tinykofibean

[tinykofibean]

Loverboy Osamu Miya

"ya won't ever find me lovesick over some girl" Osamu huffed, turning his head away from his brother who was too busy blushing over some girl that had asked him out. How embarrassing, he could never dream of falling in love. Sure, it sounded nice, but it always ended up messy. Osamu didn't want to deal with that when he had his dream of opening his own restaurant to deal with.

Well, that promise died out quick whenever he met you, Osamu was worse than his brother. He always made an extra lunch for you, made sure you got home safe, and send goodnight/Goodmorning messages. "you haffta be kidding me" his twin said, annoyance in his voice as Osamu responded to a video you sent him. He wasn't in love, surely not, impossible!

[tinykofibean]

The way I love your writing, especially the favorite position series muah. Can I please have one with Nishinoya?💙

BAEE YOU READ MY MINDDD

I hope you enjoy caus I know I did 😩🙈

--

Favourite Positions: Nishinoya

You should’ve known from the way he kissed.

That first night, sprawled beneath him with your knees tucked close and your breath catching in your throat, there had already been signs. The way his mouth moved over yours—hungry, precise, like he wanted to memorize every sound you made and pull more from you until you forgot how to speak. You should’ve seen it in his eyes, too—not just the adoration, not just the tenderness, but the hunger. The heat. The way he looked at you like he could devour you whole and still never get enough. There was reverence, yes, but beneath it sat something feral. Something that thrilled you without warning.

But it wasn’t until he’d actually had you that the full weight of it hit.

He’d started slow. Sweet, even.

Fingers tracing your spine with reverence, lips pressed to your neck like a promise. He murmured into your skin, soft encouragements that made your stomach flutter, calling you beautiful, perfect, his. You remember thinking, he’s so gentle. You remember thinking you could handle this. He’s so sweet.

You were wrong.

Because the moment you gasped his name—really cried it, eyes glassy and back arched—something in him changed.

His hands tightened. His mouth dragged a curse into the curve of your shoulder. And when he pulled back to flip you onto your stomach, his voice dropped, low and hoarse:

"Don’t tap out. Not yet."

You didn’t plan to. Not until his weight settled behind you, feet planted on the mattress, thighs caging yours. His chest hovered, a hand on your hip and the other gripping your ass, your head angled toward the pillow as he pressed in—slow at first, then all at once.

The stretch burned. The thrust knocked the air from your lungs.

You didn’t know you could feel so full.

Every snap of his hips was brutal, relentless. The slick slap of skin filled the room, punctuated only by the ragged moans tearing from your throat—shameless, needy, loud. You couldn't help it. Not with the way he kept hitting so deep, driving into a place that made your legs tremble and your fingers claw helplessly at the sheets.

"That’s it," he rasped behind you, breath hot on your ear. "Louder, baby. I wanna hear you."

You gave him everything. Every cry, every broken whimper, every choked-off plea.

And he ate it up.

You didn’t even realize it was coming—your first orgasm crashed into you so suddenly, it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs. One second you were struggling to hold yourself up, and the next—

"Yuu—!" you sobbed, the name escaping before you even realized you’d said it.

Your whole body tensed. Your vision blurred. Your mouth opened around a wordless cry as heat spiraled out from your center in a blinding, overwhelming wave. Your legs gave out. You collapsed forward into the sheets, shaking, gasping, nerves alight like you’d been struck by lightning.

He didn’t stop.

If anything, that just spurred him on.

You barely had time to catch a breath before he was pulling your hips back up, driving into you harder, deeper. You shrieked, voice cracking, face pressed to the pillow as he groaned low behind you.

"That’s it," Yuu growled, like the sound of his name unraveling from your throat had done something to him. "Just like that. Give me another."

Nishinoya moved like a man possessed—each thrust carefully angled, each roll of his hips deliberate. Like he wanted to ruin you. Like he knew exactly how to. His grip on your jaw softened only to trail down, fingers brushing over your throat, then your chest, tracing sweat-slicked skin as he pressed kisses to your shoulder blade, your spine, the nape of your neck.

You lost count of how many times he made you come.

Twice, three times—then again before your body could even stop shaking. It was too much. Too much and not enough. You twisted beneath him, trying to breathe, trying to think, but he only groaned and pushed deeper, dragging a helpless cry from your lips.

Your entire body was one raw nerve, lit from the inside out.

"Yuu—I—"

"I got you," he growled, kissing the corner of your jaw. "Just let go. You’re doing so good."

Your world fractured around you.

White heat bloomed behind your eyes. Your mouth fell open but no sound came out—just a raw, shuddering exhale as your entire body seized beneath him. You couldn’t even feel your legs. Couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. The sheets were damp under your cheek, your skin flushed and trembling.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Not until he fell apart with a strangled moan, spilling into you with one last deep, dragging thrust. Not until his arms wrapped around your waist and he collapsed forward, holding you like something precious.

You lay there, unmoving, your body a heap of oversensitive nerves and unraveling thoughts. His chest rose and fell against your back, his breath hot and uneven. The air felt thick with everything unsaid, charged and humming. You weren’t sure if you could ever look him in the eye again—at least, not without remembering the way he looked at you just before he broke you open.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then, quietly—far too casually—he muttered into your hair:

"So… what'd you think?"

You would’ve laughed, but you couldn’t even breathe.

He pulled back just enough to kiss your shoulder again, featherlight.

"Told you I could handle you," he said.

Your voice came out hoarse, barely audible. "You’re a monster."

Yuu laughed—really laughed—and pulled you into his chest, one arm snug around your waist, the other combing gently through your hair.

"Only for you," he whispered against your skin.

And you knew you were ruined. Absolutely, wonderfully ruined.

[tinykofibean]

i'm lovesick, and i'm a fool.

a/n: i just think that miya osamu

content: angst, fluff

word count: 2.1k+

[ osamu x reader ]

–––––

Osamu’s love language is acts of service.

“He’s like an old man,” Atsumu told you once, way in the beginning, when you and Osamu were still young and naïve and innocently infatuated. “If you get mad at him, he’ll try and offer you food later as an apology.”

“Does he ever actually…apologize?”

Atsumu laughed at you. “Nope. He says sorry in complete silence. That’s just how Samu is.”

It’s not as if you aren’t in love with Osamu now, because you are. Wholeheartedly, you are in love with him. You know that, and you know Osamu knows that. But sometimes, you can’t help yourself and just wonder how — how have you managed to stay in love with him despite the cons of it? How do you manage to love him indelibly, to love him in his whole entirety, when reality interrupts with the fact that there will never not be days like today?

Because today, Osamu is not speaking to you. You aren’t speaking to him either, and haven’t been since two days ago, so neither one of you are alone in refusing to act your age. Right now, you’re tied in the race to be the most petty, act the most prideful, show the most indifference to each other, and pretend like you’re not as unbothered as you both appear to be.

Frankly, you hate any day like this. You hate not speaking to Osamu, and you hate being mad at him, and you hate the chilling silence that ensues when he’s mad at you. You hate it. You hate this. You hate the silence, and you want to hate him, but god knows you can’t; you never could. You could try to say it all you want, say “I hate Osamu,” but never would you mean the words. Because Osamu is Osamu, and you love him for who he is. It’s hard to love him sometimes when you realize you can’t love him for who you wish he could be, but that’s the charm of the man himself. What he could be isn’t what you have right here with you now; what you have right here with you now is a man still in love with you despite your own shortcomings, a man who loves you even when he acts like he doesn’t because he’s upset.

You often wonder who between you and Atsumu knows your boyfriend the best. On days like today, though, you mentally forfeit the winning point, simply clenching your jaw at the loss and the fact that when Osamu walks in and lays a plate of sliced fruit next to you on the couch (you’ve claimed the living room as your territory during this cold war), he still does so without a single word.

You hate this. You absolutely hate this.

I wish this would stop.

But you’re dating Miya Osamu, and you wouldn’t be a couple if you didn’t rub off on each other’s personalities. And if there’s one thing about the Miya family that affects everyone else around them, it’s their utter instinct for competition.

So when Osamu stands there for a second longer than you both know he needs to, not saying anything but also not hiding his lingering gaze on you, you can’t help but fight back at him with the same strategy — no words, no emotions, no hint of surrender or a dent in your shield. And you think, as your heart falls and cracks inside, that when his socks shuffle against the carpet and you see him walk away in your peripheral vision because you refused to let him see your face, that for once you may have won this time.

Then you wonder if victory can even be celebrated if the cost of it feels like it’s killing you.

Please talk to me, you plead him silently in your head. You slump your shoulders that were held up stiffly in your determination to stand against him and hang your head dejectedly now, no longer stubbornly, as you let out a sigh that makes your chest ache with longing.

Please, Samu…I miss you.

You close your eyes when you feel them start to water, and you sniffle as a tear escapes down to your lips.

I miss you.

You’re so focused on holding back your crying that you don’t even notice when Osamu returns. It’s not until you feel a gentle touch on your hands in your lap and pick up the familiar warmth of his presence right under your nose that you slowly lift your head and open your eyes to find him kneeling down and looking at you.

And the way Osamu is looking at you makes your efforts all in vain, because your tears come streaming down in waves, and you dig your nails through your clothes as he rubs gentle circles along your skin. His eyes look tired, dreary, and grayer with lack of sleep. His lips are a bit dry, and the creases in his forehead and his frown lines are deeper. The realization that you haven’t seen him smile for almost half a week twists your heart in a sharp chokehold.

