yukkiji

[yukkiji]

hellooooo!! i'll be posting a lot tomorrow hehe

[yukkiji]

i haven’t posted more than usual today since i’m being quite occupied this upcoming days 🥹 i have a delegation trip to malaysia and planning an outfit for a week is hard HAHAHAHAH

[yukkiji]

between sets and secrets

a year after secretly eloping with kageyama tobio, you return to japan for an international match—only for an ill-timed jumbotron zoom to expose your hidden marriage, proving that old habits die hard when it comes to keeping secrets... especially from your brother oikawa.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi read part one here

starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru, japan's national team, and seijoh vbc members

genre: fluff, romance, crack, older brother!oikawa, secret relationship, seijoh vbc always makes an appearance, siblings banter, eloping, iwaizumi being stressed

wc: 9.4k

author's note: i couldn't help myself not writing a part 2 so here it is and if you haven't read the first part yet please read it first to get the context of the story hehe

you always knew the truth would come out eventually.

not because you were careless—not exactly. not because you didn’t know how to keep a secret. and not even because kageyama tobio, your very literal husband, wore his wedding ring during official matches which, in hindsight, was probably tempting fate.

but maybe because that was just how the two of you were built.

you’d built your love on borrowed time and foreign cities—on tight schedules and layovers, hushed phone calls between time zones, and fleeting mornings where one of you was always leaving. your life together lived in the quiet places, the in-betweens. and maybe you kept it to yourselves because that’s what you had grown used to. not out of shame. never out of shame. but because sometimes it felt like things meant more when no one else knew.

your relationship was private, yes. but it was never a secret.

everyone knew you were dating kageyama tobio. it wasn’t a mystery, not to the press, not to the fans, and certainly not to the people who knew you best. he didn’t flaunt it, but he never hid it either. he’d hold your hand in the middle of the street like it was the most natural thing in the world. mention you in interviews with that same unfiltered honesty he applied to everything else (“i like when she watches my games. it makes me feel fast”). he’d stand behind you at the airport like a human shield, subtly positioning himself between you and any camera lens or overeager crowd.

he loved you in ways that were simple. consistent. certain.

but the engagement—that had been yours.

just yours. yours in the quietest, most sacred sense. a moment kept in soft candlelight, sealed between shared laughter and clumsy promises whispered in a hotel room in santorini. no cameras. no audience. just the glint of a diamond ring and the way he looked at you like he’d known, even back then, that there wouldn’t be anyone else.

you hadn’t expected a speech from him. he was never the speech kind.

but you had noticed the way he was fidgety all day—subtle things, barely noticeable to anyone else. the way he kept checking the time even when there was nowhere to be. how he seemed extra careful with your dinner reservation, how he trailed just a half-step behind you, like he didn’t want to miss a second of it. how he held your hand a little tighter when you walked along the shore after.

you’d thought maybe he was just being sentimental. it was your anniversary, after all. a whole string of years behind you, each one marked by flights, messages, short reunions, long silences, and somehow—still—constancy.

but when you got back to the room and he told you to sit down, his hand not quite steady, his voice a touch too casual, you knew.

he pulled out the ring box like he was pulling out something obvious. inevitable.

“i didn’t write anything down,” he’d admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he did when he missed a serve or forgot to text you back during training. “because i figured i’d just… say it.”

you didn’t say anything. just watched him kneel, the air still and warm, salt-softened by the mediterranean breeze slipping through the balcony doors.

“i’ve been thinking about this since middle school,” he said, voice quiet. “i didn’t know anything back then, but i knew i wanted to be with you.”

he’d opened the box, the diamond catching the low light.

then, like he couldn’t help himself, he reached out, took your hand, turned it gently in his own, and looked at your fingers like he was already picturing the rest of your lives.

“i know it’s not fancy. but it’s yours. and i want you to wear it. because you’ve always been… it. for me.”

your throat had gone tight. not because of the ring. not even because of the proposal. but because he meant every word—and he said it in the only way he knew how: plain, honest, true.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

he hadn’t asked you with a flourish. he asked you like it was the only answer that made sense.

and of course, you said yes.

that night with him changed everything—not in a loud, dramatic way, but in the way that mattered most. quietly, completely. like a door had been closed to the rest of the world, and all that remained was you and him. your yes wasn’t just an answer. it was a beginning. it meant you were his. that he was yours. that from here on out, there was no maybe, no almost, no eventually.

you were locked in. for good.

and just like everything that came before it—your long-distance calls, your early morning airport reunions, the barely-contained smiles exchanged across tournament hallways—it stayed yours. private. sacred. untouched.

there was no announcement. no post. no caption. just the two of you, keeping it where it felt the safest: between your hearts and the silence that knew better than to demand proof.

you wore the ring every day. slipped it on like second skin. and somehow, in all that time—nearly two years of wearing a diamond on your left hand—no one asked. no one noticed.

maybe it was because you always knew how to tuck it just so, how to angle your hand in photos, how to fold your fingers when your friends got too close. maybe it was because, when it came to hiding kageyama, you’d both become professionals or maybe—and this one made you laugh most of all—maybe your friends were just really bad at paying attention.

and so the secret held.

during those two quiet, surreal years of engagement, life went on. matches were won, seasons changed, bags were packed and unpacked in cities that blurred together. but one morning, you found yourself folding your clothes into a suitcase with more intention than usual, your heart a little louder than it had been in a while.

you were flying to denmark to visit your fiancé—who, for reasons yet unexplained, had arrived a full week earlier than planned. actually, two weeks earlier than the official schedule set by japan’s national team, who were supposed to fly out to spain the following week for their training camp.

you had blinked at his text when it first came through.

[tobio:] already here. [tobio:] in denmark. [tobio:] come if you can.

no explanation. no context. no elaboration.

typical.

and yet, even without the full story, you’d booked the flight.

you didn’t question it—not really. not after so many years of slipping between time zones just to be near him. not when it had always been like this: brief reunions in unfamiliar cities, crashing into each other like two people who had never stopped running.

you just packed. called off work. and went.

because wherever he was, that’s where you wanted to be.

you landed in denmark late in the afternoon, the air outside the terminal sharp with cold. the kind that bit at your fingers the moment you stepped outside sliding doors, your breath visible as fog. you scanned the small crowd past customs, half expecting him to be running late, maybe tucked behind a scarf or hidden under a baseball cap like he usually was when he didn’t want to be recognized.

but instead, you found him already there—waiting.

kageyama stood near the arrivals gate, hood down despite the cold, a heavy jacket zipped up to his chin, hands shoved deep into his pockets. his posture was stiff, almost tense, but it was his eyes that caught you. wide, steady, and locked on you like he’d been holding his breath since you left the plane. like he’d been standing there for hours just to make sure he didn’t miss your face in the crowd.

that was the first sign something was off.

you smiled anyway, dragging your luggage behind you, weaving through the last few arriving passengers.

