everrinsly

[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).

[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."

[everrinsly]

a/n; inarizaki focused! this made me laugh a few times, it's very long and silly haha, this is a bonus story, a bit of crackhead energy and writing (≧▽≦)

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

a momager and her silly olympic team bonus

bonus story to a kitagawa daiichi reunion, table wars, and dramatic setters in the dining hall (linked here)! (follows the part where you mentioned the inarizaki boys filed a kidnapping report during the asian championship).

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

protective foxy instincts, poor foxy judgments. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

the inarizaki boys are in disarray when a korean player asks for directions to the restroom. p.s. unhinged chaos at the international scale where authorities were this close to being called.

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

Snippet from A Kitagawa Daiichi Reunion, Table Wars, and Dramatic Setters in the Dining Hall:

“They’re obsessed,” Iwaizumi corrected, not even looking up as he picked at his food with a long-suffering sigh. “You breathe in someone else’s direction and half the team looks like they’re ready to file a kidnapping report.”

You let out a soft laugh, a fond memory replying in your head. “I think the Inarizaki boys actually filed one… in the last Asian Championship… blamed it on Osamu even though he was all the way in Osaka.”

“Didn’t they rope Ushijima in on that also?”

“Yeah. Kita was called for that scolding.”

“Fuckin’ foxy idiots.”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

—Flashback to Asian Championship; Iran—

The gym was buzzing with post-match energy—half exhaustion, half adrenaline—under bright lights that made the polished court gleam. Somewhere near the back, Team Japan had scattered into their usual loosely organized chaos.

You were sitting on the bench, legs criss-crossed, clipboard resting against your thigh as you updated volleyball stats of the most recent match. 

On the floor, Atsumu was aggressively stretching like he was trying to win gold in flexibility. Aran sat just a bit behind, tying and untying his shoes out of habit more than necessity, while Suna laid flat on his back beside the bench, legs raised in the air in some passive excuse for a hamstring stretch.

Sure, they were Inarizaki’s finest, but they looked like an (absolutely terrible) unsupervised group project.

The rest of the team had fanned out across the venue—Komori and Hinata were raiding the snack trucks for post-game fruit cups, Bokuto had wandered off to show Sakusa a new handshake, Kageyama was desperately digging through your purse for his yogurt packs, and Iwaizumi had passed his iPad to Ushijima, who now stood like a quiet statue by the hallway, intently watching replays with a tiny furrow of concentration in his brows.

You just got done circling Hinata’s name—because the man decided three shots of espresso and ‘vibes’ were enough to fuel a warmup (which led to six of his spikes landing out of bounds)—when a soft, tentative voice interrupted you.

“Uh… hello?”

You glanced up to see a tall figure in a white-and-blue tracksuit awkwardly fidgeting in front of the bench. KOR. Tall. Young. Polite. Cute. Also very panicked.

“I… uh… restroom?” he asked, brows raised in apology more than question, and gestured wildly in several directions. 

You blinked, realizing the poor guy was very lost.

“Ah—yes!” you said, tucking your pen into the clipboard and standing. “I know it’s kind of confusing over here.”

Suna’s eyes lazily followed the exchange. Aran half-glanced up, mildly curious. Atsumu squinted suspiciously.

You offered the Korean player a warm smile and motioned. “Come on, it’s just down this hallway. I’ll show you.”

The guy nodded in relief, bowing in thanks. “Thank you, thank you.”

You vanished around the corner with him, disappearing into the maze of back hallways lined with event posters and mop buckets.

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

The emotional earthquake began—immediate, catastrophic panic from the Inarizaki boys. 

Suna slowly lowered his legs from the air, eyes narrowed.

Atsumu sat up straighter, head whipping toward the now-empty hallway. “Who was that guy and why did he just walk off with our manager?”

“He asked where the restroom was,” Aran said, trying to sound reasonable but sounding a good seventy percent worried.

“Did he?” Atsumu countered. “Or did he use that as a cover to lure her into a hidden tunnel system beneath the venue?”

“There is no tunnel system, Miya,” Aran muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You don’t know that!”

Suna, who had been suspiciously quiet, sat up and began scrolling through his phone. “Okay but… remember that one article I bookmarked? About signs of suspicious behavior and identifying possible kidnappers?”

Atsumu leaned over eagerly. “Oh, ya! The checklist. With the grainy photos and everythin'.”

“You saved that?” Aran blinked.

Suna tilted his phone so they could see. “Look—excessively polite demeanor, avoids eye contact, fidgets while speaking, asks for directions to a non-specific location. Bro was ticking off boxes like a daily to-do list.”

Aran frowned. “He asked for the bathroom.”

“Exactly,” Suna said grimly.

“He was lost!”

“That’s what they want you to think.”

Atsumu was already pulling out his phone. “We need to mobilize. Ushijima’s in position.”

Aran groaned. “Don’t drag Ushijima into this—also he’s literally RIGHT THERE!” he added, elaborately pointing to where Ushijima stood near the hallway, not ten paces away, still stoically watching a replay on Iwaizumi’s iPad.

“Too late,” Atsumu said sweetly, thumbs flying over his phone. 

[Atsumu to Ushijima] [ATSUMU]: Hey ushi-kun can ya do a quick hallway sweep?  Manager’s been gone for longer than the average restroom detour [USHIJIMA]: OK.

Aran slapped a hand over his face. “I swear—there’s no need…”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

Ushijima was already on the move, walking with grim determination like he’d just been briefed by a top-level agency. His footsteps echoed with purpose.

Atsumu turned to Suna, who was now drafting a ‘Kidnappings and Missing Person’s Report’ and had added an entire subsection titled ‘Bathroom Lures’.

“We need to formalize this,” Atsumu muttered. “I’m gonna ask ‘Samu.”

“Agreed,” Suna said, flipping his phone horizontally like he was prepping a spreadsheet.

[Atsumu to Osamu] [ATSUMU]: Bro emergency Need ya to help us fill out a kidnapper report form Pretty sure she’s been sweet-talked into a bathroom cult or somethin Suna says it’s got classic toilet trap vibes [OSAMU]: What the hell is a toilet trap No wait don’t answer that I regret asking Why are you like this [ATSUMU]: Because i care  I’m tryna protect our manager and you’re givin me sass Please help Suna formatted it in word this time [Attachment: .docx file titled “Kidnapper Incident Report - Asian Champs Edition” with subsections for: Suspect, Timeline, Emotional Damage Assessment, Witness Statements, Red Flags, and Bathroom Lures] [OSAMU]: Bro  She’s goin to the fuckin bathroom Not a hostage bunker  [ATSUMU]: You don’t fuckin know that omg

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

There was a five-minute beat of silence.

You still hadn’t returned.

