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[luvsickstqr]

One of the cutest commissions I've worked on so far ✨️🤭

[luvsickstqr]

STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuity, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss. 

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, callused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breath is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounce tent in straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight of it, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides into your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass long gone as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up you body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the say. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[luvsickstqr]

melted - falling in love through the season and popsicles // wc: 4.2k // pairing: atsumu x reader // content: hurt/comfort, happy ending i promise, perceived one sided pining, two idiots in love, car rides, watching the sunrise with your favorite person

It was like every other summer, hot, humid, and more time together than was necessary. The air clinging to their skin and leaving a glistening, sticky, residue in the place. “Come on,” Atsumu whines as he pulls her by her sleeve. Her eyes roll as she tries to remember why she even agreed to leave the nice air conditioning of her apartment. “They’ll sell out if we don’t hurry.” Ah, popsicles. 

“It’s not that serious ‘Tsumu, we can get some tomorrow!” It’s hot and the fabric of her shirt is starting to chafe around the collar, leaving behind small red marks. 

“Please,” that’s all it usually takes. A simple plea and tug on her sleeve. He knows he’s got her when she lets out a sigh and the tautness on her sleeve lessens a bit, with a satisfied smile he turns back around. One thing about Atsumu is that he’s terrible at following directions, on a map, in class, at home when his mom gives him chores, point is; Atsumu is terrible with directions. “So,” he starts as the two of you are seated on a short concrete wall, the sun beginning to fall behind the hills and mountains. 

“No.” She crosses her arms and kicks a stone by her feet, “you got us lost.”

“In my defense,” he stops when he looks at her face. Their shirts cling to them even as the night air begins to cool them off. Her brows are furrowed and her eyes are narrowed, his eyes are drawn to the way her hair sticks to her skin. With a gentle graze he tucks the strand behind her ear. “I’m sorry.” His hand lingers for a moment and she almost misses the warmth when he finally pulls it away with a sharp breath. He balls his hand into a fist and sets it in his lap, like he’s afraid of what will happen if he unfurls it.

“It’s okay ‘Tsumu,” she’s not sure why she’s unable to look at him anymore. Her eyes never able to trail up from his lips when he talks. It’s normal. Don’t think too hard, it’s what she’s lived by since becoming friends with him. If you think too hard about why you do things or why he does things it will destroy the dance they have. Never notice and everything is fine. “We can get popsicles another time.” 

Crickets chirp and small imprints from the concrete start to form on their hands. “Home?” She shakes her head as she leans it against his shoulder. 

“Not yet, let’s stay like this just a little longer.” It’s whispered against his skin as she hides her face in his neck. He pulls her closer as his arm wraps around her, he hopes she can’t hear his heartbeat like he can. His ears and neck burning and making him feel like a fool, that’s okay if he could be her fool. 

“As long as you want.” He would sit with her until the last star in the sky burned out and the ground beneath their feet turned to dust. As long as it was with her. Dusk soon turns to night, the sky filling with an inky blue, small dots of stars filtering across the canvas of the night. His thumb brushes her shoulder and he’s unsure why, but he begins to hum. Her eyelashes flutter against his neck before she closes them again and he can feel the faint tug of a smile at her mouth. They stay like that until much, much later in the night. 

As the bugs buzz and the wind brushes their skin he looks towards the sky, he knows this wouldn’t feel the same without her. Wouldn’t feel so warm. He carefully begins moving the two of them, arm under her legs and around her back as he picks her up. He shushes her gently and pauses his movements as she stirs. “Don’t worry cutie, just going home.” 

“Already home,” she mumbles softly against his skin and he knows it’s not just her breath making her feel warm. He can’t think too hard about that, he lets out a shaky breath and makes his way through no longer crowded streets and towards the train station. They get stares as he goes past, the eyes burning holes into him as he carries her. He tries his best to ignore the glances and passing comments about how much they look like lovers. He knows they can’t be that, they can never be that. He ignores the sting in his heart as he sets her down on the seat of the train and sits beside her. 

He goes through the usual motions, her falling asleep on him more often than he tells her. As he tucks her into bed he wonders if this is as close as he’ll ever be to her. “Good night,” the words are whispered gently against her skin as his lips barely graze the surface. This is the only part of her that he will ever kiss, that he will ever be able to kiss. Even then, he’s sure it’s too much. That he’s taking more than he should allow himself to have. She’s not really his and he’s not really hers despite what passersby think. “Sleep well,” he locks the door behind him and makes the familiar trek back to his own bed. It’s cold and too big for only him. He closes his eyes and dreams of her as hot air fills the corners of his room while he’s still cold. 

It was like every other summer, hot, humid, and him loving her despite her not loving him. 

As the leaves changed so did they, getting older, bolder, feelings hidden like a flower bud not yet bloomed. Atsumu isn’t stupid, no matter what his brother might say, he’s aware of the heat in his ears and the loud pounding in his chest. They didn’t end up getting popsicles that summer, too busy and not enough time. “I’m leaving for college soon, and you’re going pro,” her words don’t leave behind the inevitability of the future. 

“I’ll never be too far, just one hour between us.” His shoulder bumps hers and he enjoy the smile that plays on her lips from the action. 

“I think that’s the farthest apart we’ve been since,” she lets out a puff of air as she thinks. The quilt beneath her hands keeping them off the morning dew from the grass, “ around middle school right? I moved away for like two months–” he cuts her off.

“But you wouldn’t stop crying about how you missed me and you got your parents to let you move in with me and ‘Samu. Ma was so happy to have you there,” the memory still feels fresh even though years have passed since then. 

“I was happy to be there,” she stretches her legs across his and his hand comes down over them. “Strawberry?” He opens his mouth and leans closer, he hated strawberries. The texture felt all wrong but he would take anything if it was offered from her hand. It hits his lips like ambrosia, the texture not forefront in his brain as the tips of her fingers lightly graze his lips. He can still feel the warmth linger long after he swallows the bite of fruit. 

“We could do that again.” His thumb makes gentle circles on her ankle and she throws him a look. 

“What? Me live with your ma again? I don’t think that will work,” she laughs.

“No, we could. I mean, we could get somewhere in the middle. The we wouldn’t be an hour apart.” She hums in response and he really hopes she’ll agree.

“I think it will be good for us, to be apart for a little bit.” His heart drops like the leaves from trees. “I love you, I just think it will be good not to spend every waking moment together. I might get a little too codependent. How are you supposed to find a girlfriend if I’m always around?” 

“Ohhh, I see.” He squeezes her ankle lightly. “You’re scared I’ll chase all the boys away. You’ve found out my dastardly plan!” They both laugh and even in the autumn chill it makes him warm like a spring breeze. 

“And?” She knows what’s about to happen, feels him shift under her legs. A smile already on her face, he moves slowly to allow her to adjust. He can feel her warm skin under his hands as he leans over her. 

“You hate me, you won’t get to go until you say you don’t hate me.” He smiles and she giggles as he tickles her.

“Come on! ‘Tsumu, this isn’t fair!” She says between laughs and tries to squirm out of his grasp. 

“You know what to say!” He laughs and continues his onslaught. 

“Fine! Fine! I give,” he stops as she tries to catch her breath. Both of their faces are red and her chest rapidly rises and falls. “I could never hate you.”

“I could never hate you either, glad you’ve come to your senses.” 

“I never said I hated you in the first place.”

“You don’t want to live with me and that’s basically the same thing.” She gives him a look and he groans as he lets her up. Her hand finds its way to his face and he leans into the touch. 

“I’m not going to replace you, I could never. I want to get the full college experience. Live in a dorm for a bit and be the awkward new kid that doesn’t know anyone.” He huffs and she laughs and pushes his bangs back from his eyes. “Stop pouting you big baby, like you said, it’s only an hour. How about this, we can have dinner every week together.”

“I’ll…miss you.” It’s quiet, said like a whisper on the wind.

“I’ll miss you too. Let’s enjoy the rest of our picnic.” He nods and they watch at the suns rises higher and higher into the sky. The dew on the grass begins to dry and the food from the basket lessens. 

“You won’t forget me?” Something quivers in the way he says it, makes her chest tighten and she moves. He almost winces at the loss of her movement before he feels her head on his shoulder and her side pressed to his. Her hand rests next to his on the blanket and their pinkies graze each other. 

“I could never,” he feels her finger twitch but refuses to look down. He can’t acknowledge or ask for more than she allows. His heart aches, she’s so close but feels just out of reach. A dandelion he wishes on and then misses the petals when they’re all blown away. He should let her go, he can’t, she’s wrapped herself around his heart and no one else will ever be able to be there again. “You’re too important.” 

Her hand slowly moves over, some of their fingers now overlapping. His breath gets caught in his throat as her hand sits on top of his. “I’ll help you pack, let me know what else you need.” 

“Just this, for a little longer.” He would do anything she asked. As the leaves fell and the wind got colder they sat there. They couldn’t hold onto this moment forever, like the changing seasons it would have to end. 

They got older and eventually the leaves all fell off the trees. The wind grew brisker and they both moved away from the place they met. Winter felt harsher than usual without the warmth of the other. 

The phone calls are few and far between as they get busier. Their relationship feels like the autumn leaves, changing and falling as time goes on. Love has always been a funny word to her. She’s said it plenty of times and believes she has been in love…but she’s not sure how she would define it. 

Her homework feels as though it’s staring at her, the words on the page disorienting. A simple questionnaire has reduced her to this. 

‘13. How do you define love?’ 

How do you define something you’re not sure has a definite answer? She’s spent most of her life running from that very answer. She’s a coward. If she stops to think about it for more than a second it will send her on a spiral. She puts down one sentence.

‘ A snaggletooth smile and bangs brushing the eyelashes of one eye. ‘

Unsure of where the answer comes from she goes to the next. It feels right and there’s no need to think longer than necessary on such silly things. When her phone buzzes against the table she uses it as an excuse for a break. 

“Hello?” 

“Come outside,” she rolls her eyes at the familiar voice. She can already picture him, one snaggletooth poking out of his mouth and his bangs brushing his eyelashes of his right eye. She knows he forgot his jacket, probably shivering and in short sleeves. 

“Okay stupid, I’ll be out soon.” Looking out from her window she can see him, exactly as she thought. Short sleeves and his hands cupped and up to his mouth as his skin grows red in irritation from the cold. She grabs two jackets and rushes downstairs. “I knew you would forget a jacket.” She wraps the fabric around his shoulders.

“And I knew you would have one for me.” He sounds too smug about it. Her warm hands wrap around his cold ones and she brings them to her mouth. Her lips brush his knuckles before cupping them and trying to warm them up. He’s grateful that the air has already made his ears burn.

“Your hands are cold,” she looks up at him and rubs his hands. “How long have you been out here?” His heart leaps to his throat. 

“As long as it took—“ he shakes his head and clears his throat. “Not long, maybe a few minutes?” 

“Come inside with me.” His feet move before he’s aware of the action. She stuffs their clasped hands into her pocket as they climb the stairs to her dorm room. She shucks her coat off and hangs it on the rack before helping him out of his.

“Why do you have a coat in my size?”

“Because it’s your coat.” She decides not to mention how it’s her usual coat. A little part of home while she’s away. She smiles knowing it will smell of cinnamon and oak for the next few days. It will smell like him, like home. 

He can’t help but look around. Notice how photos of the two of them litter every inch of the room, how trinkets he’s given her over the years show up in every corner. The poorly made pillow he made in home ec now sits on her bed, clearly used and clearly mended by someone with better sewing skills. The fairy lights he bought her and strung around the door, welcoming you when you first come in, the rose quartz he got her sits at her desk next to her computer. He’s in her life despite not being around. 

“Sit down,” she motions across from her on the bed as she sits at the head. The mattress dips as he sits down and faces her. “I’ve missed you.” It’s not a secret, neither of them are surprised. 

“I’ve missed you too.” It’s a promise. One beneath the words. “I got an apartment.”

“Finally found one?” Their knees brush together as she leans closer.

“Yeah, it’s got two rooms.” One for me and one for you, he decides not to mention. He’s painted the walls her favorite color and put her name on a sign for the door. It’s her room in his house. 

“That’ll be nice.” One for me. She’s not stupid, she knows him and she knows her. He didn’t get two rooms out of convenience, it’s for her…for whenever she’s ready. 

“How’s school?”

“Don’t worry, no boys. I’ve been too packed with homework.” It calms him, relaxes his worries. “How are you?”

“Too many parties to go to and not enough time for sleep.” There’s a dull ache in her chest at the realization that he’s not really hers and she can’t be mad. He knows it hurt, saw the subtle change in her expression and he’s not sure why he said it. Just because he can’t move on doesn’t mean he should hurt her. “Haven’t found anyone, just…getting to know the team and some of them like to party.” 

He hasn’t found anyone, there’s still time. She turns her head to look out the window and he finds himself doing the same. “The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” His eyes trace the curves of her face, watch how her lips curl around the words. She’s beautiful. 

“Yeah…it is.” They know the question isn’t about the moon. For now, they can pretend it is. Two cowards sitting on a too small bed while their knees hit. Once his eyes look back out the window he watches as snowflakes cascade down from the sky. There’s a weight in his arms as she wraps herself up in him. Her arms around his middle and her head on his chest. “I have to—“

“I know you have to go soon.” She almost chokes on the words. “But we can stay like this, right? For just a little bit longer?”

“Of course,” anything for you. 

The snow falls and their warmth is shared. The winter apart isn’t the same as it used to be. Feelings are left alone and the moon is beautiful as their eyes trace each other. The first snowfall of their first winter apart. 

New beginnings and cool breezes. Spring brings challenges they hadn’t thought of months ago back when every moment was with the other. The chill of winter is now only present in the breeze and their hearts. 

It’s cruel. Asking the other to stay when they don’t actually belong to them. ‘Just a little longer’ is what they’ll reason and because they’re so desperate to pretend the line isn’t blurred they agree and don’t speak of it. Flowers never bloom if you water them too much. 

The jacket (she’s taken to calling it the instead of his) has stopped smelling of cinnamon and oak. There’s no need for a jacket but unlike her other winter clothes, this stays in the front of her closet. Neither of them have spoken about the moon since that night, haven’t held each other close and admitted it meant something more. While the seasons may change they’re still two cowards. 

“Could you come over today?”

“I mean I can, but why?”

“Don’t make me say it,” she mumbles into her phone and she wonders if he didn’t hear her. A small, breathy, chuckle goes through the phone and filters out the static of her head.

“Please?”

“Fine, you’re so stupid oh my god. I can’t believe I actually—“ she cuts herself off with a groan. A hand moves up to pinch the bridge of her nose. “I miss you. I want you to come over because I miss you.” My pillows don’t smell like you anymore and it’s making it hard to sleep. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“You wouldn’t miss me so much if you just moved in with me.”

“Can we talk about it when you get here?”

“Of course cutie, I’ll be there soon.” They stay on the phone as he goes to her. Not much is said, idle chatter, trees rustling at their now blooming foliage, the sound of his shoes on the pavement: she ends up falling asleep.

She doesn’t stir as he unlocks her door, sets his keys in the dish (one he bought her months ago after getting tired of hearing her complain), it’s chipped from one drunk night they barely even remember. She finally starts slowly waking up when he lays down next to her and places his hand on her face. “Good morning cutie, have a nice nap?”

“So tired,” he chuckles as she moves closer to him and buries her face in the crook of his neck. He can hear his heartbeat thrum in his ears and hopes she can’t feel it where it pulses beneath her lips. 

“Go back to sleep baby, I’ll still be here when you get up.” It doesn’t take long until she falls asleep. Many restless nights came to a head in his presence. His hand rakes through her hair and he tries to calm his racing heart. “I love you,” he whispers softly against the crown of her head. It’s the best and worst kept secret he’s ever had, obvious like a budding flower but hidden like the petals. Love is in his very actions and he’s not sure he could stop if he wanted to. She’s just…so easy to love. He can stay…just a little bit longer. 

Spring is fleeting as the heat of summer rolls around again. The promise of popsicles once again in the air. Like all summers, it’s hot, humid, and they’re spending time together. They never had gotten the popsicles that day, too much crowding their thoughts. 

Her glass is wet when she picks it up, her feet touching the smooth wood of her balcony. She takes a drink anyway as the hues of midnight black shift lighter. The water is cool against her throat. It soothes the burning and dulls the aches. She knows her eyes are red and puffy. It’s not horrible loving Atsumu Miya. It’s horrible that she doesn’t believe he’ll love her back. 

He’s been her constant for so long she’s scared of if the thread will finally snap. She’s being silly, she knows she is. Of course he loves her but there’s still a part of her brain that won’t believe it. Without thinking she grabs her phone from her pocket and clicks on the familiar contact. It barely rings twice before she’s greeted with his gruff voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi.” It’s small, it’s simple; it’s enough.

“Cutie,” she can hear the way his voice softens, how it smooths around the edges. “Is something wrong?”

“I need to see you, I’m too in my head right now.” It’s almost funny. Calling the person who is the cause of her racing thoughts and now dried tears. 

“I’ll be there in fifteen, do you want me to stay on the phone?”