“…Hey.” His voice is quiet, and you barely pick up on it outside the sound of your sniffling. “Hey, baby,” he says again. When you still don’t respond, he swallows hard. “I, um…forgot to put this on the plate with your melon.” Hesitantly, as if he doesn’t want to let go of your hands, he reaches into his back pocket and brandishes a tiny white triangle of folded paper. “Here…this is for you.”

He turns your fists over and carefully unfurls your clenched fingers, then sets the paper in the palm of your hand. You look down at it and he runs his thumb across your lips, wiping away your tears. When you glance briefly back at him, he smiles sadly like it hurts him to look at you, and you think it hurts you to look at him too. You hate seeing him like this. You hate the thought that you’re the reason his expression is like that.

You sniffle again, trying to clear your sinuses because you want to talk — you want to talk to him. But your throat still holds on to its lump, dry and heavy, so all you do for now is unfold his piece of paper and start to read to yourself.

As his letter goes on, Osamu’s handwriting starts to get blurry and you realize it’s because you’re crying again. He’s never given you anything like this, after all. To your knowledge, Osamu has never been one for writing or articulation or saying what he means without one word of sarcasm or teasing or banter. But right here, by his own hand, he’s written it for you himself.

When you finish his letter, you look up with your lip trembling more than it already was.

“I’m sorry it’s not the best, baby,” he says with a half-hearted laugh, and you smile through your clouded vision. “But I hope you know I mean it. All of what I wrote down, I mean every word of it. I love you…I’m sorry.”

You shake your head at him, finally finding your voice. “I love you. And I’m sorry, too,” you say. “Thank you for this. But you didn’t have to—”

“I did. And I wanted to.” Osamu scoots closer until he can practically lay in your lap. “I know I’m not good at…words or presents or dates or timing, but….” You watch as he fumbles your hands in his, taking note of how awkward he seems but how intently he’s trying to make sense in what he wants to say. He goes on, “But I’m pretty used to showing how I feel through my actions. And before, I used to think that was enough. But it doesn’t feel like just actions are enough anymore. So I want to get better at other stuff, too. So I can show you what I mean…what I feel. In more ways than just one.” 

Osamu finally gives in to the blush on his cheeks and glances away. You stare at him with nothing less than relief and simple endearment.

Because this is why you love him. Despite days like today, despite feeling like you want to hate him sometimes, despite the difficulties in your relationship and faults in communication and grudges held longer than you both know they should be, this is why you love him. Because despite every frigid beat that comes with frozen, angry silence, Osamu counters it with a push through the ice to remind you of warmth until both your hearts can thaw.

“What made you write a letter?” you ask him, squeezing his hand.

“Well, you like that love language stuff,” he answers. “And I’m pretty shit at most of those except the service one, I guess, so…bear with me.” Flustered, he looks away again when the smile on your face grows, and his eyes land on the plate beside you, fruit still lying untouched. He takes the plate and sets it on your lap. “Here, I sliced these for you.” 

Amused, you take a cubed melon when he offers it up. “I know. Thank you, Samu.”

His eyes brighten and the corners of his lips pull up when you eat the melon. He nods like he’s assuring himself he did a good job, then stands and says, “I’m going out to get you flowers, and then we can—”

But he doesn’t get to finish his sentence before you’re tugging him down and stuffing a melon into his mouth. Osamu holds it between his teeth for a moment, shocked, then chews slowly, face still flushed in pink. You stifle a giggle at the rare sight of him so caught off guard.

“We can go out for flowers together later,” you tell him. “I appreciate it. But right now, can you just…stay here?” You pull on his hand, still wrapped around yours, and he finds his place to sit next to you, leaning in like a subconscious response. “I just…I missed you,” you say quietly, your heart stitching its pieces back together just by being near him, knowing you don’t have to deny yourself of wanting him anymore.

Osamu’s eyes go unblinking but narrow like he’s trying to focus on your face and take all of you in. Then he sighs and presses you into his chest, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“I missed you, too,” he whispers harshly into your hair, and you burrow yourself further into the comforting scent and softness of his clothes. Osamu starts slowly stroking your back, and you breathe him in like he’s flowers himself.

“For what it’s worth,” you say, “your actions are enough, you know. That’s why I was crying after you gave me the fruit.”

Osamu laughs, his chest rumbling under your ear. “Fruit was enough to make you cry?” he says.

“It was sentimental.”

“It was fruit, baby.”

“But you sliced it for me. That’s love.”

“If that’s love, it feels like I was only doing the bare minimum,” he admits, “which is why I was going to put the letter there, too.” 

You mumble, “I’m framing that, by the way.”

“Please don’t.”

“Then can I hear it out loud?”

“Wha–no!”

“‘Hi, my love. It’s me, your lov—’”

“Stop it!” Osamu cuts you off with a grip on your cheeks, scrunching your lips together and bringing you against his own in a messy, frenzied kiss.

When he pulls away, you pout at him. “That’s not fair, Samu—”

“You don’t play fair, anyway.”

He kisses you once more before you can snap back. His hand falls from your face and lands on your neck, cradling you softly against him as he deepens the kiss and pulls a quiet sigh out of you. Your heart has found its pulse again by the time he lets you catch your breath, and you can only stare with lovelorn anticipation as he half-smiles, half-grimaces down at you in surrender.

“Alright, baby,” says Osamu slowly. “I’ll say it.”

And to both your elation and surprise, he unfeignedly recites the first few lines of the written words still held in your hand.

Hi, my love. It’s me, your lovesick fool.

I’m too much of the latter to say it out loud now, but I’m even more of the former that I’ll do so if you ask me to. I miss you, after all. On days like today, when we’re at our worst, remember there’s a fool here who will never not miss you.

[tinykofibean]

“Could I get a shoulder massage, pleeease?”

Sometimes work would drag on, keeping you in your home office until even the sun left work. That’s when you were grateful to have such a supportive-

“Hey! No wandering hands until I finish work,” you scolded your husband as you felt his touch travelling down towards your chest, baring your teeth and playfully chasing his hand in an attempt to bite it.

He laughed and kept swirling his hand around your head as a challenge. “You know what they say, don’t bite the hand that fingers you, or whatever.”

In a howl of laughter, you leaned your head back against his stomach and looked up at him with mirth. “Right, that’s what they say.”

He squeezed your cheeks and leaned down to peck your protruded lips, which you happily welcomed. “Finish up, I made dinner.”

Then he just winked and left the room, making you sniff the air like a dog and realise that he had indeed made dinner.

A little break wouldn’t hurt anyone, you thought and pushed your chair back, chasing after him only a few seconds later.

SUNA, atsumu, OSAMU, KUROO, hoshiumi, nishinoya, tendo, hinata, MATTSUN, oikawa, konoha, YAKU, hirugami, FUTAKUCHI, whoever you like<3

masterlist

[tinykofibean]

timeskip osamu x gn!reader fluff :-)

“is it bad if i say i wish you kept playing volleyball?”

osamu hears your question before he feels your arms wrap around his waist, his arms crossed over his chest moving to hold yours.

you lean to rest your cheek against his bicep and he looks down at you, pinches your arm as a playful threat. “depends on the reason.”

“is ‘’cause you look good in this jersey’ good enough?”

the black and gold jersey in question, wrapped snug around his arms and chest, had his last name splayed across his back, but not for him, not with his number sitting underneath. there was a match tonight—the first one back from off-season—and osamu would damn himself if he wasn’t repping his twin, even if he couldn’t be there in the stands.

“seriously?” the corner of his lip twitches, and he teases, “y’don’t wanna wear ’tsumu’s? it’s the same last name anyway.”

the bolded MIYA greets you when you pull away to look at it, and osamu wonders if it’d be selfish to say he wanted you to say no, if he confessed his heart jumped at the immediate shake of your head—“it’s not the same, though.”

you gently tug at the fabric and name, twisting it between your fingers. “i love ’tsumu, but in a very different way than i love you.”

your boyfriend does his best to tuck a stupidly lovesick smile away, along with the satisfaction and pride swelling in his chest, all behind a deep sigh and hum in thought.

he turns to wrap an arm around your shoulder where he picks stray lint off your shirt. “we have my old high school jerseys somewhere.” and he almost laughs at the speed you gasp and let your jaw fall.

“wait, really?”

“yeah, kept most of our school stuff after we graduated. wanna see if one fits?”

“yes?” you shove his chest, not trying to, but unable to move him all the same. “i can’t believe you’ve been hiding your old high school stuff from me.”

“well it’s not like i did it on purpose! had no reason to go lookin’ for it,” he defends himself. and you know he’s right—you met long after the twins’ graduation when it had all been packed up ages ago, and osamu no longer felt the need to take his jersey out just to see it, mind filled with business instead of volleyball, a new black uniform fitted to his form.

“well now we do, miya,” you tease, the last name an old acquaintance sitting oddly on your tongue, “so you better get looking before i change my mind and ask atsumu’s for his instead.”

and osamu, for once, raises his hands in surrender instead of pushing his luck; he doubts you’d do it even if he didn’t find his old jersey, but just the thought is enough. “yeah, okay, alright, anythin’ for you.”

🏷️ | @pelicanpizza @godoffuckedupcats @causenessus @priv-rose @ur-local-simp @respitable @hasti-666 @deepenthevoid

[tinykofibean]

Oh, Baby | Part 1

Haikyuu men x pregnant!reader

Part 2 is here - after baby is born

Featuring: Miya Osamu, Kuroo Tetsurou, Kageyama Tobio, Sakusa Kiyoomi (~ 400 - 500 words each)

Most likely to be followed up at some point by scenes after baby is born because I have absolutely no chill

MIYA OSAMU

You pick at your dinner, trying your best to eat enough to satisfy Osamu. It's not that you aren't hungry, really. It's more that what you're hungry for isn't this. Osamu already worked hard to make it, though, so you'll make yourself content.