Suna sat on the bench, knee bouncing at a metronomic pace. Atsumu was frozen in a dramatic pose on the floor, leaning on the barricades.

And Aran—Aran, the (supposedly) reasonable one—was now pacing behind the bench, rubbing the back of his neck like a man two seconds away from sprinting to the bathroom to grab you himself. 

“Okay. Okay. Maybe she just took a wrong turn.”

“She knows the layout,” Suna said flatly. “She’s mapped the whole venue. You saw her draw it in her planner.”

“She could’ve been lured. Like, with—” Aran flailed a hand. “Like… Korean snacks. She loves those! I don’t know, man! I’m spiraling!”

Suna didn’t look up. “Did you know the average kidnapping takes only seven minutes to complete?”

Atsumu gasped.

“Don’t say that!” Aran snapped. “I knew you were gonna say something like that.”

“I’m just saying. We’re at, like, minute thirteen.”

Aran’s pacing had devolved into muttering. “She’s definitely been taken. This is an actual hostage situation. Should we start making posters?”

“Calm down,” Suna said, finally looking up. “Ushijima’s got eyes on the hallway. If anyone can tank an abduction attempt, it’s him.”

“Right,” Aran said weakly. “Right. Because nothing says ‘subtle rescue op’ like Ushijima Wakatoshi walking up silently and asking ‘are you in danger?’ like a sentient slab of concrete.”

A minute passed before Aran continued, his voice pitching up an octave. “Do you think it’s too early to call someone?”

“Like who?” Suna asked, still typing suspiciously fast on his phone.

“I don’t know! The Korean Volleyball Federation? The Japanese Embassy? The Iranian police force? Interpol?”

Atsumu perked up immediately. “Interpol’s got a hotline, right? We could use Aran’s name, it sounds reliable.”

“WHAT—NO—!”

“How ‘bout ‘Samu’s then? He’s got, like, a whole fuckin’ business.”

“Yeah. He’s got the best credit score out of all of us.”

Aran stopped cold, a tiny bit of rationality still in him. “WAIT—NO. Let’s not internationalize this.”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

Meanwhile… at Onigiri Miya…

[Osamu to Kita] [OSAMU]: Emergency kita  The idiots are at it again They think manager’s been kidnapped  But she literally just took a Korean player to the bathroom  Suna made a word doc of stupid shit, there's toilet trap Tsumu’s the stupid-ass ring leader  And my twin telepathy is telling me they’re gonna call fuckin Interpol under my name Pls intervene before all former inarizaki grads end up on the news   [KITA]: Got it, Osamu. Is Aran in on it also? [OSAMU]: Knowing him, he’s probably panicking  Like right about now  Cuz he always panics after like 15 mins

There was no response from Kita for a good ten minutes (the rice field has low signal). 

[OSAMU]: Pls kita  I share the same face with that fool No one’s gonna come to the restaurant  Which means Your rice gonna be out of business  Kita  Kita  Kita pls [KITA]: You’re right. I’m on it.  [OSAMU]: Also here  [Attachment: .docx file titled “Kidnapper Incident Report - Asian Champs Edition” with subsections for: Suspect, Timeline, Emotional Damage Assessment, Witness Statements, Red Flags, and Bathroom Lures]

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

Back at the venue, Ushijima turned the corner of the hallway and caught sight of you laughing softly with the tall Korean player outside the restrooms. You both bowed politely—twice—before parting ways. 

As you turned to head back, Ushijima stepped into your path.

“Oh, hey, Ushi—”

“Are you safe?” he asked seriously.

You blinked up at him, bewildered. “Um… yes? He just needed directions—”

“Understood,” Ushijima replied, pulling out his phone.

[Ushijima to Atsumu] [USHIJIMA]: She is fine.  No threats detected.  We are heading back now.  [ATSUMU]: Oh thank god 

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

Back on the bench…

Suna looked up from his phone. “Guys.”

“What?”

“…We have an incoming call. From Kita.”

They all froze.

Atsumu paled.

Aran dropped to the floor and whispered, “We’re gonna die.”

Suna’s phone continued ringing. On the screen, Kita’s contact photo—stoic, judgmental, and surrounded by very disappointed sparkles (edited by Atsumu)—glared back at them.

“Answer it,” Aran whispered.

“No, you answer it,” Atsumu hissed.

But Suna had already accepted the call and held the phone up, resigned.

Kita’s voice came through calm and deadly:

“Tell me exactly why I was just informed that Interpol and ‘toilet trap vibes’ were involved in an alleged kidnapping… at an international sporting event… over a restroom detour.”

They all spoke at once.

“It was just a precautionary checklist—” “I never actually called Interpol—” “She likes Korean snacks, Kita, Korean snacks—”

Kita didn’t respond immediately. Then:

“All of you. One hour. Video call. We’re going over appropriate team boundaries and how to identify real emergencies. And get ready for a beating from Iwaizumi. He’s been informed.”

The call ended.

There was silence. 

Suna finally muttered, “I should’ve deleted that doc.”

Atsumu flopped back on the floor, groaning into his towel. “‘Samu’s a fuckin’ snitch.”

Aran looked relieved. “Honestly, this is the best possible outcome… at least she’s okay.”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🦊

You returned a moment later with Ushijima, a bounce to your step for doing a good deed—completely unaware of the chaos.

“Hey, guys, why the sad faces? Did something happen while I was gone?”

Three boys smiled up at you with aggressively fake casualness.

“Nope!” “All good!” “Nothing illegal!”

You narrowed your eyes and looked toward Ushijima, who couldn't meet your gaze. 

“…Why does it smell like an international scandal here?”

And right on cue, your phone pinged. 

[Osamu to You] [Osamu]: Darlin Your boys are outta control  [Attachment: .docx file titled “Kidnapper Incident Report - Asian Champs Edition” with subsections for: Suspect, Timeline, Emotional Damage Assessment, Witness Statements, Red Flags, and Bathroom Lures]

[everrinsly]

life with rin vibes.

i only fall apart when it's you with rin. smut. nsfw. very suggestive. mature. mdni. fem!reader. | not proofread.

rin is nervous before a game... he uses you to relieve his stress.

more life with rin here!

more reads!

ᯓ⚽ᯓ⚽💙

The sun hadn't even risen yet.

The room was dark, quiet. The sheets were half-kicked to the floor. Rin was already awake; he never really slept well before big games, but this morning was different. 

It was worse. 

You could feel it in the way his hand was already on your waist, warm and firm, grounding himself through contact, through touch—the way his thumb trembled just barely against your skin, the way his breath ghosted unevenly against the back of your neck, like he couldn’t quite catch it.

“Rin…?” you whispered sleepily, turning your head just slightly and lifting a free hand behind to card through his hair. 