“you’re early,” you said, stepping into his space.

he didn’t answer right away. his gaze dropped briefly to your suitcase, then back to your face, like he couldn’t believe you were really here.

then, a beat late, he said, “i know.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you’re two weeks early.”

“i know,” he repeated, quieter this time.

you tilted your head. “why?”

his fingers flexed in his coat pocket like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know how. and then, with the most kageyama expression imaginable—equal parts serious and awkward, like he was bracing for a block—he said,

“…i was going to ask you something.”

that’s when your stomach did that quiet little somersault. not nervousness. not fear. just something soft and startled.

“in my hotel room,” he added quickly, as if that clarified things. “i thought… it should be somewhere warm.”

and that was all he said.

no elaborate excuse, no rehearsed speech—just that. just him, looking at you like he didn’t know how to say everything at once, so he settled for what he could manage.

when you arrived at his hotel, it looked like every other place he’d stayed in over the years—impersonal, functional, the kind of room that held little more than a bed, a desk, and whatever familiarity came from the scent of his cologne clinging to the hoodie tossed over a chair.

you set your bag down without a word and drifted toward the balcony. it was small, the kind of space barely meant to stand in, but it opened up to a skyline painted in soft gold. denmark in winter looked quieter, somehow—like the buildings themselves were huddled together for warmth.

you stepped outside, wrapped your arms around yourself, and took in the view. the cold kissed your cheeks, but it wasn’t biting. not really. not when you felt him just behind you.

kageyama joined you a moment later. his presence always announced itself quietly—warmth at your back, the subtle brush of his hand against yours before he leaned in, calloused fingers brushing against your cheek like he needed to be sure you were real.

then, a soft kiss. not on your lips, but your temple—gentle, familiar, steadying.

you smiled, turning slightly to face him. your noses almost touched. and before the moment slipped by, you gave him a short, sweet kiss. just enough to make him blink, startled. just enough to remind him you were here.

“is there something on your mind, tobio?” you asked, voice low with amusement.

he didn’t answer at first. instead, he took your hand in his, the one wearing the engagement ring. he didn’t say anything as he turned it over gently, as though he was still getting used to seeing it there, even after all this time.

his thumb brushed over the band, slow and deliberate.

“this still feels… not real,” he murmured.

you tilted your head. “it’s been almost two years.”

“i know,” he said. “but sometimes i look at it and… i don’t know. i feel like i’m going to mess it up.”

you opened your mouth to reply, but he kept going, voice soft and steady in a way that was so uniquely him.

“but then i think about you wearing it. every day. and it’s like… maybe i’m not messing it up. maybe i’m doing something right.”

you stared at him for a moment, heart pressed up against your ribs.

his hand was still cradling yours, thumb tracing circles like it had nowhere else to be. like he was anchoring himself to you.

“i was going to ask you,” he said, eyes flickering to yours. “if you still wanted to marry me. for real. not just… secret engagement, secret ring, secret everything.”

he swallowed hard.

“i thought maybe now is the time. if you still want to.”

you didn’t say anything right away—not because you were unsure, but because your heart was trying to catch up to the softness of his words. because kageyama wasn’t the type to spill things carelessly, and when he did, it always landed somewhere deep. somewhere steady.

he was still holding your hand when he said it:

“i also… i bought the rings.”

your eyebrows rose slightly, lips parting. “you what?”

“the wedding rings,” he clarified, almost nervously. “i already bought them. a while ago.”

your breath hitched somewhere between a laugh and a question. “without me?”

he nodded, quickly. “they match. kind of. i tried not to make them weird. they’re just simple. i picked them out the same day i booked the hotel.”

he paused, eyes flicking down to your hand again.

“i was scared they wouldn’t fit you,” he admitted. “so i guessed. i based it off the engagement ring. i measured it when you left it on the nightstand one morning. with a pencil and paper. like… like a math problem.”

that made you laugh. warm and surprised and affectionate. it slipped from your chest like second nature.

he winced slightly, but there was something fond in his expression—relieved, maybe, that you hadn’t burst into flames.

“i almost asked your brother for help,” he added, quieter now.

your laugh deepened, disbelief soft around the edges. “you almost asked tooru?”

he nodded again, tragically sincere. “but then i didn’t. i thought it’d be weird.”

you grinned, leaning your head back against the balcony rail. “tobio, he doesn’t even know about the engagement.”

kageyama blinked. “oh. right.”

you shook your head, still smiling. “i love you, but you’re a terrible liar.”

he looked mildly panicked for a second, like he was processing just how thin the ice had been all along. but before he could say anything else, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled something out.

a brochure. folded. worn at the corners.

“there’s a chapel,” he said. “i found it online. it’s small. just… small. and quiet.”

your gaze dropped to the paper. a little building, tucked between old trees and red rooftops, sun spilling through stained glass windows.

“it’s not too far,” he added, watching you closely. “like, we don’t have to. it’s just—i saw it. and i thought… if we did it. if we ever did it, it should be there.”

you looked at him.

he was fidgeting again. not from nerves, not really, but from the sheer force of caring too much and not knowing how to contain it.

you weren’t shocked, exactly. but you were… breathless.

because of course he found a chapel. of course he’d been thinking about this longer than he let on. of course he wanted to do it like this—with just the two of you, no audience, no fuss. just a quiet promise in a place neither of you had ever been before.

you reached out, brushing your fingers against his wrist. “show me.”

and his eyes lit up like you’d said yes all over again.

you left the hotel with your fingers laced through his—gloved hand in gloved hand, your steps slow against the cobbled streets of copenhagen. the sky above was pale and soft, dusted with winter clouds that made everything seem quieter. more sacred.

kageyama walked half a step ahead, the way he always did when he didn’t want you to get lost, occasionally glancing back just to make sure you were still there, like you’d vanish if he blinked. he’d packed the rings in his coat pocket. no box. no ribbon. just wrapped carefully in tissue and zipped into the inside lining like a secret he was terrified of dropping.

when you reached the chapel, it was smaller than the photo had shown—but prettier. it sat tucked away on a quiet street, ivy curling around one side of the old stone, a carved wooden door standing crooked and proud. a hand-painted sign at the steps read: ceremonies welcome. bookings not required.

kageyama looked at you then, as if to say, this is it.

you nodded.

inside, it smelled like candlewax and winter dust. the light through the stained glass cast soft colors on the floor, pinks and golds and gentle greens. there were only ten pews. no altar. no priest yet. no flowers. just stillness. and you. and him.

you sat down in the last row for a moment, just to breathe.

he looked over at you, a little out of his depth, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them now.

"are you okay?" he asked.

you turned your head and smiled. “are you okay?”