“Yes.” He is her comfort, her gentle breeze on a hot summer day. They don’t talk, it’s enough to know he’s there. She watches as his car pulls into a parking space before he gets out and looks up at her.

“Do I need to ask Rapunzel to let down her hair?”

“No need Ryder, the princess will come down on her own.” He’s already made her smile. Loving him isn’t as simple as breathing, it’s something she makes a choice to do every day. She chooses to love him because of all the qualities that annoy her and all the ones that endear her. 

“Preferably without a frying pan please,” he jokes again and if she closes her eyes she can already see his lopsided smile. 

His arms immediately engulf her when she’s close enough. She takes a deep breath and wraps her arms around him, almost afraid to let go. “Can we watch the sunrise?”

“Of course, anything for my girl.” She wishes she were. It’s as simple as asking but it’s gone unsaid for so long she’s afraid. He opens her door for her and buckles her seatbelt with a gentle kiss to her forehead and she ignores how her cheeks burn.

“Thank you.”

“No need for that, come on cutie, who do you take me for?” He mocks offense and leans over the center console with a grin. She wants to kiss him, her hand covers his mouth and pushes him away before she gets the chance. “I know the perfect spot,” he shakes it off easily. 

The crickets chirp and you can almost hear the heat as their clothes begin to stick to them. The grass itches their legs and leaves behind small red rashes. Her head leans on his shoulder and everything feels okay again. 

“You’re never this quiet when something bothers you.” It’s gentle, so i like the brash nature the public is used to. “What’s wrong?”

“The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He answers without a second thought. “Do you mean it this time— in the way I want you to?”

“Yes.” His hand cups her face and tilts her head upward. It’s so simple. So…them, it’s a confession amongst the tall grass and the cattails as grasshoppers and dragonflies touch the water. It’s perfect because it’s them. 

As the sun rises and bounces off the pond he touches their foreheads together. “Can I finally kiss you?”

“I would be upset if you didn’t.” The kiss is sloppy, teeth clashing together and laughter causing breaks. It’s imperfect and reminds them of younger years. 

“How long are we staying here?” She asks after they rolled in the grass. Her head turns to him and she knows she was right. She defines love as  a snaggletooth smile and bangs brushing the eyelashes of one eye. She defines love as him.

“Just a little longer,” he responds and wraps his arm around her shoulders. 

It was like every other summer, hot, humid, but two cowards finally admitted their love.

gen taglist (fill out this form) @tansypansydandy @phoenix-eclipses @h-llsp-wn @megapteraurelia @nomyimi @ottocre @xiaoquanquans @yatoatyourservice @avis-writeshq @fweakygyatt @moochiwoochi

ah! okay, i know it's a little late but this is a gift for @piftamere i hope you enjoy this!!! i don't think i'm very good at writing for atsumu so sorry lovely but i hope you enjoy nonetheless !!! <3

this is in part with @sodaneko's summer gift exchange so i thought it only right for it to end in summer. anyways i've talked too much <3

if you enjoyed consider liking, reblogging, leaving a comment, or sending an ask <3

masterlist

[luvsickstqr]

you don’t know what you’re doing to me

kita x f!reader oneshot

tw: none !!

・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥・❥

you don’t think much of him at first.

he’s quiet, intimidatingly so—but in the way old souls are. he’s always perfectly dressed, always prepared, always ready for whatever’s to come. he’s too calm to seem seventeen. you see him in the halls most mornings, standing just beyond the school gate in his pristine uniform, shoulders square, gaze straight. determined.

that’s kita shinsuke.

and he’s watching you like you’re something worth figuring out. it’s not rude, it’s not often either. but it’s enough for you to notice. and when you do notice—well, it’s hard not to see it everywhere.

how his gaze lingers when you’ll ask questions during class. or when he holds doors for you just a beat longer than others. how on rainy days, he’ll gaze down at your shoes like he’s contemplating whether or not to offer his umbrella.

he does, eventually.

because he’s kita shinsuke.

you’re new here. a foreign exchange student, to be exact. fresh out of your comfort zone and practically halfway across the world, but you recognize curiosity when you see it.

what you don’t know is why you’re receiving it.

kita doesn’t speak to you much. not directly, at least. you can feel him watching, though. when you laugh too loudly with classmates, when you struggle to read kanji on the chalkboard, or when you mutter apologies for accidentally knocking the lunch tray into the bin.

he’s always just a few steps away, always noticing, always.. quiet.

you don’t know he memorized your name the first time he heard it. or when he went home and wrote it out over and over in the corner of a scrap sheet until he perfected it.

you don’t know that he looked up how far your home country is from japan. that he wondered if maybe your family missed you. that he asked his grandmother what kind of foods were made where you came from, or how he tried (and unfortunately failed) to cook one of them himself.

you don’t know every time you smile at someone else, he feels a little sick and he’s not sure why. or that you’ve taken up so much space in his head he’s started to dream about you.

he doesn’t know what to do with it, so he does what he always does: observes.. silently. like you’re something fragile. or dangerous. or both?

on the afternoon of a chilly october, you’re walking home, bundled in all kinds of wool to keep you from freezing. you’re about to cross the street when you hear a soft, elderly voice behind you.

“dear? would you mind helping me cross?”

you turn around, gaze meeting a tiny old woman wrapped in a thick coat, squinting at the light. her cane trembles slightly in her grip.

“of course,” you say, immediately stepping forward to help. she takes your hand without hesitation, her fingers small and frail. as you help her cross, she talks about the weather, the rice harvest, and how her grandson always forgets to wear socks when it rains.

you smile through it all, nodding and listening. she doesn’t ask where you’re from, or fumble over your name. just.. chats.

once you reach the other side of the crosswalk, she reaches out to pat your head affectionately. “such good manners,” she coos, “you’ll make a fine wife someday.”

you laugh, cheeks warm—either from her compliment, or the chilly breeze. “that’s very sweet.”

and as she trots off down the sidewalk, you turn to keep walking as well, only to see a familiar figure standing just a few meters away.

kita—still, silent, his eyes wide. you freeze, and he doesn’t say anything. he just stares at you, at your hand, where the old woman had just held it. then back at your face. he looks almost stunned.

but then, he bows, turns, and walks away.

what was that about?

you don’t know it, but that was kita’s grandmother. and kita doesn’t know it yet, but that’s the moment he realizes—you’re it.

you’re the one. you’ve been the one.

and now, he needs to do something about it. quick.

he doesn’t sleep that night, but he tries. he goes through his normal routine: brushing his teeth, ironing and refolding his uniform, checking his alarm clock, but his thoughts keep circling.

he can’t forget how you smiled at his grandmother, how gently you held her arm, or how you nodded so patiently with every sentence she spoke.

then he starts to think of all the things he’s noticed about you the past few months after you joined. how you stack your notebooks in perfect order, how you always double-check the classroom trash bins before you leave, how you lend your eraser to other classmates who forget theirs without being asked.

you’re a good person.

really good.

he’s known for awhile, but seeing you like that—especially with someone he loves—made it real. you’re the kind of person he could trust with anything. the kind he could see beside him. the kind he could marry. the thought makes his ears burn, but he doesn’t laugh.

he doesn’t doubt.

he just lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, and quietly wonders: how do i tell her i want to marry her without sounding insane? he really doesn’t know. so instead, he decides to tell you anyway.

the next morning, you find him waiting outside the school gate. this time though, he doesn’t pretend to check his watch or fix his sleeve. his eyes are trained on you. your heart stutters a little, and you don’t know why.

“good morning,” you offer, trying not to sound as nervous as you feel.

“good morning,” he replies. then, a pause. “i saw you yesterday.”

your brows furrow, head tilting. “yesterday?” you try to recall, but nothing comes to mind.

he nods, “yesterday. i saw you helping that woman across the street.”

“ah,” you laugh nervously, “that? she was your grandmother, wasn’t she?”

he nods once again. “she likes you.”

you swallow. hard. you look up at him slowly, and this time, he doesn’t look away. even if his ears burn. he just looks nervous.

and then—“will you marry me?” he says it like he’s checking the weather or something.

you blink.

a beat passes, and you open your mouth. nothing comes out. “i..”

he clears his throat, gaze flitting away from you just for a moment. “i mean,” he starts quietly, “not now. we’re still in school. i’m not asking for anything serious. i just.. wanted to say it. i wanted you to know.”

“..know what?” you feel almost afraid to ask it, but you do.

he lets out a soft exhale, looking down at you. “that i’ve been watching you. that i admire you. that.. you’re someone i’d want to build a life with.”

you can feel your eyes starting to sting.

“that i think,” he adds, voice barely a whisper, “you might be the one.”

then, a long silence he doesn’t fill. he just stands there, the wind messing up his usually clean uniform, waiting for you to say something, anything.

you finally manage: “kita..”

he gives you the smallest, saddest smile you’ve ever seen. “it’s okay. you don’t have to make you’re mind up now.” then, as calmly as he arrived, he turns and walks into school.

and he leaves you standing there, your throat too constricted to speak, knees a little weak, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’s right.

i really enjoyed making this one actually

i’d imagine kita is pretty bad at handling his feelings for someone soo there you go !!

[luvsickstqr]

Crazy | Osamu x Reader

Ft. Atsumu

Atsumu feels like he’s going crazy.

“I swear to you, they are,” he says, trying his best to keep his composure despite his teammates’ growing, and annoying disinterest.

“I don’t know,” Hinata replies, polite but impartial. “Osamu doesn’t seem like that kinda guy.”

“We’re twins, so I’m telling ya right now, he can be just as bad as me.” Atsumu huffs, crossing his arms as Hinata raises an eyebrow.

There’s only a beat of silence before it suddenly hits him that he’s just badmouthed himself. He flushes before mumbling, “Forget it. Sorry for bothering ya.”

Before he can change the topic, Hinata stops him with a hesitant hand on his arm.

“Wait, wait, hold on. Just, start over from the beginning,” Hinata says, a little awkward but well-meaning. “Why do you think your brother is dating his only employee?”

‘There are too many damn reasons.’ Is Atsumu’s first thought, and the same one he swallows down as he forces himself to mirror Hinata’s earlier thoughtfulness.

“He’s so nice now,” Atsumu says, scowling. He thinks back to all the times he and Osamu used to go at it over the smallest things.

Hinata laughs, clearly amused. “Yeah, but he’s always been the nicer twin.”

“Yeah well, not like this,” Atsumu grumbles, thinking back to your first day at the restaurant.

When he met you, Osamu’s first ever employee, there wasn’t any of the weird tension between you and his brother that he could feel now. He was just your boss and you were just his employee, both professional and still a little awkward around each other.

“You sure know how to pick ‘em.” Atsumu had joked, your looks having been one of the first things he noticed.

“Shut it.” Osamu grumbled, clearly overwhelmed having to train someone new when he’d barely figured out what he was doing himself.

Atsumu had found it endlessly amusing watching his brother struggle to share his personal space. He needed the help, desperately, but it also meant letting someone else into his kitchen and by association, life.

For your first day, you did incredible. Seriously, if Atsumu hadn’t been there to witness himself he would’ve never believed someone could hold themselves together so well. The more Osamu seemed to crumble, the more you pulled it together: a true dream team.

“Please keep takin’ care of him.” Atsumu had teased, jokingly bowing before saying his goodbyes and leaving you both to finish up your work. Back then, he was completely clueless to the chemistry brewing between you and his brother; one that went beyond the workplace.

-

The first real hint he picked up on was an inside joke. Honestly, he doesn’t even remember the punchline, just how he felt seeing the two of you laugh without him. He was having a quick lunch and paused mid-chew, glancing over at his brother with an expectant look.

“It’s nothing.” Osamu tells him, and the way he’s still smiling like some kinda idiot confuses him more than irritates him. Still, he brushes it off then because it is nothing. Or at least, it was. Until it became two, then three, and then a whole bunch of ‘jokes’ he couldn’t wrap his head around and ‘Samu still refused to explain.

“They have like, inside jokes.” Atsumu grumbled and Hinata laughs.

“The whole team has inside jokes.” He says, rationalizing what he clearly sees as Atsumu’s irrationality almost effortlessly.

“No it’s different, it’s not platonic like us.” He explains, motioning between the two of them as if to emphasize his point.

The two of them had grown pretty close, whether it was because of their positions as setter and spiker or their personalities was anyone’s guess. Regardless, his innocent friendship with Shoyo wasn’t anything like whatever the hell was going on between you and his brother.

He suddenly starts to reminisce on all the different occasions he had stopped by and gotten a glimpse of your blossoming bond.

-

He was only at the restaurant because Ma asked him to drop off some paperwork for Osamu, something about taxes but he hadn’t bother too much with the details. He figures he’ll get a free onigiri out of it, so he’s not complaining.

It’s slow when he walks in. Just a couple people left, it’s the tail end of the lunch rush going into the dead hours. He spots you behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, laughing at something Osamu’s saying in that all-too-familiar voice Atsumu grew up listening to.

He’s halfway to tossing the folder onto the nearest table when he hears it:

“Don’t forget about your grandma’s pickled onions,” you call over your shoulder, casual as anything.

Atsumu freezes mid-step.

You don’t even notice him, just mindlessly wipe down the counter like you didn’t just say something that should’ve been a secret.

Atsumu stands there, folder dangling from his fingers. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Nothing can come out.

Because…how the hell would you know about the pickled onions?

That wasn’t small talk. That was…private talk. Intimate stuff. Family stuff.

He swallows it down, slapping the folder onto the table harder than necessary. Osamu shoots him a look, but doesn’t say anything.

Atsumu doesn’t either. Not yet at least.

-

Back in the present, he rubs a hand over his face, trying to explain himself without sounding jealous.

Because he’s not jealous. He’s just… curious. About you, about Osamu, about your relationship. About why ‘Samu hadn’t told him anything yet.

He knows they had probably grown apart with Osamu being a full time business owner and his own career as an athlete, but still. They were family, brothers; twins.

“She knew about the pickled onions Shoyo,” he mutters.

His stomach churns at the thought, and he’s annoyed at himself for even caring what a hard ass like ‘Samu even did with his life.

“Onions?” Hinata repeats, cocking his head.

“Yeah. Pickled onions,” Atsumu repeats, sharper than he means to. He drags a hand through his hair, frustration prickling under his skin.

Hinata doesn’t say anything, just leans forward a little, waiting, patient as ever.

“It’s not just that,” Atsumu mutters. “It’s—everything.”

He throws his hands up, voice getting louder before he can stop it. “It’s so obvious somethings going on.”

And it sounds dramatic but it’s true. The next time he stops by the store on one of his rare free days, you two are practically glued at the hip.

-

“Atsumu, welcome in.” You say, and he can’t even stay mad at you when you say his name so sweetly. The cute smile on your face doesn’t hurt either. He suddenly feels like he’s too aware of just how good you looked up close.

Osamu seems to read his mind, greeting him in his own way with a hard flick to the forehead.

“Hey, unprofessional.” He whines, going to soothe the stinging between his brows.

“Are ya ordering something or just here to loiter?” His brother asks, a little too protectively for someone who’s just supposed to be a manager.

“Two of my usual please.” He says, taking a seat right up front to keep on eye on you two.

When you go to make him his order, Osamu stops you by gently nudging your shoulder with his own as he walks by to make it himself, ignoring Atsumu’s complaints that he wanted his ‘favorite’ employee to do it instead.

“You guys are so funny.” You comment, trying to make conversation which makes Atsumu perk up a bit.

“Really? Never thought of ‘Samu as a funny guy, just rude.” He responds, saying the last word loud enough for his brother to hear in the back of the kitchen.

You laugh again, a sound that’s light and inviting. He can’t tell if you’re being nice cause he’s a customer or because he looks just like your manager. Regardless, it feels nice to be in your presence. For a moment, he thinks he can understand why his brother hired you to begin with.

It makes his heart drop in a funny way, the feeling that you were being kept a secret. If you were important to ‘Samu then you’d definitely matter to him too. Didn’t his brother know that?

“I know he’s my boss so it sounds like I’m kissing ass but, he can actually be pretty nice.” You say, and even though the compliment is plain the way your eyes shine with something makes Atsumu raise an eyebrow.

“Did he get ya that pin for your hat?” He asks innocently, having noticed it when he first walked in but not having gotten a chance to comment on it till now. Honestly, he made the connection on a whim and expected you to say no.

“Huh?” You squeak out, clearly surprised he had pointed it out. The way you tensed up and averted his eyes has him widening his own.

“Oh yeah, he did.” You mumble out, a little too shyly. Like you had just been caught. Upon closer inspection, he can see the smallest tinge of red on the tip of your ears.

Atsumu blinks. Then squints. Then leans in a little, like somehow getting closer to you might make you more honest.

“You’re blushin’,” he points out with a grin, almost sing-songy.

“I am not,” you huff, quickly busying yourself by wiping down a spotless part of the counter. It’s the weakest cover-up he’s ever seen which just makes it even funnier.

Osamu finally returns with Atsumu’s food, sliding it across the counter with a short, “Here.”

“Hold on. Ya bought her a gift?”

Osamu doesn’t even flinch. “Employee appreciation.”