He only curled around you tighter.

“Shh,” he murmured against your skin. “Need you.”

His voice was low, husky, tense, and laced with something deeper than lust. It wasn’t just desire; it was something heavier, thicker, more desperate.

He nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His grip tightened around your hips, like if he held on hard enough, the nerves would quiet down.

“…You’re nervous,” you said softly, blinking into the dark. Your hand stilled in his hair. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, but didn’t deny it.

It was rare. Rin didn’t do nerves. At least, not like this: not like the boy trembling ever so slightly behind you, like the match ahead was more than just a game, like it mattered on a level even he didn’t want to admit.

“Yeah,” he said finally, voice raw. “I am.”

And then softer, barely audible: “Don’t wanna fuck it up. Not today.”

Your heart ached. You pulled back from his hair, hand reaching down to lace your fingers with his that were splayed on your stomach. 

“You won’t,” you whispered.

“I might.” His breath hitched. “Just… let me forget. Please. Please, baby.”

As he pressed his hips into yours, hard and urgent, that’s when you realized—

He wasn’t trying to take control. 

He was begging you to let him fall apart. 

Because that’s what Itoshi Rin never did—not for his coaches, not for the press, and definitely not for his brother.

He was steel, precision, a machine built to strike goals.

But here, under the faint glow of early morning, skin to skin with you, he didn’t need to perform. He didn’t have to be perfect. He could breathe, shake, and crumble.

Only with you did he let his voice hitch like that. 

Only with you did his hands waver. 

Only with you did he ever whisper 'please.'

So how could you ever say no to him?

Your eyes had barely opened before he was tugging your sleep shorts down, slow and quiet with a kind of desperation that lingered just beneath the surface. His fingers hooked into the waistband with care, knuckles brushing along your hips, dragging the fabric down inch by inch until the cool air kissed your legs. 

You breathed out a soft sigh as he bared you. His hand immediately found your waist again, palming your skin like he was claiming it, like it grounded him. You could feel how hard he was already, thick and heavy against the curve of your lower back, the heat of him searing through the fabric of his briefs.

He pressed his chest flush against you, burying his face into the space behind your ear. His breath was warm, unsteady, absolutely needy. 

“Thank you for letting me have you like this,” he murmured, voice like gravel.

His lips brushed your neck, slow and reverent. You whimpered at the tenderness, and Rin cursed under his breath, teeth catching gently on your skin before he pulled back just enough to nudge his hips forward.

He rutted against you slowly, grinding the thick outline of his cock along the dip of your ass, teasing you with the friction. One hand slid down, dipping between your thighs to trace along your folds with practiced ease.

“Already wet,” he breathed, voice hoarse with awe. “Fuck, baby, you’re so perfect.”

You arched instinctively into his touch, and he smiled against your skin, just barely. You felt it more than you saw it, the ghost of it against your shoulder. He pressed a kiss there, soft and slow, just before two fingers slipped inside you—testing, curling, dragging a moan from your lips that he swallowed with a kiss to your nape.

His cock twitched against you, aching to be inside. But he took his time... for once.

He savored the feel of you, the way your breath stuttered when he hit just the right spot. And when your thighs began to tremble, when you whimpered his name already ruined, that’s when he pulled his fingers out, lifting them to his lips and sucking them clean with a low grunt.

Then, finally, you felt him pull at the waistband of his briefs, dragging the tip of his cock along your entrance, spreading you open just enough to make you gasp.

“You still with me?” he asked, breath trembling against your skin.

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Always.”

And Rin, so rarely shaken, so rarely soft, pressed inside with one slow, fluid thrust—deeper than you thought possible—burying himself to the hilt like he belonged there, like he needed to be there.

Your breath hitched the moment he bottomed out, your fingers instinctively clutching the edge of the pillow beneath your cheek. The stretch stole the air from your lungs, but you welcomed it. You always welcomed him. Your body knew him too well by now—every inch of him, every rut and grind of his hips that made you fall apart just a little faster than you meant to.

He stayed still for a heartbeat, buried deep, his forehead resting against the back of your shoulder blade as he sucked in a ragged breath.

“You feel…” he whispered, voice so wrecked you barely caught it, “fuck, you feel unreal, pretty.”

Then he pulled back, just enough to make you ache with emptiness, and rocked into you again, slower this time, but so deep you swore your toes curled. His cock dragged against every swollen, sensitive spot inside you, hitting that place that made your thighs quiver.

Each thrust was deliberate, unhurried, like he wanted to memorize the way you clenched around him, how your breath trembled, how your body arched toward him without thinking.

“You make me lose my mind,” he groaned against your shoulder, biting down softly like he needed something to anchor him. “Always so soft, so warm… so tight around me.”

Your whimpers only spurred him on. He thrust again—harder this time, enough to make the headboard bang, the bed creak, and your breath stutter.

He started to move faster, hips snapping forward with more urgency, the wet sounds of your bodies meeting filling the dark room. It was all so much, so intimate, so obscene: his pace, his words, the way his chest was flush against your back, one hand gripping your hip like he might lose himself if he let go.

“Can’t be gentle today,” he muttered, voice unraveling with every thrust. “Need to feel you. All of you.”

You moaned as he picked up the pace, each thrust sharp and deep, his hips slapping against yours. He pulled your leg back over his own, angling you just how he liked, just how he knew would wreck you. And then he slammed into that spot inside you that made your vision blur, that made your mouth drop open in a silent cry.

“You were fucking made for me,” he breathed, hand sliding from your waist to your inner thigh, gripping the soft flesh. “Every time I’m in you… feels like I’ve come home.”

He was rough now—almost feral with it. He trailed his hand up your stomach, your breasts, to snake his fingers around your throat, guiding your head back against his shoulder so he could kiss along your jaw, your cheek, your temple.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice thick and raw.

You turned slightly, blinking at him, eyes heavy and glassy, mouth parted in a shaky moan—and the second he saw you like that, Rin broke.

“Shit—baby,” he groaned, burying himself even deeper, holding you there, his cock twitching inside you. “You’re crying…”

You hadn’t even realized. The tears had slipped down your cheeks, quiet and unbidden from the sheer intensity of him: the stretch, the fullness, the way he was so deep it felt like he was in your chest, in your lungs.

“Too rough?” he asked, voice low and guilty now. “Did I hurt you, pretty baby?”

You shook your head, moans coming out in gasps. “N-No, I—just… f-feels good. R-really good.”

He kissed the side of your face once, twice, then slowed just a little—not gentler, but deeper, more precise, more controlled.

“Yeah? Wanna make you come like this,” he murmured, breathless. “Wanna feel you cry on my cock.”