“…i think so,” he said, and then frowned slightly. “my hands are cold.”

you reached for one and rubbed it between yours. “you’re nervous.”

“i’m not,” he argued.

you raised a brow.

“…okay. maybe a little.”

the officiant came out a few minutes later—a woman with silver hair tied back in a bun and eyes that crinkled when she saw the way kageyama was staring at you like he’d been hypnotized. she spoke softly, asked for your names, asked if this was what you both wanted.

kageyama nodded so fast it was almost funny. you just smiled and said, “yes.”

you wore the white dress you’d packed on a whim, never really intending to use it. it had stayed folded in your suitcase for months—a soft thing, simple and unassuming. like hope. he was still in his button-up shirt, black slacks, and that too-serious expression he always wore when he was trying not to mess up.

and when you stood at the front, hand in hand, the officiant asked if you had any words.

you looked at each other.

kageyama cleared his throat.

“…i didn’t write anything,” he said. “i forgot. or… i didn’t think i needed to.”

you squeezed his hand. “you don’t.”

he exhaled slowly. “just… i want this. every day. all the quiet parts. all the normal stuff. you. me. everything.”

you felt the warmth crawl up your chest, soft and overwhelming.

you answered him with your eyes before you ever said “i do.”

and when the time came, with hands still slightly shaking, under soft european daylight in a borrowed chapel—

you said it.

and so did he.

then he slid the ring onto your finger, right next to the one he’d given you in santorini, and kissed you like he was promising a thousand more mornings just like this one.

afterward, you left the chapel hand-in-hand, no announcement, no confetti, just two very married people who stopped at a nearby café for sandwiches and coffee like it was just another afternoon. like you hadn’t just made the biggest decision of your life. like forever wasn’t sitting quietly on both your hands.

you leaned your head on his shoulder as you waited for your drinks to arrive, and he tapped your ring with the tip of his finger like he couldn’t believe it was real.

“it fits,” he said.

you smiled. “of course it does.”

you were still in the café, tucked into a window seat with two half-eaten sandwiches between you, his hand resting palm-up on the table like it was meant to hold yours and yours alone. the light outside had dimmed slightly, winter dusk settling over copenhagen in soft blue tones, the kind that made everything look gentler, quieter.

kageyama kept glancing down at your hand. not subtly. like every few minutes, as if the sight of your wedding ring alongside your engagement band still needed to be double-checked for accuracy. like if he looked away too long, it might disappear.

you caught him staring again and let out a quiet laugh, taking a sip from your coffee. “you’re going to wear a hole in that ring if you keep looking at it.”

he blinked, then flushed slightly, eyes darting back to his own cup. “it just looks… right,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “like it’s supposed to be there.”

your smile softened, settling into something warmer. “it is.”

a comfortable silence followed. not awkward—just the kind that came when you didn’t need to fill space anymore. when the person across from you already knew all the words you hadn’t said.

then, leaning back against the booth, you teased, “you know we’re still going to have to do a proper wedding at some point, right?”

he looked up so fast his hair bounced. “what?”

you laughed again, gently this time. “tobio, we got married in a tiny chapel in a city no one even knew we were in. there’s a very high chance my brother is going to launch himself into the sun when he finds out.”

he frowned thoughtfully, like this hadn’t quite occurred to him. “but we’re already married.”

“yes,” you said, reaching over to tug his hand into yours. “but you’re marrying into my friend group. and my family. and there will be consequences.”

he groaned softly, burying his face in his elbow for a moment like the mere idea of oikawa making a scene gave him immediate physical pain. “can we do it somewhere with no microphones?”

“we can do it somewhere with a fire extinguisher in case my brother tries to set you on fire.”

he looked at you, dead serious. “good idea.”

you squeezed his hand. “but yes, i want the dress. the cake. the dancing. and the people we love watching us do this properly. even if it’s just for show.”

kageyama didn’t hesitate this time. he nodded. “okay. if that’s what you want, we’ll do it.”

then, a pause. a softer tone.

“i don’t care how many times i have to marry you,” he added. “just as long as i always get to.”

and just like that, your heart did that quiet little stutter it always did around him. still. even now. even after everything.

you reached across the table again and ran your thumb over the ring on his hand—the one you’d slipped on just hours ago.

“good,” you said. “because the next one will need to come with a seating chart and maybe a taser for crowd control.”

he stared at you.

“…i’m serious.”

“i know.” he took another sip of his coffee. “and i believe you.”

you two spent your unofficial honeymoon like you had everything in the world and no need to tell it. it was a week of quiet joy, the kind that didn’t need documenting to be remembered. half of it was spent wandering through denmark’s crooked streets and quiet museums, sneaking kisses in doorways, splitting pastries in coffee shops, and curling up in bed while the snow dusted rooftops outside. the rest of it was in spain—sunlight, terraces, the sea humming in the distance. he wore sunglasses he didn’t need. you wore his jacket more than your own. it felt like your little pocket of time. a secret with a heartbeat.

and no one knew.

no cameras. no teammates. no siblings breathing down your neck.

just you and him, sharing the kind of silence only love could make comfortable.

well—that perfect silence was shattered, violently and without remorse, when reality hit.

or more accurately… when it rang. again. and again.

at three in the morning.

you groaned softly into the pillow, tangled in sheets with your leg draped over his hip, both of you a tangle of limbs and warmth. your ring glinted faintly under the moonlight that filtered through the blinds, the only reminder that yes, you had actually gone through with it. you were married.

and now, someone was ruining it.

kageyama shifted beneath you, groggy and frowning, blindly patting the nightstand until his fingers wrapped around his buzzing phone.

“who is it?” you murmured sleepily against his shoulder.

he squinted at the screen. “iwaizumi.”

that alone jolted both of you into semi-consciousness.

you sat up slowly, hair a mess, blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. “does he know?”

“i don’t know.” he stared at the screen like it was a bomb he wasn’t trained to defuse.

and then it rang again.

“pick up,” you whispered.

“what if he’s mad?”

“tobio, of course he’s mad. you left two weeks before the team.”

“…should i lie?”

you gave him a look.

he sighed, then finally answered. “…hello?”

there was a pause—half a second, maybe less—before iwaizumi's voice detonated through the speaker like a fire alarm.

“kageyama tobio, where the hell are you?”

you winced and tugged the blanket higher over your head like it might shield you from the sheer force of secondhand stress vibrating through the mattress.

“i’m in spain already,” kageyama mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep and—let’s be honest—panic.

there was a beat of silence. and then—

“you’re what?!”

kageyama flinched and instinctively yanked the phone an inch away from his ear. you could hear every syllable anyway. so could half the block.