“Employee appreciation, my ass!” Atsumu whines, pointing at the way you’re basically trying to sink through the floor. “When have ya ever appreciated me?”

“I haven’t,” Osamu says, so flat it makes you exhale against your will.

Atsumu gasps, hand going over his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. He then leaves just as dramatically, doing his best not to scream that you’re both terrible liars as he walks back home.

-

Back in the present, he suddenly grabs Hinata’s shoulder, snapping him out of his thoughts as that specific memory resurfaces.

“He bought her a gift.” He says, dead serious, like he’s delivering life-or-death news.

Hinata just laughs again. “He’s gotten me a gift.”

“Food doesn’t count as a gift, Shoyo!” Atsumu whines, and to his immense relief, Hinata actually looks like he might agree with him this time.

“Ugh, whatever. I’m just being a creep anyway,” Atsumu grumbles, suddenly drained by the conversation he himself had started.

But Hinata doesn’t let drop it. “What if you noticed it before they did? You’ve got super insane senses when it comes to people on court, maybe it’s the same off of it too.”

Of course sweet, innocent Shoyo would find a way to tie this mess back to volleyball.

Though, to his credit, they were sitting in the gym post-practice, both waiting for a ride from Osamu.

“Maybe,” Atsumu mutters, and right then he hears the gym doors creak open.

He looks up, expecting to see Osamu waltz in with his usual lazy wave.

Instead though, he sees you.

He feels his mouth go dry as Hinata keeps talking beside him, his words dissolving into meaningless noise.

“What’re ya doin’ here?” Atsumu calls out, his voice sharp with surprise, forgetting his manners entirely.

You flinch, like you hadn’t expected to be called out so quickly, and Atsumu immediately regrets the way the words came out. He’s just… shocked.

Because why were you here? And why were you wearing Samu’s jacket?

“Oh my god. You were right,” Hinata chokes, half-laughing beside him, recognizing the worn out Ongiri Miya branding on the jacket almost immediately. A staple in Osamu’s wardrobe.

You shift awkwardly under their combined stares, clearing your throat before speaking.

“I’m here to pick you up. ‘Samu got held up,” you explain, flustered, too flustered to realize you’d called his brother by the same casual nickname Atsumu always used.

“And this—” you tug at the hem of the jacket, grimacing, “was actually not my first fashion choice.”

You start to shrug it off, like you’re desperate to shed the evidence, but both teammates jump to stop you.

“I know,” Atsumu says quickly, hands up in surrender, his mind racing a mile a minute. “He forced ya.”

And for a second, it’s like he’s a kid again, watching Osamu pile his love onto the people he cared about, whether they liked it or not. It had always been easier for him to show it rather than say it.

And now, here you were. Wearing it. Showing him. The most obvious message one could send.

It should’ve been cathartic, relieving but instead, it just felt disappointing. Since when did him and his brother stop sharing everything? Probably a long time ago but you felt worth mentioning.

But then you spoke up, like it wasn’t a big deal.

“You know… it’s kinda because of you, ‘Tsumu.”

He blinks at you, slow. “Because of me?” The way you say his nickname has him feeling nervous, like you already knew more about him than you let on.

Probably cause of Osamu. He thinks to himself.

You nod, like it’s obvious. “You kept coming around, poking your nose in everything… if you hadn’t, I don’t think we would’ve ever realized we were being so weird.”

Atsumu lets out a weak scoff, not sure if he should feel offended or proud of his observations.

At least he wasn’t going crazy after all.

“Ya well, yer welcome.” He mutters, scratching the back of his neck. He wants to ask if his brother ever talks about him. If he ever says he misses how things he used to be. If he ever misses him.

“Wait—I wanted to show you something.” You say, reaching into the pocket of the jacket as he and Hinata exchanged a curious look.

“Don’t tell ‘Samu.” You say, half-joking but both teammates nod in agreement, having faced his wrath before.

You pull out a folded napkin, opening it up to reveal scribbled and messy handwriting. Osamu’s handwriting.

On it is a list of dates and times, which he doesn’t recognize at first. Was this another inside joke?

“Oooohhhh, it’s our upcoming matches!” Hinata exclaims and the realization makes Atsumu’s chest ache in a quiet way.

He stares at the napkin for a bit longer, thinking about how he must’ve written them all down every time he had visited the restaurant to chat. The same days he thought his brother hadn’t been listening at all.

“Idiot,” he mumbles, voice a little rough. He clears his throat before speaking again, “Please keep takin’ care of him.” The softness and sincerity has you and Hinata exchanging a look of your own.

“Of course.” You reply, placing your hand over his arm and giving him a light squeeze. He feels awkward having you comfort him but he also feels better, lighter even.

“Didn’t know my little bro was such a big fan.” He teased, trying to take attention away from him and back to the napkin in his hands.

“‘Little bro’? But he said you were the younger twin.” You stated, tilting your head to the side.

“What?” Atsumu deadpanned.

Silence.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“That bitch.”

[luvsickstqr]

"IF YOU LOSE TO KARASUNO, YOU WILL GO ON A DATE WITH ME."

You smirk triumphantly, standing tall and proud while staring up at Ushijima—who just looks at you dead in the eyes, unblinking. He merely raises an eyebrow at you, thinking you are a fool to be making a deal with him; even taking the side that will obviously be in his favor no matter what.

And even though he acts indifferent and stony towards you, his teammates knew there is something under that cold exterior of his. Tendou knows that the only way that his captain will know is when he finds it out by himself.

Ushijima wants to convince himself that going on a date with you is not something he looks forward to.

“Ridiculous, we are the strongest team.” He walked past you, merely scoffing at your statement. “If you plan on making a bet, at least propose a side that’s in your favor.” Ushijima gave you one last glance before heading back inside the gymnasium.

You sigh at his cold response.

Well, either way, you still like his coolness with every remark you quip at him. For some reason, you feel as though you have chosen the correct one.

Ushijima blankly stares across from you, while both of you lounge in a café. You nervously bite your straw, struggling to take a sip of your milkshake.

You were not really expecting the volleyball team to lose; either way, whether he wins or not, you will still find a way to force him to go on a date with you. Still with his consent.

You gulp very loudly, sensing the brooding and moping aura of Ushijima. The last thing he probably wants to do is go on a date with someone like you, the one who has been pestering him for months on campus as a typical annoying fan.

“Are you not going to order anything else?”

You yelp, too focused on your own thoughts to even notice that Ushijima bothers to even pay attention to your well-being.

A chunk of shaved ice has somehow gotten stuck in your throat, making you cough slightly. You rubbed the back of your head, flushing with embarrassment and shame. “I—I was not expecting you really to come, Ushijima-san. I figured that you would want to be alone after your match…” Your last words turned into a mumble, your eyes looking down on your lap while feeling so much guilt.

Ushijima takes a sip of his cappuccino, unbothered about what you said. His match with Karasuno stung for a while, yet he knows that he has to move on—after all, he has promised to beat them next time.

“A deal is a deal. Besides, I’m here now, aren’t I?” He takes another sip of his cappuccino, looking at you. Your energy dimmed at the tone of his voice.

“You sound as if you were forced,” you quipped with a listless voice, depressing lines hugged your figure.

“Because I was.”

Wakatoshi looks at your lonely order in pity, a blank strawberry milkshake with nothing else to chew. “At least fill up your stomach.” Ushijima takes notice of the tremble in your body, wondering why you are being fidgety right now.

As if you were not so bold to propose a deal with him.

It is not that he does not appreciate your attention on any matter that concerns his well-being; being in a deeper relationship with someone is not really his priority—though, you provide a bit of amusement with your determination to get a reaction from him.

But right now, were you getting cold feet?

Ushijima was not done being confused when he saw you standing up abruptly and bowing deeply. “I’m really sorry, Ushijima-san. I should not have forced you to make a deal with me—this is just… ugh… stupid…” you proclaimed with a guilty voice, almost about to whimper and sob.

You act as if you are the one who defeated them on the court, Wakatoshi thinks.

“I too, did not expect the outcome. But I am also not expecting this kind of reaction from you.” He looks up at you, up and down, judging your posture, movement, and the way you carry yourself.

Your fingers hugging the straw tightly as if it would escape from your grasp; he lets out an amused huff before continuing. “Is it because you do not take your bets seriously?”

He reads you too well, you have concluded.

“It’s not that..”

Ushijima tilts his head at you. Fluttery feelings arise within you when he only stares at you. The way his attention is solely focused on you, like you’re the only one and nothing else matters, makes your body slightly heat up; in truth, the poor guy was only trying to guess if you’re feeling well enough to be here with him.

You really are a victim of highschool love.

You give him a dry smile, “Let’s just order some soufflé, Ushijima-san. I’m getting quite hungry.” No, he just needs to shut up for a second. You fish out the small red coin purse in your bag, seeing the waitress handling out your bill. Your eyes pretend to scan for different kinds of soufflé; there was only one kind.

The soufflé came, bouncy and jiggling on your plate as you stared at it in hunger. With your fork, you quickly took a bite and slipped it in your mouth—you let out a pleased sound, enjoying the way the flavors melted in your mouth. “Ushijima-san, you should try this!”

It is bewildering to see how your mood changes quickly just because of a dessert. Ushijima takes note of this peculiar behaviour of yours in the future.

Ushijima blinked. “It’s fine, I do not want to—“

“Don’t be a sourpuss, just try it!” You failed to realize that the fork you used is the same one being enclosed by the crevices of your crush’s lips; with your hand gripping his chin, almost about to shove the pastry down his throat, he looks at you in shock at your audacity.

“…”

While his tongue enjoys the blessed heaven taste of the soufflé, his mind wanders to every single part of his brain to know why on earth his heart skipped a beat.

You shared an indirect kiss with him.

Ushijima’s eyes wander around your face, watching it contort into a pleasant one. You are not that sharp as he thought, with the way your eyes crinkled, too busy enjoying your soufflé. “Doesn’t it taste good, Ushijima-san?”

For a while, Ushijima contemplated doing something out of his character.

“Wakatoshi.”

“Huh?”

You look at him. Ushijima grunted as not to act awkward in front of you. He does not want to focus on such tempting thoughts; he distracts himself by splitting the bill with you, even though you were the one who invited him. “Call me Wakatoshi. If we are going to keep doing this, I suggest you call me by my first name next time.”

Ushijima glances at you with his usual expression, giving you a what is supposed to be a reassuring nod—you find it a privilege to call him by his first name; your mind spirals out of control. I-I can call him Wakatoshi, you mentally giggle in success.

His fingers itch to do something about the powdered sugar at the corner of your mouth you are unaware of.

Next time, huh? You already feel jittery thinking about your next date. Does it mean that there is a chance for him to reciprocate your feelings?

You are getting way ahead of yourself.

“Oh, I see…” You chuckled forcefully, sensing a little tension between you two. A moment of awkward silence covers between you two, your eyes looking everywhere except him.

For some reason, he does not appreciate it.

“You have something here..”

You blinked, getting caught off guard when he suddenly stands up and leans close to you. His thumb brushes against the corner of your mouth, wiping off the powdered sugar from the soufflé—his thumb gently rests on top of your plump lips; you stare at him wide-eyed at his bold move, your attention taken away by force.

Ushijima thinks he does not regret meeting up with you anymore. His olive-colored eyes drank in the sight of your body almost about to explode; his thumb sending signals over to his brain about your increasing body temperature—he feels the desire to squeeze you in his palms. He adores to see that kind of reaction one more time.

Breath heaves its way out of you, seeing Wakatoshi stifle his smirk in failure. He knew what he was doing.

“Toru, you look so stupid. I’m actually vexed to be here right now.”

Takeru watches his uncle in disgust, who stalks the two of you in a black hoodie and goggles. The latter immediately shushes his nephew as he watches Ushijima leave the café; Oikawa is one of the unfortunate witnesses of Ushijima’s date with a girl.

“I need to upload this on social media. Asap! How dare this Ushiwaka bastard still manage to fool around with a girl?!”

“Toru, please shut up.”

reblog if you like it :) || image is by the original owner of the manga

I ONLY WRITE FOR FUN. I DO NOT INTEND TO REWRITE THE PERSONALITY OF THE CHARACTERS AND CLAIM THEM AS CANON. I AM AWARE OF THE COMPLEXITY OF THE CHARACTERS PRESENTED.

[luvsickstqr]

Brighter than Nationals. [Bokuto Koutarou x volleyball player! f! reader]

You were known for crushing through your volleyball matches, and that caught Fukurodani's ace's heart when he saw you play. Through hate and whispers behind your back, Bokuto was there trying to make you believe the opposite of that.

a/n: didn't proof-read it, so there could be some slight errors hehe.

i. Warm-up

The first time Bokuto Koutarou saw you on the court, you were already losing.

It was down by eight points. Your team's receive was cracking under pressure. Momentum belonged completely to the other side.

But then, your team got back one point and you stepped back to serve. Bokuto blinked. "Wait", he murmured to himself in the stands. "That's her? That's the outside hitter everyone is talking about?"

He leaned forward, just as your toss left your fingers. Your jump float wasn't flashy, but it danced through the air like it had a mind of its own and dipped last-second. It ended up landing clean on the end line. Ace.

"Nice", he whispered and grinned at the sight of your team's possible comeback. You didn't celebrate. You just reset with shoulders tight and a focused face. Like you were too used to having to fix things on your own.

Another serve. This one had a late spin, sending the other team's libero scrambling. The serve gave your team an overpass.

You were already moving. Bokuto saw you read the ball early and took your approach like it was instinct. And then crack, a fast-paced cross was hitting the floor before the block could even finish closing.

The whistle blew once more as your team got another point.

Bokuto felt his chest tighten and his eyes widened in awe. "Ohhhh".

Not just good.

Not just talented.

You were sharp and calculating. Your plays were fast with a kind of quiet ferocity in every move. You didn't showboat. You were just playing hard. The kind of player who didn't wait for approval to shine.

And Bokuto? He was instantly and irrevocably smitten.

ii. One sided at first

"Her name is Y/N L/N", Akaashi said later that night when Bokuto wouldn't shut up about the match. "She's been on scouts' radars since last spring. High vertical, smart hitting patterns, unpredictable serve", he said as if he had a finished report of you.

Bokuto, lying dramaticially across a bean bag, was groaning into a throw pillow. "She's so cool. She didn't even flinch when she took that line shot with three blockers on her. Who does that?" he said, sounds slightly muffled as he was shaking the pillow on his face.

"She does", Akaashi replied.

"I wanna talk to her", Bokuto said.

"She doesn't talk to anyone", Akaashi added. "I heard she avoids interviews. Teammates love her, but she keeps to herself". Bokuto frowned and asked him why.

Akaashi hesitated. "There's been... stuff. Comments from rival teams. Some nasty stuff online". Bokuto could only pop his head up from the pillow. "What kind of stuff?"

Bokuto could see the slight discomfort from Akaashi. "Mostly jealousy. Some say she's overrated. Others say that she's only getting attention because she's a girl with power. You know how it gets", he said.

Bokuto was silent. Then he muttered: "That's dumb. She's legitimately good".

"She knows, because she plays like she's trying to prove it every time".

iii. The first conversation

It took Bokuto three matches, five failed "accidental" run-ins and one suspiciously timed convenience store encounter to finally get to talk to you.

"You were insane in that last match", he said breathlessly while holding a canned coffee and looking entirely too hopeful. You blinked at him. "Thanks", you replied back to him.

"I'm Bokuto! Uh, Fukurodani. Ace", he said cheerly. "I know who you are", you said in a tone that wasn't unkindly, but rather cautiously.

His heart skipped. "You do?!"

"You spiked a ball so hard it hit a ref last month", you said and took a sip of your canned coffee yourself. Bokuto laughed. "Oh, right!" he said. "That guy was fine! I think..."

You raised a brow. "Are you always like this?"

He grinned. "Only when I meet someone cooler than me".

That got to you. There was a tiny twitch of your mouth. A few minutes later, you two were sitting on the curb and sipped on canned drinks while talking about setters. And just like that, something cracked open.

iv. Teammates and tension

He started showing up more. Not in a creepy way. But he was there. When your team was warming up pre-match, he would be in the stands in a hoodie pulled over his messy hair as eyes were tracking your every move.

He noticed how you scanned the block before every attack. How you timed your roll shots only when the libero shifted too far cross. How you pressed your hands tightly on every block. You were never chasing. You were always sealing.

And you noticed him noticing. One day after practice, you tossed a ball his way. "Let's see if the hype is real, Mr. National Ace", you said while pulling your arm sleeves back on.

"Ohhhh, you're on".

They peppered until sundown. He made you laugh at least twice. You also made him trip over his own feet six times. It was a win-win from both sides. When they finished, you tossed him your towel and grinned. You were both breathless and sweaty.

"You're not bad, Bokuto", you said. He clutched the towel like it was a trophy. "Please marry me", he said with stars in his eyes. You could only let out a laugh.

v. The undercurrent

But Bokuto noticed something else too. Every time someone complimented you, you seemed to always brush it off. Every time your name trended after a good match, you seemed to look tired instead of excited.