His hand slid down your front again, fingers finding your clit with practiced pressure, circling slow and tight until you were clawing at the sheets, moaning into the pillow.

“That’s it. That’s it, pretty girl. Let go.”

And when you did—when you came with a trembling cry and clenched around him so hard he saw stars—Rin cursed, voice wrecked and shaky.

“Gonna fill you up,” he gritted out, pace turning brutal again as he chased his own high. “Gonna come so deep you feel me for days. You want that, yeah? Baby?"

You could only whimper, overstimulated and spent, as he fucked you through the aftershocks, hips stuttering now, rhythm breaking—

Then he growled, burying himself to the hilt one last time as he came hard, pulsing inside you with a low, desperate moan against your skin.

He stayed like that, panting, pressed full-length still inside, convulsing, sweat-slicked, shaking. His fingers slipped back to your waist, squeezing like he needed to hold onto something real, like he needed you to remind him he still had something steady in all the chaos.

“…You okay?” he breathed after a long moment, voice quiet.

You nodded, exhausted and hazy, turning just enough to meet his eyes.

He looked wrecked: hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips parted. But the fear was gone.

His nerves had melted into your skin.

You smiled sweetly. “Are you okay?”

Rin exhaled, almost laughed, then kissed your neck and whispered, “Now I am.”

[everrinsly]

orange peels. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

where he peels you an orange and feeds you a slice.

♡ For all your favorite (emotionally-constipated) pro athletes.

more reads!

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆

You didn’t usually stop for videos like these.

Most of the time, you scrolled past them: overexposed couples doing challenges, sweet voiceovers layered over romantic theories that felt too curated, too perfect. 

But this one had caught you. Maybe it was the quiet tone, the simplicity. 

Or maybe it was just that the couch was warm, the apartment smelled faintly like his shampoo, and your heart was a little softer than usual.

So you didn’t scroll away.

The video was simple: “If he peels an orange for you without complaining, he loves you.”

You watched quietly as a girl explained that if someone peels an orange for you—unprompted, or even when asked—it means they love you because peeling oranges is annoying, messy, sticky. And people only do it for someone they really care about.

You watched it twice. The first time, thoughtful. The second time, your chest ached in a warm, slow way. 

Then you peeked over the top of your screen, eyes drifting toward the kitchen where he stood, fresh from a workout, hair damp at the nape of his neck, lazily sipping water like he hadn’t just run ten kilometers. 

The bowl of oranges on the counter caught your eye.

You hesitantly padded over and softly called out his name. 

He looked over with a quiet grunt—his usual hm, baby—that meant you had his attention.

You held up one of the oranges, almost sheepishly. “Can you… peel this for me?”

He blinked. “You can’t peel it yourself?”

You immediately regretted asking. “N-No—I mean, I can, I just… I saw this thing, and…”

You trailed off, your voice getting smaller, ashamed. 

But he didn’t press. He never did with you.

He set his water down without a word and walked over, gently plucking the orange from your hands. You watched him with wide eyes as he dug his thumb in and started peeling, long fingers curling around the fruit—slow, methodical, and entirely effortless. The peel comes off in one clean strip, juice clinging to his fingertips.

You bit your lip, trying to hide your flustered smile.

When he finished, he broke it into perfect wedges and pushed them toward you on a folded paper towel, eyes flicking up to yours.

“There.”

You stared at the fruit, then at him, heart fluttering.

“T-Thank you,” you whispered.

He stared at you for a second too long before picking up a slice, eyes still locked on yours.

“Open,” he said simply.

You blinked, lips parting in surprise. He didn’t usually do things like this, but something in his voice, gentle but firm, made you obey before you could even think to hesitate.

Your mouth opened just slightly, and he brought the slice to your lips with an ease that made your breath catch. He was close now, closer than before, the citrus slice bright between his fingers.

His free hand lingered at your jaw, fingers brushing against your cheek so softly it was barely a touch. He cupped your face, warm and steady, and used his thumb to press the orange gently past your lips.

You bit down, tasting the sweet burst of the fruit, then felt the pad of his thumb, featherlight, brushing the juice that had slipped at the corner of your mouth.

He didn’t pull away.

His fingers shifted, tracing the edge of your bottom lip like he was committing the shape of you to memory. His touch was careful, unhurried, like touching you was something he wanted to savor. 

You blinked up at him, mouth still full, lips sticky with sweetness. Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like he might hear it.

His voice dropped, low and quiet.

“You’ve got something here,” he said, thumb ghosting over the spot again.

You swallowed the fruit, your breath shaky. “You did that on purpose.”

His mouth quirked up, barely. “Maybe.”

His hand fell slowly, fingers deliberately brushing down your jaw like he didn’t want to let go just yet. “You’re too easy to fluster.”

“And you’re too—too…”

He kissed your forehead, a lingering press of the lips that utterly ruined your train of thought.

“Mm. Too what, pretty?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your whole face was burning.

He smirked, just a little. But there was a softness in his eyes, a kind of quiet affection that made you want to melt into him like he wasn’t just looking at you, but through you—past your shyness, your messy thoughts, and straight to the softest parts of you that only he seemed to touch without hurting.

This was different.

This was more.

You think there should be a new theory: “If he peels an orange for you without complaining… and feeds you the slice himself, his fingers brushing your lips like it’s the most natural thing in the world… he’s already yours… because there’s no doubt he'd peel you oranges for the rest of his life.”

This quiet, blunt, infuriatingly gentle boy who never said much, but always did the most—

He’s all in, completely and wholly.

[everrinsly]

a/n; thank you for the sweet comments! i love rambling about haikyuu, this is a perfect outlet haha, i'm happy a lot of you like! i was re-reading the manga and added soft oikawa moments because he just makes everything better, and it wouldn't be the olympics without him! I might add a few bonus stories to this one because there's a lot of cute memories here... i think hehe

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

a momager and her silly olympic team.

a kitagawa daiichi reunion, table wars, and dramatic setters in the dining hall. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

oikawa makes his presence... and steals you away. the boys are absolutely crashing out.

more olympic team shenanigans here!

more reads!

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

You were just on your way to grab a second matcha pudding (Hinata swore it was super lucky) when a familiar voice called out behind you—

“Well, if it isn’t my sweet, little angel from Kitagawa.”

You blinked and turned to see Oikawa Tooru, hair perfectly styled despite the humidity of the Olympic Village dining hall, striding toward you like he was about to walk a runway instead of sitting and eating carbs. 

“TOORU!” you grinned, instantly brightening as he pulled you into a warm hug. “It’s been forever!”

“I’ve missed you,” he crooned dramatically, holding your hand and intertwining your smaller ones in his even after the hug ended. “You’re cuter than ever. Your hair’s all frizzy though. Is it because of the air, or is it just because you’ve been surrounded by idiots all tournament?”