"What's wrong?" Osamu isn't fooled. He points at your plate with his chopsticks. "Isn't it good? I knew I shouldn't a' switched out the spices."

"No, it's good!" You insist quickly. "Really. I just - you're gonna think it's silly." You warn.

"Try me," He says, sitting back in his chair and watching you expectantly. You have no choice.

"I'm just really craving something in particular. Something different," You try to mask your disdain as you gesture at your plate. "I want onigiri."

"Really?" A smile breaks across his face. "Little guy wants onigiri, huh? Well that's not so bad. I can whip something up-" He's already out of his chair and poised to root in the fridge. "Whaddya want? We got tuna, umeboshi, or maybe..." He pauses to shuffle things around in the fridge in search of more ingredients.

"No," You interrupt before he can get too far, bracing yourself for what the baby is making you say next, "Actually, I was kind of thinking, well, peanut butter?" He goes still, head stuck in the fridge. "And, jelly?" You add more quietly. Slowly, he backs up and pivots, fixing you with a penetrating look.

"Sorry. It was all muffled in there. What sorta filling did ya want?" You repeat yourself, and watch as the smallest part of your husband dies. He blinks once, twice, then nods very slowly. "Okay," He says, quietly, almost as if he's steeling himself. "Okay." He repeats.

Hands resting on your growing middle, you watch as he methodically prepares the onigiri, with the exact fillings you'd requested. He hesitates with his spoon in the peanut butter, but he does what you asked. "Are ya sure this is my child?" He asks despairingly as he presents you with three perfectly formed onigiri.

"Positive," You assure him with a small chuckle. You can't help it - you're itching to dig into these onigiri, so you do. Is it an absurd combination? Yes. But does it satisfy the craving you'd been trying to ignore all day? Absolutely. You can't disguise your delight as you eat, humming happily as you savor the food your husband had so lovingly prepared for you, despite the desecration.

When you look up, you're surprised to find him smiling at you, head propped on his fist as he watches you eat.

"What're you grinning about?" You ask teasingly.

"Can't help it," He grumbles, "I'm just happy you're enjoyin' the food, even if it is an abomination. I love you." He gives your cheek a gentle pinch, then your stomach a loving pat.

"I love you too, Samu. We both do." You pause. "Want a bite?" You ask, holding the last onigiri out to him.

"Absolutely not."

KUROO TETSUROU

You're in bed, and it's barely 8:00. You never expected your normal day-to-day routine to tire you out this much, but then again you've never been 7 months pregnant before, either.

"Aw, come on," Tetsurou is cooing at your stomach, stroking it gently. "Just a little tiny kick? Mama gets to feel you move all the time." He's curled up with his face inches from your stomach, a dopey smile on on his face as he chatters to the baby as has become his nightly routine. You reach down to run a hand through his unruly hair.

"If you want someone to kick you in the bladder, that can probably be arranged," You say drily, snorting out a laugh when he looks up at you with a pout.

"I just want to feel her move," He sighs, "I feel like I always miss it. Everybody acts like it's so special."

"It is," You say softly, resting your hand on top of his. You can't deny that. "It'll happen," you say optimistically. With how bad he wants it, it has to, you silently tell your daughter.

"Yeah," He doesn't sound convinced, rolling to a sitting position. "Guess I'll go brush my teeth," He says, heading for the bathroom. You roll onto your back, reaching for your phone on the bedside table. You've just opened a conversation to respond to a text when you feel it - the faintest movement.

"Tetsu!" You call, "Come here!"

"What?" He's at the doorway in half a second, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and a frown creasing his brow, "Wha's wrong?"

"She's moving," You say, and shift to a sitting position. You hear him spit the toothpaste in the sink, and he's there in a heartbeat, hand on your belly. Right beneath his hand, you feel her kick. You watch as the look of wonder crosses his face.

"Hi, baby girl," He breathes, focusing all of his attention on the movement of your daughter beneath his hand. "I love you so much. I'm so excited to meet you." He turns to look at you then. "Finally," He grins, and you can't help but return it.

"Didn't I tell you?" You say smugly.

"Yeah, yeah." He silences you with a minty kiss.

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

At this point in your pregnancy, there's very little that soothes your aching back. Lying down, standing up, moving around, the pain is always there in the background to some extent. That's why you find yourself in the living room in the middle of the night, propping yourself up between the arm chair and wall in search of a position that will provide some relief.

"Are you alright?" You nearly jump out of your skin at the touch of Tobio's hand on your back. When you left the room, he'd been sleeping like a rock as usual.

"Fine," You assure him, stretching to a slightly more dignified position. "My back's just a little sore."

"Oh," He runs a hand gently up and down the muscles of your back. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Hold this for a second?" You say with a breathy laugh, mostly joking as you press a hand beneath your round stomach.

"I can try," He says seriously, moving behind you. You're about to tell him it was just a joke, but then you feel his chest pressed against your back and his hands gently supporting the underside of your belly. Instead of the protest that had been forming on your lips, you let out a groan of relief.

"Was that good?" He asks uncertainly.

"Very good," You're quick to assure him, letting your eyes close. He only hums in response, pressing a light kiss to your shoulder. You'd forgotten it was possible for your back to feel this normal. It's blissful. You could almost fall asleep right here and now.

"You sure are making trouble for your mama," You hear your husband whisper, drawing you back out of your drowsy state.

"It's okay," You murmur, "It'll all be worth it." He presses another kiss to your shoulder, and you sink back into silence.

"I really think we should get you back to bed," He says finally. Even though it means he'll have to let go, you feel you don't have any choice but to agree. "We can do this again tomorrow," He promises as he takes your hand to make your way back to the bedroom. You give his hand a tug and press a kiss to his lips. You'll hold him to that.

SAKUSA KIYOOMI

"I'm home," You hear Kiyoomi call from the front door. You freeze, but it's too late to hide the evidence. Soon enough, your husband appears in the nursery doorway, and you're caught red-handed.

"I told you I'd build that bookshelf tonight," He says, striding into the room and plucking the loose shelf from your hand. He takes the bag of screws from the other, sets them down, and then draws you away from your project.

"I know, but I just had to do something," You insist. "I already put all the clothes in the dresser, vacuumed, washed the drapes, and the box was just sitting there." His brow creases, and you realize you've said too much.

"You washed the drapes?" He heaves a heavy sigh. "How did you even get them down? And put them back up?"

You smile nervously. "A chair," You try to sound nonchalant. "They really aren't that high."

"My love," He says, taking your hands in his. "Please don't do something like that again. What if you fell?" You lower your head, biting down on your lip. It truly hadn't crossed your mind.

"Sorry," You whisper, "There's just so much to do! We need to be ready. The baby will be here in just a few months. I just want everything to be perfect."

"I know," He says, now rubbing comforting circles into the backs of your hands, "And we'll take care of everything. Together." He draws you into him and tucks your head beneath his chin. "I promise. I just want you to be safe."

His voice is a comforting rumble against your ear, and you nod your head against him. "I know," You agree softly.

"Good," He says, pulling back and pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Now, since you've been busy all day, why don't you let me make dinner?" You open your mouth to protest, but with one look at his face, you close it again. "After dinner, you can read me the instructions. I'll build the bookshelf."

You smile at your husband. "Thanks for taking care of us, Kiyoomi," You say, and his expression softens.

"Of course. It's my job."

[tinykofibean]

You and Osamu do not have time for this.

Sitting in the doctors office, osamu’s knee bounces up and down anxiously, his hands covering his mouth and his body sending waves of nerves through the air.

You’ve been sick for the past week, dizzy and nauseous, fatigue coursing through your soul and rendering you on bed rest for the week. You haven’t been able to work, or help him at the restaurant, and while he assured you it wasn’t a problem, but the elephant in the room was that you didn’t feel good, and you haven’t for days.

It wasn’t until you started running to the bathroom to fight the nausea that he decided enough was enough and decided to take you to the doctor. You feel terrible, today you were supposed to help Atsumu’s wife help with hisako’s birthday planning since stupid dumb Atsumu is away due to a tournament.

(Okay, potentially that’s the nausea talking. You haven’t slept in a few days.)

“Osamu?” You ask softly.

He hums. You let out a shaky breath.

“Do you think-“

“Im trying hard not to.”

You offer him a laugh for his attempt to break up the awkward silence.

“What if im fine? Will you be mad if this is all for nothing?”

“Baby,” he assures, reaching for your hand. “I’m not playing when it comes to your health. You know that. And even if you’ve been faking this entire thing- which you’re not- I couldn’t be happier to be here, making sure.” He presses a kiss to your head, and you nuzzle into his neck.

You both jump at the sound of the door opening, a call of your name snapping you out of your mind surfing. The doctor plants herself across from you both; she looks calm, and you take that as a good sign.

“Whats wrong with her, doctor?”

“Isnt there a better way to word that?” You hiss.

His eyes widen, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well how did you mean it!”

The doctor chuckles, “nothing. There’s nothing wrong with her. Perfectly healthy, Miya-San.”

Osamu’s the first to let out a sigh. Then, he pulls you close eyes screwed shut as you let out a small cry of relief. You bury your face in his chest and fist the collar of his shirt, relief washing over you. You feel light as a feather, able to come out of this with an update to Atsumu’s wife that you’ll be late but you’re on your way, false alarm, and-

“Well. Nothing that won’t resolve itself in nine months.”

You two freeze. Comedically, your faces both drop and after a few seconds, you both turn to the doctor.

