Not sneeze—blow. That’s it, there you go.”

“Rin, stop filming and drink something—no, not more sauce!”

“Sho, sit down, I’ll put the towel on your neck—” 

“Bo—don’t roll on the ground, you’ll get floor-burns.”

“‘Toya, don’t use your fingers to wipe your eyes!”

“Am I still your superstar? Even all snotty and crying…?” Aran asked, voice hoarse and lips trembling as he wiped at his tear-streaked, spice-traumatized face with the back of his hand.

You winced, hesitating just a second too long. “Uhhh…”

Aran’s bottom lip wobbled. “...No?”

And then—blubbering. Absolute tears. His eyes went wide and glossy, and he let out a pitiful noise that might’ve been a sob or a dying dolphin.

“Nononono, yes!” you panicked, grabbing his face with your hands. “Yes, Aran, my superstar! My bright shining, flame-mouthed, sniffling superstar!”

“Really?” he sniffled, hiccuping into your sleeve.

“Really!” you promised, patting his cheeks and frantically trying to dab his forehead with a napkin. “You’re the MVP of emotional resilience, okay?”

From behind you, Atsumu sniffled too. “I wanna be a superstar…”

“No,” Sakusa rasped.

“Yes,” you said instantly, handing him a tissue. “You’re all superstars.”

“Iwaizumi isn’t crying,” Suna pointed out flatly.

“Iwaizumi also didn’t eat the noodles,” you muttered, still wiping spice-tears off Aran’s chin.

“Iwaizumi is the real MVP,” Iwaizumi added helpfully, arms crossed and smug as hell, until his gaze landed on you.

You were crouched between Hinata and Aran, patting one on the back and dabbing the other’s tears with your sleeve, eyes full of concern and hands full of tissues.

His smirk softened slightly.

Then he sighed. Long-suffering. Tired. Kind of affectionate. “You’re enabling them.”

“They’re suffering, Iwa.”

“They deserve it.”

And of course, right when you walked over to pat Kageyama’s flushed cheeks, cooing at him softly while he stared at you with slightly teary eyes and steam practically coming out of his ears—

The jumbotron caught the whole thing.

Again.

The camera slowly zoomed in on you in full caretaker mode, dabbing at red faces and whispering gentle reassurances to each tear-streaked athlete like the world's most patient angel in a sea of spicy regret.

CAPTION—

TEAM JAPAN: UNITED IN SPICE-FUELED SUFFERING. 

Pretty Manager Controlling the Heat Wave. 

Iwaizumi Disappointed.

જ⁀🏐⁀🏐🇯🇵

Suna was the first to speak once the chaos died down into sniffly, spice-sweaty whimpers.

“…Hey, Iwa,” he rasped, eyes still red and unfocused, “who are we playing next?”

Iwaizumi, whose only regret in life was saying yes to coaching this exact group of idiots, pulled out the folded match schedule from his pocket and checked it with a sigh.

“South Korea.”

There was a beat.

A long, ominous pause.

Ushijima slowly turned to Hinata, who was curled up on the floor with his head on your lap, trying to breathe through the burn. “Shoyou,” he said calmly, “who gave you the noodles?”

Hinata blinked. “Huh?”

“The noodles,” Iwaizumi clarified, eyes narrowing. “The ones that tried to kill all of you.”

“Oh!” Hinata perked up, then winced. “Right! It was one of the South Korean players. Remember? I told you guys he said it wasn’t that spicy… more sweet...”

There was absolute silence.

Suna sat up straighter—eyes dark, expression calculating. You could practically see the gears in his spice-damaged brain grinding.

“…Wait a damn minute,” he muttered. “They knew. They KNEW.”

“What?” Aran blinked, still crying a little.

“Do you not get it?” Suna hissed, jabbing a finger at the now-empty Tupperware like it was a crime scene. “This was sabotage. Psychological warfare. They wanted us to burn from the inside out before we even hit the court.”

Atsumu stared, slowly putting the pieces together. “Ya think… they tried to weaken us?”

“Poison by spice,” Sakusa mumbled hoarsely. “A very underhanded tactic.”

Hinata’s eyes widened in horror. “Did I get… weaponized?”

“Yes, Sho,” you murmured, gently stroking his hair as he clutched his stomach. “You got used.”

Bokuto gasped, smacking the floor. “This was an international incident!”

Komori looked absolutely scandalized. “Should we call someone? Like the Olympic committee?”

“You can’t prove anything,” Iwaizumi deadpanned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Because you idiots cooked it yourselves.”

Ushijima nodded slowly. “And now I don’t have hot water for my green tea.”

“Do ya think we can tell the ref?” Atsumu croaked, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his jersey. “Like—maybe he’ll go easy on us.”

“He won’t,” Sakusa muttered. “Because that’s not how volleyball works.”

But it was already too late.

Bokuto, eyes wide with a newfound sense of justice and absolutely no impulse control, had taken off down the tunnel at full speed, lungs on fire and pride half-functioning.

“REF!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the walls. “REF, DO SOMETHING! IT WAS A SETUP!”

“No—wait—Bokuto, get back here—” Komori tried, chasing after him.

Iwaizumi didn’t even bother reacting anymore. “Let him go. Maybe they’ll lock him in the penalty box.”

“See?” Atsumu leaned into you, pouting. “We’re unraveling. Spiraling. Don’t you wanna help your favorite setter feel better with, like, a forehead kiss or somethin’?”

Before you could answer, a new presence slid in on your other side.

“Maybe also something sweet,” Suna murmured, voice as dry as ever, “for your favorite middle blocker?”

You gave them both a flat look—one pouting and glistening with sweat, the other looking smug despite the fact his eyes were still faintly watering.

Then you grinned cheekily, sunshine laced in betrayal. 