You laughed, slipping your fingers away to poke at his chest. “And you are exactly the same.”

“Charming, dazzling, and criminally underappreciated?” he smirked.

Before you could retort, Iwaizumi walked up behind you, holding two plates of chicken curry like he’d been expecting this moment for years. “Why is it always you?”

“Iwa!” you gasped, taking a seat at the table next to Oikawa as Iwaizumi sighed and sat across from you both. “Be nice. He’s your best friend.”

Iwaizumi rolled his eyes, a twitch of a smile on his lips. “Kind of tired of him though. Called me late at night yesterday when the schedules came out. Said ‘I’ll beat your asses.’

Oikawa had the audacity to grin, teeth showing as he sipped from his juice box like a smug little gremlin. “And I meant every word. Argentina’s taking the gold this year, obviously.”

You turned to him with an exaggerated look of offense. “Excuse me? You're sitting in Team Japan’s section and spewing blasphemy?”

Oikawa just grinned boyishly. But he did look a little out of place—draped in that sleek Argentinian blue, hair swept and fluffed, posture obnoxiously relaxed in a seat surrounded by a sea of Japan’s deep red tracksuits. Even his lanyard, with its bright Argentine flag and name badge, looked like it was taunting the rest of the tables. You swore one of the Japanese nutritionists passing by narrowed their eyes at it.

“I go where the vibes are immaculate, cariño. And your vibes are always worth the treason.” He shrugged unapologetically, tilting his head in that charmingly annoying way.

Iwaizumi groaned. “You’re actually the worst.”

You laughed and leaned your chin on your hand, looking between the two of them, the chicken curry already forgotten. “I missed this.”

That earned a pause from both of them. Oikawa’s smile faltered just a little—just enough to show something real underneath. Iwaizumi softened, too, his eyes a bit more gentle as he leaned back in his chair.

“Yeah,” Oikawa said after a moment, tone quieter. “Me too.”

It was weirdly peaceful for a second. The kind of nostalgia that comes without bitterness—just that soft ache in your chest when you realize how far you’ve all come.

Then, naturally, Oikawa ruined it.

“But… Iwa was the one who left me. And so did you.” He booped your nose softly.

“You joined Argentina,” Iwaizumi deadpanned.

You were already trying not to laugh.

It’s like middle school all over again. 

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

Meanwhile, at the next table over…

Team Japan was imploding. All of your players were not-so-discreetly staring at you.

The air around them was so thick with jealousy and dramatic outrage, it practically crackled. There was no actual fire—yet—but it was only a matter of time before someone tried to spontaneously combust from sheer rage and pettiness (cough cough, Kageyama and Atsumu).

Atsumu was halfway out of his chair, outright glaring, stabbing aggressively at his rice with his chopsticks like it had personally betrayed him. 

“Did ya see that?” he whisper-shouted to no one in particular. “He booped her nose. That’s basically marriage in some cultures! I read it on the internet!”

“You don’t get to talk, Miya. You boop her nose all the time—”

“NO—ya don’t get it! She did that cute lil’ scrunch she never does with me! THE SCRUNCH BRO—!”

Hinata looked personally betrayed, cheeks puffed in disbelief, eyes wide as saucers. 

“She’s looking at him like how she used to look at me…” he said, voice cracking. 

“Hinata… she looks at you like that more than she looks at any of us,” Komori sighed. 

Suna, the usual picture of emotional detachment, looked like someone had just stolen his favorite hoodie and called his fox tattoo ugly. His jaw was tight, his gaze locked on your shared bench with Oikawa like he was running calculations on how fast he could body-check him without violating Olympic code.

Bokuto’s hair lost all its spike, which meant that he was in his emo mode—and as proven, his eyes were all round and glassy. He was aggressively chewing through his grilled chicken like it was Oikawa’s dignity. 

“He’s not even in red!” he burst out. “That’s traitor energy! We don’t flirt in blue!”

“I mean—he’s playing for Argentina, so blue and white would make sense…” Komori tried to explain, before Bokuto threw a piece of broccoli at him for being ‘a know-it-all enabler of heartbreak.’

Sakusa, normally too disinterested to care, had slowly, silently pulled up his mask and tugged it over his nose and mouth like he was shielding himself from the stench of betrayal. 

“But at least Oikawa uses hair conditioner,” he muttered, glaring sideways at Atsumu.

“Ey—what’s that supposed to mean!?”

Ushijima and Aran both sat motionless, forks paused in midair, staring blankly like they were trying to will Oikawa’s existence into a non-issue. 

“She deserves better,” Aran said simply.

“You guys ain’t even lookin’ at her!” Atsumu snapped.

Ushijima was the one to respond. “We don’t need to. We can feel the wrongness from here.”

And Kageyama—well. To no one’s surprise, he had somehow clenched his chopsticks into two sharp splinters. His eyes twitched. 

“Oikawa’s not even a good setter,” he muttered under his breath. 

“Oh… sure… says the one who still watches replays of his sets and serves—”

“SHUT UP—!”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

You glanced over toward the next table, sensing the unmistakable heat of several glares boring a hole into your side profile. Sure enough—Japan’s finest were frozen mid-plot.

And all of them, without fail, snapped their gazes away the second your eyes met theirs.

You exhaled a soft sigh and gave them a small, weary smile: the kind that said, ‘Please don’t commit international incidents on my behalf.’

Oikawa snorted, his chin resting lazily on his hand as he watched the circus with unmasked amusement. “Oh yeah. Totally normal vibes. Real casual. I definitely don’t feel like I’m about to be smacked with a chopstick.”

“They’re protective,” you offered, trying to brush it off. You tried to sound nonchalant, but even you could hear the sheepish note in your voice.

“They’re obsessed,” Iwaizumi corrected, not even looking up as he picked at his food with a long-suffering sigh. “You breathe in someone else’s direction and half the team looks like they’re ready to file a kidnapping report.”

You let out a soft laugh, a fond memory replying in your head. “I think the Inarizaki boys actually filed one… in the last Asian Championship… blamed it on Osamu even though he was all the way in Osaka.”

“Didn’t they rope Ushijima in on that also?”

“Yeah. Kita was called for that scolding.”

“Fuckin’ foxy idiots.”

“Oh? Even the Ushiwaka? So they’re… threatened,” Oikawa said with glee, shooting a wink at your flustered expression. “And frankly, they should be. Who could resist me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t provoke them.”

“Why not? It’s fun.”

You swatted at his arm, cheeks warming. “You started it, flirting like it’s your job.”

“It is my job,” he said proudly.

“You’re a setter,” Iwaizumi deadpanned. “Set the damn ball, and eat your damn rice.”