And sometimes, in the locker room hallways, he would hear the whispers around him that were about you.

"Guess a pretty face gets you MVP now". "She's just lucky her setter feeds her everything". "One trick hitter. Shaky in receive".

None of it was true. Bokuto knew it. You knew it. But it was there. The comments coming from every corner.

And then one day when he saw your phone light up as you were tying your shoes.

[anonymous:] You're the reason girls' volleyball is a joke.

Something in Bokuto's chest snapped.

vi. When he finally says something

He didn't bring it up right away. He waited until they were walking home from a match you would absolutely crushed. 26 points, 4 aces and 3 stuffed blocks, yet you were quiet.

Not the good kind. Not the "so focused I'm still in game mode" kind.

It was the other kind- the drained kind.

"You know you were amazing tonight, right?" he said.

"It was fine", you said and shrugged.

"Fine? You practically carried your team through the third set".

"I made a few errors in the second", you mumbled. You noticed Bokuto stopped walking. "Hey, look at me", he said.

You didn't do that. He stepped in front of you with a voice soft but steady. "I saw your phone earlier".

You froze. "I didn't mean to. It just lit up", he said and there was a second of silence before you said something.

"It doesn't matter." "It does. You don't deserve that".

"It's not new, Bokuto", he could only get slightly frustrated from your comments. "That doesn't mean it's okey", he whispered but it was loud enough for you to hear.

You looked away. "I've been dealing with this since second year. People think I'm a fluke. That I'm just tall. That I'm getting attention because... because I'm a girl who hits hard and doesn't smile for the camera", you said.

"You shouldn't have to smile to prove that you belong".

"I know, but it still hurts". Bokuto's fists clenched at his sides. He couldn't accept that people did these things just because they couldn't get to your level. It was petty.

He reached out carefully, his fingers brushing against yours. "I've never met anyone who works harder than you", he said, "Or someone who plays smarter. You don't just hit hard. You read. You adapt. You lead without shouting. That's rare".

You were blinking fast. He continued: "And if anyone can't see that", he added, "they're not on your level". Your breath hitched. Bokuto stepped closer.

"I think you're brilliant. And strong. And yeah, I'm a little in love with your cross shot", and that made you laugh through a sniffle. "It's a good shot", you said while chuckling.

"It's the best shot".

And when you finally looked up at him, he smiled. "Wanna go and hit a hundred serves while pretending they're all your haters?"

You grinned. "Thought you'd never ask".

vii. Love louder

From then on, he became your noise-canceller. When someone whispered behind you, he would say loudly, "Bet they can't even receive her serve".

When a post criticised your 'attitude', he would reply with: "Better an ice queen than a benchwarmer".

He made you laugh constantly. It was ridiculous and loud. But more than that, he made you feel seen. He showed up with snacks after difficult matches. He kept stats of your best plays. He even asked Akaashi to help break down your footage and tell you how incredible you were.

Not because you needed fixing, but because he wanted you to know.

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone", he told you once when you stared too long at a nasty tweet. "But if you ever want to remind them, do it for you. Not them", he said.

You kissed him that night. Right there in the middle of the gym.

Bokuto didn't stop smiling for a week.

viii. End game

At Nationals when your team took the court under heavy pressure. The crowd was loud. The opposing team had two media-hyped stars who had thrown shade online more than once.

But people saw that you didn't flinch. You served first. A perfect jump float that dropped right between the seams. It was an ace.

When you rotated to the front, you marked their captain and blocked them with a tight, high press. And when the final point came down to a back-row attack, you rose up and spiked it off the block. Out-of-bounds. It was game.

Your team rushed the court screaming with tears and joy everywhere. And through the chaos, you found him in the crowd. Bokuto, hands around his mouth, yelling so loud it echoed to your heart.

"That's my girl!"

The world could say what it wanted. But Bokuto's love drowned it out.

@/2025 ave

[luvsickstqr]

there are four grown men in your med bay and exactly zero of them have a legitimate reason to be here.

you’re pretty sure the only actual new injury is gaz’s paper cut, which—despite his dramatics—stopped bleeding about twenty-ish minutes ago.

soap’s sat on your exam table, kicking his legs like a kid at the pediatrician, absently munching from the emergency snack stash you’ve hidden in a drawer clearly labeled MEDIC ONLY.

“y’doin’ checkups, sweetheart?” he asks through a mouthful of granola bar, brushing crumbs off his lap. “or lettin’ us rot here while you work?”

“you’re all rotting,” you say, snatching it from him and folding your arms. “from the brain outward.”

“you wound me, darlin’,” he gasps, taking a bite despite it being in your hand. “you wound me.”

the place is technically just a converted storage room with a flickering overhead light and a radio that only plays static if you turn it past 92.7. there are at least three mugs that aren’t yours, a rotating stock of protein bars (some half-eaten. guess who), and a blanket price insists you need even though winters are your off seasons. you’re convinced it’s just for him.

somehow, it’s the coziest place on base. and somehow, you’re everyone’s favorite stop.

gaz is horizontal on your stretcher. he points at the band-aid you’ve given him when you look over.

“this isn’t even the good kind,” he whines. “where are the cartoon ones? i want spider-man.”

you sigh, giving in and letting soap have at his little snack. “gave you those last week, garrick.”

“they helped! he’s a mental health aid, i tell you.”

“well he’s not licensed, i’ll tell you.”

there’s only one not actively instigating, perched quietly at your desk like a gargoyle—arms crossed with his feet propped against it. yet even he’s not innocent. you clock the faint trace of blood on his glove at a spot you know you stitched up last week.

“simon,” you say sharply.

his head tilts, slow as his attention pans from your suture box to you. “yeah, doc?”

“you’re bleeding.”

he grunts. “tiny cut.”

you hold out your hand. “show me.”

simon sighs like a teenager, but obeys. the moment your fingers brush his, his shoulders relax the slightest bit. the old injury is just as you suspected, split open and just as easily patched up.

price strolls in last, of course, completely unapologetic and somehow already holding two mugs of tea. he takes a look around the room, raises a brow at you.

“crowded office you’ve got, love.”

“don’t start, captain,” you warn. “you’re next.” you say, even though you had absolutely zero intention of working at all today. seems to be something you get roped into often, anyway.

“i’m not hurt.”

“yet you’ve been limping all week?”

“old age,” he shrugs, sipping. “comes for us all.”

you look around. four soldiers. mud on their boots. scars on their skin. loud, ridiculous, and entirely too large for this room.

you grab your clipboard. “get on the table, cap.”

he smiles, obliges you.

“i’m all yours.”

[luvsickstqr]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷‎‧₊˚✧SHATTERPOINT˚₊‧˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

Previous | Next

You were maybe nine.

It was the kind of summer night where the air was heavy and warm, where cicadas hummed a lullaby outside the open window, and the three of you — you, Tooru, and Hajime—had declared yourselves too restless to sleep.

So Hajime dragged two futons into the living room while Tooru snuck snacks from the kitchen. You came down in your oversized t-shirt, a soft blanket clutched in your arms like armour.

The lights were off. Only the faint blue glow of the television cast shadows as you all lay sprawled on the floor, heads almost touching.

You remember the lull in conversation. How the laughter faded into quiet breathing, and then—

"Do you think we'll still be like this?" Tooru asked, voice soft. "In high school?"

You had blinked, turning your head just enough to look at him.

"Like what?" you asked.

He was staring at the ceiling. "Together."

Hajime scoffed, poking him in the ribs. "Don't be weird. Of course we will."

Tooru made a face, but it was mostly hidden in the dark. "Things change."

"You change," Hajime muttered.

You reached over and tapped both of their hands, linking your fingers with theirs. Tooru is on your left. Hajime is on your right.

"I don't want us to change," you whispered.

Tooru didn't answer at first.

Then, so quietly you almost didn't catch it:

"...Me neither."

The fan buzzed above you, whirring through the silence.

Three kids. One summer night. Three small hands tangled together in the dark.

You didn't know what the future held then.

But in that moment, the world was simple.

And the three of you were stars in the same sky.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

The rhythm of the ball against the gym floor isn't right.

Tooru can feel it.

His serve is clean, sharp. The toss is perfect. The form is textbook.

But something is off. Wrong.

His team keeps glancing toward the bench when they think he's not looking. There's no easy laughter between rotations. And you—

You haven't spoken to him in two days.

Not really. Not the way you usually do, with those murmurs at his shoulder, your fingers tugging lightly at his sleeve when he pushes himself too far. You haven't reminded him to eat. You haven't hunted him down after practice to offer your unwavering support or your tea. You haven't offered your quiet, steady "I'm proud of you" at the end of practice.

And it's driving him insane.

"You're being weird," Iwaizumi says bluntly when they're changing.

Tooru doesn't even snap back. Just keeps staring at his shoes.

"I mean it, Tooru. Fix it."

"I didn't break anything," he mutters, which is a lie, and he knows it.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

You're sorting bandages after practice when the door creaks open behind you.

You don't turn.

"I'm not here to fight," he says, quietly.

Still, you don't look back. "Then don't say anything that'll start one."

Tooru freezes by the door.

You're never like this with him. Even when you're annoyed, even when you're tired, you've always made room for him. And now, it's like the air between you is made of glass.

He steps closer. Slowly. Like you might run.

"I was out of line."

You nod once. "Yeah. You were."

He flinches. You don't sugarcoat it. You don't make it easier for him.

"I'm used to being told I'm not enough," he says suddenly, voice tight. "Kageyama, Ushiwaka... everyone. But you— You were the one person I thought would never..."

You set the med kit down with a soft thud.

"I never gave up on you, Tooru. I still haven't." You finally turn, eyes searching his. "But it's not fair to keep standing in the fire just because you're the one burning."

He says nothing.

Because there's no comeback for that. No charm. No pretty words.

Just silence and guilt and something like regret tightening in his chest.

You walk past him gently.

But you don't stop.

Not this time.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

The bell rings across campus, and the hallway floods with chatter, sneakers squeaking against polished floors and backpacks swinging on shoulders. Third-years are hunched over notebooks, first-years are scurrying like mice, and the second-years—Oikawa included—are halfway through their school day and already exhausted.

But he's not going to the vending machine.

He's going to find you.

Your classroom is two hallways over from his, past the science labs and that stupid poster with the volleyball guy holding carrots for arms.

He tells himself he's just going to say hi. Maybe ask how your classes are. Maybe—if he gets lucky—he'll hear you say his name the way you used to, quiet and familiar, like it belonged to someone more than a star on the court.

But the moment he turns the corner, he hears it.

"Oikawa-senpai!" "There he is—Tooru-kun!!" "Wait, I made cookies for you—!"

Three girls, then five. Then nine. Clusters of excitement with braided hair, camera phones, and starry eyes.

They surround him before he can react, voices overlapping like white noise. Compliments. Questions. Fake giggles.

He smiles. Of course he does.

That polite, charming, plastic smile he's mastered. The one that makes them swoon. The one that keeps people from seeing the storm underneath.

He's used to this.

But today... His eyes flick toward the window behind the crowd. Toward you.

You're sitting at your desk, leaning over a notebook. A pen between your fingers. Your hair catches in the breeze from the open window.

You're right there.

He could call out. Push past. Walk into your class, like he used to.

But he doesn't.

Because he sees it—that small glance you give him.

Not annoyed. Not angry.

Just... tired.

You don't wave.

You don't smile.

You just lower your head back to your page, like he's no different than any of the voices that cling to his name.

His breath catches in his throat.

The girls are still talking.

But all he can think about is how he used to be able to walk up to you without feeling like he had to earn the right.

Now, he's just a stranger in the same uniform.

His smile doesn't falter — not when one of the girls brushes her fingers against his sleeve, not when another hands him a letter folded in glittery paper. He's perfected this routine, the way his eyes crinkle just enough, the way his voice lingers when he says thank you.

But his gaze drifts.

Always back to you.

His eyes still follow your movements while he attends to all the girls surrounding him, and then he sees it.

A few classmate approaches you, all bright smiles and twinkling eyes, none of whom he knew.

One of them taps your shoulder. Another leans in close, saying something that makes you blink in surprise. And then, just like that, they're around you. Pulling up chairs. Tossing jokes across your desk. One slides your notebook aside without asking.

You smile.

Tentative. A little shy.

But you smile.

And for a moment, Tooru feels the ground slip.

Because he can't hear what you're saying — the fanclub is still giggling, still tugging at his attention like it belongs to them — but he sees your head tilt back as you laugh at something, sees one of them ruffle your hair, and—

And you're gone from view.

Your classmates block the line between you and him completely.

And suddenly it feels like the window closed.

He can't see you.

He can't hear you.

And for the first time in a long time, he realises he's on the outside of your orbit.

A pulse of something bitter rises in his throat. Not anger, not quite jealousy—something messier. Something like fear.

He looks back at the letter in his hand.

Pink hearts. His name in bubble letters.

Not your handwriting.

He doesn't even remember the girl's face.

"Senpai, do you want to come eat lunch with us?" one of them coos beside him.

Tooru forces another smile. "Sorry," he says, his voice thinner than usual. "Club meeting."

A lie.

But they giggle anyway, too charmed to notice the crack in his voice.

He walks past them, every step heavier than the last.

He doesn't look back at your classroom again.

Because he's not sure what would hurt more—

Still seeing you surrounded by new people, or realising you didn't notice he was ever there.

╚══ ❀•°❀°•❀ ══╝

The gym is empty.

Late afternoon sun pours in through the high windows, catching dust in the air. Practice ended hours ago. The rest of the team has cleared out.

But Oikawa is still there, sitting on the bench just past the net, water bottle untouched at his side, posture slack for once. The clean-up's half done, the floor mats are still rolled up, and one of the volleyball carts is tipped slightly, like he forgot to fix it.

He's staring at the floor. Not with his usual sharp-eyed calculation.

Just... staring.

"You're still here?" Hajime's voice cuts into the silence, not surprised but not unkind.

Oikawa doesn't flinch. Doesn't look up. "Yeah."

Hajime walks in, letting the door swing shut behind him with a clang. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it onto a bench, eyeing his best friend as he crosses the court.

"You didn't even do your cooldown stretches," Hajime says eventually, crouching down to adjust a stray net hook. "What, is the great Oikawa Tooru distracted?"

A weak huff escapes Oikawa's lips. "Don't sound so hopeful."

Silence lapses again.

Hajime finishes with the net and stands. "You didn't even say goodbye to [Your name] today."

At that, Oikawa finally looks up.

His face isn't the smirking mask he wears around fans or the confident captain expression he uses in front of the team.

It's just tired. Pale. Closed off.

"I saw [Your Name] earlier," he mutters.

Hajime narrows his eyes. "Yeah. Outside their class."

A pause.

"You didn't go in," Hajime continues. "You stood there, smiled through your little fan parade, and then walked away."

Tooru's jaw twitches. "So what?"

"You want me to answer that?"

"No," he snaps.

But Hajime steps closer. "You keep doing this. You push [Your name] away. Even when we were younger, a tiny bit of hurt, and you pushed them away like there was no tomorrow. You pull yourself in tighter. And then you act like it's everyone else who's walking off."

Tooru's fists clench on his knees. "You think I don't know that?"

"Then why?" Hajime's voice rises just enough to echo off the gym walls. "Why didn't you just walk over?"

"You didn't see [Your name]," Oikawa bites out. "[Your name] were laughing. With people I didn't know. They didn't even look at me."

"Bullshit," Hajime says immediately. "They look at you every single time, Tooru. Even when you're being a jerk. Even when they have no reason to."

Oikawa opens his mouth. Shuts it.

Hajime sighs. The anger fades, and what's left is concern.

"Look, I know you're scared," he says, softer now. "Of losing [Your name]. Of not being enough."

A pause.

"But if you don't stop treating them like a distant planet you have to chase, one day they're gonna stop waiting for you to catch up."

Oikawa swallows hard.

He doesn't answer.

And Hajime doesn't push him this time.

He just picks up the volleyball cart and quietly sets it upright.

"...Go talk to them," he says finally. "Before it's too late."

[luvsickstqr]

the usual (osamu miya x fem. reader) timeskip!!

summary: you often visited onigiri miya. in short, it was your favorite restaurant. you loved their food, and you went at least once a week. the food was always fresh and delicious, and the staff was kind. no exception to the owner, osamu miya. he’s caught your eye since the first time you’ve visited, and now you try to show up more often. one day, you stop visiting. osamu notices.

notes: sorry guys! i’ve been super busy but i’ll try to upload more

chapter 1: salmon sashimi

“uhh.. i’ll have the salmon sashimi,” you say as you look up from the menu to face the waiter. you gulp when you realize it wasn’t the waiter taking your order. you realize it was a bit odd actually ordering since they all knew your order. osamu miya smiles down at you as he places a dish of fresh salmon sashimi in front of you. “oh!- thank you,” you say as you pick up your chopsticks.

“no problem,” he says, then goes back to the kitchen. huh. that was strange. you end up not thinking much of it, but now you get to dig into your favorite dish. you leave a ten dollar tip, and leave.

when you come back the next week, you’re happy to see your usual waiter. “hey (y/n)! glad to see you again,” she grins as you step into the room. “the usual?” she asks, leading you to your table.