“No.”

Atsumu blinked, tongue poking out, ready to try again. “...Maybe some… spicy love, ya know. For all that spicy suffering?”

You just shoved a napkin at his face and sighed.

And in that moment—faces red, sinuses cleared, and pride thoroughly shattered—Team Japan rose (or more accurately, staggered) as one.

United in suffering.

Bound by noodles.

Ready for vengeance.

Sort of.

[everrinsly]

haikyuu!! | sugar daddy suna rintarou.

includes richy rich pro-athlete suna who wants to give you the world.

banking war crimes with suna. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤💰suna transfers you how much—!?

sundresses and skirts with suna. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤💰suna takes you shopping and wants to buy the whole store.

450 pieces of candy and a pack of chuppets in aisle 8 with suna. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤💰a grocery run leads to suna buying all your favorites.

free necklace. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤💰suna buys you the necklace you stare too long at... no reason... just because (he adores you).

[everrinsly]

suna being the best sugar daddy.

free necklace. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

suna buys you the necklace you stare too long at... no reason... just because.

more suna here! and more sugar from suna here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🖤💰

It’s just a necklace.

At least, that’s what you told yourself yesterday when your eyes lingered a little too long on a shop window while you and Suna were walking to lunch. It had been nestled between flashy earrings and gaudy bracelets—just a simple, delicate chain with a single charm. 

A tiny white opal set in silver.

Pretty. Small. Dainty. 

Very expensive.

You didn’t say anything, of course. You just slowed your steps for a second too long—maybe sighed, maybe tilted your head, maybe twitched your lips.

But you forgot one critical thing.

Suna sees everything.

He shows up to the little bookstore you work at the next day, completely unannounced, fifteen minutes before your lunch break even starts.

You blink up at him from behind the counter, a stack of paperbacks in your hands. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

“I left early,” he says, shrugging like he didn’t just drive across town during peak traffic hours. ��Didn’t feel like eating alone.”

You narrow your eyes. “You hate the food around here.”

“I brought us takeout from that soba place you like.” He lifts a neatly packed brown bag, and it smells way too good for you to keep scowling.

You stare.

Suna stares back.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m generous.”

Lunch is spent like most meals with him—shoulder to shoulder at the tiny table in the back corner of the bookstore’s break area, half-surrounded by old romance novels and battered mystery hardcovers. His legs are stretched out comfortably, yours tucked neatly beside his. Every time his thigh brushes yours, you forget how to chew for half a second.

You try not to overthink it.

Try not to melt when he passes you your chopsticks without asking or opens your drink before you even reach for it. 

Or when he tilts his head to watch you eat like you’re the view.

It’s fine. It’s totally normal. 

And then, as you’re tossing away the containers and wiping your hands, his voice cuts in—low, casual, but laced with something softer.

“Angel,” he says, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips.

You blink. “Hm?”

“Got you something. Almost forgot.”

“What?”

He’s already reaching into the pocket of his EJP jacket, pulling out a small white box. 

No brand name. Plain. Unassuming. Expensive.

“Rin…”

He holds it out. “It’s nothing. Just open it.”

Your heart stutters.

The box is warm from being in his pocket.

You open it.

Inside is the necklace.

The one from the window. 

Opal charm, silver chain, exactly as you remember it.

Your breath catches. “How did you—?”

“You stared at it for like five minutes yesterday,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Didn’t like how sad your face looked when you walked away.”

You want to tell him off. You try to tell him off. You really do.

But your throat’s tight, and the box is shaking just slightly in your hands.

Suna steps closer.

“Turn around,” he says, already taking the necklace out.

You hesitate. “Rinnie, you don’t have to—”

“Yeah, but I want to.” His voice is quieter now. “C’mere. Lemme do it.”

You bite your lip, cheeks hot, and turn.

He’s careful.

Slow and steady. 

The chain brushes your collarbone as he drapes it around you. His fingers are warm against the back of your neck as he fastens it, knuckles grazing your skin more than strictly necessary. He doesn’t pull away when he’s done. He just lingers, hands resting lightly on your shoulders.

Then—

A soft press of lips to the back of your neck, right above where the clasp sits.

It’s barely anything. A whisper of contact. A touch you can’t call platonic, not really. 

But Suna acts like it’s nothing, like of course he does this, like you’re imagining how your stomach flips at the feel of it.

You slowly turn back around—

But he’s already looking at you.

His eyes flicker to your necklace, then back up to your face, and there’s a small smile curling on his lips. Not smug. Not teasing. Just… soft. 

Like you’re his favorite sight.

You open your mouth to say something. Anything. 

But his hand is already reaching for yours—fingers warm and  wrapping around your wrist before sliding down to gently hold your hand.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, tugging you a step closer. “I wanna take you somewhere.”

“I—Rin—!”

He leans in just slightly, nose nearly brushing yours. “You’ve still got twenty minutes of your break, yeah?”

You hesitate. You should probably say no—probably ask where, probably remember the stack of books you promised to restock for your supervisor. 

But he answers for you anyway.

“Yeah,” he says, already walking backward and bringing you with him, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Yeah, you do.”

Just like always, your feet follow him before your brain catches up.

And as you trail beside him toward his car—heart fluttering, pulse too loud—you lift your free hand, almost without thinking, to touch the opal at your neck.