“Mm. But seriously. What’s the harm in causing a little fuss in the motherland?”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

Back at the boys’ table… the clown show continued with absolutely no grace and no subtlety. 

“Is he holding her hand?” Suna asked flatly. His eyes were narrowed and locked onto you and Oikawa like he was seconds away from aiming a spike to his head. 

“I don’t like this,” Atsumu muttered, dramatically twisting the cap off his water bottle like it personally wronged him. 

“He’s literally glowing,” Komori whispered. “Why is he glowing? He sparkled just now. Did you see that? He sparkled.”

“The bastard’s always glowing,” Kageyama gritted out, glaring a hole into his senpai’s back. 

Bokuto had both fists clenched on the table. “Why is she LAUGHING?!”

“She doesn’t laugh with us like that,” Sakusa added darkly. His eyes were squinted above his mask. 

Ushijima was unmoving, gaze locked on Oikawa like a hawk. “If he played for Japan, we would not have this problem.”

Aran leaned in. “Can we steal her back?”

“We can do better. Like a distraction,” Suna said, unlocking his phone. “I’m gonna record.”

“Like a food fight?” Komori asked.

“I can flirt,” Atsumu offered, grinning widely. 

“That’s just you on a regular Tuesday,” Sakusa said flatly.

“Hinata,” Suna said suddenly, leaning forward, “go over there and yell that your knee hurts. Cry a little.”

“Yeah. You’re her favorite. She always pays attention to you,” Aran added. 

There was a quiet pause before Hinata spoke, voice soft and wavering. 

“N-no… you guys. I think—I think Oikawa outclasses me,” Hinata said with the biggest pout ever. 

Silence. 

“Well shit.”

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

Back at your table, you giggled as Oikawa boasted, “I’ve already called dibs on your dessert. For old times’ sake.”

“Why would I give you my pudding?” you asked, laughing. “You never gave me your desserts.”

“I gave you my heart,” he countered dramatically.

You blushed.

At the other table, chaos.

“Did you see that?!” Bokuto yelled. “She’s blushing! She never blushes with me!”

“She literally blushed last night when you tripped trying to flex your calves,” Komori pointed out.

“THAT WAS DIFFERENT!”

“We gotta act now,” Atsumu said, leering over to peek at your table for the millionth time.

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

So, Plan Steal-The-Manager-Back commences…

Chaos, immediate and entirely manufactured, erupted from Team Japan’s table like a volcano of needy, overgrown children.

Komori suddenly fake-coughed so loud and so aggressively that he sent an entire tray of water cups crashing to the floor.

Hinata whined in his most neediest voice, “Sweets… I need you… I think my legs are cramping.”

Bokuto started sobbing. “I’m sad and I don’t know why!” he cried, face buried in his hands, voice cracking.

Atsumu flung a napkin dramatically like a flag of heartbreak and distress. 

“It’s too late,” he groaned, collapsing into Aran’s arms like he’d just been betrayed by fate itself. “She’s moved on. She’s got an Argentinean now…”

“Do you even know what country Argentina is in?” Aran asked, lugging him off.

“I—it’s the vibes, Aran!”

Suna, in all his lazy glory, just leaned back and recorded the ruckus, like this was all part of his scheme (it was).

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

You blinked at the noise and turned toward the table of chaos incarnate that was Team Japan.

“Oh no,” you sighed, half-rising from your seat. “What are they doing?”

Trays were tipped, napkins were flying, and the dining staff gave glares that could kill. 

Oikawa pouted, tugging softly at your wrist. “They’re interrupting our moment.”

“Moment?” you repeated.

He winked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice. I’m putting on my best performance.”

You flushed again. “That’s just how you always are.”

“Exactly,” he purred. “My most irresistible form.”

“Excuse me,” Suna appeared beside you, eyes sharp. “She has to come check on the team. Medical concern.”

“Looks like a ridiculous medical concern to me.”

“Looks like a real risk of cardiac distress,” Suna fired back coolly. “They miss her so much it’s affecting their vitals.”

Hinata had somehow fake-wobbled over and clutched your sleeves—something he’d do if he was absolutely, shamelessly begging for your attention. “Sweets, I’m serious! I’m physically—and emotionally—deteriorating!”

You squinted up at him. “Sho… remember when you lost your wallet in Brazil and called me sobbing because you couldn’t buy dinner?”

Hinata blinked down at you with his best kicked-puppy eyes. “...Yes.” 

You almost felt bad. Almost. 

“And who bought you food and gave you a hug in the middle of that street?”

His voice was small and ashamed. “...O-Oikawa.”

Oikawa beamed. “You hear that? I’m a hero. Feed the boy vatapá suddenly I’m his savior.”

“Okay, but I’m still dying,” Hinata whispered dramatically.

Before you could respond, Atsumu popped up behind Hinata and raised his hand. “This is emotional sabotage, is what this is. He’s weaponizin’ nostalgia!”

“I’m weaponizing chemistry,” Oikawa corrected smoothly, winking at you again. “Can’t help it if we have a connection.”

“She has a connection with all of us,” Komori huffed, finally giving up the cough and standing with hands on his hips. 

“Yeah. ‘Cause she raised us,” Aran whispered, hands clasped. “...From dehydrated, emotionally unstable boys… into slightly more hydrated, emotionally unstable men.”

“Nah. Dehydrated, emotionally unstable babies actually,” Iwaizumi grumbled. 

Oikawa gave a lazy wave toward them. “You all are so loud. Jealousy isn't a good look on Olympians, you know.”

Atsumu gasped. “I’m not jealous! I’m competitive.”

Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “You’re still this dramatic?”

“Still prettier than you,” Atsumu snapped.

“Oh?” Oikawa smirked. “You wanna battle on looks and sets?”

“Do I?!” Atsumu growled, practically leaping over Hinata to grab at Oikawa before Suna yanked him back. 

“Both of you are just insecure because she likes my tosses better,” Kageyama added.

You turned slowly. “Actually… none of you are good setters.”

Silence.

Komori covered his face to stifle a laugh. 

There was a twitch of a smirk on Ushijima. 

Sakusa let out an approving hum. 

Aran choked on his water. 

And Kageyama looked like you told him volleyballs didn't exist. 

“I—what—” he croaked, blinking rapidly, his whole body visibly malfunctioning. “You said… I’m not… but I…” He clutched his water bottle like it could stabilize his spiraling self-esteem.

“I’m kidding,” you said quickly, reaching over to pat Kageyama’s arm before he spiraled into a full-blown existential volleyball crisis. “You’re fine. Your tosses are great.”

“Fine?!”

You turned to Atsumu. “And you’re… technically a setter.”