She smiles, “congratulations kids. You’re having a baby.”

“Thats…. Not possible.”

“Then consider it a miracle,” the doctor hums.

“But… but we-“

“Doctor, I truly think you’re…. Mistaken….” His voice trails off and he grips your hand, trying to calm himself down.

“Modern science truly is a gift.”

Your entire world spins as you try to pinpoint when and how this happened, you’d been so careful, so sure to be safe because you and Osamu do not have time for this.

But then, Osamu laughs.

It starts as a snicker, a little shake of his shoulders before it blossoms into a bigger, deeper laugh, one that comes from his chest and swirls around the room happily. When you look at him incredulously, looking at him as if you could kill him, he shrugs at you, cheeks split into a grin that’s bright enough to match the sun.

“We’re having a baby,” he manages around his laughter.

Then, you snort. In your peripheral, you see the doctor smile.

“We’re having a baby,” you agree.

[tinykofibean]

with you, i'm first | miya osamu x reader

in which miya osamu is used to coming second to his brother. but with you, he's always first.

wc: 1113 | gn!reader | fluff

Miya Osamu is used to coming second. 

It starts with Atsumu, like most things do. October is cold and gray and Atsumu comes first, a small body with a large presence that fills the warm hospital room. His cries are loud and he’s a little underweight, but with him comes the sun. 

Atsumu is born under a partly cloudy sky but the nurses swear he was shrouded in sunlight. 

Osamu comes twelve minutes later. His parents are crying and his Ma is close to passing out. If he thinks really hard he can almost feel her warmth, Atsumu’s sobs, and a mumble of prayers that October has safely brought Atsumu and then Osamu.

He asks Grandma one day what the weather was like when he was born. She says, with confidence, it was foggy.

Atsumu doesn’t get along with his classmates. He is too loud and too rash and lacks social cues, and Osamu is angry because Stupid ‘Tsumu cares too little: and he wants everyone to know Atsumu like he knows Atsumu.

They fight and they yell and they argue until Atsumu says, 

‘Samu, I don’t care about ‘em. Why do ya care so much? 

And Osamu throws him across the room. The argument ends there, he says sorry, and Osamu lies awake that night thinking about his brother. Atsumu is hotheaded. And an idiot. A loud snorer, too. But he turns on his side and curls into a ball because he knows it was sunny when Atsumu was born and all of a sudden he really wants to be his brother. 

Atsumu dyes his hair first: it’s a shitty box dye from the pharmacy down the street, and it looks terrible. It’s a little yellow and a little neon, and Osamu laughs until his sides hurt when Atsumu shows him. 

But Atsumu is proud, and he is confident, and he goes to school with a hundred watt smile and a group of girls trailing after him. 

Osamu goes to the pharmacy that night and buys a box of gray, cloudy dye. Atsumu helps him bleach his hair under their bathroom sink with the faulty tap and tells him he looks like the moon.

His Ma says that Atsu is hot and Samu is cold after the two have a particularly bad fight. Atsumu is gleeful and smug as he gloats that he was born to be hotter and warmer and better, and Osamu punches him. 

He remembers his Ma sitting on the porch, an arm around his shoulders as he pouts. 

“‘S not fair,” Osamu had said, his chin in his palm. “Why’d ya name Tsumu that?” 

His Ma had laughed, quietly, leaning her weight into his side. And she had held his cheeks between her palms and told him with a fire in her eyes that Osamu means To Rule. 

He meets you for the first time in February. 

You were standing in front of him, a little sheepish, with a box of chocolates in your extended palms. He remembers feeling something heavy in his chest. Because, yeah, Atsumu was definitely going to accept your confession. 

You had said, IReallyLikeYou, and Here’sSomeChocolates, and Please Accept Them. 

You were shorter than him, and your hair was done nicely, and you were blushing and nervous. And you were really fucking cute. But Osamu is used to coming second, so the only thing that comes out of his mouth is, Why? And then, Tsumu’s in tha next classroom ov’r. 

He doesn’t remember what happened next, only Atsumu’s laugh and the slap echoing through the halls. You leave with his cheeks stinging and hot. And Atsumu had teased him the next day, behind his mountain of chocolates and confessions, because Osamu’s face was still red twelve hours later. 

He sees you a lot the year after. 

You’re in the same class as him and ‘Tsumu, and you smile every time you see him. You sit two rows in front of him and you’re not very good at tying your uniform. Every lunch, Osamu watches you pull out the same gray bento with a wrapped onigiri on the side. He tells you one day that he really likes onigiri. And then, Osamu watches as every lunch, you pull out the same gray bento with two wrapped onigiris on the side. 

With you, it’s always Hi Osamu, first, and then, Hullo Atsumu. With you, it’s an onigiri dropped on his desk when the lunch bell rings. With you, Osamu thinks back to a conversation with his Ma on a porch. 

Osamu means To Rule.

The menu is this: Tuna mayo on Mondays and Thursdays, Ume on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Friday is plain. You don’t ever bring onigiri for his brother. 

He asks you, on a hot night in June, what your favorite type of weather is. You had your knees tucked to your chest, a sparkler in hand, and then told him cloudy. Cold. Foggy. Winter. Snow is nice, too. You say it all with no hesitation. 

Osamu kisses you for the first time that night. 

It’s New Years and you’re cooking Ozoni on the stove. The curtains are open, it’s snowing outside, and Osamu wakes to the smell of miso and the sound of carrots on a chopping board. He gets out of bed, padding to the kitchen with half-lidded eyes and a stifled yawn, and then he thinks his heart stops when he sees you. 

Because what Miya Osamu is not used to is this: coming first and having something unequivocally his. 

But you’re bent over the counter, fiddling with the oven as you read the instructions on the back of the packaged Yakimochi you bought the other day. And you’re wearing his shirt, it falls right below your thighs, your hair is still messy from using his chest as a pillow, and you look beautiful. 

“Mornin’ ‘Samu, come help me with this.” You say, looking back at him with a smile, pointing to the fresh pot of rice on the counter. “You’re in charge of onigiri.”

He hugs you instead, his arms around your stomach with your back to him. 

“But I like yer onigiri,” He says, his chin on your head. His eyes are watering and it must be from the steam of your boiling dashi. 

“‘Samu,” You complain, giggling as he presses kisses into the crown of your head. “I made enough for ya in high school.” 

It’s cold outside and snowing, and Osamu knows he’s going to make the onigiri. 

He also knows that if his name means To Rule, he’s okay with coming second if it means you’re by his side.

[tinykofibean]

ᴏꜱᴀᴍᴜ didn’t really have a favorite color.

it wasn’t until he saw you after school one chilly autumn day, your face lighting up with the question, “is that jacket new, ‘samu?”

he nodded—he didn’t think too much of it when he got it for his birthday, so he surely didn’t expect anyone else to notice. “a gift from ma.”

“i like it, it’s my favorite color,” you took in his full appearance, your eyes looking him up and down, “it suits ya.” a cackle escaped you at osamu’s flustered face, only growing louder with him grumbling, “shaddup.” osamu’s biggest tell was always his accent thickening, and you knew it.

as winter came, osamu found himself wearing that same jacket to and from school every day, ignoring atsumu’s relentless “whadda simp” comments, as a part of him hoped you’d one day be chilly enough to need his coat.

and when that day came, with his jacket hugging your figure as you nuzzled in his leftover body heat, osamu found it hard to breathe.

in that moment, he realized he’d found his new favorite color—yours.

a/n: sorry osamu if reader’s favorite color is pink😔 bro’s looking like pepto-bismol.

masterlist | navigation

please do not copy, alter, or repost my work. ©bokutoko 2024.

[tinykofibean]

osamu boy dad, with a little army of miyas that reign lovable terror over your home.

it reminds him of growing up with tsumu. always noisy. always rowdy. always fun. and just when he thinks the two of you are done having babies, two lines on a pregnancy test the two of you are staring at in disbelief—in that brief window of precious silence between when the boys go to bed and the day's exhaustion drags you both under—say otherwise.

the first time osamu holds your daughter in his arms he can barely see her through his own tears. she's so tiny. so special. so delicate. he's used to his boys, now. used to tossing them around, and riling them up, and chasing them down just so he can slow them for long enough to put plasters over their bumps and scrapes. he worries for a moment that he doesn't know how to treat her as gently as she needs to be, this itty bitty little girl he loves so much.

the first time he sees his little angel deck her older brother for stealing her favourite toy, he realizes he had absolutely nothing to worry about—she's as much of a miya as the rest of them.

[tinykofibean]

fourteen ⤨ oikawa tooru

⨭ genre; fluff

⨭ pairing; oikawa tooru x fem!reader

⨭ word count; 6.5k

⨭ descriptions; as much as you love romcoms, you're a realist and recognise just how illogical true love is—unfortunately for you, fate has other plans.

⨭ warnings; profanity

⨭ a/n; my 2025 motto has been to just write and not worry too much about perfectionism, so here's my mess of an oikawa fic. it's acc unreal i have finished three fics in a week's time lol who knows how long this creative streak will last but wtv. in the meantime, enjoy :)

song i listened to writing this: 'plot twist' by niki

one.

During your four-hour layover in SFO, you decide that 4AM flights are only slightly less inconvenient than paying full price for a flight at noon. Because right now, it’s honestly just eerie: San Francisco International Airport (full-government name because you fear this might actually be where you die) is completely empty, largely dark, and very, very desolate.