[everrinsly]

multi | for all your favorites.

includes your lovely boys from haikyuu, blue lock, and jujutsu kaisen + anyone you want!

scrunchies, claw clips, and minor confessions. fluff.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌when he accidentally has your scrunchie and claw clip during a press interview (dedicated to your favorite emotionally-constipated pro athletes).

hair twirls because you sound like home. fluff.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌he's never been good with words... or showing any bit of emotion... but he cares more than you know (dedicated to your favorite emotionally-constipated pro athletes).

orange peels. fluff. (♡ special to me)

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌where he peels you an orange and feeds you a slice (dedicated to your favorite emotionally-constipated pro athletes).

by your belt loops. fluff. (♡ special to me)

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌where he redirects you by pulling on your belt loops... multiple times (dedicated to all your super touchy and handsy favorites).

the princess, the prince, and their queen. fluff.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌when babysitting your niece leads to a riveting conversation about princes... who adore their queens (dedicated to all your "I tolerate kids... actually, never mind, I love them" boys).

strappy heels. fluff. very suggestive.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌when he helps you take of your strappy heels after a girls' night out (dedicated to all your "I will take care of you when you're tipsy" favorites).

bow ties with bunny ears and octopus arms. fluff.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌when your niece wants him to tie her hair like yours before her back-to-school shopping trip... but he can't seem to get it right (dedicated to all your favorites, who have trouble with girl hair).

his measurement. (soft) smut. nsfw. mature. very suggestive.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌when he measures how deep he'd be (dedicated to all your "I'm not doing anything sus... just measuring" favorites).

pretty nails, pretty back. fluff. very suggestive.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌when he pays for your nails just so you'll scratch his back (dedicated to all your "Gimme back scratchies" favorites).

take me back. smut (oral). nsfw. mature. very suggestive.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌“listen baby, i know i was a bad girl... but c'mon, you'd have to be crazy... not to take me back” (dedicated to all your favorites, who'll always take you back).

[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to the lovely reader who had this idea of rin with an oral fixation! (you know who you are hehe) thank you for reading!

life with rin vibes.

mouth full of you with rin. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

rin reaches for you when life gets too heavy... your fingers between his teeth, your skin beneath his lips, your presence grounding him more than any routine ever could.

more life with rin here!

more reads!

ᯓ⚽ᯓ⚽💙

Rin’s always had this thing—an unshakable, gnawing habit.

You first noticed it back in high school. 

He would sit near the windows, elbow propped on the desk, cheek resting on his knuckles in that detached, aloof way of his. 

But you always caught the signs.

He’d chew absently at the inside of his cheek or sink his teeth into the swell of his lower lip until it turned red and swollen. And when the tension got worse, when his thoughts started spiraling, he’d move on to his fingers, biting down on the tips, like he was trying to physically scrape out the nerves.

It was controlled, methodical even, but never relaxed. 

He never fidgeted. He never sighed or twitched or bounced his leg like other guys did. Rin’s stress was quiet, slow-burning. And the only time you ever saw it leak through… was his mouth.

His lips. His fingers. His teeth. Always, always his mouth on something.

You didn’t realize it at the time, but that was the beginning. The first thread in a long, winding habit—one that would later wrap itself entirely around you.

ᯓ⚽ᯓ⚽💙

It’s the night before another match.

A big one. One of those international games that’s already selling out headlines with sports analysts dissecting every past move Rin has ever made. 

Cameras will be on him tomorrow, relentless and waiting. 

And while the world talks, Rin is here, with you, tucked away in the quiet warmth of the apartment like nothing else matters.

You’re nestled between his legs on the couch, your back flush to his chest. He’s all over you—chin hooked over your shoulder, arms loop low around your waist, and the spread of his thighs beneath you makes you feel surrounded, claimed, like he was built just to hold you.

There’s nowhere to go… not that you’d ever want to.

One of his hands slips beneath yours, fingers seeking and sliding between your own until they’re laced together, palm to palm. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand once, then again, like he’s testing the texture of your skin.

Then, with that same casual possessiveness, Rin brings your joined hands up to his mouth.

He presses a kiss to your knuckles first. It’s barely a touch, more breath than lips, but it still sends a warm, fluttering ache down your spine.

And then he parts his lips.

You feel the soft press of his teeth against the base of your fingers, a gentle nip. He’s biting—not harshly but enough that you feel it, enough that your breath hitches. He bites at the pad of your ring finger, then lingers, letting it rest against his tongue. His eyes flutter shut as if he’s savoring the taste, and a quiet sound escapes him—a half exhale and a half hum.

“You’re better than my fingers,” he murmurs, voice lazy, like it’s just an observation. “Softer. Warmer. And you don’t taste like antiseptic.”

You blink. “…Antiseptic?”

“Mhm.” He kisses your fingertip before biting it again, softer this time, almost thoughtful. “Smells like hospital floors. Makes your tongue numb.”

You turn to stare at him with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “Have you actually been biting your hands during training?”

“Sometimes.”

“Rin—”

“Just…” He shrugs, eyes dropping back to your hand in his. He traces the curve of your knuckles with his thumb, slow and deliberate. “Need something in my mouth.”

The way he says it, like it’s a fact of life, makes your breath catch a little.

Without missing a beat, he glances up at you with a heated look—lashes low, voice rough, laced with the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Would you rather I bite my own fingers again, pretty?”

He asks it like it’s a genuine offer, but you know him. You know the weight of that question. You remember the old version of him—frustrated and silent, the kind of pressure that built up behind his eyes and slipped out through split lips and torn cuticles. You remember sitting next to him after matches in high school, watching him quietly press ice against the raw skin of his knuckles, never saying a word about it.

You hesitate only for a second.

“No,” you say softly. “I like this better.”

His lashes lift slowly, sea-glass eyes catching yours in that razor-sharp way that makes your breath still. He studies you for a second too long, like he’s reading something unspoken. His eyes flicker with the briefest shift of something behind them. 

Relief, maybe. Gratitude. Need.

He leans in again, tilting his head to rest his mouth just beneath your jaw.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin between kisses. “Me too.”

And with that, he brings your fingers back to his lips—kissing them this time, slow and reverent, like he knows you’re his anchor and he’s not letting go.