Atsumu gasped, clutching his chest. “Technically?! I’m Japan’s best setter! I was voted MVP… M-V-fuckin’-P!”

Iwaizumi muttered into his curry, “That was back in high school… haven’t won anything in a while, huh?”

“IWA—!”

Before Atsumu could attempt to flirt his way into a redemption arc, a pity hug, or quite possibly your lap, you leaned up to card your fingers through his hair, pushing a few strands away from his eyes. “I’m kidding, silly.”

Atsumu pouted but still melted at your touch. “Ain’t funny, sweetheart.”

Meanwhile, Kageyama was still sulking next to you, mumbling about how fine was basically the same thing as meh and he didn’t dedicate his entire adolescence to training just to be called meh by you.

Oikawa laughed so hard he nearly choked. “She’s brutal. No wonder you’re all obsessed with her.”

“And you,” you began, turning to face Oikawa (because he was not off the hook), “...are sort of a setter.”

Oikawa slow-blinked, like he didn’t understand what nonsense was thrown at him. “E-excuse me, cariño... you don't mean that... right?"

Atsumu brightened up immediately, leaning in smug. “Oh, so who’s better?”

You glanced between them—Kageyama looking like a thundercloud about to strike, Atsumu wiggling his eyebrows, and Oikawa doing his stupid pretty-boy pout. 

The boys fell silent as you thought for a moment. 

“Sugawara-senpai.”

“SUGA—”

“Yes. Suga.”

"...You know, I can't even be mad about that," Kageyama murmured.

(And was that the truth because you adored Suga).

જ⁀🏐🇯🇵⁀🏐🇦🇷

[everrinsly]

a/n; dedicated to the lovely reader who gave me a toe-ring idea after sae's anklet haha, i spiraled a little but this is just soft teasing with rin

life with rin.

second toe, first thought with rin. fluff. very suggestive. fem!reader. | not proofread.

rin has a big problem with your toe ring.

more life with rin here!

more reads!

ᯓ⚽ᯓ⚽💙

The sun was kind today, bright but not blinding. Its warmth rested on your bare shoulders, like the weight of a soft blanket. The ocean glittered and whispered at the shoreline with lazy waves and the occasional cry of a seagull overhead. 

Rin had the day off, a rare thing. And what’s even rarer was he wasn’t talking about soccer or muttering about Sae. 

He was stretched out beside you on the sand, one arm folded under his head, the other lazily shielding his eyes from the sun. His shirt lay forgotten beside the towel. Sand clung faintly to his toned chest and abs, glinting gold under the sunlight. His legs were sprawled, relaxed in a way they rarely were, like his body had finally been given permission to rest.

You glanced over at him from behind your book, smiling at the rare sight of him like this—still. No cameras. No drills. No relentless self-discipline or routine. 

Just Rin. Barefoot and sun-drenched.

And staring.

It took you a second to realize it. His gaze wasn’t on your face. Or your dress—though the sheer sundress you’d thrown over your bikini left little to the imagination—flowing, light, and teasing where the fabric caught the wind. His eyes weren’t even lingering on the curve of your waist, like you might’ve expected.

No. He was staring at your feet.

More specifically… your toes.

You followed his gaze and blinked. The tiny silver toe ring on your second toe caught the sun, a dainty glint nestled against your polished nail. It was barely visible—just a simple, thin, starry band you’d slipped on last minute, not thinking twice.

But Rin was fixated.

Completely still, completely quiet… except for the slight twitch of his jaw.

You bit your lip, heart fluttering.

He hadn’t said a word. But you knew that look.

And maybe… you wanted to push it.

You curled up against him slowly, languidly, a hand pressing on the muscled pecs of his chest. Your sundress slipped over your thighs as you lifted your knees on his leg, the fabric catching in the breeze. 

Rin didn’t blink. 

Then, with the most innocent face you could manage, you stretched out your leg toward him, casually, as if adjusting your position—then brushed your toes gently against his shin.

He flinched.

Your lips curved into the softest smile. “Something wrong?”

“No.”

But his voice was tight.

Your toes continued to trail down slowly, brushing over the taut ridges of his calves, deliberately featherlight. The muscles under your touch twitched, flexed.

“You sure?” you murmured, voice almost sweet enough to pass as innocent.

You circled your toes just above his ankle, lazy and precise, watching how his jaw ticked and his brows knit. He was still trying to look composed, but his eyes were darker now, shaded and shadowed with want. 

One more push…

Your hand moved down slowly from his pecs to his torso, just softly brushing. Your fingers met bare skin—warm, sun-kissed, and drawn tight with tension. You started at the base of his abs, fingertips trailing along the groove between each muscle with a softness that made Rin visibly freeze.

You dragged your hand upward, mapping every ridge, every dip in the defined landscape of him. You didn’t rush—just savored it, watching the way his body responded. His breath faltered when you brushed just beneath his ribcage. His stomach tensed under your palm, like he was holding back more than he was letting on. Your hands paused at the waistband of his shorts—innocently. Lightly. Until you applied the barest hint of pressure.

His breath hitched.

You giggled, a little breathy, a little smug. “I didn’t think you were into feet, Rin.”

“I’m not,” he muttered, eyes snapping to yours.

You raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you so red?”

He glared. Or tried to. But his composure was unraveling by the second, and the tension in his shoulders betrayed him.

“It’s just—” he said, but cut himself off.

“Just?” you teased, voice barely above a whisper. You wiggled your toes against him again, featherlight against the muscle of his calf. “It’s just a toe ring.”

“It’s not just a toe ring,” he said, almost like he hated admitting it. “It’s you. Wearing that. Acting like you don’t know what you’re doing.”

You tilted your head, playing innocent. “So I’m the problem?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and shaky, a little frustrated. Maybe flustered. Definitely turned on. Barely holding it together. 

And then, in one smooth, fluid motion, he leaned up and shifted.

With an effortless pull and a twist of his hips, he dragged you forward—off your towel, off balance—until you were straddling his lap, legs on either side of him, your sheer sundress fanned out between you. You barely had time to blink, let alone protest. The heat of his body pressed against yours, solid and unmistakably tense beneath your thighs.

His hand trailed down your thighs to grip your ankle—not rough, but firm, grounding. You gasped softly.

“You keep teasing me like that,” he murmured, voice low, “and I’m going to forget we’re in public.”

Your breath caught. “Rin—”

“I’m serious.”

His eyes dragged over you slowly—up your leg, your thigh, your dress clinging to every curve, your face flushed and bright in the sun.

“Next time,” he added, thumb brushing against your ankle bone, “don’t wear the ring unless you want me to stare.”

You swallowed.

“Maybe I do want you to stare.”

His gaze snapped to yours.

A long, charged silence.