You sigh and glance around the lounge, which is dimly lit and suspiciously quiet except for the distant hum of a floor polisher somewhere beyond the gates. Every shop is shuttered, every PA announcement echoes into nothing, and the only signs of life are a few overworked employees slumped behind their counters; you’re the only one at your gate, your phone charging via one of the blue-light towers, headphones blasting at maximum volume. You’re trying to drown out the unnerving feeling in your chest with Gracie Abrams and SZA—it’s not working in the slightest, actually making you increasingly wary of your vulnerability.

But whatever. You’re a #brokecollegestudent, so obviously you’re willing to risk your life for a good deal.

Honestly, you should really be asleep. That was the plan, after all: you had it all mapped out—get here, find a quiet corner, conk out, wake up only when it’s absolutely necessary. Instead, your brain is running on fumes and bad decisions, vibrating horribly in your skull because you’re an idiot and didn’t realize how paranoid you get when you’re sleep deprived.

You groan, stretching your legs out in front of you. “Kill me,” you mutter under your breath.

“First time traveling?” a voice pipes up, obnoxiously chipper for the time of night.

You freeze mid-stretch. You are not alone.

Slowly, you turn toward the source of the voice.

Sprawled across the lounge chair opposite you, looking for all the world like he belongs here, is a guy—tall, lean but broad-shouldered, stupidly good-looking even under the sickly fluorescent lights. Tousled brown hair, sweatpants and a zip-up hoodie that are clearly designer but worn like he doesn’t give a damn. His legs are stretched out like he owns the entire damn lounge, and he’s got this lazy, almost smug smirk on his face, like he’s enjoying whatever show you’re unknowingly putting on.

You narrow your eyes. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely at you, at your very obvious state of suffering. “You look like you’re miserable right now.”

“I am,” you say. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs, then tilts his head. “Just figured misery loves company.”

Your brain is still catching up to the fact that this man—a stranger, an audacious one at that—has just decided to start a conversation with you, unprompted, in the middle of an empty airport. You eye him cautiously. “You do realize there are approximately four million other places to sit, right?”

He grins. “Yeah, but none of them have you.”

You blink. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Depends.” His smirk widens. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Damn,” he says, without an ounce of actual disappointment. “Guess I’ll have to try harder.”

You scoff, shaking your head as you glance away. God. Of all the people to be stuck in airport limbo with, you had to get the charming, insufferable kind. The kind that probably coasts through life on natural athletic ability and the kind of face that gets him out of parking tickets. The kind that’s entirely too comfortable stretching out in a public lounge like it’s his personal living room.

He’s watching you, you realise. Like he’s waiting for something.

“What?” you sigh.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

“I don’t remember you asking one.”

The corner of his mouth twitches like you’ve just mildly amused him. “First time traveling?” he repeats.

You roll your eyes. “No. Just first time being stuck in an airport at an hour when no one should be conscious.”

“Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “A rookie mistake. 4AM flights are a scam.”

You snort. “And yet, here you are.”

“Touché.”

You take another glance at him, this time really looking. Something about him tugs at your memory, like a song you’ve heard before but can’t place. The messy hair, the easy confidence, the way he’s practically radiating I’m used to being the center of attention energy.

Then, in a flash, it hits you.

“Oh,” you say, recognition clicking into place. “Wait—you’re Oikawa.”

His eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “You know me?”

“You’re that volleyball guy,” you say, pointing vaguely at him. “The one who’s, like… unnecessarily famous.”

Oikawa grins. “Unnecessarily?”

“I mean, it’s volleyball,” you deadpan. “I didn’t even know people could be famous for that.”

His expression morphs into something between offense and wounded pride. “Ouch. I think I might actually cry.”

“Please do,” you say. “It’ll entertain me.”

He clutches his chest theatrically. “You’re ruthless.”

“I’m tired,” you promptly correct. “And delirious. And currently stuck in an airport with a man who’s trying to convince me he’s a big deal.”

Oikawa scoffs, but there’s something amused in his gaze, like he’s enjoying this. “You’re not a fan of sports?”

“Not really,” you shrug half-heartedly, looking back down at your beat-up Filas. You’re not lying; even so, you’ve seen his games on TV before (you watch the Olympics after all—you’re not a total basket case). He’s a flirt, a player with double meaning, and you would really rather avoid getting involved with anything complicated. “I’ve never been into jocks.”

“Never been into jocks,” he echoes, shaking his head. “And here I thought I could be your Peter Kavinsky.”

“No, thank you. I would never write you a love letter.”

Oikawa laughs at that—an actual laugh, not just the smug little chuckle you’ve gotten so far. It’s rich and warm, and you hate the way it makes your stomach flip just slightly. Who even are you right now? This whole situation is so unbelievable that it makes you more confident.

You cross your arms, looking him up and down. “So what’s your excuse?”

“For what?”

“For subjecting yourself to this hellscape of a layover,” you say, gesturing at the ghost town of a terminal around you.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his already messy hair. “Came back to visit some old teammates in California. Now I’m heading home.”

“Japan?”

“Bingo.”

Your brain is slow, groggy, and running on fumes, but something about that answer sticks. “Wait,” you say, frowning. “What flight are you on?”

Oikawa glances at you, like he knows exactly what you’re about to realize. “4:00AM to Haneda.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His grin is almost devious. “Yes.”

Your stomach drops.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen whole hours, stuck on a flight. With him.

Oikawa watches the realization dawn on your face, and for the first time since he sat down, he looks genuinely entertained.

“Well,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

You are going to lose your goddamn mind.

two.

For all your romcom consumption, you never stopped to consider what you would do if coincidence and chance conspired against you in that manner. You figured if fate was ever going to meddle in your love life, it would be in an incessantly normal way—maybe a slow-burn situation with a coworker, or a friend-of-a-friend you never noticed until one fateful night.

Not… this.

Not staring at seat 14A like it’s a death sentence, because your boarding pass is crumpled in your fist, because of course when you finally find your row, Oikawa Tooru is already lounging in 14B, looking far too pleased with himself.

He glances up as you approach, then breaks into the most shit-eating grin you’ve ever fucking seen.

“Well, well, well,” he drawls, leaning back like he just won the lottery. “Fancy seeing you here.”

You stop dead in the aisle, refusing to believe what your own two eyes are telling you.

“Are you following me?” you blurt, because there is absolutely no way the universe would do this to you.

Oikawa, ever the dramatist, clutches his chest. “Sweetheart, if I wanted to follow you, I’d at least be more subtle.”

“Show me your ticket.”

He raises an eyebrow but pulls out his boarding pass with a flourish anyway. You squint to read the text, half-hoping that you would find some spelling error that could place either of you somewhere else. But nope: his ticket reads 14B in big, bold letters, right next to Oikawa Tooru and Gate 11.

You exhale slowly, pressing your fingers to your temple. Jesus fuck. He manifested this, with his snarky commentary and all about being stuck with him; you would say that you’re gonna kill him for this, but evidently, karma is real and terrifying.

Oikawa, meanwhile, is having the time of his life.

“What are the odds?” he muses, tucking the ticket back into his hoodie pocket. “Out of all the seats on this flight, I get to sit next to you.”

“This is a nightmare,” you mutter.

“Nightmares are scary,” he says. “I’m a delight.”

You glare at him and shove your bag into the overhead bin with slightly more force than necessary. He watches, thoroughly entertained, as you lower yourself into your seat like you’re walking into a trap.

The cabin fills with the usual pre-flight chaos—flight attendants directing traffic, the hum of passengers settling in, the occasional thud of an overhead bin slamming shut. You try to focus on that, on anything other than the man currently making himself comfortable in the seat beside you.

Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll get bored.

Oikawa leans an elbow on the armrest between you, tilting his head slightly. “So,” he says. “What’s your in-flight entertainment plan?”

“My what?”

“You know, what’s gonna keep you occupied for the next fourteen hours?” He gestures vaguely to your bag. “Movies? Reading? Soul-searching?”

“Sleeping,” you say immediately. “It’s four AM. Like a normal person.”

Oikawa tilts his head, considering. “See, I would believe you, but you already look wide awake.”

You scowl at him. Because unfortunately, he’s right—your body is so far past exhaustion that sleep is a distant, unattainable dream. You sigh and shift in your seat, pressing yourself closer to the window.

He grins, victorious. “You should talk to me instead.”

You let out an actual laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. “Why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’m fun.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Same thing.”

You shoot him a flat look. “I don’t like you.”

“And yet, you still haven’t put your headphones in,” he points out.

Damn it. You hate that he’s right. Again.

You huff, finally fishing your headphones from your bag and shoving them into your ears with exaggerated finality. Then, just for good measure, you turn to the window and squeeze your eyes shut.

Oikawa doesn’t say anything else. For about thirty seconds. Then, right as the plane begins to taxi down the runway, you hear him say, way too smugly for your liking, “you’re gonna talk to me eventually.”

You pretend to be asleep. You can feel him watching you, like he’s waiting for you to crack, like he knows something you don’t. 

Ugh. This is gonna be a long flight.

three.

By hour three of the flight, you’ve come to realise that Oikawa has a surprising love for the classics. 

Trust: you weren’t actively trying to notice his choice of in-air films, but your periphery and conscience betray you, and you become acutely aware as your seatmate cycles through The Proposal and Crazy Stupid Love (two objectively incredible films). He cues 10 Things I Hate About You next, which is probably your favorite movie of all time; you adore said movie so much that, despite all of your previous complaints and window-seat protests, you eventually lean into the seat rest separating you two and watch along.

Not openly, obviously. Not in any way that would give Oikawa the satisfaction of knowing he’s captured your attention. You angle your face toward the window, feign a vague disinterest, and sneak quick glances when you think he’s not looking.

Spoiler: he notices immediately.