An hour passes.

And eventually, his mouth stills. The biting stops. His jaw unclenches. The tension that had been running like wire beneath his skin, the restless pre-match energy, the nerves he never admits aloud—finally dissolves.

You can feel it in the way he exhales against your wrist. Quieter. Languid. Soft.

And then he shifts.

You barely register the motion before he’s turning your face toward his, large hand sliding up to cradle your jaw with deliberate care. His lips brush over yours in a kiss that’s gentle at first—so warm and slow it makes your chest ache.

His teeth catch your bottom lip.

A light tug. Just enough to make you gasp. Just enough for him to slide his mouth back in and press another kiss there—deeper, firmer, teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, like he’s tasting you all over again.

“You calm me down,” he mutters against your lips.

Another kiss.

“But I still wanna ruin you a little."

[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to all your girl dad boys, thank you for reading!

the princess, the prince, and their queen. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

when babysitting your niece leads to a riveting conversation about princes... who adore their queens.

♡ For all your ("I tolerate kids... actually, never mind, I love them") favorites.

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

The sink gurgles with the last suds of your cleanup, and the smell of vanilla still lingers from the cookie-baking chaos that just took over the kitchen—frosting everywhere, a trail of rainbow sprinkles from the counter to the fridge, and one very proud four-year-old who swore the purple pastel cookie was her “masterpiece.”

You peek around the corner into the living room to check on your niece, fully expecting to see her climbing all over the couch cushions or passed out in a sugar crash. 

Instead—

You stop dead in your tracks.

She’s nestled on his lap, her puffy tulle skirt sprawled out over his sweatpants, glitter clinging to the fabric like stardust. Her little arms are looped around his neck, cheek squished affectionately against his collarbone, and he’s got one steady arm curved around her back, fingers splayed protectively. 

She wriggles every few seconds—too many cookies, too much energy, too many thoughts tumbling out of her all at once. Her legs kick aimlessly against the side of the couch, occasionally knock into him with a soft thud, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift away. If anything, he leans in a little more, anchoring her with that quiet, steady presence of his.

“You’ve got sticky fingers,” he mutters under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

She only giggles, loud and delighted, and snuggles further into him. He doesn’t say much—he never really does—but his attention doesn’t waver for a second. He listens as she launches into an enthusiastic monologue about unicorn cakes and why dolls need their own WiFi.

Her hands flap dramatically mid-story, one bow drooping halfway off her head with the momentum. You step forward instinctively, but he’s already moving, effortlessly sliding her higher in his arms and reaching up to fix it. He smooths it with precise fingers, then pats it once for good measure. 

His hand doesn’t move after. Instead, it lingers softly as he brushes his knuckles along the side of her head. His fingers find the ends of one of her curls, one of those baby-soft spirals framing her cheek, and he absently twirls it around while she keeps talking, completely unfazed.

Your heart clenches, soft and sweet and too full all at once.

She’s mid-sentence about how 'mama promised me a pony named Sparkles’ when she suddenly stops. Her little hands grip the collar of his shirt, eyes wide with a new and very important idea.

“Are you a prince?” she asks, tilting her head. Her voice is as serious as a four-year-old can manage. “You look like a prince.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t pull away from the curl still gently coiled around his finger.

“Nah, I don’t have a castle.”

“But you do have the hair,” she says, squinting at him, like she’s piecing together some very complicated fantasy lore. “And your face is always serious. Princes always look serious before they fall in love.”

You snort, covering your mouth with your hand. 

“You’ve been watching too many cartoons,” he says, deadpan.

She gasps. “So you are a prince!”

He stares at her for a long second. “Fine. I’ll be a prince.”

“Yay!” she squeals, bouncing a little in his arms.

“But only if you’re my princess,” he adds smoothly.

She gives him the brightest smile. “I am! I already am!”

“And my princess,” he murmurs, peering down at her frosting-smudged cheek, “should wipe her face before her royal duties, yeah?”

His thumb gently wipes the smear of frosting from her cheek, the pad of it slow and careful against her skin. She leans into his touch without a second thought, still grinning up at him like he also promised her a pony named Sparkles.

And he’s not even bothered, just glances at the smudge on his thumb and casually wipes the residue on the hem of his shirt because that’s just part of holding a sugar-sticky four-year-old in a poofy dress.

“What kind of prince are you?” she asks next. “Do you fight dragons or have a white horse or do magic or—”

“I sulk in castles and never smile. Very popular in certain kingdoms.”

Your niece giggles again, and he lets out the smallest huff of air, almost a laugh. 

“You’d be the sleepy kind of prince,” she declares, clearly deciding for him. “Like the ones who need kisses to wake up… like the prince version of Sleeping Beauty.”

He raises a brow with the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth. “Huh. Might be true.”

Then, casually, like he’s testing her, he asks, “You gonna give me a kiss to wake me up, then?”

She gasps like he just handed her the most important royal mission in the world.

Without hesitation, she plants her hands on his cheeks—smearing the faintest layer of toddler-stickiness in the process, all juice and mystery goo and who-knows-what—and leans in with all her might. She presses the sweetest, sloppiest kiss to his cheek, the sound dramatic and wet and adorably loud. 

She leans her forehead against his, their noses bumping gently. It’s a little clumsy but so incredibly tender you swear your heart skips a beat.

“There. Now you’re awake.”

He blinks once, dramatically slow, then suddenly goes limp in her arms, tilting his head back with an exaggerated sigh like he’s just been revived by royal magic.

Your niece cheers. “You did wake up!”

His hand comes up to steady the back of her head. “Guess it worked then.”

You’re not breathing again.

Because this is unreal—your niece cradled so sweetly in his arms, her face pressed close to his, both of them glowing in the soft afternoon light. 