“you know it,” you wink. you pay for the order as soon as you get in instead of paying after.

you settle into your usual seat, slipping your coat off and placing your phone face down on the table. you hum to yourself, a little tune stuck in your head, and glance around the familiar space. it’s warm inside, the faint clatter of pans and the low murmur of conversation wrapping around you like a blanket.

a few minutes pass before a plate of salmon sashimi is placed in front of you. you glance up, expecting your usual waiter, but it’s him again.

osamu.

he sets the plate down gently, like he doesn’t want to break the silence between you. his eyes meet yours for a second too long before he straightens up.

“mind if i sit for a minute?” he asks, wiping his hands on the apron tied around his waist. he sounds casual. too casual.

you blink. “uh… sure.”

he slides into the seat across from you, arms folded on the table, gaze flicking down to your plate and then back to your face. it’s strange seeing him out here like this—not behind the counter, not just passing by. he doesn’t say anything right away.

you pick up your chopsticks, but your hand stills before you take the first bite.

“is something wrong?” you ask, voice quiet.

he shakes his head, lips twitching like he almost smiles. “nah. just… wanted to see you eat.”

you blink again. “that’s not creepy at all.”

he laughs, but it’s soft. tired, maybe. “i didn’t mean it like that. i just… i’ve been the one makin’ it. for weeks. months. kinda got curious if you actually liked it or were just bein’ polite.”

“i come here every week.”

“some people like routine.”

you pause. then take a bite. slow, deliberate. he watches. you make a small sound, pleased. “still my favorite.”

he exhales a short breath, like that means more to him than it should. his fingers tap against the edge of the table, restless.

you both sit there for a beat too long, letting the hum of the restaurant fill the silence. his knee bumps yours under the table. light, maybe accidental. maybe not. he doesn’t move it.

“you always come alone,” he says suddenly. not a question. just a quiet observation.

“yeah,” you say. “guess i do.”

another pause.

“me too,” he says.

your eyes meet again. there’s something heavy there. not quite said. not quite ready.

you finish the last piece of sashimi and set your chopsticks down gently. “i should go.”

he stands when you do, hands in his apron pockets. “right. thanks for coming in.”

you nod, pulling your coat back on. “thanks for sitting.”

he opens the door for you. the cold hits your cheeks immediately, but your face is already warm.

as you step out, you glance over your shoulder. “same time next week?”

he leans against the doorframe, watching you go. “i’ll be here.”

and for some reason, that sounds less like a promise, and more like a question.

chapter 2: “just like last time”

friday comes.

the clock above the register ticks past seven.

you don’t show.

osamu tells himself it’s nothing at first. people get busy. maybe you had plans. maybe you’re out of town. maybe you forgot.

but you’ve never forgotten. not once.

by eight, your usual table’s been cleared. someone else takes it.

he finds himself glancing toward the door every time the bell chimes.

still no sign of you.

he doesn’t realize he’s still waiting until a chef comes out from the kitchen, tosses a towel over his shoulder, and says, “you good?”

“fine,” osamu mutters, even though he hasn’t touched his water in an hour.

your usual waitress comes by to grab a receipt off the counter, and he blurts, “hey. do you know her last name?”

she blinks. “who?”

he gives her a look.

“…oh. her. yeah, she left it on her rewards card when she signed up. why?”

he hesitates. just for a second.

“she didn’t come in tonight.”

the waitress gives him a weird look. “maybe she’s sick?”

something shifts in his chest. it lands too heavy to ignore.

“can you find her address?”

she stares at him. “osamu-”

“please.”

he’s never done anything like this before.

he has no clue what he’s doing, honestly. just that it’s after nine when he shows up at your building with a brown paper bag in hand, the edges still warm. he stands outside your door for almost a full minute before he knocks. he almost doesn’t.

but then the door opens.

and there you are.

you’re in an old hoodie, socks mismatched. your hair’s a little messy. your eyes widen when you see him, like you weren’t expecting anyone, let alone him.

“osamu?”

he exhales. “hey.”

you blink. “how did you?-“

“your waitress gave me your address,” he says, lifting the bag. “i brought you dinner. salmon sashimi. figured… maybe you forgot to come in. or maybe you were sick. or-”

you open the door wider.

“do you wanna come in?”

he hesitates. “only if you want me to.”

you step aside.

he walks in, carefully. her apartment smells like clean laundry and something sweet. there’s a blanket bunched up on the couch and a book half-open on the coffee table.

“i was gonna come,” you say quietly, closing the door. “i just… couldn’t.”

he turns to face you. “why not?”

your eyes dart away. “i didn’t think you’d notice if i didn’t show.”

something stings in his chest.

“i noticed,” he says. “i noticed so bad i drove twenty minutes with a bag of raw fish in my front seat.”

you let out a breath of laughter, a little uneven. “that’s probably a health code violation.”

he doesn’t laugh.

“you don’t get it,” he says, softer now. “i didn’t just notice. i waited. i kept looking at the door. like an idiot.”

you look up at him, slowly. and something passes between you two again, like last time. but deeper now. sharper.

“you’re not an idiot,” you say.

and somehow, that breaks something in him.

he takes a step closer. just one. “you didn’t come.”

“i know.”

“don’t do that again,” he says, and his voice is low now. quiet. almost like a plea. “just tell me next time. if you’re not coming. if you’re not okay.”

you nod. “okay.”

the silence that follows isn’t awkward.

it’s thick. charged. like it could tilt either way.

he hands you the bag. your fingers brush his.

“thanks for coming,” you murmur.

he watches her for a moment. takes a breath.

“i’ll stay until you finish eating,” he says, already pulling off his jacket.

you blink. “you don’t have to-”

“i want to.”

you set the sushi down, opening it carefully. and when you bite into the first piece, he watches, just like last time. only this time, you’re not separated by a table.

only inches.

and neither of you looks away.

chapter 3: wants and needs

you wake up to the smell of rice.

not strong. just a whisper of it—faint, warm, the way it clings to air when it’s fresh. for a second, you think you’re dreaming. but then there’s a sound. a soft clink. a drawer closing.

you sit up slowly.

osamu miya is standing in your kitchen.

he’s wearing the same shirt from last night, sleeves pushed up. his hair’s a little tousled. he glances over when he hears the creak of your floorboards.

“morning,” he says, like this is normal. like this isn’t strange at all.

you blink. “…you cooked?”

“you had rice, eggs, and soy sauce.” he shrugs, turning back to the pan. “wasn’t hard.”

you stand there for a moment, still in last night’s hoodie, your socks half off your feet. you don’t know what you expected when you let him stay, but it wasn’t this.

“you didn’t have to.”

he scoops the rice into a bowl, sets it on the counter, and meets your eyes.

“i wanted to.”

the way he says it. it lands heavy again. like everything else he does lately.

you eat at the counter in your quiet little kitchen. he doesn’t sit this time. just leans against the opposite counter, arms crossed. watching you.

you pause between bites. “you always do that?”

“what?”

“watch me eat like it’s a sport.”

he smirks. “only when it matters.”

you try not to look like that made your heart do something stupid.

after breakfast, he helps wash the dishes. you don’t ask him to. he just does. he even dries them. and when you both end up standing too close at the sink, neither of you moves away.

you don’t talk much. but it’s not uncomfortable. it’s something else. something that feels too soft to name.

after he dries his hands, he checks his phone.

“i should get back soon. lunch rush’ll start soon,” he says.

you nod. “right. yeah.”

he walks toward the door, slow, like he’s waiting for something. maybe for you to stop him. maybe hoping you will.

you don’t.

but just before he opens it, you speak.

“osamu?”

he turns, hand still on the knob.

“you said it mattered. watching me eat.”

he doesn’t respond right away. just studies you. quietly. like he’s memorizing the shape of your voice.

then he nods, once. “it does.”

your breath catches in your throat.

“see you soon?” he asks.

you nod.

“same time?”

“yeah.”

but that night, when you walk into onigiri miya, he’s already watching the door.

your usual waiter gives you a wink as you pass, and he’s behind the counter, hands busy, apron dusted with rice flour. but his eyes follow you the whole way to your seat.

he doesn’t wait long this time. a few minutes after your food arrives, he’s sliding into the seat across from you again. like it’s already a habit. like last night was a beginning, not a fluke.

“so,” he says. “you gonna disappear on me again?”

you glance up at him, smile curling slow. “not if you keep showing up with warm rice and raw fish.”

he leans back in his chair, grin lazy. “deal.”

a few tables over, someone snaps a photo. neither of you notices. or maybe you do, but you don’t care.

because he’s still watching you eat.

and you’re watching him right back.

and there’s something sweet about it.

like the aftertaste of soy sauce.

lingering. familiar.

like maybe this is the start of something that’s been waiting to happen all along.

chapter 4: “behind closed doors”

it’s almost midnight when the last customer leaves.

you stayed longer than usual—long enough to see osamu cleaning up, sleeves rolled past his elbows, hair damp from steam and sweat. the restaurant’s mostly quiet now, save for the occasional clang of a tray or the low murmur of music from the kitchen speaker.

you’re still at your usual table, nursing the last sip of your drink. your coat’s folded beside you. you haven’t made a move to leave.

he notices.

“you waitin’ for someone?” he asks from behind the counter, towel slung over his shoulder, voice low.

you shake your head. “nope.”

he wipes his hands, eyes flicking to the clock, then back to you. “come with me.”

you blink. “huh?”

“kitchen,” he says simply, already heading toward the swinging doors. “i wanna show you something.”

you hesitate for maybe half a second before grabbing your coat and following him.

the kitchen is warmer than the front. quieter, too. the kind of quiet that hums under your skin. pots are clean and stacked. counters wiped down. a few bowls still sit out, like they’re waiting for one more task before bed.

he’s by the prep station, pulling out a small container from the fridge.

“what are you doing?” you ask.

“trying somethin’ new. a marinade,” he says, opening the lid. “wanted to test it, but didn’t wanna waste it on customers.”

he picks up a pair of chopsticks and dips a thin slice of fish into the sauce, holds it up toward you.

“you trust me?”

your mouth goes a little dry. not from the fish.

you nod.

he feeds it to you. gentle. careful. his fingers brush your chin by accident—or maybe not.

you chew slowly, pulse a little too loud in your ears. “it’s good,” you say, but your voice comes out quiet. “really good.”

he hums, setting the chopsticks down. “figured.”

you can feel the shift in the air.

he steps closer, just barely.

“you like it back here?” he asks.

you glance around. “yeah. it’s… cozy.”

he’s still looking at you. not the kitchen. not the food. just you.

“this is the part no one ever sees,” he says, voice lower now. “all the mess. the heat. the real work.”

you nod. “i think i like that.”

something tightens in his jaw. like he’s holding something back. like he’s afraid if he says the wrong thing, you’ll bolt.

you don’t.

instead, you step a little closer. close enough to smell the starch on his apron. the citrus on his skin.

“you always this intense in the kitchen?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

he swallows. “only when i care.”

you don’t know who moves first. maybe it’s him. maybe it’s you.

but suddenly you’re backed against the counter, and his mouth is on yours.

it’s not rushed. not desperate. just deep. slow. the kind of kiss that sinks into your bones and pulls all the air from your lungs.

his hands find your waist, anchoring you like he’s afraid you’ll drift away.

you let him.

you kiss him back like you mean it. like you’ve been meaning to.

when you finally pull apart, his forehead rests against yours.

“i’ve been thinking about that since the second week you came in,” he mutters.

you laugh, breathless. “took you long enough.”

he smiles, soft and crooked. “was waitin’ to be sure.”

your fingers slip into the sides of his apron, pulling him a little closer. “and now?”

his hands press firmer against your hips. “now i’m sure.”

you stay in the kitchen like that a little while longer.

pressed close.

no one else around.

just heat. and you. and him.

behind closed doors.

chapter 5: chime

it starts with the door chime.

you and osamu are in the middle of wiping down the tables—close, quiet, like always. the restaurant’s been closed for twenty minutes, but you never really leave right away anymore.

“you missed a spot,” you say, bumping his elbow with yours.

he doesn’t even look up. “no i didn’t.”

“you did.”

“you’re annoying,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth.

and then the front door swings open with a jingle and a voice that makes osamu’s whole body deflate.

“helloooo~? ‘samu, ya forget to lock up again?”

you turn toward the sound—and meet a face almost identical to osamu’s, but brighter somehow. blonde hair, bleached and messy. smile wide and unfiltered.

“whoa,” the guy says as soon as he sees you. “new staff?”

you blink. “uh—no. just… helping out.”

osamu groans. “go home, atsumu.”

“that’s rude,” atsumu says, grinning as he saunters closer. “is this how ya treat guests now? thought this place had customer service.”

“we’re closed,” osamu mutters, shooting you a glance like he’s apologizing for the intrusion.

but you’re already smiling.

“you must be atsumu,” you say. “heard a lot about you.”

atsumu lights up like a kid. “oh yeah? hopefully all good things. well—mostly.”

he offers you his hand like this is a job interview. “you got a name?”

you tell him. he repeats it with a soft whistle. “pretty name.”

osamu throws the towel over his shoulder. “don’t flirt with my customers.”

“you said she’s not a customer,” atsumu shoots back, unbothered.

you laugh under your breath, and atsumu notices. he grins wider. “see? she thinks i’m funny.”

osamu doesn’t answer. just picks up the mop a little too aggressively.

atsumu keeps coming back after that.

he claims it’s to check in on his hardworking little bro, but he always shows up when he knows you’ll be there.

he’s easy to talk to. funny. friendly. he tells you dumb stories about middle school, and the time osamu got detention for throwing rice balls in the hallway. he makes you laugh without even trying.

sometimes he stays after close, and you all hang out at the front table, legs kicked up, drinks half-finished. sometimes he walks you to your car, hands in his pockets, talking about his last match or the new series he’s watching.

he doesn’t notice how osamu always falls quiet when he does.

he doesn’t notice the way osamu watches—quiet, still, like something in him is unraveling thread by thread.

you and atsumu are getting closer. and osamu… can feel it.

but you only ever look at atsumu with that easy kind of fondness. the kind that doesn’t twist itself into knots. the kind you give to a friend.

atsumu doesn’t seem to notice the difference.

one night, when you’ve left already and the shop’s dark, atsumu tosses a dish towel into the laundry bin and leans back against the sink.

“she’s real cool,” he says casually. “can’t believe you never told me about her.”

osamu doesn’t look up from where he’s stacking bowls. “what about her.”

atsumu shrugs. “i dunno. just—she’s funny. cute. smart. i like her.”

osamu freezes. just slightly. just enough that the sound of ceramic clinking against ceramic goes too quiet.

“you like everyone,” he mutters.

atsumu laughs. “not like that. i mean… maybe. i dunno yet.”

he says it without thinking. without knowing what it does to osamu.

and then he yawns, stretches his arms overhead. “anyway, i’ll see ya friday. unless she’s comin’ sooner—then text me.”

he leaves without waiting for a reply.

the door clicks shut.

and osamu just stands there, fists clenched at his sides, jaw tight, heart heavy.

atsumu doesn’t know.

he has no idea.

and that somehow makes it worse.

chapter 6: friday’s no good

your phone buzzes around noon.

atsumu:

hey hey hey~ u free later? wanna grab food or smth. there’s this café that does fancy latte art, i wanna see if they can make my face

you stare at the message for a moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard.

he’s been texting more lately. calling, too. inviting you out. being… atsumu.

and you like him. you do. but not in the way he probably wants you to. not in the way that makes your stomach twist or your heart stutter.

not like you feel when you think about osamu.

you type, then backspace.

then finally reply.

you:

sorry! i’m a bit busy today

he sends a dramatic crying gif, then a second message:

atsumu:

busy with work or busy ghostin me

you smile, but don’t answer.

because you’re already on your way to onigiri miya.

it’s friday.

and fridays are your day.

the one day every week you never miss. the one that started out casual, then became something steady. something that feels a little like home.

the restaurant’s quieter than usual when you arrive—just a few people finishing up, the lunch rush already gone.

osamu spots you from the kitchen. you catch the flicker of surprise on his face before it settles into something softer. something warmer.

he comes out wiping his hands on a towel. “thought you weren’t comin’ today.”

you shake your head. “almost didn’t. got invited somewhere else.”

his brow twitches. “yeah?”

you nod, slipping into your usual seat. “atsumu asked if i wanted to hang out.”

he stills.

you keep your gaze on the menu even though you already know what you want.

“but i told him i was busy,” you say, voice softer now. “because i was coming here.”

that quiet stretch between you fills the space like warm broth. he doesn’t speak right away.

but then he exhales—slow, relieved.

“good,” he murmurs.

you look up. “yeah?”

he nods once, leaning a little closer over the counter. “yeah.”

he doesn’t smile much. not like atsumu. but you catch the way the edge of his mouth tips up, like something inside him finally unclenched.

you don’t say anything else.

you don’t need to.

you end up staying longer than usual.

the restaurant closes early for deep cleaning, but instead of leaving, you help out again—sleeves pushed up, music low, laughter echoing between the kitchen tiles. osamu teaches you how to roll rice with the right pressure. you mess it up the first time and he nudges your elbow, murmuring corrections with his hand over yours.

it feels… easy.

like this was always going to happen eventually.

he walks you to the front after. it’s already dark outside.

you linger by the door. keys in your hand, coat still unzipped.