“iwaizumi-san, i—”

“do you understand,” iwaizumi hissed, “that i am currently in tokyo, at narita airport, with ten grown men who can’t function without labeled boarding passes and adult supervision? sakusa’s arguing with customs over sanitizer. bokuto is missing. atsumu is trying to check in his hairdryer as a carry-on.”

you muffled a snort into the pillow.

“we fly out in two hours, and you are not here, kageyama. you didn’t check in. you’re not responding in the group chat. komori thought you were kidnapped. suna said he’d give it 24 hours before calling interpol. and you’re telling me you’re in spain already?!”

kageyama cleared his throat. “i… i told you. i sent it in the group chat.”

iwaizumi sounded like he aged ten years in real time. “you sent just landed airplane emoji with no context. how the hell was i supposed to know where you were?! you could’ve landed in okinawa for all i knew!”

“i thought it was clear…”

“it wasn’t.”

you were shaking with silent laughter now, curled under the sheets, as kageyama rubbed his temple and glanced helplessly in your direction.

“i went to denmark first,” he said, tone now sheepish. “before spain.”

a dangerous pause.

“…why denmark.”

“we got married.”

the sound iwaizumi made could only be described as a full-body malfunction. a strangled mix between a gasp, a growl, and someone trying not to rupture a blood vessel in public.

“you—married—?!”

“yeah.”

another pause. and then, flat and venomous: “does oikawa know?”

kageyama stiffened like a guilty schoolboy. “…not yet.”

on the other end, iwaizumi audibly inhaled, as if trying to summon every ounce of patience he’d ever had in his life. “and when were you going to tell me you weren’t flying out with the team?”

“well,” kageyama began, “we already sent the marriage certificate to the embassy. so i thought—”

“so you had time to arrange paperwork with a foreign government but not text me you were leaving the country early?!”

“…i sent it in the group chat.”

“do you think i read every ‘just landed’ message between memes and hinata’s live-updates on his snacks?!”

there was a thump, probably iwaizumi hitting a wall—or his own forehead.

“we’re going to be teammates for a month,” he muttered. “and you dropped this on me now. at the airport. in front of god and the vending machine.”

kageyama winced. “i can send a proper message.”

“you think?!”

you finally peeked out from under the covers, gently taking the phone from his hand. “hajime?”

iwaizumi groaned. “you too.”

“we’re very happy,” you said sweetly.

“i hate both of you,” he grumbled. “but fine. congratulations. don’t expect me to babysit you through this.”

you smiled. “oh, you already are.”

there was another sigh. long. exhausted. broken.

“if oikawa finds out before i land,” he muttered, “i’m pretending i don’t speak japanese.”

then the line clicked off.

kageyama stared at the screen. “…he didn’t even say goodbye.”

you shrugged. “he’ll survive.”

“…probably.”

kageyama sank back into the pillows like a man barely spared by fate, while your hand slipped into his, both your wedding rings catching the low morning light filtering in through the window.

and that was it.

well—that was it, until it wasn’t.

because that elopement?

the quiet, sacred thing just for the two of you? it stayed hidden for nearly a year.

miraculously.

because of iwaizumi hajime. professional trainer. national team’s unofficial handler. your shared confidant. and, as it turned out, an elite-level secret keeper under immense emotional duress.

he didn’t say a word.

not even when oikawa called him three times that week alone, trying to fish for details on why kageyama was “weirdly chipper�� and asking if he’d “caught a new disease in europe.”

not even when bokuto found a photo of you and kageyama in matching coats from copenhagen and shouted, “this looks like honeymoon energy.”

not even when atsumu, bored and nosy, cornered iwaizumi with a protein shake and said, “you’re acting like you’re hiding something. is it drugs or a lovechild?”

iwaizumi kept his mouth shut through all of it.

but not without consequence, because you watched the man visibly age.

he developed three new forehead lines and started carrying around a stress ball that wasn’t there before. he muttered “i need a raise” to himself a lot, and once, when komori spilled pre-game smoothies all over the training mats, iwaizumi sat down on the floor and just stared into space for five solid minutes.

the guilt gnawed at you sometimes—especially when he glared at kageyama during warmups with the same expression a war general might give a soldier who’d accidentally detonated the strategy tent.

“we should tell them soon,” you said once, watching a livestream of a match where iwaizumi could clearly be seen shouting at the bench and pointing a clipboard like it was a weapon.

kageyama had only nodded, chewing his protein bar.

you felt bad. you did.

but…

there was still something sacred about the way your marriage belonged to just the two of you. something lovely in the quiet of it. it had been a promise whispered and signed in the hush of a european winter. something selfish and soft and yours.

and iwaizumi?

he’d kept that promise. never wavered. never slipped. never cracked—not even once.

you knew it cost him sleep. and years off his life. and probably a piece of his soul.

but still.

he’d kept it.

because that’s who iwaizumi hajime was—reliable to the bone, loyal past reason, and deeply, deeply tired of being surrounded by emotionally stunted athletes. but a keeper of your secret, all the same.

he’d sworn not to say anything, and he hadn’t. even when oikawa, calling in from argentina with the energy of someone who absolutely knew something was going on but didn’t have the receipts yet, tried to dig into him like a stubborn cat clawing at a locked cabinet.

“you’d tell me if something weird was going on with tobio, right?” oikawa had asked during one of their check-ins, mid-stretching and dripping sweat.

iwaizumi had stared into the camera like he was contemplating faking his own death. “define weird,” he said.

and that had somehow been enough to throw him off the trail—for a while.

and now, a year later, here you were.

back in japan. back in a packed stadium. seated in the plush, velvet-lined vip box of one of the biggest venues in tokyo.

the crowd was already roaring, the atmosphere electric with anticipation. flags waving, chants echoing, camera lights flickering like fireflies across the arena. and there you were, seated with hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—all blissfully unaware that they were sitting next to someone who had legally and emotionally committed herself to a man currently warming up on the court.

oikawa tooru—your brother—stood proudly on the other side of the net, representing argentina with that same swaggering confidence he carried since high school. across from him, in japan’s uniform, was kageyama tobio, stretching his shoulder like he wasn’t seconds from reigniting an international rivalry and a family feud.

“man, this is gonna be intense,” hanamaki murmured, sipping his soda. “oikawa’s looking extra dramatic today.”

“he always looks dramatic,” matsukawa replied.

“did you hear the commentator earlier?” kindaichi said, pointing to the massive jumbotron above the court. “they zoomed in on kageyama’s hand and were like, ‘is that a wedding band?’”

your body stilled. too still. the kind of stillness that made animals run.

“wedding band?” hanamaki blinked, then turned to look at you. “wait—that’s a wedding band too, isn’t it?”

your fingers instinctively curled inward on your lap, but it was too late.

kunimi blinked slowly. “…okay but who did you marry?”

there was a beat of silence before matsukawa groaned, exasperated.