With his head still tilted, forehead resting against your niece’s, his eyes find yours—like he knew you were there the whole time, like he’s been waiting for you to look.

There’s a flicker in his eyes. Something warm, sharp, intentional.

“Think I’ll need another kiss tomorrow,” he says, voice even but pointed. “Might have to ask someone else, though.”

Your heart slams into your ribs.

Your niece gasps again, scandalized. “Auntie has to do it!”

He hums, eyes never leaving yours. “That so?”

Your niece nods, emphatic. “She’s your true love.”

You step out from hiding, open your mouth to say something—anything—to break the tension threatening to melt you into the floor, but she suddenly goes quiet. Her brows furrow, tiny face scrunching in deep thought. You watch the gears turn behind her eyes as she processes something big.

And then, like it’s just occurred to her, she gasps again, softer this time. "Then Auntie’s the queen.”

Your breath catches. He shifts slightly, adjusting her in his arms, and you swear he goes just a little still too.

She looks up at him, wide-eyed with a new understanding. “If Auntie’s the queen… then that makes you the king, right?”

It’s such a simple question. So innocent.

But there’s something heavy in the silence that follows, something weighty that hovers in the air between the three of you.

His gaze lingers on you for a moment. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, choosing his words with exact precision.

Then, with that flat, matter-of-fact tone only he can make sound reverent, he replies. 

“…No, baby. I still wanna be your prince.”

Your niece blinks. “Why?”

He rests his chin lightly against the top of her head, looking straight at you as he says, “Because that way… I can worship my queen.”

You’re still not sure if any of this is real—or if you just fell into some fever dream of storybooks with princesses and princes who know exactly how to undo you without even trying.

But the way his hand curls around your niece like she’s precious, the way he speaks with that soft steadiness that never wavers?

That part’s real.

That part’s everything.

[everrinsly]

Hello, everyone!

Not really important, but I wanted to let you know that there will be slower updates for the next few weeks! (Sorry for the delays in replies). Nothing bad, I just got a second job (maybe bad depending on how you look at it haha (╥_╥) - but I think it's unfortunately needed in this economy).

My next few pieces will be on BLLK Rin, HQ Olympic Team Shenanigans (I promise I did not forget about these goons heheh), and some of multi-fandom (maybe Megumi-focused - my JJK phase came back with full force)!

As always, thank you for the reads, kind messages and comments! I mainly started this blog just for myself to track my progress, but this is more fun than I expected! I'm slowly starting to fall in love with writing again; and learning how to story tell/write creatively.

Have a great day/night! (❁´‿`❁)*✲ﾟ*

[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to all your silly boys, thank you for reading!

by your belt loops. fluff. suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

where he redirects you by pulling on your belt loops... multiple times.

♡ For all your (super touchy and handsy) favorites.

more of your favorite boys here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆🌌

Grocery shopping with him always felt different than doing it alone. 

With him—it wasn’t like you forgot how to function, at least not in that loud ‘oh no, I knocked over a pyramid of cans’ kind of way, but more in that distracted, floaty ‘ooh look, they have fresh milk bread… oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t see your cart’ kind of way where you stopped watching where you were going or what you were supposed to be doing.

It wasn’t your fault. 

You were smart, no doubt. You held more degrees than him, multiple certifications and a licensure under your belt. 

You were observant, thoughtful, organized to the point of being endearingly meticulous—he always said so, in that clipped tone of his like he couldn’t understand why it surprised you every time.

But when he was beside you like this—sweatpants slung low on his hips, jacket rolled at the sleeves, hood half up—walking the fluorescent-lit aisles of the local grocery store, your brain just… slowed.

Like your mind had kicked off its shoes and curled up somewhere quiet, trusting him to take care of the rest. 

It was a relief, honestly.

Until it wasn’t.

Like now, for instance.

You’d gotten so distracted by the in-store bakery display that you didn’t notice the towering stack of promotional soy milk crates right in front of you as you walked and stared at the same time.

You were completely absorbed, eyes tracking a particularly fat custard bun that looked like it might collapse under its own delicious weight.

That’s when your foot hit something solid. It wasn’t a forceful hit, not enough to send waves of milk crashing down the aisle, but enough to make one of the bottles at the base wobble, the whole stack teetering ever so slightly.

You blinked.

Oh.

A display. Organic soy milk. Little beige bottles stacked up.

You hadn’t even seen it.

But he had.

Without breaking stride, he reached for you, two fingers sliding smoothly into the belt loop at the back of your jeans. He gave a gentle tug, guiding you out of collision range with practiced ease, pulling you back against him, so your spine slotted into his chest.

Like it belonged there.

His arm wrapped low around your waist, palm pressing against your hip.

Warm. Steady. Deliberate. 

The way only he could be.

Because touching you was his reflex.

“Careful,” he murmured against the shell of your ear, voice low with amusement, breath brushing the side of your face. 

You mumbled a soft apology, cheeks warming.

“Mm,” he hummed lazily. Then, casually, he gave you two small, absent-minded pats on the underside of your ass. 

You whirled around to glare at him playfully.

“Your ass is cute,” he said, entirely unbothered, mouth barely hiding a smirk. “Also, if you’re gonna let me drive you, I gotta make sure the breaks work, yeah?”

You covered your face with your sleeve, half mortified, half giddy—mostly giddy.

Still, he didn’t let go, didn’t even pause—just adjusted slightly, hand tightening at your side as he started pushing the cart forward again with his other.

It was ridiculous how easily you melted into him.

Maybe that's why you let him steer you into the next aisle, turning the corner as his hand curved a little tighter around your waist, keeping you steady against the slight sway of the cart’s wheel. 

Your eyes lit up at the tea, and you tried to reach for a box of your usual black on the shelf, rising on your toes just slightly to grab it.