“You know you could just watch with me,” Oikawa says, not even bothering to take his eyes off the screen. “You’re not exactly subtle.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say flatly, keeping your gaze stubbornly trained on the clouds outside.

“Uh-huh.” He shifts in his seat, casually turning the screen toward you. “C’mon, if you’re gonna steal glances, at least commit.”

“I wasn’t stealing anything,” you huff, but it’s weak, and you both know it.

Oikawa smirks, and—against your better judgment—you give in, finally glancing at his screen properly to watch Kat Stratford dancing drunkenly on a table. He offers you one of his earbuds, which you take very, very tentatively. You would be deeply unhappy about the proximity if your love of Hypnotize didn’t trump it. 

You sigh, leaning your cheek against your palm. “This movie is so good.”

“Right?” Oikawa grins, clearly pleased with himself. “Pretty bold of you to call me insufferable when you clearly have taste.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means you love this movie, I love this movie—therefore, you and I have more in common than you’d like to admit.”

You scoff, but there’s no real bite to it. “Liking 10 Things I Hate About You is just basic human decency.”

Oikawa presses a hand to his chest, mock-flattered. “Oh, so now you’re calling me decent?”

“No, I’m calling the movie decent. You’re a fluke.”

He gasps dramatically, then shakes his head, muttering something about how you wound him. But his smile lingers as the film plays on, and maybe—just a little bit—you don’t find his presence as unbearable anymore. He’s too distracted watching Joseph Gordon-Levitt pine to be truly annoying.

Somewhere between the next few scenes, you relax completely, not even pretending to look away anymore. You’re leaning in slightly now, watching the moment where Patrick buys Kat a guitar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for you to realize that Oikawa’s staring at you instead of the screen.

You blink. “What?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You’re, like… really into this.”

You scoff, flicking your gaze back to the movie. “I just appreciate good cinema.”

“Oh, so you’re a romcom person.”

You hesitate—because there’s something about the way he says it, a sort of curiosity that feels deeper than just casual conversation. It could be interpreted as judgmental, but somehow, the way he says it doesn’t seem to be. Still, you brush it off, nodding begrudgingly. “Yeah. So?”

Oikawa hums, glancing back at the screen as if weighing his words. Then, without looking at you, he says, “Do you think this stuff actually happens?”

“What, grand romantic gestures?”

“Yeah. Stuff like this. The running through the airport thing. The whole public love confession in front of the entire school thing. Do you think it’s real?”

You consider it for a moment, shifting in your seat. “I think… I think people want it to be real,” you admit, watching as Patrick and Kat kiss in the movie’s final scene. “Like, deep down, even the most cynical people kind of want to believe that this kind of thing could happen to them.”

Oikawa doesn’t respond right away. He just watches you, his expression unreadable.

Then he asks, voice softer this time, “And do you?”

The question settles in your chest, heavier than it should be. Do you believe in grand gestures? In someone showing up unannounced at your door, confessing their feelings in the pouring rain? In someone looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth fighting for?

If you’re being honest, you’re a hopeless romantic at heart. It’s why you love the genre so much—because despite all your cynicism, despite every realist take you’ve ever had, a part of you still wants to believe in love that lasts. You just don’t think it’s likely. People fall out of love with each other. Feelings fade. Real life is rarely as cinematic as the movies make it seem.

You exhale, suddenly too aware of the way Oikawa’s watching you, like he sees right through you.

“I think it’s… nice in movies,” you say carefully. “But in real life, people just disappoint you. It’s not worth taking the chance and getting hurt.”

Oikawa studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to your utter surprise, he smiles—small and knowing, the kind that makes your stomach do something weird.

“Well,” he murmurs, leaning back in his seat, “maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet.”

Your breath catches. You hate the way your heart stumbles over itself, just for a second.

You force yourself to roll your eyes, turning back toward the window. “Gross,” you mutter, hoping he doesn’t hear the slight waver in your voice.

Oikawa just chuckles, hitting play on When Harry Met Sally.

“Talk to me when we hit the part where Meg Ryan fakes an orgasm,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head. “Then we’ll really see where you stand on romance.”

You shake your head, biting back a reluctant smile.

And as the flight drags on, you realize—with a sinking feeling—that you don’t actually mind sitting next to Oikawa Tooru as much as you thought you did.

Oh God. That can’t be good.

four.

Halfway through the scene where Harry and Sally are in flight, you decide, after much internal conflict, that you’ll allow yourself to like Oikawa for this flight and this flight alone. It’s harmless. A temporary indulgence. You can enjoy the anonymity, let yourself sink into the moment, and then disappear once the plane lands. Maybe you’ll see his Olympic gameplay on TV one day, mention it offhandedly to whoever you’re with at the time, and then promptly forget about him.

Because here’s the thing: if you let yourself, you could probably fall for people pretty easily. You keep your guards up because it’s safer, but you imagine that love is like getting sucked into a black hole—you either fall forever, or you hit the ground so hard it shatters you. And if there’s one thing you know about yourself, it’s your tendency to self-sabotage: you don’t remember a single relationship you’ve had where you didn’t walk away first. You really would prefer to keep your romantic fantasies in fiction; it hurts less. 

You never realized that Oikawa could share this conviction. 

He doesn’t say anything when you shift slightly toward him, resting your arm on the seat rest between you. He doesn’t comment when you fully give in, watching When Harry Met Sally with him like it’s something you’ve been doing forever. He just lets it happen—like he expected it, like he knew you’d cave.

You don’t like that. But you do like the movie.

The scene in the airport plays, Sally meticulously laying out her travel quirks—I like the aisle seat, so I can stretch my legs. I don’t like to eat between meals, but I always want something sweet after dinner. You smile to yourself. You’ve always loved the specificity of it: how she knows exactly what she likes, how she doesn’t compromise on it.

“I feel like dating you would be exhausting,” Oikawa muses abruptly, arms crossed over his chest. 

You tear your gaze away from the screen just long enough to give him a withering look. “Excuse me?”

He gestures vaguely in your direction. “You’re too—” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Particular.”

You scoff. “And you’re not?”

“Not in the same way.” He shifts slightly, smirking. “You’d analyze me to death. Pick apart every little thing I do.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You say that like you wouldn’t be a terror to date.”

Oikawa grins, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Thinking about dating me, are we?”

“I’m thinking about how insufferable you’d be,” you correct, turning back toward the screen.

“Mm. You sure?”

You shoot him a look.

He sighs, dramatic as ever. “Shame. I’d be great at it.”

You snort. “Doubt that.”

His smirk widens. “That sounded a lot like a challenge.”

“It’s not.”

“I think it is.”

“Oikawa.”

He chuckles, finally turning back to the movie, and for some reason, you feel yourself relax again. The teasing is easier now, lighter. You don’t hate it.

And, despite yourself, you sneak another glance at him before looking back at the screen.

The movie plays on. Harry and Sally are walking through Central Park in the fall, debating the age-old question of whether men and women can be just friends. You know every word of this scene, could probably recite it in your sleep. 

“I love this part,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Oikawa glances at you, intrigued. “Why?”

“It’s just—” You pause, searching for the right words. “It’s the conversation. The way they both believe so deeply in their own side of things. And they’re both right, in different ways.”

Oikawa hums, tilting his head. “So, which one are you?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“Do you think men and women can just be friends?”

You hesitate. You’ve thought about it before, obviously—you’ve had guy friends, you’ve had moments where those friendships blurred at the edges, where you wondered if they were really as platonic as you claimed. 

“I think it depends,” you decide finally. “Some people can. Some people can’t.”

Oikawa watches you for a beat, his expression unreadable. “And what about us?”

Your breath falters; the question feels heavier than it should. You force yourself to scoff. “We’re not even friends.”

He laughs, and you hate how warm the sound is. “Cold.”

You shift in your seat, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips. “I just mean we met, like, five hours ago.”

“Five very meaningful hours,” he says, nodding seriously.

You shake your head, turning back to the screen—just in time for the diner scene.

“Oh, here we go,” Oikawa murmurs.

You grin. “Cinematic excellence.”

Sally fakes an orgasm, loud and unashamed, right in the middle of Katz’s Deli. You try not to look at Oikawa as you laugh, but his presence is suddenly overwhelming, like you can feel him beside you even without looking.

“She’s got a point, you know,” he says.

“What?” You glance at him.

He gestures to the screen. “Half of dating is just making people think you’re having a good time.”

You scoff. “That’s your dating experience, maybe.”

Oikawa raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You’re a playboy.”

He groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“It’s outdated,” he argues. “Was I kind of a flirt in high school? Sure. But I grew out of that.”

You snort. “Did you?”

Oikawa turns to you, expression softer now. “I did,” he says, and you don’t know why, but the look in his eyes and the way his voice wavers make you believe him. 

There’s something almost sad about it, how under his layers of bravado and grandiosity, he seems just the slightest bit lonely. You don’t say anything. You just watch him, the way his jaw tenses slightly, the way his fingers drum absentmindedly against the armrest.

“I don’t know,” he continues, voice quieter. “Never really met someone who gets me like that.”

You hesitate. Then, before you can think better of it, you mumble, “I get that.”

Oikawa looks at you. Something shifts between you. Not huge, not dramatic—but something.

You clear your throat, turning back to the screen. “The best part of this movie is the ending, anyway.”

He watches you for a second longer, then smiles slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, watching as Harry races through the streets on New Year’s Eve, heart in his throat, words spilling out in a desperate confession. “Because he realizes it’s real.”

Oikawa hums. “And you don’t think real love is like that?”

You hesitate. You really don’t want to answer that question, not right now. So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, it’s nice in movies.”