“are you dumb? it’s obviously kageyama, dumbass. they’ve been together since middle school. remember when tooru found out and refused to speak for a week and a half? cold war era?”

you stared ahead, expression composed, neutral, elegant—despite the chaos brewing in the row behind you.

“wait—wait, so you’re married?” kindaichi practically screeched.

“when?!” hanamaki demanded.

“why didn’t we know?!”

“was there cake?” kunimi asked calmly.

but before you could respond, the jumbotron cut to oikawa.

your brother—sweaty, flushed, stretching his shoulders—froze mid-motion as his gaze zeroed in on kageyama’s ring, and then the camera panned to the vip box. to you.

and then he just—stopped moving.

completely.

as if time itself had paused.

his eye twitched.

iwaizumi, who you could barely see from your elevated spot, was already standing up from the team bench, shoulders squared like a man who had smelled smoke before the fire had even started.

on the court, oikawa dropped the ball he was warming up with. just let it fall. stared across the net like he was calculating the optimal trajectory for a murder.

“uh-oh,” matsukawa said.

“yep,” hanamaki muttered.

“what’s happening?” kindaichi asked.

“he figured it out,” kunimi said. “he definitely figured it out.”

and as oikawa took a step toward the net, iwaizumi appeared—not walked, not ran—appeared, grabbing him by the shoulder mid-lunge.

“not on live television,” you could imagine him saying. “please. not here.”

oikawa pointed at kageyama.

then at the jumbotron.

then—at you.

you gave him a little wave.

iwaizumi looked skyward, mouthing something that was either a prayer or a resignation letter.

and you? you just smiled.

because the truth was out. the rings were seen. the marriage was no longer a secret.

down on the court, chaos was brewing in slow motion.

oikawa, tooru, argentina’s number one, local menace and your older brother, was standing frozen in place. the warmup drill had gone completely forgotten—his arms limp, one knee bent like he’d been mid-step when the realization hit. his eyes hadn’t moved from the jumbotron in almost a full minute.

because on that screen, clear as day, were the two things he feared most:

tobio kageyama with a wedding band.your face in the vip box, smiling like you had no business being that calm while his world was collapsing.

iwaizumi saw it happen in real time.

and for a man who had taped a hundred ankles, mediated fifty shouting matches, and once convinced sakusa not to pepper spray a fan who got too close to the bench—he knew this was a code red situation.

“no,” he muttered under his breath, already walking.

by the time oikawa was marching toward the net, eyes blazing, hands clenched like he might throw the volleyball—or worse, launch it at kageyama’s face—iwaizumi was already on the court, cutting across warm-up zones like a soldier breaking formation.

“tooru,” he called out, calm and firm.

oikawa turned, wild-eyed, and pointed a furious finger across the court. “he married my sister, iwa-chan.”

“yes. and we’re live in seventy-two countries, so maybe don’t commit a felony on international television,” iwaizumi replied smoothly, one hand now gripping oikawa’s bicep like a leash.

“he didn’t even tell me!”

“neither did she,” iwaizumi muttered under his breath, tugging him away from the middle of the court.

“iwa-chan!”

“tooru,” iwaizumi hissed, low and sharp, “if you blow this up right now, you’re gonna be that guy—the guy who lost his cool on camera because of a ring. save it for after the match. yell all you want later. i’ll buy you a punching bag.”

“i don’t want a punching bag—i want to strangle tobio-chan.”

“you can’t strangle the setter from another country mid-tournament. it’s bad press.”

oikawa groaned and dragged a hand down his face like he was physically trying to wipe the betrayal off his skin. “iwa-chan, he stole my sister.”

iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “i’m pretty sure she walked, tooru. willingly.”

oikawa opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again like a fish gasping for one last comeback. but nothing came out.

so instead, he just slumped.

he crashed out, right there on the bench behind the court, head in his hands like he was back in high school discovering your middle school text messages to kageyama all over again.

“i’m going to be sick,” he muttered.

“you’ll be fine.”

“do you think there’s still time to annul something?!”

iwaizumi exhaled, pulling him up by the collar. “play the game first. destroy him on the court. then you can collapse in the locker room. we’ve practiced this routine before.”

“i can’t believe you knew.”

“i can’t believe you didn’t.”

“this is betrayal.”

“this is adulthood.”

“iwa-chan, my soul is cracking.”

“yeah? my spine’s been cracking since 2017. join the club.”

oikawa sulked, but he didn’t storm off the court. he didn't throw a ball at kageyama’s head. he didn’t demand security or scream into a mic. he just… went back to his team, defeated and muttering curses under his breath.

iwaizumi returned to the japan bench like nothing happened. smooth. silent. the man had the emotional composure of a seasoned trauma surgeon and the patience of a saint married to a coffee addiction.

he picked up his clipboard, scribbled something that might’ve been “kill me” in between tactical notes, and took a long sip of his water.

“sooo…” hinata leaned in from the end of the bench, eyes wide, voice hushed but clearly dying to know, “did oikawa find out?”

iwaizumi didn’t flinch. he didn’t blink. he just leaned back, set the water bottle down with a soft clunk, and said, dry as desert wind: “play the game. save the funeral for after.”

bokuto gasped dramatically. “oh my god, someone died?!”

atsumu squinted. “what kinda funeral we talkin’ about here—like actual or emotional? because i’m ready for both.”

suna, filming casually from the corner of the bench, zoomed in on iwaizumi’s exhausted face. “caption: ‘man realizes he raised twelve sons and one of them just married the other’s sister in secret.’”

“wait, hold up,” aran said, brows furrowing. “who got married?”

“kageyama,” sakusa deadpanned, not even looking up from his water bottle. “obviously.”

“wait—what?!” komori yelped.

hinata choked. “to who?!”

they all turned to look at kageyama, who was tying his shoelaces like nothing earth-shattering had just happened. like his life hadn’t just been blown open on the jumbotron in front of thousands.

kageyama looked up mid-knot. “…what?”

“bro, you’re married?!” bokuto nearly shouted. “you didn’t tell us?!”

“you guys didn’t know?” kageyama asked, blinking like they were the weird ones.

“no,” atsumu cried. “did we look like we knew?!”

“who did you even marry?” komori asked, baffled.

“his girlfriend,” sakusa said, like it was the most obvious answer on the planet.

“well, yeah, but which girlfriend?!” atsumu asked

“what do you mean ‘which’?” sakusa asked, narrowing his eyes. “he’s only had one.”

“yeah,” kageyama mumbled. “the same one since middle school.”

a pause.

“…wait.” hinata stood so fast his jersey wrinkled. “you mean—?”

atsumu’s jaw dropped so fast it was a miracle it didn’t dislocate. “oikawa’s sister?!”

iwaizumi rubbed his temples.

“i thought it was just a rumor you two were dating!” komori blurted, still visibly struggling with the mental whiplash.