But before your fingers could even brush the box, his hand moved—sliding from your waist to your stomach, fingers splaying there like a quiet, familiar reminder. And then, again, with a tug at your belt loops, he eased you back down, pulling you flush against him.

“No, pretty. We still have more at home.”

“Oh, I forgot.”

“Mhm. Of course you did, baby.”

You flushed deeper and gave up, letting him guide you away without protest to the next aisle.

He let the cart roll to a stop in front of a shelf lined with protein bars—rows and rows of them, all in sleek packaging, looking aggressively ‘healthy.’

He didn’t say anything right away—just leaned in a little, voice a smooth murmur behind your ear.

“Alright. Let’s see if you remember.”

“Remember what?”

He nodded toward the shelf. “The ones I like.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, pretending to study the boxes, trying to calm the rapid skipping of your heart. “You’re quizzing me now?”

“No pressure.”

His thumb dragged lightly along the waistband of your jeans. Then, with the same casual ease, he gave your ass an encouraging little pat—fond, gentle, and soft enough to make your stomach flip.

“Go, baby. Impress me.”

You huffed and scanned the options quickly, actually using your brain, trying to remember the exact brand he always grabbed—the one with dark chocolate and sea salt, not the chalky kind or the one that left crumbs everywhere.

Your fingers closed around a box, and you held it up for him to see, one brow lifted. “These?”

He glanced at it, slow and unreadable.

Then he looked at you.

A twitch of his lips.

He wordlessly took the box from your hands and dropped it into the cart. His voice dropped lower, quiet and almost absently, he added, “Good girl.”

Your stomach dipped.

It was passive, offhand, but smug in a way that made heat flicker behind your ears, especially paired with the faint squeeze of his fingers on your hip—he knew exactly what he was doing to you and didn’t care to hide it.

You opened your mouth, not even sure what to say, but he just brushed his hand over the small of your back before curling his fingers right back into your belt loop like he'd known you’d get it right all along.

Like you were part of his rhythm.

Still touching. Still steering. Still keeping you close. 

Sure, you got a little (a lot) clumsy around him; your brain went a little (a lot) mushy. And grocery shopping took a while.

But that didn’t matter. Not to him. 

In fact, he wanted you to get distracted.

Because underneath all of that soft, quiet chaos, you trusted him to look out for you. 

And he never rushed you. Never pulled away. 

Just waited. Just let you be.

[everrinsly]

a/n; i forgot my a/n hehe... these are some of my favorite foods, reminds me when i was super little

life with sae.

favorite mess with sae. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

Sae loves watching you eat because you're just so messy for him.

more life with sae here!

more reads!

ᯓ⚽ᯓ⚽🩷

Sundays like these didn’t come often.

You were still adjusting to the quiet that came with Sae’s day off—the absence of early alarms, the calm steadiness in the air instead of cleats scraping turf or game-day nerves.

The sky was cloud-drenched and grey, and your fingers were a little cold tucked into your sleeves; but Sae’s were bare and warm, slotted perfectly between yours as he walked you down the narrow street toward your favorite bakery. 

The scent reached you before the storefront did—freshly baked milk bread, sweet bean paste, and sugar-dusted pastries that always melted on your tongue.

“You’re smiling,” he murmured, voice soft. 

You ducked your head shyly. “Just hungry.”

He squeezed your hand.

The bakery was small and glowing, nestled between a tea shop and a stationery store. Its windows fogged from the constant hum of steamer trays being pulled open. 

You barely got a greeting out to the aunties behind the counter—women who always remembered your name and gave you an extra smile—before Sae was already stepping forward, quiet and precise like he always was when he knew what you liked.

Three egg tarts, slightly burnt on the edges for that deeper caramel flavor. Four sesame balls, because you liked to peel them apart piece by piece to lick at the gooey red bean center. And a hot milk tea, low sugar, because he remembered how you craved the warmth on colder days like this.

He didn’t order anything for himself.

He never did.

Sae preferred eating whatever you didn’t finish—the half-bite of egg tart you left behind when you got too full, the last sesame ball you always hesitated over, claiming you were saving it for ‘later’ even though he’d always reach over and pop it into his mouth with that same smirk. 

He said your leftovers tasted better anyway and that he liked the way you ate.

Whatever that meant. 

You found a table in the corner, tucked close to the kitchens where the scent of steamed buns and roasted pork drifted in warm waves. From your seat, you could see the aunties behind the half-open swing door, pulling long, chewy strands of noodles for the upcoming lunch rush—hands fast and practiced, movements hypnotic.

Sae slid in beside you instead of across, his thigh brushing against yours, casual. One arm draped along the back of your chair, hand resting just behind your shoulder, fingers lazily curling and uncurling a strand of your hair. 

The egg tart sat perfectly in your palm—warm, crust flaky, yolk golden and gleaming like sunshine. 

You bit into it a little too eagerly.

Crumbs scattered instantly—some on your lap, some clung stubbornly to the corner of your lips, and some rolled down the edge of your chin. 

You blinked, mid-chew, embarrassed.

Sae’s pretty teal eyes were already on you, lashes low, mouth curved into the faintest, knowing smirk.

“You’re so messy, baby,” he said in that smooth, unhurried tone that made your skin warm.

Your mouth opened, unsure if you should apologize or grab a napkin, but before you could even think to move, Sae was already leaning in. 

His hand came up slow, steady, fingers brushing the edge of your chin as his thumb pressed lightly to your bottom lip. He didn’t rush, just traced the soft curve once… then again. 

A gentle sweep, back and forth, gathering the stray pastry flakes with a touch so deliberate it felt like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

The world blurred around you. All you could feel was Sae’s gaze, heavy and unrelenting—the weight of his hand cupping your jaw just enough to steady you, the slow press of his thumb dragging across your lip, soft and unbearably tender.