Then Rin leaned in, brushing his lips against yours—so softly you barely felt it. But the intent was all there. Heavy. Dangerous. 

“Fuckin’ brat,” he muttered.

[everrinsly]

a/n; i always have haikyuu in mind but it ends up working for blue lock hehe, for the constipated bois

more reads!

hair twirls because you sound like home. fluff. fem!reader. | not proofread.

he's never been good with words... or showing any bit of emotion... but he cares more than you know.

♡ For all your favorite (emotionally-constipated) pro athletes.

જ⁀🏐ᯓ⚽⋆⭒˚.⋆

The apartment hummed with the soft, familiar sound of the AC—a comforting buzz, the telltale sign of summer. The TV was on, playing something neither of you were watching—low-volume anime reruns for background color, mostly. The living room light was dim, the kind of lazy golden glow that made shadows stretch long and everything feel slower, warmer, sleepier.

You were leaned up next to him on the couch, not quite cuddling, but not exactly not either. One of his muscled thighs pressed against yours, solid and warm under the soft blanket draped across your legs. His arm was resting behind you, dangling off the back of the couch, casual and heavy—a soft brush from his fingertips against your shoulders here and there. 

You didn’t mean to fall into this pattern with him. Not really.

It was just another Thursday. You'd both come home late—him from a brutal scrimmage and you from a shift that dragged on with cranky co-workers and aggressive patients. But somehow, every night, you both ended up here—on the couch, side by side, his shoulder brushing yours like clockwork. This quiet was your favorite part.

You were talking. Again. You always did this, filling the silence with the small things from your day, even though you were pretty sure he only half-listened most of the time. Not because he didn’t care, but because… he was… just like that. Quiet and unreadable. You’d stopped expecting big reactions from him a long time ago, but you still loved him all the same. 

“And then I told him,” you said, unconsciously curling into his chest, “no, I can’t just switch out the saline bag with Dr Pepper. Obviously. Like that’s what got you here in the first place.”

You trailed off a little, a small laugh slipping through. He didn’t say anything, of course. That wasn’t surprising. He never really interrupted when you talked. Just sat there, still and quiet, his expression blank in that way he always wore like armor. Flat brows, bored eyes, lips barely curved—like everything filtered through him on a five-second delay.

Sometimes you wondered if he even listened. Sometimes you told yourself it didn’t really matter.

You liked filling the silence. And you liked filling it with him.

But tonight, something different flickered in the corner of your eye.

You noticed his free hand start to move—almost absentmindedly, reaching out to catch a strand of your hair between his fingers.

He started twirling it.

The gesture was quiet, unhurried. His fingers curled around the strand, slow and loose—wrapping it around one long finger, then letting it fall, then curling again.

Your heart immediately stuttered.

He always did this. Never said why. Never asked if he could. But every so often, in moments like this—where it was just you and him, on the couch, on train rides to his games, even during a team dinner when you sat beside him and the room was loud and your eyes were bleary—he’d just start toying with your hair. Like a habit.

You didn’t dare look at him again. You felt the heat bloom under your skin slowly, like a kettle on low. The soft brush of his knuckles against your neck, his finger curling a little closer to your ear now, made you shift a little. Not away, never away, just… smaller. 

He was still quiet. Of course he was.

You finally peeked at him.

He was looking right at you.

Not intensely. Not in a way that most people would even notice. His eyes were the same as always—hooded, lazy, and tired—but he was watching you, steady and unblinking. His head was slightly tilted, cheek against the back of the couch, like he wasn’t even trying to pretend he wasn’t staring.

And he still hadn’t stopped twirling your hair.

You froze a little, mid-sentence about another part of your day. “What?” you said, the word much too soft, a little breathless.

“Nothing,” he said, voice low. He blinked once, but didn’t look away. “Keep talking.”

You stared at him, flush rising up your cheeks, and then down at the strand of hair between his fingers.

“I—uh—forgot what I was saying,” you mumbled, suddenly hyper-aware of every single inch of your body and how close it was to his. How he always smelled a little musky, like eucalyptus, lemon, and his natural sweat after practice. How you weren’t wearing makeup and your socks didn’t match and your hoodie had chocolate on the sleeve from earlier, and—

Then, without moving the rest of his body, he brought the strand of hair he was twirling up… and kissed it.

A tiny, soft thing. Featherlight. Barely a press of his lips. But it was there. It was intentional. And it made your whole body seize with static. 

You stared at him, speechless.

He twirled the strand one more time before dropping it gently, hand lowering back in his lap like nothing happened—like your whole heart hadn’t just collapsed in on itself.

“I liked that part,” he said flatly. “You fighting with a Dr Pepper-addict.”

You let out a tiny chuckle. “That was, like, five minutes ago.”

“Yeah.”

You were blushing so hard it made your eyes feel hot. “You were listening?”

He glanced back at the TV. “Mm.”

You gave him a look. “You know, sometimes you look like you're waiting for me to shut up.”

“That’s just my face.”

You huffed a laugh, cheeks still burning.

“I listen,” he said, cutting you off before you could spiral deeper into flustered (and overthinking) territory. “Like your voice… like hearing you talk.” 

You stared at him again. It wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t romantic. It was just so… him. Honest and whole in the way only he knew how to be.

You whispered, “You do?”

He nodded once, barely perceptible. “You sound like home.”

[everrinsly]

haikyuu!! | suna rintarou.

includes all things suna! vibes are cozy, happy, safe... because when you're with suna, he treats you like his world.

broken promise with suna. slight angst.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱you wear atsumu's jersey when you promised suna you'll wear his.

pictures with suna. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱suna needs a picture of you for safekeeping.

burn the whole league with suna. fluff. slight angst. (♡ special to me)

જ⁀🏐🖤📱suna is known as a slow-starter in the league, but you think... he's a slow-burn (college era!suna getting grilled by reporters and ejp raijin!suna wining it all).

rings off, tape on with suna. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱you help suna take off his rings and tape his fingers before his game.

scrunchies, claw clips, and minor confessions. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱when he accidentally has your scrunchie and claw clip during a press interview (dedicated to your favorite emotionally-constipated pro athletes).

good mouth, pretty lips with suna. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱suna fixes your lipstick for you while being a tease.

hair twirls because you sound like home. fluff.

જ⁀🏐🖤📱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⁀🏐🖤📱where he peels you an orange and feeds you a slice (dedicated to your favorite emotionally-constipated pro athletes).

kiss it better... with salonpas with suna. fluff. (♡ special to me)

જ⁀🏐🖤📱post-game!suna is exhausted... and needy for salonpas, your touch, and maybe a kiss?

by your belt loops. fluff. (♡ special to me)

જ⁀🏐🖤📱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⁀🏐🖤📱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).