Oikawa doesn’t push. But as the credits roll, he glances at you one last time, something unreadable in his gaze. He’s not entirely convinced by your answer, and you both know it, even if he isn’t saying it aloud.

five.

Oikawa’s phone password is his own name, which is a fun fact you discover as your flight nears hour ten.

You don’t even mean to find out—really, you don’t. He dozes off halfway through Crazy Rich Asians, phone balanced precariously on his knee, screen still lit up from whatever mindless scrolling he’d been doing before sleep claimed him. He’s slumped in his seat, arms crossed, mouth slightly open in a way that would be embarrassing if he were anyone else. But he’s Oikawa, and people like him have a way of looking effortless even in sleep.

The moment the phone slips, it’s like slow motion. It free-falls, landing with a soft thud on the armrest between you. Oikawa startles awake, lashes fluttering, hands fumbling to catch it a second too late. His fingers curl around the device, flipping it over with bleary concern, only for the screen to glare back at him—locked.

And that’s when you see it.

You don’t mean to. It’s just…right there. The exact moment his fingers trace out the unlock pattern, it clicks into place, predictable in a way that makes you snort.

“Oikawa.”

He turns toward you, still shaking off the drowsiness. “Huh?”

“Your password,” you say, fighting a smirk. “You really chose Oikawa?”

He yawns, unbothered. “And?”

“And that’s… so predictable.”

He stretches, spine arching lazily before he slouches back down, as if the conversation itself is something he can’t be bothered to put effort into. “Predictable or genius? You tell me.”

“Predictable,” you say immediately. “What if someone tries to hack you? Your name is the first thing people would guess.”

Oikawa grins. “Exactly. It’s so obvious that no one would actually think I’d use it.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “I bet all your passwords are just variations of your own name.”

He makes a noise of vague offense, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s an outrageous accusation,” he says, clearly lying.

You narrow your eyes. “Your Netflix account—Oikawa123.”

He lets out a small, amused breath. “No comment.”

“Instagram? KingOikawa.”

“Hey, now—”

“Banking password?” You pause, then shake your head. “No, don’t answer that. I don’t even want to know.”

He chuckles, tipping his head back against the seat. “You’re awfully interested in my passwords, aren’t you?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m interested in the fact that you’re a narcissist.”

“And yet,” he muses, smirking at you, “you’re the one paying so much attention to me.”

Your lips part, an immediate retort on the tip of your tongue—but nothing comes out. Because damn it, he’s right.

Somewhere between hour one and hour ten, between watching him cycle through romcoms and pretending not to care, between brushing shoulders and arguing about the best scene in 10 Things I Hate About You, between the countless small moments where his presence started feeling less like an inconvenience and more like something else entirely—you started paying attention. And he knows it.

You let out a slow breath and turn toward the window. “I hate you.”

Oikawa laughs softly. “No, you don’t.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired to lie.

 ***

At hour eleven, your seat neighbor learns something about you, too. It’s not even because you tell him, but because he notices.

The plane has dimmed its lights, casting everything in muted shades of blue and gray. The hum of the engine is steady, a low vibration beneath your feet. Most of the passengers have settled into varying stages of half-sleep—some curled against their window seats, others with neck pillows wedged awkwardly under their chins.

You, on the other hand, remain awake.

You lean against the window, knees drawn up slightly, arms folded. Your gaze is unfocused, staring out at the endless stretch of dark, empty sky. Exhaustion clings to you, but sleep never comes easy—not on planes, not in cars, not anywhere that isn’t familiar.

Oikawa shifts beside you, the rustle of fabric breaking the silence. Then, softly, he asks, “you don’t sleep well on planes, do you?”

You blink, a little surprised. “What?”

He nods at you. “You’ve been sitting like that for a while now. You look exhausted, but you’re still awake.”

You hesitate, because he’s right. You’ve never been good at this—at shutting your brain off, at forcing comfort where it doesn’t exist. Your body stays tense, your thoughts wired for worst-case scenarios, always preparing for turbulence that might never come.

“It’s fine,” you say, voice quieter than before. “I’ll sleep when I land.”

Oikawa watches you for a moment, then, without a word, grabs his hoodie from his lap and balls it up into something vaguely pillow-shaped.

“Here,” he says, placing it between you.

You frown at it. “What?”

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he says simply. “Try it.”

Your gaze flickers to his, searching for the inevitable teasing remark, the smugness, the gotcha. But for once, it’s not there. Just an easy, offhanded kindness.

You swallow. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off before you can argue. “Just take it.”

After a moment of hesitation, you do.

And when you finally let yourself lean into it, letting the exhaustion settle into your bones, you hear him murmur—softer, barely audible— “See? Told you I’d be good at this.”

Because you’re actually significantly more comfortable and way too tired to argue, you just snuggle into the fabric and ignore your thumping heart.

 ***

At hour twelve, you wake up to warmth.

It’s subtle at first, just a gradual shift from the hazy quiet of sleep to the soft awareness of something unfamiliar. You’re warm, comfortable in a way you shouldn’t be, your head still heavy with lingering exhaustion.

Then, slowly, the details start to register.

The weight pressed lightly against your shoulder. The faint scent of something clean and familiar—fabric softener, maybe, or whatever detergent Oikawa uses. The steady rise and fall of breath, slow and even.

Your pulse stutters.

He’s leaned into you, his head resting lightly against your shoulder, body angled just slightly in your direction. His breathing is deep and even, completely at ease. At some point in the last hour, he must have drifted off.

And instead of moving away—you stayed. Your brain short-circuits. You should move. You should definitely move. But you don’t.

Instead, you sit there, utterly still, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name. Because this—this—is not how Oikawa looks on TV.

The Oikawa you’ve seen in interviews is all sharp angles and practiced charm, leaning into the cameras with a knowing smirk, effortlessly collecting attention like it’s his birthright. The Oikawa on the court is even sharper—brilliant and untouchable, playing with a confidence that borders on arrogance, eyes burning with something that makes it impossible to look away. Even after a game, drenched in sweat and exhaustion, he still performs—laughing, winking at the reporters, throwing casual remarks over his shoulder like he knows the whole world is watching.

But right now?

Right now, he’s none of those things.

His expression is unguarded, free of the practiced ease he wears like armor. His brow is smooth, his lips parted slightly, his breathing soft and steady. There’s no smirk, no carefully placed bravado—just quiet, unconscious stillness.

And it unsettles you. Because this is real.

This is not Oikawa under stadium lights or Oikawa playing to the cameras. This is just him, asleep against your shoulder, completely unaware of the effect he’s having on you.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

You exhale slowly, careful not to move too much, not to wake him. Your gaze drifts downward before you can stop yourself, just enough to see the way his hand has fallen between you, palm up, fingers lightly curled. For a second, just a second, you have the insane urge to reach out.

You don’t. Of course, you don’t. But the thought lingers, settling somewhere deep in your chest, unwelcome and impossible to ignore.

You turn your head toward the window, watching the faint glow of city lights far below, hoping the view will quiet whatever this feeling is.

It doesn’t. And still—you don’t wake him.

For some reason, you let him stay.

six.

There’s approximately one hour left before your plane is due to land, and you’re beginning to realize that you don’t actually want it to end.

Maybe it’s the absurdity of the whole situation, or maybe it’s because of your sleep-deprived delusions, but you like Oikawa. You don’t want to—really, you don’t. It would be infinitely easier if he were just another stranger you made small talk with before forgetting the moment you stepped off the plane. But no. He had to be annoying and charming and stupidly perceptive. He had to watch romcoms like he actually gives a damn about them. He had to see through you, easily and effortlessly, as if he simply understood you.

And now, because the universe is cruel and loves to humiliate you personally, you’re sitting here in the final stretch of this flight, hyper-aware of every single second ticking down, not wanting it to be over.

Oikawa doesn’t seem to share your existential crisis. He’s been quiet for the last twenty minutes, scrolling lazily through his phone, one elbow propped against the armrest between you. Every so often, he glances up at the in-flight map, watching as the little airplane icon inches closer to Tokyo.

You hate that it makes your stomach sink.

You shift in your seat, pressing your temple against the cool window, staring out at the early morning sky. You wonder if this is how romcom characters feel in that inevitable third-act moment, when they realize they’ve accidentally gone and caught feelings. When they recognize, with dawning horror, that the person they were supposed to be indifferent to has somehow carved their way into their life.

The difference, of course, is that those characters always get a happy ending.

You don’t know what you get.

The PA system crackles overhead. A flight attendant reminds everyone to prepare for descent. Around you, there’s the familiar rustle of people adjusting in their seats, pulling out jackets, stretching the stiffness from their limbs.

Oikawa shifts beside you, adjusting his hoodie. “Almost there,” he murmurs.

You hum, noncommittal. You think he’s going to leave it at that, but then he glances at you, eyes sharp despite the sleep still clinging to his edges. He tilts his head slightly, like he’s studying you. “You okay?”

Your grip tightens on the armrest. He notices too much. You should’ve known that he would see it—the way you’re staring too long at the window, the way you haven’t snapped at him in a while.

You force yourself to scoff. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Oikawa smirks like he knows something you don’t. “No reason.”

You hate that. You hate how easy he makes it look, the whole watching-you-like-you’re-a-puzzle-he’s-figuring-out thing. You hate that part of you wants him to keep looking.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the window. The seatbelt light dings on. The plane begins its slow descent, the city below coming into sharper focus.

It’s almost over.

 ***

Airports are supposed to be soulless places. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, as you walk through the terminal—bleary-eyed, exhausted, your carry-on digging into your shoulder. Your brain is already working on a plan: get your bag, get through customs, forget Oikawa Tooru exists.