Your breath caught.

“There,” he murmured. 

Then he lifted his thumb between you, still glistening faintly with pastry flakes and a hint of yolk. His eyes dropped to your lips, then back to his own hand, holding it there like an offering.

“Lick it off.”

Your eyes went wide, mouth opening instinctively, but you didn’t move.

He didn’t rush you. He just watched, expression unreadable but intent. There was something reverent in it, something hungry and quiet and patient. 

He loved watching you eat—not for the food, but for the way it always left you just a little messy.

Because it gave him a reason to lean in close, to touch your mouth, to clean you up with careful strokes of his thumb, to guide your lips open, to feel the way you trembled around him.

“Sae—” 

Your voice was barely above a whisper as your eyes darted down, then to the side, flustered under his eyes. 

But your body always gravitated toward him, always reached for his touch like instinct. 

So you moved before your words could catch up—lips parting slowly, breath warm against his skin, as you leaned forward.

He let you come to him.

And when your lips brushed the pad of his thumb, he slid it into your mouth with ease. Your lips closed around him gently, sucking just enough to taste the flaky sweetness lingering there. The tip of your tongue met the edge of his thumb, tracing it lightly, shy but wanting.

His breath hitched.

Just barely.

But you felt it. His thigh pressed a little firmer against yours. His fingers, the ones resting behind your shoulder, shifted—reaching up into your hair, threading through the strands at your nape with ease.

Then he gave a gentle tug.

Not rough. Just enough to make your breath catch, your spine straighten. Enough to tilt your head slightly and make your lips part just a little wider around his thumb.

A soft, involuntary moan slipped from your throat—barely audible, but it vibrated against his skin.

Sae's smirk deepened.

His eyes were on your mouth, dark and focused, drinking in every flicker of movement like it was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Your breath stilled.

His fingers stayed tangled in your hair, thumb still nestled against your tongue, his touch light but commanding, like he was holding you there not because he had to but because you let him. 

A part of you liked it.

Liked the way he looked at you now—teal eyes shadowed with heat, expression unreadable but so clearly pleased.

Your lips closed a little tighter around his thumb, cheeks warm, thighs pressing together beneath the table. You didn’t move away, didn’t try to hide how flustered you were. 

If anything, you leaned in.

That was all the invitation Sae needed.

His thumb pressed a fraction deeper, and he tilted his head just enough to whisper it—so soft, only for you.

“Good girl.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t cocky. 

Just quiet, low, and devastatingly fond. Like he’d been thinking about it for a while but wanted to see you like this before he said it.

And you felt it—down to your fingertips, to the curl of your toes, that low flutter in your stomach that bloomed when Sae looked at you like you were his favorite little mess he’d ever touched.

[everrinsly]

a/n; thank you for all the sweet, kind comments! i really like this version of suna. i finally finished this i started in uni haha when i had terrible back pain

and also every time i visit the motherland (not often :(, i always have to smuggle back some salonpas (they are for pain relief, comes in spray or patches), also reminds me of when fukunaga says nice toss, salonpas

blurred lines, best friend vibes.

kiss it better... with salonpas with suna. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

post-game suna is exhausted... and needy for salonpas, your touch, and maybe a kiss?

more suna here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🖤📱

The front door clicks open just after midnight. 

It’s quiet, almost cautious, but so heavy with the weight that always comes home with Suna after a game.

You're curled on the couch, the TV droning quietly with the low hum of some late-night ad reel. 

The sports channel had been playing his game earlier—replays, commentary, all the fast cuts and booming excitement worthy of national coverage. But it’s long ended, now reduced to a loop of shampoo commercials and cheap car deals.

Still, you leave it on.

You just liked the noise, the flicker of the screen, the soft glow casting shadows across the apartment. It made the place feel less empty, the sense that the apartment wasn’t completely still, and maybe less like you were waiting (even though you were). 

So when you hear heavy footsteps and a duffle bag dropped with a dull thump, your pulse reacts before your mind does.

He doesn’t say anything. He never really does when he’s wrung out from the celebrations, where the adrenaline’s burned out and his body finally realizes how hard it worked. 

You wait, heart thrumming quietly. And sure enough, a few seconds later, Suna rounds the corner and pads slowly into the living room. 

He’s in his EJP jacket—half-unzipped, exposing the edge of his gold jersey and the wet sheen on his collarbone. His hair is damp and messy, curled slightly at the ends (he probably gave up halfway through drying it).

He smells faintly like locker room sweat, floor resin, that tired musk of post-game exhaustion; but underneath it all, he smells like him, something so distinctly familiar, safe, warm… like home. 

His eyes land on you, hazy and unreadable.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, voice barely above the hum of the TV.

“Mm.” He nods and slinks toward you, dropping onto the couch besides you. 

You flinch a little when his head tips to the side and lands on your lap, heavy and warm and wholly unbothered by personal space. One arm dangles off the couch beside your legs and the other is awkwardly around your waist, pressed between your back and the cushion. 

He exhales long and slow. “Dead,” he mutters into your thigh.

You smile, hand hesitantly moving to brush through his hair, gentle fingers combing out the sweat-dried strands. “Looked like a tough match.”

“My whole body feels like it got hit by a truck,” he grumbles against your skin, lips ghosting where your shorts ride up your thigh. “Everything hurts.”

You scratch his scalp in sympathy. “You did dive into the bench during the third set.”

“Saved the ball,” he deadpans.

“Nearly broke your shoulders.”

“But I looked hot doing it.”

You laugh softly. God, he’s so—you don’t let yourself finish the thought.

(But yeah, he did look hot. There were already fan edits online that you definitely didn’t save to your phone... definitely not). 