“yeah,” aran agreed, frowning. “like—i thought oikawa made it up once to get under kageyama’s skin during nationals or something.”

“no,” suna said casually, still filming. “i thought it was real. i mean, you should’ve seen how kageyama looked whenever someone mentioned her name. classic pining face.”

“wait,” hinata turned to kageyama, squinting. “weren’t y’all, like… secret-secret?”

kageyama finally spoke, tone deadpan as he stood up and adjusted his knee pads.

“the world knows we’re dating,” he said, plain and matter-of-fact. “i always mention her during press conferences.”

a pause.

“…you do?” bokuto blinked.

kageyama nodded. “yeah. stuff like, ‘she helped me recover from an injury,’ or ‘she brings me food after training.’ last month i said, ‘i play better when she’s watching.’”

another pause.

“okay wow,” bokuto muttered, eyes wide. “i think i just thought you were talking about, like… a therapist.”

“didn’t you once call her ‘my most important person’ on live tv?” sakusa added, brow raised.

“he did,” komori confirmed.

“guys.” kageyama looked around at them, flat expression slowly melting into disbelief. “do you even notice anything?”

atsumu looked personally offended. “okay rude, i notice lots of things. like the time sakusa changed conditioner.”

“that was six months ago,” sakusa muttered.

“and unforgivable,” atsumu said.

“you’re literally always with him,” hinata added, pointing at kageyama. “how did we not put this together?”

iwaizumi, watching from a few feet away with crossed arms and the distinct look of someone who’d lost all faith in the team’s collective iq, let out a soundless laugh through his nose.

“you all have the memory retention of a wet sponge,” he muttered. “you’ve seen them together more times than i can count.”

suna stopped recording just long enough to deadpan, “so basically, kageyama had a girlfriend, a fiancée, and a wife… and we missed all three stages?”

“some best friends you are,” kageyama mumbled under his breath.

“we need a slideshow,” bokuto said. “like a timeline! ‘the secret love story of tobio and the one who got away but actually stayed!’”

“he married her,” sakusa muttered. “she didn’t get away.”

bokuto gasped. “even better! it’s like a plot twist!”

iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose and turned away. “i need noise-cancelling earbuds. and possibly retirement.”

and as the referee whistled for the starting lineups, the japan national team jogged out onto the court— still slightly shaken, entirely too loud, and about to play a very high-stakes match…

while one of their own had just broken the biggest news of the year without even trying.

you, on the other hand, weren’t faring any better.

in the vip box, the interrogation hadn’t let up since the moment kageyama’s wedding band hit the jumbotron in high-definition glory. your friends—hanamaki, matsukawa, kindaichi, and kunimi—had turned on you like you were the surprise twist in a murder mystery, except you weren’t even dead, just very secretly married.

“so you’re telling me,” hanamaki began, leaning in with the intensity of a seasoned detective, “you got engaged and married and never said a single word?”

“what happened to trust?” matsukawa added, clutching his chest like you’d betrayed him specifically.

“what happened to group chat loyalty?” kindaichi gasped.

kunimi just blinked slowly. “i literally stood next to you during a group photo last year. were you wearing the ring then?”

you didn’t even try to deny it. instead, you sipped your drink and said coolly, “maybe you should all pay more attention to the details.”

“we’re not the cia!” matsukawa cried. “we didn’t think we had to inspect your fingers for government-level secrecy!”

“i’m just saying,” you murmured with a small shrug, “you guys are surprisingly unobservant.”

“you literally posted a photo in santorini with a caption that said, ‘best trip ever,’” hanamaki said, squinting at you. “was that the engagement trip?”

you smiled sweetly. “no comment.”

“you smiled in the background of his press photos!” kindaichi pointed out, like the realization was physically painful. “and we just thought it was cute—not, you know, ‘secret wife’ level of cute!”

“how long?” kunimi asked, too calmly, and somehow that made it worse.

you looked up at the court, where kageyama stood in his ready position, laser-focused, completely unfazed by the worldwide bombshell he’d just dropped.

“almost a year,” you admitted.

hanamaki let out a strangled noise. “one. year.”

“how did oikawa not find out sooner?” matsukawa asked, as if that was the true miracle here.

you hummed. “because iwaizumi knows how to keep a secret. and also because we’re very good at sneaking around. old habits.”

“are you pregnant?” kunimi asked flatly.

you blinked. “…what?”

“that’s always how this goes. secret wedding, and then—bam. baby.”

you opened your mouth to respond, but the buzzer went off for the start of the match, drowning out the sound.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered as the teams lined up. “you’re totally pregnant.”

you didn’t confirm. you didn’t deny.

you just leaned back into your seat, eyes on the court, ring glinting under the stadium lights.

and in that exact moment, kageyama looked up—just for a second.

and he smiled.

once the game was over—japan victorious, oikawa dramatic, and the stadium still humming from the post-match adrenaline—you made your way down from the vip box, your four friends trailing behind you like a jury who had not yet reached a verdict.

“we’re not done talking about this,” hanamaki muttered as you led the group through a side corridor marked staff only.

“i feel lied to,” matsukawa added, hand dramatically pressed to his chest.

“i feel like i need to see the marriage license,” kindaichi said, half-joking. probably.

“i still feel like this is an elaborate prank,” kunimi deadpanned. “like, where are the cameras? is this a variety show?”

“you’re very loud for people who didn’t notice a literal diamond ring for two years,” you shot back over your shoulder.

“okay, rude,” hanamaki huffed.

a staff member nodded you through security with a knowing smile—apparently, “spouse of a national athlete” had its perks—and you slipped into the hallway that led to the locker rooms.

you knocked once on the door.

there was a beat of silence. then shuffling. then—

“is it her?” came bokuto’s unmistakably hopeful voice.

“don’t say it like that,” sakusa muttered from somewhere inside.

the door opened.

kageyama stood there, towel around his neck, hair still damp from a quick shower, and wearing the most neutral expression he could muster.

which meant: he was trying to act normal but his ears were already turning pink.

you smiled up at him.

“hey, husband.”

“hey,” he murmured. then, after a beat, added: “they’re here too?”

you turned slightly, revealing the four trailing behind you like paparazzi with no cameras and too many questions.

matsukawa gave him a dry look. “you owe us a slideshow.”

kindaichi pointed. “and a proper explanation.”

“also, what the hell, kageyama,” hanamaki said, squinting. “you get married and don’t even blink through the whole match?”

“you’re emotionally constipated,” kunimi declared.

kageyama blinked once. “i’m fine.”

you rolled your eyes and pushed past him gently, tugging him by the wrist into the room. “we wanted to tell everyone eventually. just… you know.”

“eventually?!” matsukawa repeated. “it’s been a year.”