That plan lasts approximately five seconds before you hear it.

A cheer. Loud, unmistakable, coming from somewhere near Arrivals. You glance over, along with half the airport, and that’s when you see them.

A couple, standing in the middle of the terminal like a goddamn movie scene. One of them—tall, dark-haired, a duffel slung over his shoulder—is staring at the other like he can’t quite believe she’s real. The girl—small, blonde, practically vibrating—throws her arms around his neck and kisses him so dramatically that the people around them actually applaud.

You blink. “What the fuck.”

Oikawa appears at your side, hands in his hoodie pockets, watching the scene unfold. You can feel him glance at you, the smirk already forming.

“Well,” he says, voice smug, “would you look at that.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.”

He hums, still watching the couple, who have now dissolved into an absolute mess of forehead kisses and whispered I missed yous. It’s excessive. It’s dramatic.

It’s also… kind of nice.

You hate that you think that.

Oikawa stretches, tilting his head toward you. “So?”

You frown. “So, what?”

His smirk widens. “Do you believe in it yet?”

Your heart does something stupid. Because the question—it’s not just a callback to your in-flight debate. It’s not just him poking fun at your skepticism. It’s softer than that. More curious. Hopeful, even.

Do you believe in grand gestures? Do you believe in love that doesn’t disappoint? Do you believe in something real?

The answer forms before you can stop it. 

“…I think I’m starting to.”

Oikawa stills. Just for a second. Then, slowly, his grin shifts into something real.

You exhale, turning back toward the baggage claim, but before you can walk away, something stops you. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the high of stepping off a fourteen-hour flight and still feeling wired.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you reach for his hoodie pocket.

Oikawa blinks. “Uh—”

You pull out his phone, type in his password, and create a new contact in his list. You quickly type in your number, and pause for a second, considering, then—just to be an ass—save your name as oikawa hater. Then you hand it back to him.

Oikawa takes it, glancing between you and the screen, lips curling into something almost incredulous.

“Wow,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m actually speechless.”

“A first for you, I’m sure.”

He huffs out a laugh, eyes flickering back to his phone. He stares at your contact name for a second too long, like he’s memorizing it. Like he wants to. And then he locks his screen, tucks it back into his hoodie, and glances at you—grinning, smug, a little bit victorious.

“So,” he muses, as the baggage carousel hums to life. “Do I get to keep my title as your Peter Kavinsky now?”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“You like me,” he says in a sing-song voice. “What happened to love only being good in movies?”

And maybe it’s just your imagination. Maybe it’s the jet lag, or the weird 6AM haze of existing between time zones. But as you step toward baggage claim, you swear—just for a second—Oikawa looks at you like the answer to that question might matter more than anything else.

Honestly, nothing is confirmed. He might never text you, or even if he does, who knows if you two would even make it past the first date. The world could end tomorrow, or he could completely forget about you, the way you thought he would. There’s always the chance that you’ll get hurt anyway. But he deserves to hear it. You, against all odds, want him to know.

So you turn, meet his eyes, and say, completely honestly, “Maybe you’re worth taking a chance on.”

⨭ closing; i wrote this instead of paying attention in my lecture lol i don't really know how i feel about this one yet but here's to hoping it'll grow on me when i'm not so tired from a long day of uni classes </3 let me know yalls thoughts but pls don't be mean :') thank u and love u all

[tinykofibean]

i think the only way i could ever accept a fic with kim dokja acknowledging he's bisexual is if it's post-epilogue and he has been spending yearsssss dancing around yjh and hsy until finally FIIIIINALLY yjh and kdj fuck. but he leaves that encounter STILL in denial. and yjh bursts into hsy's study and just stands there and she's about to snap at him when he goes hsy do something about this. and hsy is like. you didn't use your punisher form, did you. and yjh is like. ....no. and she's like ROOKIE MISTAKE and yjh is just like =_= hsy. so hsy rolls up her sleeves like alright alright i'm going in and tldr she fucks kdj so good he has to lay there with her passing a cigarette back and forth and staring at the ceiling and after reaching the second cigarette he's like ...so. wait. AM i gay? or, what, bisexual? and despite kdj's voice clearly indicating he is in a medical state of shock hsy does not care and simply takes a drag and exhales and goes. so kim dokja. why did enjoying sex with a woman make you think you're not straight?

*RECORD SCRATCH*

and then the fic ends there <3

[tinykofibean]

when you started dating atsumu, you didn't realise it meant getting to know not one, but two people. you've been together for a little over a month now and even if you haven't yet met osamu, you sometimes wonder which twin you actually know better.

logically, it should be your boyfriend, right? but then one evening, while cooking red beans, you pause and think, ‘ahh osamu probably wouldn’t love that seasoning’. that's when it hits you—your boyfriend has the habit of bringing up his brother way more than he’d ever admit. only a few weeks into your relationship and you’re already stocked with random facts like: “ya know ‘samu loves matcha cookies, but it's disgustin' right? chocolate cookies are just better” when you’re at the grocery store. and “those are 'samu's favourite snacks. he hit me once just 'cause i ate 'em. they're not even that good. he's such a dickhead.” when you're watching a movie.

every time, he insists on the fact that he likes the exact opposite of whatever osamu does. but you don’t say anything. because, well—deep down, you realise that's just his way of loving his brother, fondly and absolutely.

so when you finally meet the infamous osamu for the first time, you make sure to prepare him his favourite dish (too bitter to atsumu's taste), get his favourite beer (“'samu loves kirin, i prefer asahi!”) and even light a candle with his favourite scent (apple pie; even though atsumu would have chosen salty water).

“that's so good. how’d ya even know i liked that?” osamu asks, his eyes wide.

you steal a glance at your boyfriend, who’s completely clueless, and smile.

“hmm, just a lucky guess.”

[tinykofibean]

listen....I may not know much BUT I DO KNOW

Nishinoya is puerto rican and no one can tell me differently

[tinykofibean]

12:00am 12:01 am.

your phone vibrated against your pillow, pulling you out of sleep. squinting, you reached for it, barely registering the time—12:01 am—before kuroo’s name flashed across the screen.

kuroo: happy birthday, dumbass. i win.

you groaned, rubbing your eyes.

you: win what?

kuroo: being the first to say it, obviously. now open your door.

you blinked, still half-asleep.

you: no

kuroo: yes. i’m already here.

you froze. that woke you up. kicking off your blanket, you padded over to your window first, pulling the curtain back. and there he was—kuroo tetsurou, standing under the streetlight in his hoodie, a plastic bag in one hand, looking way too pleased with himself.

sighing, you grabbed your jacket and made your way downstairs, the cold air biting at your skin as you cracked the door open.

“kuroo.” your voice was flat. “what the hell.”

he grinned, stepping closer. “midnight birthday delivery. it’s tradition now.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’ve never done this before.”

“exactly. new tradition.” he held up the bag. “onigiri and pudding, your favorites. got them fresh before the store closed.”

your heart did something weird in your chest, but you ignored it, arms crossing. “you seriously walked all the way here at midnight? just for this?”

he shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “it’s your birthday. of course i’d show up for my best friend.”

there was something in the way he said it—too casual, like he was brushing past something. the weight in his voice didn’t match the easy smirk on his face.

“you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but you reached out anyway, taking the bag from his hands. your fingers brushed his in the process—just a second, barely anything—but it sent warmth up your arm despite the cold.

he didn’t move away, still watching you, still standing too close.

“you gonna make me stand out here all night?” his voice was quieter now, lower.

you swallowed, gripping the bag a little tighter. “you’re the idiot who came here.”

“yeah.” his smirk softened. “guess i am.”

for a second, neither of you said anything. the night air was still, the only sound your quiet breathing.

then, kuroo exhaled, stepping back with a lopsided grin. “alright, birthday kid. go eat before it gets cold.”

you rolled your eyes, but the warmth in your chest stayed.

“thanks, testsu.”

he shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “anytime.”

a/n: “best friend” yea right 😒 kuroo have you a big fat hug after

@livteracts happy birthday gang

[tinykofibean]

"I swear I can wrap these up myself," Tsukishima mutters for the tenth time since he's sat on the bench.

"And I swear if you don't close your mouth and let me do my job, I'll dislocate all of your fingers." Every single time he needs to have his fingers taped the two of you go through this little back and forth. It's never serious bickering, more like play arguing.

"Not very professional of you, manager." He snickers, his signature smug look rests on his face.

"Well, Kei, nothing about us is professional, since I'm your wife." Well, you aren't wrong about that. The media has been suspecting that the two of you are dating for a long while, when in reality the two of you have been married.

Everyone on the Sendai Frogs team knows about the two of you, they enjoy teasing your husband about being a softy for you.

"Touché," A shrug is shortly followed by his response.

After the whole 'I can wrap my own fingers' debate, the two of you sit in comfortable silence, as you finish wrapping his middle and index finger in gauze.

"Be careful, I don't want to see you on this bench again for the rest of this practice game," You pause your scolding to think, "Unless it's time for a water break or timeout."

His golden eyes lift a little; a cocky smirk makes its way to his face. He lifts up his good hand to his forehead in a fake solute, "Yes ma'am."

You roll your eyes and slap him lightly. "Alright you're good to go, Tsukishima-san."

"Last name? Ouch." He pats your knee, and goes to talk to the coach about being back in the game.

©𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐊𝐄𝐘𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈 All works are written by me! Please do not copy, translate, or upload onto other sites without my permission, thanks!

[tinykofibean]

GRRRAAAAH I'm starting to have a crush on a real person