“You should’ve left that save for Komori. He was lunging for it behind you.”

“He wouldn’t have made it,” he replies, twisting his face to look up at you now, brows furrowed in focus that meant he’s still analyzing, still replaying everyone’s moves in his head. “We had a shitty formation during that play.”

You hum softly, not agreeing or disagreeing, just letting the silence sit between you for a second. Then, with a small sigh, you lift your free hand and smooth it over his forehead, pushing his bangs back. 

“Stop thinking so hard,” you say, voice laced with fondness. “It’s just a thought... from lil’ old me, who doesn’t play volleyball and mostly watches games through 4K.”

That earns you a half-smile, lazy and crooked. You continue to run your fingers through his hair, and he closes his eyes for a second, like your touch is heavier than it is, grounding him.

There’s a beat of silence before you pick up the banter again. 

“You also didn’t even shower yet, stinky,” you tease. 

“You still let me use you as a pillow though.”

“You always use me as a pillow.”

He looks smug. “‘Cause you’re comfy.”

You roll your eyes, fingers drifting lower, brushing along the curve of his neck until they find the thin silver chain resting against his collarbone. You trace it lazily, just touching, feeling.

He groans softly. "Keep doing that."

You know his signs—when he’s too tired to joke, too sore to sit up, too worn out to hide how much his body aches.

So you say, soft and careful, “Want me to put some Salonpas on your back?”

Suna doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts, turning a bit to rest his cheek against your inner thigh, face angled toward your stomach. His eyes are half-lidded, lashes casting shadows. 

He breathes you in before he speaks. “Only if you kiss it better.”

Your fingers freeze in his hair. “Absolutely not.”

“Cold.”

Your heart is doing something strange, fluttery and traitorous and too loud for a moment like this.

But you cover it with a scoff and reach for the little drawer on the side table, where you keep all the ‘just-in-case’ things: band-aids, lint rollers, and of course, Salonpas—because of course you do; you’ve lived with him long enough to expect these nights. 

You’re halfway through peeling open the box when you hear him murmur, voice low and drowsy. “Not the patches.”

You pause. “Hmm?”

He shifts again, tilting his head just enough to glance up at you from his spot in your lap. His lips curl in that faint smirk that always makes your chest feel tight.

“Use the spray,” he says, voice light. “Feels better when you rub it in.”

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “You mean it feels better when I touch you.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it, only shrugs. “Don’t be weird about it.”

You let out a quiet, flustered huff, ducking back into the drawer and digging past the clutter for the familiar blue can. Your fingertips close around the cool metal, and you hold it up with a pointed look.

“Gross behavior,” you mutter.

“Not gross,” he mumbles into your thigh. “Just honest.”

You roll your eyes and pat his cheek, signaling for him to fully turn. When he shifts face down on your lap, you tug his jacket and jersey up by the hem. 

He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch, just lets you pull it halfway up his back until the cool air hits skin.

And then your breath catches.

His back is a mess of tension—taut lines and overworked muscles, a constellation of bruises blooming faintly across his ribs and shoulder blades, and deep, dull splotches where he must’ve collided, where he must’ve hit the ground hard.

It’s the kind of damage that doesn’t show on the scoreboard.

You swallow, pressing your lips together. You hadn’t realized he’d taken this many hits today.

You hesitate with the can in your hand, eyes scanning the bruised dip of his waist.

And for a second, you forget the banter, the teasing back-and-forth that always makes these nights feel easier. All you can feel is that soft, aching throb in your chest: the part of you that wants to press your hand to every mark and ask if it hurts, the part that always hurts with him, and for him, even when you try not to.

Then, before your brain can catch up with your mouth, something small but so honest slips out.

“…Just one,” you whisper. “One kiss.”

It’s barely louder than a breath. You’re not even sure he hears it.

But then his back rises and falls with a slow exhale, and the smirk in his voice is unmistakable.

“Thought you said absolutely not.”

You glare at the back of his head before softly pinching his ear. “Do you want the kiss or not?”

“I want ten.”

“You’re getting one.”

You lean down before you can change your mind, pressing a soft kiss just beside the worst bruise along his upper back. It’s barely anything, just the lightest warmth of your mouth against his skin, but it's enough for him to let out a sigh.

You shake the can, the rattle filling the space between you, and then spray a gentle stripe down the curve of his spine. He stiffens at the initial contact.

But when your hand meets his skin—gentle, deliberate with care, spreading the spray in soft, gliding circles—you feel it.

The way his breath holds. The way his muscles relax. The way his body eases.

He wants your hands on him even when he doesn’t hurt; he needs your touch more than he lets on.

“You always want to be spoiled,” you murmur, smoothing your palm over the tension at the small of his back. Your voice is quiet, but the affection in it sneaks through anyway, soft around the edges.

“Only by you,” he replies casually. His voice vibrates low against your thigh, slightly muffled, but the weight still lands sharp.

You freeze for a split second, not at what he said because he’s always saying things like that, but at how easily it slips out, how much it doesn’t sound like a joke.

Your hand lingers where it rests, fingers spread lightly over the dip of his spine. His skin is warm beneath your palm, the faint rise and fall of his breath slow, steady, too calm for the way your heart is tripping over itself.

You shouldn’t. You always say that. And then you do it anyway.

You lean forward and press one more kiss—just one—below his shoulder blade. It's slower this time, softer. Your lips drag a little against his skin, and you stay there, lingering for a beat too long.

His breath hitches, just slightly.

“Fuck yes, angel,” Suna mumbles, voice a little hoarse, like it caught in his throat.

You pull back, cheeks warm, and immediately reach for his hair again—fingers threading through the dark strands before giving a firm tug in retaliation, not too hard but just enough to make a point.

"I'm gonna rip you bald."

"...Kinky."