“thanks for letting me hang around,” you say.

“you’re not hangin’ around,” he mutters. “you belong here.”

and then—before either of you can say anything else—there’s a knock on the glass.

you both jump.

you turn, squinting through the window—

atsumu.

he’s standing there, blinking, clearly surprised.

he pushes the door open without waiting.

“oh—shit,” he laughs. “you were busy.”

his eyes flick between the two of you—your coat still unzipped, osamu’s hand halfway raised like he was reaching for the door.

osamu steps back instinctively, but you don’t.

atsumu grins, but it falters just slightly at the edges. “you didn’t say it was this kinda busy.”

you open your mouth, unsure what to say.

he raises his hands, playful again, like it’s nothing. “no worries, no worries. just didn’t realize you two were…”

he trails off, then looks at osamu. “you didn’t tell me.”

osamu’s jaw tightens. “there wasn’t anything to tell.”

not yet.

atsumu nods slowly, and for the first time, he doesn’t have anything clever to say. his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“right,” he says. “well. guess i’ll head out.”

he gives you one more look—still kind, still soft, but something in it stings.

“see ya later, pretty,” he says, but it sounds more like goodbye than see you soon.

the door swings shut behind him.

you glance at osamu.

he doesn’t say anything.

but his hand brushes yours.

and this time, you don’t pull away.

chapter 7: something different

friday rolls around again.

and like always, you walk through the doors of onigiri miya just past six, heart already settling into its usual rhythm. it smells like steamed rice and soy sauce, the lights soft and golden. familiar. safe.

except something’s off.

he doesn’t greet you.

osamu is sitting in the corner booth—your booth—laughing quietly at something someone else said. it takes a second to realize who he’s with.

a woman.

she’s pretty. poised. her hair falls in soft waves down her back, and she’s wearing a cream-colored blouse that probably costs more than your whole week’s groceries. you’ve never seen her here before.

and osamu—he’s leaned back, relaxed, that rare little smile on his face. not the usual polite kind he gives customers. it’s easy. real.

your stomach tightens.

you stand there for a moment too long before your usual waitress spots you.

“(y/n)!” she grins. “table for one?”

you nod, eyes flicking back to the corner.

“you okay?”

you nod again, slower. “yeah. yeah, of course.”

she leads you to a different table this time. closer to the kitchen, away from them. you sit down, but the quiet hum of the room doesn’t wrap around you the way it usually does.

you don’t even bother pulling out your phone.

just stare at the grain of the wooden table, trying not to look.

but you do.

you glance up once, then twice. osamu’s still sitting there, one arm resting on the table, his head tilted slightly toward her like he’s listening close. the woman’s hand brushes his when she reaches for her drink. he doesn’t move.

your chest twists. not with anger. not even sadness, really.

just something… hollow.

you eat your food slowly. it doesn’t taste the same.

when osamu finally gets up—ten minutes before you leave—he only spares you a glance. just a flick of his eyes, like he forgot you were there.

you don’t wave.

and he doesn’t come over.

you pay at the front, thank your waitress, and step outside before the cold air can sting too hard.

but even as you walk to your car, hands deep in your pockets, something sits heavy in your throat.

you told yourself this wasn’t anything official.

you never asked for promises.

but still, you chose him.

and this time, he didn’t choose you back.

chapter 8: salmon? or tuna?

osamu learns her name is rina.

she comes in twice after that friday. once for takeout, once just to “say hi.” she talks a lot—about her job, her travels, her taste in food. he mostly listens. polite. detached.

she tells him her favorite is tuna sashimi. “not salmon,” she’d said with a wink. “salmon’s too common. tuna has more depth, don’t you think?”

he hums, nods, files it away. doesn’t think much of it.

until friday.

and you don’t come in.

no text. no excuse. no nothing.

he tells himself it’s probably fine. maybe you’re working late. maybe you’re tired. maybe you needed a break.

but his chest feels wrong the whole night. off balance. like something’s missing.

by nine, he’s packed up a to-go bag and is already pulling into your apartment complex.

he knocks twice.

you open the door a moment later. your eyes widen when you see him. you’re wearing an old t-shirt and shorts, hair pulled back loosely. it’s obvious you weren’t expecting anyone.

“hey,” he says, lifting the bag slightly. “thought you might be hungry.”

you pause. hesitate. but then you step aside, letting him in with a soft, “you didn’t have to come.”

“i know,” he says.

he walks to your small kitchen and pulls out the container, setting it on your counter like he’s done it a hundred times.

“brought your favorite,” he says, popping open the lid. “tuna sashimi.”

you freeze.

osamu doesn’t notice.

not until he turns to look at you—and sees the way your face shifts. the way your lips part, then press shut. how your eyes lose the tiny spark they always have when he’s around.

“what?” he asks.

you swallow. quietly.

“you brought tuna.”

he nods, slow. “yeah. that’s your favorite, right?”

you just stare at him. “no.”

and then it hits him.

rina.

he says it before he can stop himself. too honest. too careless.

“shit—rina. i meant—i meant you—no, sorry. i wasn’t thinking—”

you step back.

he stops talking.

“you brought me her order,” you say quietly. not angry. just… tired. “you thought of her and brought it here.”

“no,” he says immediately. “i didn’t mean it like that—i just… i thought of you, i swear—”

“no, osamu,” you cut him off. “you thought of someone else. and then you came here like that wouldn’t matter.”

he flinches like you hit him.

silence settles over the room like a weight.

he runs a hand through his hair. “i didn’t mean to mess this up.”

“i know,” you say, soft. “but it still hurt.”

you don’t cry. you don’t raise your voice.

and somehow that makes it worse.

he nods slowly, gaze dropping. “i should go.”

you don’t stop him.

he walks to the door, one hand on the knob, then turns back like he wants to say something else. apologize again. explain something you already understand too well.

but you just shake your head.

“next time,” you say gently, “don’t come unless you know who you’re coming for.”

he doesn’t say anything else.

the door clicks shut behind him.

and this time, you don’t watch him leave.

chapter 9: ash

friday again.

you stand just outside the doors of onigiri miya, arms folded, heart pacing.

you stare at the glowing sign, at the warm light pooling out of the windows. familiar voices drift from inside—clinks of dishes, muffled laughter, and underneath it all, the soft baritone you know too well.

osamu.

but your feet won’t move.

you think of the tuna. the way his voice slipped, soft and sure, when he said rina’s name. the way it felt like being forgotten.

you shift your weight. take a step forward. then back again.

and then, instead of walking inside, you let yourself sink down onto the curb.

you sit there, elbows on your knees, and pull out a cigarette—not because you want it, but because you want something to do with your hands. something to keep you from walking back in like nothing ever happened.

you light it, take a drag, and try not to feel the sting behind your eyes.

“ya gonna just sit there and brood, or can i join ya?”

the voice comes from behind.

you turn to see atsumu grinning lopsidedly, hair a mess like he didn’t even bother to fix it before showing up.

you blink. “what are you doing here?”

he shrugs, walking over. “figured i’d swing by. wasn’t expectin’ you to be sidewalk furniture, though.”

you roll your eyes, but you scoot over anyway.

he drops beside you, knees bumping yours.

“smokin’ now?” he asks, a hint of teasing in his voice, but gentler than usual.

you don’t answer right away.

just take another drag, then exhale slowly. “only when i feel like shit.”

he hums. doesn’t push.

minutes pass. the street hums low in the background.

“i didn’t come in today,” you finally say. “i stood in front of that door for like ten minutes and still couldn’t open it.”

atsumu tilts his head, waiting.

you keep going, words shaky now. “last week, he brought me tuna sashimi. said it was my favorite. but it wasn’t. it was hers.”

he goes still.

“he thought of her when he thought of me,” you whisper.

atsumu doesn’t say anything at first.

then, softly: “that’s rough.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “yeah.”

he scratches the back of his neck, like he doesn’t know what to do with the silence.

then—

“hey… i know it’s not really my place, but—if someone did that to me, i’d be pissed. i’d feel like i didn’t matter as much as i thought i did.”

you nod, throat tight.

“he probably didn’t mean it,” you say. “but it still hurts.”

“of course it does.”

you blink fast. but one tear slips down anyway.

atsumu notices. he shifts closer without saying anything and gently nudges your shoulder with his.

“you’re not dumb for feeling it,” he mutters. “and you don’t gotta pretend it didn’t mess you up.”

your lips tremble, but you smile. “why are you so nice to me?”

“because i like ya, dumbass,” he says, voice light. “and i care if you get stepped on.”

you look at him.

his smile falters just a little, gaze flicking down to your lips before he quickly looks away.

you don’t say anything.

and then—

the door behind you creaks open.

you both turn.

osamu stands in the doorway, towel slung over his shoulder, brow furrowed as his eyes land on the two of you sitting together. on how close you���re leaning. on the cigarette still in your hand.

he doesn’t say anything.

just looks at you.

and then atsumu.

and something unreadable passes behind his eyes.

you sit up straighter.

but it’s too late.

the look’s already there. the one that says he thought he still had time.

the one that says maybe he was wrong.

chapter 10: undone knots

saturday, just past noon.

your phone buzzes with a text.

atsumu: ya doin anything today? feel like makin me lose at mario kart?

you smile faintly. it’s been a few days since that night outside the restaurant. since the cigarette. since you cried in front of him without having to apologize for it.

you hesitate for only a moment before typing back:

you: you’re on. what time?

you meet atsumu an hour later. hoodie, sneakers, hair tied up in a loose clip. casual. easy.

you’re just walking toward the train station near his apartment, the sun warm against your arms, when it happens.

you round the corner with atsumu mid-story—something loud and ridiculous about a teammate who once wore two left shoes to practice—and then:

you see him.

osamu.

he’s standing in line outside a street vendor with rina beside him.

she’s laughing at something he said. he’s holding a drink tray in one hand and gesturing with the other, relaxed, in a way he never looked when he was with you these past few weeks.

he sees you a second after you see him.

it’s brief.

just a glance.

but it freezes something between you.

and then his gaze drops to where your hand is looped through atsumu’s elbow—casual, friendly, but too close for coincidence.

rina doesn’t notice. she’s still smiling at him.

atsumu stops talking mid-sentence. follows your stare.

“oh,” he mutters, under his breath.

you blink hard, already turning away, already pulling atsumu with you before any of it can settle.

“let’s go,” you say quickly.

he doesn’t argue.

you walk faster.

like distance can undo what just happened.

the arcade is noisy and crowded, full of neon and chatter, but you barely hear it. even as atsumu pretends to pick a fight with a claw machine or shouts when he loses again, your mind keeps flicking back.

to the drink tray in osamu’s hand.

to the curve of rina’s smile.

to the fact that she laughed at something he said.

you’re not even mad.

not exactly.

just hollow.

like he already moved on. like it didn’t take him long at all.

you don’t tell atsumu any of this.

but that night, when you’re heading home, you get one more text.

not from atsumu.

but from osamu.

osamu: didn’t expect to see you today.

you looked good.

you stare at the message for a long time.

and don’t answer.

 chapter 11: second chances?

you wander the city streets alone, the evening air crisp and light against your skin. your mind spins in circles—thoughts of osamu, rina, atsumu tangled in a knot too stubborn to unravel.

you find yourself in front of another onigiri spot—a small, cozy place tucked between a bookstore and a flower shop. it’s not your usual, but it looks inviting. maybe a change of scenery will clear your head.

you step inside, order a simple salmon onigiri, and take a seat by the window, watching people pass by.

while you’re lost in your quiet world, the bell over the door jingles softly.

you glance up.

there.

osamu stands framed by the doorway.

he freezes when he sees you.

you stare back, surprised, the familiar knot twisting tighter.

he hesitates—like he’s weighing every possible outcome in his head.

then, slowly, he steps forward.

“hey,” he says, voice low, careful.

you blink. “hey.”

there’s a pause. the usual warmth in his eyes is tangled with something fragile.

“didn’t expect to see you here.”

“me neither.”

he shifts on his feet, then nods toward your onigiri. “that’s good, right?”

you smile faintly. “yeah. it’s nice.”

he leans against the window frame, hands tucked into his pockets.

“i… wanted to say sorry. for the other day. for everything, really.”

you study his face—the way his eyes avoid yours just long enough to feel honest.

“thank you,” you say quietly.

he swallows. “if you want, i could cook for you again. no distractions. no mistakes.”

you meet his gaze.

something soft blooms there.

“maybe,” you say.

and for the first time in a while, it feels like the space between you is something worth crossing.

chapter 12: deal

it’s quiet when you arrive at onigiri miya, the usual hum replaced by soft music and the faint scent of seaweed and rice.

osamu is already there, waiting behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands folded.

he looks up as you walk in, and for a moment, the words catch in your throat.

“thanks for coming,” he says, voice low.

you nod, settling onto a stool across from him.

“i figured we should talk,” he starts, “about… all of it.”

you meet his eyes.

“yeah,” you say.

he runs a hand through his hair, then sighs. “rina. that was a mistake. i didn’t mean for it to get complicated.”

you bite your lip. “it felt like i wasn’t enough.”

his gaze drops. “you are. you always have been.”

“why didn’t you tell me?”

“i was scared. scared i’d lose you if i said anything.”

you shake your head, heart twisting. “but you did lose me anyway.”

he winces. “i know.”

you take a deep breath. “atsumu’s been… great. he’s been there when i needed someone. but i’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

osamu’s eyes search yours. “i want to fix this. if you’ll let me.”

you smile, a little shaky. “me too.”

he reaches across the counter, fingers brushing yours gently.

“no more secrets,” he promises.

“no more.”

and in that moment, everything feels possible again.

chapter 13: clear skies

the early evening sun cast long golden streaks across the quiet streets as osamu made his way toward the small café where he’d agreed to meet rina. the weight in his chest wasn’t just guilt — it was something heavier, something he knew he had to face.

rina was already there when he arrived, sitting at a corner table, fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of tea. she looked up as he approached, her expression unreadable, but her eyes held a softness beneath the surface — a mixture of disappointment and understanding.

“rina,” osamu started, voice steady but low. “we need to be clear about what’s happening — and what’s not.”

she nodded slowly. “i figured as much. i don’t want to be the reason you’re… caught between things. especially if your heart’s somewhere else.”

he swallowed. “it is. it’s been with someone else all along. and i didn’t handle things right. i’m sorry.”

they talked honestly, quietly — about expectations, misunderstandings, and the lines that should never have blurred. by the end of their conversation, there was a quiet respect, a mutual decision to part ways without bitterness.

later that week, the tension between osamu and atsumu reached a breaking point.

it happened unexpectedly — at the restaurant, just as the dinner rush settled.

atsumu was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes sharp but tired.

“you need to sort things out,” he said flatly.

osamu met his gaze, nodding. “i’m trying.”

atsumu exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “look, i get it. you like her. but you gotta be clear — for her sake, and ours. no more half-measures.”

osamu’s jaw clenched, but he knew atsumu was right.

they spent the next few days talking — really talking. clearing up misunderstandings, setting boundaries, and agreeing to respect what the other needed.

atsumu surprised osamu by admitting, with a grin, “just don’t mess it up, yeah? she’s good people.”

osamu laughed, relief flooding through him. “yeah. i won’t.”

and then — finally — it was just you and osamu.

the restaurant was closed for the night. the lights dimmed low, the world outside fading away.

you sat at the counter, fingers tracing the smooth wood grain, watching him move around the kitchen — confident, calm, focused.

he glanced up, catching your gaze, and the small smile that played on his lips made your heart catch.

he crossed the space between you, sitting beside you on the stool, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

“i’ve been thinking,” he began, voice soft, almost hesitant. “about us. about how complicated everything got.”

you nodded, your fingers still entwined around your glass.

“i want to do this right,” he said. “no distractions. no second-guessing. just you and me.”

your breath hitched.

you reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind his ear, fingertips lingering on the warmth of his skin.

“i want that too,” you whispered.

his hand found yours, squeezing gently.

the space between you shrank, until it was just a breath, a heartbeat.

then, without another word, he leaned in — slow, deliberate — his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was everything you’d both been holding back.

it was soft at first, tentative, but it deepened, weaving all the unsaid words and tangled feelings into something clear and true.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he responded, his hands resting on your waist, steady and sure.

when you finally parted, the world felt different — lighter, warmer.

“we’ll take it slow,” he promised, voice husky.

you smiled, resting your forehead against his.

“slow sounds perfect.”

outside, the night wrapped around the restaurant like a blanket, but inside, you had found something that felt like home.

something that felt like forever.

[luvsickstqr]

thinking about how lonely kageyama tobio is growing up. every after game he wins, he would see his teammates run to their family who's standing on the audience bench waiting with proud smiles. he never shows it but his chest aches with longing and yearning.

but it all changes when you and him start dating. the first time he sees your family is at his first professional game.

his eyes scan the crowds, knowing you'll be there, cheering on him like you've always been. imagine his surprise when he sees you, not alone, but with your mom, dad, and your little brother beside you.