“yeah,” you said with a soft laugh. “and funny enough… we were gonna send out invitations. next week.”

everyone paused.

“invitations?” hanamaki asked. “to what?”

“to our proper wedding ceremony,” you said, grinning now. “for our first anniversary. nothing huge. just family, close friends…”

“you mean the second wedding?” kindaichi asked, still trying to keep up.

“more like the public one,” you corrected.

“oh my god,” hanamaki whispered. “i need to sit down.”

and as if the universe had a sense of timing, another voice echoed down the hallway:

“don’t tell me you’re also pregnant?!”

oikawa.

you winced. turned toward the source of the voice as he stormed dramatically into view, hair still damp, jersey slung over his shoulder, eyes wide with post-match betrayal.

your mouth opened. you considered lying. or deflecting. or maybe just fake-fainting.

but then you caught kageyama’s hand in yours and… sighed.

“…yes.”

oikawa screamed into his towel.

iwaizumi, appearing like clockwork from the opposite end of the hallway, placed a firm hand on his shoulder and steered him the other direction.

“not now,” iwaizumi said through gritted teeth. “not here. i swear, if you throw something again—”

“he got her pregnant!”

“you’re shouting in front of a baby.”

“the baby isn’t here yet.”

“well, it’s probably listening.” iwaizumi dragged him away like a bouncer at a wedding reception. “let them breathe. please. for once.”

you leaned your head against kageyama’s arm, both of you stifling a laugh as your friends stood behind you, stunned into silence.

finally, matsukawa exhaled. “well… at least we’re invited now.”

hanamaki groaned. “do we have to get gifts?”

“get diapers,” kageyama muttered.

“get therapy,” kunimi added, patting your shoulder.

“get me a drink,” iwaizumi called from down the hallway, voice distant but still filled with existential pain.

you looked up at your husband, your secret barely a secret anymore, your life unraveling in the loudest and most ridiculous way possible—and smiled.

“so,” you whispered, “how do you think he’s taking it?”

kageyama considered.

then, calmly, “he’s still alive. so… not that bad.”

oikawa crashed dramatically onto a bench just outside the locker room, towel thrown over his face like a fallen noble hero in a stage play, limbs splayed and sighs coming out in loud, theatrical bursts.

“i’m gonna die,” he moaned. “this is how it ends. death by betrayal. betrayed by my own sister and that guy.”

“you’re being overdramatic,” you said, crouching in front of him, patting his knee.

“overdramatic?!” he peeked out from under the towel with wild eyes. “you got married without telling me, you’re having a baby, and now i’m supposed to just go back to argentina and live like nothing happened?!”

“well… you shouldn’t book your return flight just yet,” you said lightly.

he sat up. “why.”

you smiled. “because you’re walking me down the aisle. the proper wedding’s in two months.”

there was a beat of stunned silence.

then: “i—i what?”

“you’re walking me,” you repeated. “down the aisle. at the ceremony. the one with everyone. flowers. music. seating arrangements. open bar.”

“why would you want me to do that?” he asked, still recovering.

you tilted your head, smiling softly now. “because you’re my brother. and even if you’re ridiculous ninety percent of the time, i still want you there. preferably not crying. or threatening the groom mid-ceremony.”

oikawa blinked. sniffled once. “…do i get to pick the aisle music?”

“not if it’s from your mixtape,” you said flatly.

behind you, the entire japan national team had gathered, half because they were nosy and half because they wanted front-row seats to the emotional soap opera unfolding in real time.

“can i come to the wedding too?” hinata piped up.

“same,” bokuto added, bouncing slightly. “can i give a speech? i’ve already started drafting one. it has metaphors.”

atsumu grinned. “can i mc? i promise to keep it under ten minutes.”

“that is absolutely a lie,” sakusa muttered.

“i’ll bring snacks,” komori offered cheerfully.

“you’re in the wedding party,” you reminded him.

“oh. i’ll still bring snacks.”

“i’ll livestream the whole thing,” suna deadpanned.

“no, you won’t,” you and kageyama said at the same time.

“so we’re really doing this, huh?” matsukawa said, exchanging a look with hanamaki.

“you sound surprised,” hanamaki replied. “our entire lives have been leading up to a kageyama-oikawa wedding showdown. this is fate.”

“i call dibs on sitting next to the cake,” kindaichi muttered.

“you can all come,” you said over the noise. “just… maybe no speeches from atsumu.”

“rude!” atsumu gasped.

kageyama stepped beside you then, hand gently settling on your lower back, quiet as ever. “everything okay?”

“getting there,” you said, glancing toward your brother, who was now muttering something about matching suit colors and learning how to do proper formal knots on youtube.

kageyama leaned in, voice low. “are you feeling sick?”

you blinked. “what?”

“you woke up looking pale,” he said, concern pulling gently at his brows. “and you’ve been standing a while.”

you blinked, then chuckled. “just a little queasy. probably because someone made me laugh while i was drinking juice this morning.”

he looked mildly guilty. “…you sprayed it everywhere.”

“yes, tobio, that’s what happens when someone says ‘what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude’ mid-sip.”

“…i still think it’s a valid concern.”

oikawa, who had just recovered enough to scroll through airbnb listings for dramatically expensive suites near the wedding venue, froze.

his head snapped up.

“wait—what did you say?!”

you and kageyama both turned toward him slowly, caught mid-conversation, like teenagers who’d been overheard saying something they shouldn’t have.

“what?” you said innocently.

“did you just say,” oikawa stood, towel falling off his shoulders like a cape, “what if our kid ends up with oikawa’s attitude?!”

“ah,” kageyama muttered under his breath. “here we go.”

“excuse me?!” oikawa pointed dramatically, nearly tripping over his own gym bag. “my attitude is amazing. charismatic. charming. elite.”

“it’s emotionally volatile,” sakusa said from the side, not even looking up from his phone.

“thank you,” kageyama added helpfully.

“you’re just jealous,” oikawa snapped back, pacing now like a coach delivering a pep talk to an invisible team. “my personality has layers!”

“yeah,” matsukawa said, deadpan. “like an emotional onion.”

“and you willingly married someone who insults me in front of our child?” oikawa turned to you, clutching his chest. “our niece or nephew?!”

“we didn’t know you were listening,” you said calmly.

“i’m always listening!” he barked.

“which is the exact reason we got married in another continent,” kageyama muttered.

“what was that?!”

iwaizumi, still chewing his protein bar and visibly reconsidering his life choices, stepped in before anyone could escalate further.

he raised a hand with the weariness of a man who had been holding everyone’s lives together with ankle tape and sarcasm.

“technically,” iwaizumi said, voice flat, “they’re married in two countries.”

the hallway went dead quiet.

oikawa blinked once. “two?!”

“denmark,” you confirmed helpfully, trying not to laugh.