“im so sorry, they really want to come see you.” you apologize, scared that tobio might feel uncomfortable with your family tagging along.

tobio shakes his head, “no—”

his words cut off by a sudden hug from your dad.

“im so proud of you boy, you did great out there!” tobio stunned, not familiar with the warm gesture. he awkwardly hugged your father back.

“dad, stop it please. sorry tobio, he's a little bit enthusiastic.” with that, your father released him a gentle tap on the shoulder and gave him a bright smile.

“i didnt know that my daughter's boyfriend is an amazing athlete.” your mother claims.

tobio gave her a shy smile and nodded his head, “thank you, mrs—”

“call me mom, okay?—” “mom, dont make him uncomfortable please”

“thank you, mom.”

your little brother tugged tobio's jersey, “can you teach me volleyball?”

“emm, sure—”

“oh my god let's plan the wedding!”

“mom please dont!”

for the first time, tobio's heart feels full and completed.

[luvsickstqr]

like me back!

16. if only you knew

prev masterlist next

a suna x reader smau

notes:

suna couldn't pull away at first because kana was FORCING him to kiss her back

look closely at the last slide

idk what happened i was writing a fluffy halloween chapter but i got possessed by some evil spirit and started writing angst

guys I started getting SO sad writing this HELP

taglist: closed!!

I am so so sorry to everyone who couldn't be tagged :(

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[luvsickstqr]

📁 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄 𝟎𝟏: EROTIC TRANSFERENCE — an asylum au | 6.0k wc

↳ featuring: sociopath!simon x psychiatrist!reader

ⓘ file preface: he’s a masked sociopath with a filthy mouth and eyes that never stop watching you. you’re the new psychiatrist—young, polished, and far too curious for your own good.

⚠︎ classified triggers: this fic contains explicit and dark themes, including mental instability, psychological manipulation, power imbalances, and dubious consent. sexual content depicted include restraint play, degradation, praise kink, size kink, oral sex, pierced genitals (jacob’s ladder), and intense dom/sub dynamics. additional warnings for asylum settings with disturbing imagery, violence , and heavy psychological tension. the reader engages in self-destructive behavior, shame, and ethical violations (doctor/patient relationship). reader discretion is strongly advised.

event masterlist

the asylum smells like bleach and something older. older than mold, older than rot. something that can't be scrubbed away, no matter how many times the floors are mopped or the walls are wiped down.

it's in the cracks of the tile, the grout between them, the ceiling tiles yellowed with time. not decay, not exactly but close. like the building itself has absorbed every scream, every whispered confession, every last gasp of air from lungs that will never draw breath again.

you have smelled it time and time again. in hospice clinical rotation during medical school, where death comes slow and expected, where the antiseptic tries and fails to mask the stench of dead or dying bodies.

it's even stronger in psych wards, where the air is thick with sweat and fear and the metallic tang of blood flaking off the skulls that have banged into walls one too many times.

the smell clings to your clothes, seeps into the fibers of your white coat, your scrubs, your hair. no amount of detergent or perfume or showers can strip it away. it follows you home, into your apartment, into your bed. it even follows you into your dreams.

but this new job is supposed to be a fresh start. that's what your mentor called it when she pressed the file into your hands three weeks ago. her fingers left faint smudges on the manila folder, the edges worn soft from being handled too many times. the weight of it in your palms feels heavier than it should—not just paper and ink, but something more. 

"try not to be scared of the environment," she said with a tired smile. the lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke, the kind that come from too many late nights and too many patients who never get better. her hand lingered on yours for half a second too long. "focus on the patient. that's where you always shine."

but the asylum doesn't feel like a fresh start. it feels like a place where fresh things go to die.

you pass the nurses' station with a nod, already trying to tune out the screaming echoing from the lower level. it isn't the sharp, sudden kind of scream. it's a scream that sounds like a soul being peeled apart layer by layer. your fingers tighten around the clipboard until your knuckles whiten. the pen cap wedges between your fingers like a weapon—small, pathetic, but yours.

a group of patients shuffle through the far hallway under supervision, their slippers scuffing against tile that hasn't been properly cleaned in years. the nurse pushes a metal cart ahead of them, the trays rattling with little paper cups—each holding colorful pills.

most don't look up. their heads stay bowed, their shoulders hunched, as if carrying a weight no one else can see. some twitch—a finger jerking, an eyelid fluttering. others stare at nothing, their eyes fixed on some middle distance between this world and whatever hellscape lives inside their skulls.

"you get used to it," says dr. carver, your new supervisor, without looking back. his keys jangle as he walks, the sound almost mocking in its cheerfulness.

you don't believe him for a second. your past work experiences have been in the frame of psych wards in hospitals and outpatient clinics—never asylums. asylums are where patients go when nowhere else can contain them. where the worst cases, the truly broken, are sent to be studied like specimens under glass. the kind of place where people are forgotten.

the tour is brisk, clinical. the west wing for the non-violent cases, the east for the ones who need restraints. the common area with its bolted-down furniture, the cafeteria with its plastic utensils counted and recounted. everything designed to keep the chaos contained.

you feel it the moment you step into the east wing—the weight of eyes on you. not just watching. studying.

"this is where you'll be assigned," carver says, stopping in front of a reinforced door. the nameplate reads riley, s. in neat block letters. "high-risk patient. former military. court-mandated after an... incident."

he doesn't elaborate. he doesn't need to. you've read up on his file before going for rounds this morning.

age: 37. former military operative with a service record that is heavily redacted, suggesting involvement in classified black ops. dishonorably discharged under sealed circumstances. following his return to civilian life, riley is implicated in a series of violent homicides—deliberate, ritualistic, and performed with a level of precision that rules out impulse or psychosis.

court-mandated psychiatric evaluation deems him fit for long-term containment at blackwall institute due to extreme sociopathic behavior and the high likelihood of reoffense.

diagnostically, riley meets the criteria for antisocial personality disorder, marked by chronic disregard for the rights and boundaries of others, lack of empathy, and calculated manipulation. he exhibits no delusional thinking, no psychotic breaks, and no evidence of hallucinations.

instead, he operates with full cognitive clarity. his violence is not reactive, but strategic—premeditated acts committed without remorse. he displays an eerie emotional flatness, but maintains a high-functioning intellect and strong interpersonal acuity.

he reads people quickly and accurately, often weaponizing their emotional tells against them. while superficially cooperative, all interactions appear designed to extract information, establish control, or destabilize the other party.

he wears a self-constructed skull mask at nearly all times. when forcibly removed, his behavior becomes volatile. the mask appears to serve a psychological function—both as armor and as a performance. he does not hide behind it so much as embody it. attempts to strip it from him have resulted in injury to staff. for the sake of stability, containment policy has allowed him to retain it during sessions, under heavy physical restraints.

clinical recommendation: treat all interactions as adversarial. do not respond to personal inquiries. do not allow sessions to deviate from their intended therapeutic structure. patient is capable of emotional mimicry but does not possess empathy. any rapport built is likely a means to an end. do not mistake his stillness for submission.

do not underestimate him. control is his currency. you'll only get what he wants to give you, and he'll want to watch what you do with it.

the risk assessment didn't bother with pleasantries:

level 5 containment

subject is non-delusional, cognitively stable, and extremely dangerous. violent outbursts are rare, but never reactive—always premeditated. staff injury incidents occur only when restraints are compromised. he waits. he plans. he attacks.

through the small reinforced window, you see him for the first time. the photo that you saw in his file is grainy and taken through the window of a solitary confinement cell.

he wears a black cloth mask stretched into the pattern of a stylized skull. white smears over the sockets. a grin permanently frozen in place. his eyes are the only visible part of his face—shadowed, half-lidded.

the reinforced glass fogs slightly with your quickened breath as you press closer. the air in the hallway suddenly feels too thick, too still, like the entire wing is holding its breath along with you.

he sits perfectly still on the edge of his cot, back straight, hands resting on his knees. the skull mask stares blankly at the opposite wall, that same frozen grin you saw in the photograph. his shoulders strain against the fabric of his jumpsuit, the material stretched obscenely tight across the impossible breadth of him—no wonder they keep him in reinforced restraints. 

even sitting, he dominates the space, his frame so broad, so solid, it makes the flimsy cot beneath him look like a child's toy. your throat goes dry watching the way his arms bulge where the sleeves pull taut, veins standing in stark relief along corded muscle that flexes just once when he shifts his weight.

his hands are massive where they rest on his knees, fingers thick and capable—you imagine them wrapping around your throat and your pulse jumps traitorously.

of course, they would have him under around the clock supervision. no wonder the restraints are heavy-duty, the door reinforced. he's not just big—he's built like a weapon, every inch of him honed and hardened, radiating a dangerous magnetism that makes your skin prickle with something that isn't quite fear. 

his eyes—the only part of him that moves—track slowly across the room before settling on the door.

on you.

his eyes are much lighter than you expected. but there's something about them that oozes darkness—the kind of darkness that creates a dark pit of fear in your abdomen. they were utterly devoid of anything recognizable as warmth or empathy.

you hold your breath without realizing it. your brain sending signals to your lungs reminding you to breathe.

there's something obscenely compelling about his stillness, about the power coiled in his frame, and it terrifies you how badly you want to see it unleashed.

your fingers tighten around the clipboard, nails biting into your palms as you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. the rational part of your brain screams danger while something deeper, something primal thrills at the way his gaze lingers—like he knows exactly what you're thinking, like he's already imagined a dozen ways to ruin you. 

one of his fingers twitches—just once—against his knee. if you had blinked you probably would've missed the action. 

then, with deliberate slowness, he tilts his head. just slightly. it unsettles something in your stomach. you didn't get creeped out easily—especially after years of working in psychiatry. but you would be lying if you weren't scared shitless.

his chest rises once, slow and controlled, the only sign that he was even alive beneath that mask. your skin crawls with unease as you swallow the lump in your throat.

dr. carver cleared his throat. "he's got a session with you in twenty. you'll be supervised, of course." he jangled his keys again, the sound suddenly too loud in the quiet hallway. "just... don't turn your back on him."

you nod in acknowledgment, but your eyes don't leave the his. you swear you see the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit—as of he's smiling under the mask. you don't need to see his face to decipher that he is amused. and if you've learned one thing from the little experience you had in this job—it was never a good think to have a sociopath amused. 

carver shifts beside you, uncomfortable, his keys jangling as he turns. "come on," he mutters, already walking away, his footsteps too loud in the suffocating quiet. "i'll show you the observation room."

you force yourself to step back, your knees slightly bucking as if you've forgotten how to walk. you can feel the shift in the air as you turn to walk away. the heat of his stare doesn't stop. if anything, it burns even stronger now. it settles between your shoulder blades, heavy as a hand pressed flat against your spine. 

it lingers, warm and intrusive, like the ghost of fingers trailing down the knobs of your spine. you can almost feel his breath on the back of your neck, slow and deliberate, though you know he hasn't moved from the cot.

he wasn't just watching. he was claiming. 

you follow carver in silence. you take slow and calculted breaths to re-regulate your nervous system. you weren't even in the same room as him but he somehow managed to completely throw your nervous system into overdrive by the simple act of eye contact.

your footsteps are unnaturally loud in the hush of the east wing. each step feels like it's pulling you deeper into something you won't come back from, and not even the heavens and the hells can chase away the fear pooling in your stomach.

your palms sweat by your sides, still feeling the phantom weight of riley's stare like a brand between your shoulder blades. it doesn't fade with distance, if anything, it grows more intense with each step you take away from his cell, as if the distance only makes his presence more palpable.

your skin prickles with the unsettling awareness that he's still watching, even though you know the reinforced, heavy metal doors and dozens if security measures separate the the two of you.

the walk to the observation room feels like it takes forever. the stillness and silence is broken by the occasional scream or bang. but other than that it seems eerily quiet. too quiet. 

carver pause in front of one of the doors, glancing back at you with an expression you can't quite read. his keys jingle as he shifts his weight, the sound grating against your already frayed nerves. "almost there," he says, but his voice sounds distant, like it's coming through water.

you nod automatically, your tongue heavy in your mouth. some part of you wants to turn around, to look back down that long hallway, to see if—

no. you keep your eyes forward. keep walking.

but the weight of that stare stays with you, pressing insistently against your spine, a silent reminder that this isn't over. that it's only just begun.

the door to the observation room door creaks when carver pushes it open, the sound only further increasing this looming sense of dread. inside, the air is colder, the hum of machinery louder.

a bank of monitors flickers against one wall, showing grainy black-and-white feeds of observation area. the oneway window next to the monitors overlooks the bland room where a floor-mounted table and chairs sit bolted in place.

"session protocols are on the desk," carver says, gesturing to a stack of papers. "review them while i get the orderlies prepped for transfer."

as the door closes and carver leaves, your fingers twitch at your sides, nails digging half-moons into your palms. 

you were nervous. and you were never nervous. nervous meant mistakes and stupid slip-ups. it meant giving him exactly what he wanted: the upper hand. yet here you were, pulse rabbiting in your throat, breaths coming just a fraction too quick. the file with the protocols felt slick in your grip. 

you forced your hands still. forced your spine straight. you were a professional. you'd handled worse.

the protocols blurred in front of you, words swimming together. maintain distance. avoid physical contact. terminate session at first sign of agitation. as if it were that simple. as if he wouldn't see right through the script, wouldn't relish tearing it apart.

your breath catches as movement flickers across the monitors. the feed shows the orderly team leading him in—three of them, all broad-shouldered but dwarfed by riley's hulking frame. 

the straightjacket strains across his chest, the thick canvas barely containing the width of him. his masked face turns slightly as they guide him forward, those pale eyes scanning the room even as his body moves with eerie compliance.

the chair creaks when he sits, metal protesting under his weight. the orderlies work quickly, securing the restraints—thick leather cuffs around his wrists, already buckled tight behind the chair, another strap crossing his chest. 

one orderly kneels to fasten the ankle restraints, hands moving with practiced efficiency. riley watches them, head tilted just slightly, that grotesque mask hiding whatever expression might lie beneath.

when the last buckle clicks into place, the orderlies step back. one of them wipes his brow—you don't miss the way his hand shakes.

on screen, riley tests the restraints. not violently, not even urgently. just a slow, deliberate shift of his shoulders, a flex of his arms. the leather groans but holds. the chair doesn't budge. then, as if sensing your gaze through the camera, his head turns. those dead eyes lock onto the lens causing your stomach drops.

a knock at the door made you flinch. one of the orderlies gruff voices, muffled through the metal: "we're ready."

your breath hitches, fingers tightening around the edge of the desk as you force yourself to look away from the monitor. the cold metal bites into your palms, sharp enough to ground you, to pull you back from the edge of whatever unsettling feeling had taken root in your chest.

you exhale slowly, counting the seconds in your head. four in. seven hold. eight out. the rhythm steadies you, brings the world back into focus.

nervousness was a luxury you couldn't afford. not here. not with him.

when you open your eyes again, your expression is schooled into something neutral, professional. the slight tremor in your hands is gone, tucked away where it can't betray you. you smooth the front of your coat, adjust the clipboard under your arm and brace yourself as you enter the room. 

the scent of antiseptic and metal with a hint of smoke lingers in the stale air of the room. the orderlies file out of the room one-by-one leaving you alone with him. you can feel the hunger of his stare grazing over you leaving goosebumps in it's wake. you swear that your knees buck for a second as you take slow strides towards the chair across from him. 

the chair groans as you lower yourself into it, the sound obscenely loud in the silence. you keep your movements measured, controlled, placing the clipboard on the table with deliberate care.

across from you, he's a study in contained violence. the straightjacket pulls tight across his chest, the thick canvas straining against the sheer bulk of him. even sitting, even restrained, he looms. his thighs spread slightly, taking up space he doesn't need, the chair creaking under his weight.

the mask hides his expression, but his eyes—god, his eyes—never leave yours. dark, piercing, tracking your every breath like a predator savoring its prey.

you clear your own, flipping open the file. "mr. riley," you say, and your voice is steady. professional. you hope to the heavens and the earth that he didn't here the slight tremor in your voice.

his fingers twitch against the armrests, the leather cuffs groaning. a small, almost lazy flex, as if testing the give. as if imagining how easily he could break them. 

the mask tilts slightly, that eerie grin seeming to sharpen. "doctor," he rumbles, your title rolling off his tongue like something illicit. "you're shaking."

you don't look down at your hands. "it's cold in here."

a low hum vibrates through his chest. "liar." the word curls around you, warm and knowing. his knee presses firmer against the table—not an accident this time. the contact burns through the fabric of your slacks.

you exhale sharply through your nose, forcing your fingers to relax around the pen.

"let's focus on your evaluation, mr. riley," you say, clicking your pen with deliberate calm. "how would you describe your current mental state?"

his chuckle is dark, velvety, the sound vibrating through your bones. "frustrated," he purrs, rolling the r like he's savoring it. his knee presses harder against yours beneath the table.

"restrained. pent up." the leather cuffs groan as he flexes his fingers again. "tell me, doctor - does it excite you? seeing me like this?"

your pulse jumps traitorously. "this is a professional setting," you remind him, though your voice wavers slightly. "let's keep it that way."

the mask tilts further, shadows pooling in those hollow eye sockets. "professional," he echoes, mocking. "is that why your cheeks are flushed? why your breathing's gone shallow?" his voice drops to a whisper. "i can see your pulse racing in that pretty neck of yours."

you swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. "do you always flirt with your doctors, mr. riley?"

"only the ones who squirm for me," he counters smoothly. his thigh rubs against yours in slow, deliberate circles. "ask me your next question, doc. i know you're dying to."

your fingers tighten around the pen. "do you experience violent urges toward staff members?"

his laugh is dark, delicious. "only the pretty ones who lick their lips when they look at me." your tongue darts out instinctively, and his eyes track the movement hungrily. "there she is," he purrs. "was that so hard, doctor?"

your grip tightens on the clipboard, knuckles going white. "we're getting off topic, mr. riley." you force your voice steady, but it comes out breathier than intended. "let's discuss your sleep patterns."

he leans back slightly, the chair groaning under his weight. "sleep patterns?" his voice is all rough velvet, the kind that slides under your skin. "i prefer to stay awake. more... interesting things happen at night." his knee presses harder between yours, the heat searing through your slacks. "don't you agree, doctor?"

your pen hovers over the paper, ink bleeding where you've pressed too hard. "insomnia is a common symptom in your condition," you say, keeping your tone clinical despite the way your pulse jumps at your throat. "we should explore that further."

his chuckle vibrates through the table between you. "oh, i'd love to explore things with you, doc." the way he says it makes your stomach flip. "but we both know you're not here to talk about my sleep."

you force yourself to meet those pale eyes behind the mask. "then enlighten me, mr. riley. why am i here?"

his fingers flex against the restraints again, the leather creaking ominously. "because you couldn't resist." his voice drops to a whisper. "because you saw my file and thought 'i can fix him'." the mask tilts. "or maybe... you thought 'i want him to ruin me'."

your breath catches. "that's—"

"true?" he finishes for you, triumphant. his thigh rubs slow circles against yours, the friction making your skin burn. "tell me i'm wrong."

the clipboard trembles in your hands. you should stand up. you should call for the orderlies. you should do anything but sit here, letting him unravel you with nothing but words and the press of his knee between yours.

"cat got your tongue, doctor?" he murmurs, leaning forward as far as the restraints allow. his breath is warm through the mask's grin. "or are you just imagining all the things i could do to you if these cuffs weren't here?"

your lips part, but the intercom crackles to life before you can respond. "session time elapsed," a bored voice announces.

neither of you acknowledge it.

his eyes gleam behind the mask. "tick tock, doc. better run along before you do something... unprofessional."

you stand abruptly, your legs unsteady. "we'll continue this next session," you say, proud of how steady your voice sounds.

his low laugh follows you to the door. "counting the minutes, sweetheart."

when the heavy door clicks shut behind you, you realize you're shaking. and worse—you're already counting the minutes too.

the next morning, when you walk into the facility, it's with the weight of heavy guilt on your shoulders. your skin still burns with the memory of last night—the way your fingers slipped between your thighs, the way you bit your lip to muffle his name as it tumbled from your mouth in a broken whisper. 

simon riley. 

his voice, rough and mocking, playing in your head like a taunt. his muscles straining against the restraints, the way he looked at you like he knew exactly what you'd do the second you were alone. 

it's insane. you've known him for a day. a single day. you've known him for less than twenty-four hours, and here you are, trembling like some desperate thing, already ruined by a man who's done nothing but toy with you.

maybe you're the one who belongs in this place. maybe you should check yourself in, let them strap you down, let them study whatever sickness has taken root in you so fast. but then you think of his laugh, dark and knowing, and your stomach twists. he'd love that, wouldn't he? seeing you unravel. seeing you break. god, you're pathetic. 

the moment you step inside, the head nurse gives you a sharp look.

"riley's in solitary," she says, voice clipped. "attacked an orderly last night. broke the man's nose before they got him down."

your breath catches. "is he—"

"fine? unfortunately." she hands you a file. "session's still on. carver's orders. but you'll be in the black cell. no cameras. no interruptions." her eyes narrow. "you sure you're up for it?"

you don't trust yourself to answer.

the black cell is exactly what it sounds like—a concrete box swallowed by shadows, the only light a dim flicker from the hall. the air is thick, humid, pressing against your skin like a hand. you feel clusterphobic the second you step in. your heels clack against the damp concrete as you in closer. 

it takes your eyes a bit to adjust to the darkness before you see him. you feel your pulse quicken and your breathe hitch as soon as your eyes catch his.

the door clangs shut behind you, the sound final. the air is thick, pressing in from all sides, making your pulse throb in your throat. you force yourself to take a step forward, heels clicking against the damp concrete. "mr. riley," you say, voice steadier than you feel. "care to explain last night's incident?"

in the center, restrained tighter than usual in a straight jacket, is him. even in the darkness of the cell or room or whatever this was, you could feel the depraved darkness in his eyes. they must've sedated him or given him something to calm down because his pupils were the size of saucers.

his head lifts slowly, those blown-out pupils swallowing nearly all the color in his eyes. even in the dim light, you can see the way his gaze drags over you—hungry, possessive. "got bored," he rumbles, voice rough like gravel. "figured solitary was better than staring at the same four walls."

you click your pen, feigning indifference. "so you broke a man's nose for a change of scenery?"

his lips curl, slow and knowing. "worth it."

you swallow hard. "that's not an acceptable answer."

"no?" the straightjacket creaks as he shifts, testing the restraints. "then give me a better one, doc."

you take another step closer, ignoring the way your skin prickles. "try this—you acted out because you struggle with impulse control. because you—"

"because i wanted you alone," he interrupts, voice dropping to a growl. "no cameras. no orderlies. just you. and me."

your breath hitches. "that's—"

"true." his eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. "admit it. you thought about it too."

your fingers tighten around the clipboard. "this isn't appropriate."

"neither was what you did last night," he murmurs, tilting his head. "i know you touched yourself."

your face burns as you attempt to feign innocence and indifference. "we're not discussing that."

"why not?" he leans forward as far as the jacket allows, voice a dark whisper. "scared i'll tell them how you were squirming in your seat like a little whore for a —"

"enough." your voice cracks. "we're here to evaluate your behavior, not—"

"evaluate this, then." his knee brushes yours, the contact deliberate. "i fought my way in here because i knew you'd follow. because i knew you wouldn't be able to resist." his gaze drags down your body. "so tell me, doctor—who's really in control here?"

the clipboard nearly slips from your sweaty palms as his voice wraps around you like smoke, low and dripping with sin. "you wanna know why i really did it, doc?" he leans closer, the straightjacket straining against his shoulders. "because i knew they'd put me in here. no windows. no guards. just you, me, and that pretty little mouth of yours."

you force yourself to take a shaky breath, gripping the clipboard tighter. "let's... let's focus on last night's incident, mr. riley. what triggered the violent outburst?"

his laugh is dark, curling around you like smoke. "oh, doc. still playing pretend?" he shifts in the straightjacket, the material straining against his broad shoulders. "i already told you why i did it. wanted you alone. wanted you...vulnerable."

your throat goes dry. "that's not—"

"not what?" he interrupts, voice dropping to a rough whisper. "not true? then why are your thighs squeezing together like that? why's your breath hitching every time i move?"

you swallow hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach. "this is inappropriate."

"inappropriate," he echoes mockingly. "like you rubbing your clit last night, thinking about me? imagining my hands on you? my mouth?"

your face burns. "stop it."

"or what?" he challenges, tilting his head. "you'll walk away? we both know you won't." his voice drops even lower, rough and filthy. 

"you wanna know what i'd do to you if these restraints were off, doc? i'd start with those pretty little fingers of yours—pin them behind your back so you couldn't touch yourself. then i'd bend you over and spank that swollen, desperate clit of yours until you were sobbing. just light taps at first, enough to make you squirm. then harder. harder. until you're begging me to let you come."

your knees nearly buckle.

"you'd love that, wouldn't you?" he murmurs, watching your reaction with predatory satisfaction. "being at my mercy? taking whatever i decide to give you?"

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

"that's what i thought," he purrs. "such a good little whore for me."

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you can hear your own pulse roaring in your ears. his gaze burns into you, unrelenting, waiting.

"show me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel. "show me how you touched yourself thinking about me."

your breath hitches. "i—i can't—"

"you can," he growls. "and you will." his eyes darken further. "unless you want me to rip out of this straight jacket and force you.."

the clipboard clatters to the floor as your fingers tremble at the hem of your skirt. his dark chuckle vibrates through the humid air between you, those blown-out pupils swallowing you whole. "that's it," he purrs, voice thick with approval. "show me how desperate you really are."

your breath comes in shallow gasps as you slide your hand beneath the fabric, fingertips brushing over damp silk. a whimper escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"louder," he growls, straining against the straightjacket. "let me hear what i do to you."

your fingers slip beneath the waistband, finding yourself already embarrassingly wet. the first brush of your fingertips against your clit has your hips jerking forward.

"fuck," he breathes, watching with rapt attention. "just like that. pretend it's my fingers, doc. my thick fucking fingers working that tight little cunt open."

you moan, circling your clit faster as his filthy words wash over you.

"you thought about this, didn't you?" he continues, voice rough. "alone in your bed, fucking yourself on your fingers like some cheap slut? imagining it was me?"

"yes," you gasp, arching into your own touch.

"say it." his command leaves no room for argument. "say you're my little whore."

"i'm—" your breath hitches as you press two fingers inside yourself, "—i'm your whore."

his groan is animalistic. "good girl. now come for me."

your orgasm crashes over you violently, thighs trembling as you ride out the waves against your own fingers. when you finally come down, panting and boneless, his smirk is downright predatory.

you're still trembling from your orgasm when his voice cuts through the haze, rough with command. "come here." 

your legs move before your brain catches up, knees hitting the cold concrete as you shuffle forward. your fingers fumble with the waistband of his pants, breath hitching when you finally free him.

and fuck—

a jacob's ladder. of course he has one. the metal glints even in the dim light, each barbell making your mouth water. you're delirious, mind fogged with lust and shame, but you can't stop.

"that's it," he growls, watching you through heavy-lidded eyes. "take what you need."

your tongue darts out, tentative at first, tracing the underside of his cock. the taste of him—salt and musk and something darkly him—has you moaning before you even take him fully into your mouth.

"fuck," he hisses, hips jerking slightly despite the restraints. "just like that, doc. such a pretty fucking mouth."

you hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, the metal bars dragging against your tongue in the most delicious way. your fingers dig into his thighs, nails leaving crescent moons in their wake.

"you like that, don't you?" he taunts, voice thick with amusement. "my little professional doctor, on her knees, gagging for it."

you whimper around him, the vibration making his cock twitch.

"bet you've never had anything like me," he continues, rolling his hips just enough to nudge the back of your throat. "bet you're already thinking about how it'll feel when i finally fuck you raw."

you are. god, you are.

your free hand slips between your own legs again, fingers circling your clit as you suck him off with desperate, sloppy bobs of your head.

"that's it," he praises, voice rough. "get yourself ready for me. gonna ruin you so good, you'll forget your own fucking name."

you're climbing into his lap before you can think better of it, your skirt hiked up around your waist, his cock glistening with your spit. the straightjacket rustles as he strains against it, his eyes black with hunger as you hover over him.

"do it," he growls, voice rough. "use me. take what you fucking need, doctor."

you sink down onto him with a gasp, the stretch burning in the best way. the metal bars of his ladder drag against your walls, sending sparks up your spine. your hands scramble for purchase against his shoulders as you start to move, your hips rolling in slow, desperate circles.

"fuck," he hisses, his head falling back against the wall. "look at you. riding me like you were made for it."

you whimper, your nails digging into the thick material of the jacket as you bounce harder, chasing your own pleasure. his cock hits that perfect spot inside you with every thrust, the metal bars adding an unforgiving edge that has you seeing stars.

"that's it," he rasps, watching you with dark, blown-out pupils. "take it. take every fucking inch." his voice drops to a whisper, filthy and rough. "wish you could see yourself right now. fucking yourself on me like a desperate little slut."

you moan, your thighs trembling as you grind down harder, your clit rubbing against the base of him with every movement.

"you're lucky i'm strapped down, sweetheart," he murmurs, lips curling into a smirk. "because if i had my hands free?" his hips jerk up, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "i'd have you bent over, screaming my name."

you're close—so, so close—your breaths coming in ragged gasps as you chase your release.

"come on," he goads, voice rough with command. "let me feel it. let me feel that tight little cunt squeezing around me."

you shatter with a sob, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave, your walls fluttering around him as you ride it out. he groans, low and satisfied, as you collapse against his chest, boneless and spent.

his mask brushes against your ear, his whisper sending a shiver down your spine. "good girl."

you whimper, still trembling, as his smirk grows darker under the mask.

you scramble off him with shaky legs, your skirt falling back into place with a rustle that sounds obscenely loud in the heavy silence. your fingers fumble as you pull his pants back up, avoiding eye contact, avoiding the way his smirk burns into you even through the mask. the straightjacket strains as he shifts, watching you with those dark, knowing eyes. 

your hands tremble as you smooth down your blouse, tucking loose strands of hair behind your ear. you must look wrecked—lips swollen, cheeks flushed, thighs still sticky with the evidence of your shame. thank god for the darkness. thank god no one will see.

your breath hitches as you bend to pick up the clipboard, your knees still weak. the pen rolls away from you, and you flinch when he nudges it back toward you.

"careful, doc," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement. "wouldn't want you to leave anything behind."

you snatch the pen, your face burning. your mind races—what the fuck did you just do? you fucked a patient. a dangerous, unstable, manipulative patient. a fucking killer and sociopath. and worse—you loved it. you came harder than you have in years, and the guilt is already curdling in your stomach like poison.

you straighten, forcing your voice steady. "this—this can't happen again."

his chuckle is low, mocking. "sure it can't."

you turn toward the door, your legs unsteady beneath you.

"great session, doctor," he calls after you, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "can't wait for the next one."

[luvsickstqr]

Cowboy Joel!! Cowboy…Pedro? Agent Whiskey? Uh…so many to choose from!

[luvsickstqr]

Lost & Found Chapter 3

masterlist • profiles • ch1

Kinda filler but erm !!! Next chapter trust sakusa and yn are gonna meet :p

Lmk what you guys think! Thank you for all the likes on my previous posts it means alot ♡

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[luvsickstqr]

like me back!

14. missing you

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a suna x reader smau

notes:

alternative titles: suna's crash out, how suna fumbled the bag, suna digging his own grave, suna losing his mind for 14 slides straight, suna’s downfall (part two)

made SURE he suffered this chapter 🙏🙏

also guys i don’t think i can tag anymore people 🙁but if more people like the taglist post I’ll still put you guys on 🙏🙏

taglist: closed :(

@ykmsnml@mizxuqii@soynomnom@dilaya@ashylovesfrogs@namesarehard123@minstarrs@yueriasblog@meiups@ayumiheartsriki@hanarinlol@kozumiie@total-insanity @iwmkmp @andysdrafts@smellysluna@ilove-suna-and-oikawa@truthfullyfantasticassassin@riritaro@defnotra@malikazz243@viietta@ist4rr@peteunderoos@aditionallyy@stars4pais@whitelpttia @neuvillove @xeryol @vivamints@sequesteredstrawberry@superawesomegirl33@lexyqh@itsinesok@ventiij@ramyrunn@florasheart@strwbrrywnrgsm@yare-yare0@bambi-lia@shookykookie30@literallymocha@zciene@lovelytaes-blog@ttargaryenparad @urfavgeminisblog @hyukazwifey@sagitsukiss@beepbopeepbo @n3pt0nee @eternalangellic@cmrskywlkr@raveywrites@emotional-zebra@satan-223 @sugacor3 @accidentpronedork @n3pt0nee @k0z3me @tsukishimamanman @riripetal @sal3mfr0gz @tsuyukix

[luvsickstqr]

play fighting w your best friend atsumu and things are innocent enough at the start—just some light hits and soft nudges.

but things start to get a little more intense, a heavy hand here, and rough grab there, til he’s manhandling you while you laugh and squeal for him to stop, slapping at his wandering hands.

then he’s got you under him, you’re both breathing a lil heavier than you were at the start. there may be some bruising tomorrow, but it’s nothing the two of you can’t handle.

you decide to be cheeky and pinch at him, til he’s laughing telling you to stop being annoying, frantically reaching for your hands.

he’s got one of your wrists in his hands, the other twisted in the front of your shirt. then his eyes are wandering, and his breath catches a lil.

the way you’re sprawled out beneath him, his hips slotted against yours. he’s hyperaware of the heat radiating off your body, the skin that peeks out where your shirt has ridden up.

and you’re still trying to catch your breath, not paying him any mind. meanwhile, he’s shaking a bit, pupils expanding, and suddenly you don’t look like his best friend anymore.