“and japan,” kageyama added, as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “we filed the paperwork when we got back.”

iwaizumi nodded slowly, like a man who had already lost the will to argue. “they even mailed me copies in case someone ‘forgot where they put things.’”

“which was you, wasn’t it?” sakusa said without looking up.

iwaizumi ignored him.

oikawa groaned and sank into the bench again, dragging the towel back over his face. “so you’ve been internationally married this whole time, and i’m the last to know?”

iwaizumi sighed. “to be fair, i found out because i thought kageyama was missing and almost called the embassy.”

“you what?”

“he texted the team group chat ‘just landed,’” iwaizumi muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “just landed, he said. how was i supposed to know he meant denmark? he said nothing else.”

“i thought it was obvious,” kageyama mumbled.

“nothing about that was obvious,” sakusa said.

“it’s like you want to shorten my life,” iwaizumi added. “and now you’ve dragged me into an international conspiracy.”

“oh please,” hanamaki chimed in. “you’re the one who kept the secret. you’re complicit.”

“you think i had a choice? do you know how many ice packs i went through that week? do you know what bokuto did when he found out someone replaced his pre-workout with orange juice?”

“it was delicious,” bokuto called out from down the hall.

iwaizumi just took another bite of his protein bar and stared at the ceiling like it might grant him early retirement.

“i’m surrounded by idiots,” he muttered.

and next to you, kageyama turned to you quietly, thumb brushing your hand.

“are you feeling sick again?” he asked, voice lowered.

you blinked. “a little. not bad. just queasy.”

his brows furrowed, concern flickering across his face. “do you want to sit down?”

“i am sitting down, tobio.”

“then sit more comfortably.”

you snorted, but leaned against his shoulder anyway. “you’re so weird.”

“you married me.”

you grinned. “twice.”

and technically—in two countries.

[yukkiji]

i already wrote the part 2 🥹 but it’s not done yet sooo

cross court

in a world where rivalries run deep and loyalties run deeper, a secret relationship between kageyama tobio and aoba johsai's manager tests the lines drawn between love, trust, and the net that keeps them apart

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru

genre: fluff, romance, crack, older brother!oikawa, secret relationship, seijoh vbc always makes an appearance, siblings banter, reader and oikawa being petty mostly oikawa

wc: 11.3k

author's note: i enjoyed writing this so much and i probably have a thing for secret relationships lol anyways this would probably have a short part 2 but that would depend if i'm up for it or if someone request hehe enjoy reading!!

you had no intention—none—of dating someone your brother had a dramatic volleyball rivalry with. not just any rivalry, either. oikawa tooru was notorious for holding grudges like sacred relics.

and his longest-standing one?

kageyama tobio.

so, really. you had no plans of entertaining anything remotely romantic with the so-called “king of the court.” but… well.

it started in your second year at kitagawa daiichi.

back then, kageyama had a reputation that preceded him. ruthless. intense. someone you didn’t make eye contact with unless you wanted to get mentally spiked. but then again, you weren’t like most people. you did make eye contact.

you did ask questions and you did catch him staying late in the gym more times than you could count.

you’d started leaving your own club duties later than necessary, your route home conveniently passing the gymnasium. it became a routine.

a glance.

a nod.

then, eventually, a quiet: “you’re late again.”

“so are you.”

one of those evenings, after another failed toss from one of his teammates, he sat down in frustration, palms over his knees, head bowed. you hadn’t meant to speak, but your voice came anyway.

“maybe they’d trust you more if you didn’t look like you wanted to kill them.”

silence.

then, miraculously—he didn’t snap. he just looked at you with those impossibly intense eyes and said: “…i don’t.”

that was the beginning.

you weren’t sure what it was at first—friendship? understanding? tension in your chest every time his gaze lingered on you a second too long?

but then, the spring tournament came. you watched from the bleachers as kageyama played like a force of nature, and all you could think was: he’s brilliant.

and when you passed him a bottle of water after the match—heart thundering, hand barely brushing his—he said it with all the softness no one ever expected from him:

“thanks… i was hoping you’d come.”

you kissed him a week later behind the gym, after both your clubs had cleared out. it was clumsy and rushed and the dumbest decision you’d ever made.

but you didn’t stop. neither did he.

you promised to keep it a secret. not just because of the school rules. but because of your brother.

oikawa tooru would throw an entire fit—not just a tantrum, a full production—if he found out.

so you kept quiet. carefully.

even after you graduated middle school, the secret stayed tucked between you and kageyama like something sacred—something too delicate to name aloud.

you thought high school was supposed to make things easier. a new chapter, a fresh start but it didn’t.

in fact, it only made things messier.

kageyama ended up at karasuno.

you, on the other hand, followed your brother to aoba johsai—because of course you did. it was the obvious choice, the expected path, and it would’ve made your parents happy. and maybe, in some part of your heart, you thought staying close to oikawa meant things would be familiar. steady.

but nothing about that decision felt steady when you realized it would put you on the opposite side of the net from him.

to make matters worse, oikawa—your overly dramatic, high-maintenance, control-freak older brother—volunteered you for the volleyball club the second week of school.

he said you were “organized” and “smart” and “his favorite little sibling.” he left out the part where he just didn’t trust anyone else to hand him water bottles correctly and somehow, by the time you could protest, your name was already printed on the club roster.

just like that, you were in.

no interview, no hesitation—just a clipboard shoved into your hands and a whistle dangling from your neck like a leash. oikawa had smiled proudly, like he’d just done you the biggest favor of your life, completely oblivious to the way your stomach dropped when you realized exactly what it meant.

you were the new manager of aoba johsai’s volleyball team. his team. the one that would, inevitably, cross paths with karasuno.

you told yourself it wouldn’t be soon. that you had time, but life had a cruel sense of humor.

“we’ve got a practice match,” oikawa had said one morning, all smug grins and dramatic flair. “against some scrappy team from the mountains. should be fun.”

you almost didn’t check the name.

you almost didn’t need to.

your fingers paused on the gym rotation board, eyes narrowing as they landed on one word.

karasuno.

your heart stuttered. not because of the rivalry. not because of your brother’s unresolved grudge or the way he’d practically spit whenever the name “kageyama” came up.

no.

your stomach dropped because just two nights ago, you were sitting beside that very same boy—tucked into the back corner booth of a quiet café two stations away, a hoodie pulled low over his head, his hand hidden beneath the table so he could squeeze yours while pretending not to know you in public.

the worst part?

you were getting good at hiding things.

texting through locked screens, sneaking out the back gate after club hours, meeting halfway between neighborhoods just to walk a few streets together and knowing exactly how long it took to get home before anyone noticed.

you kissed him behind corner stores and train station pillars. shared rice balls and silence and the kind of looks that said, i wish this was easier. he rarely smiled around other people. but with you?

with you, he softened. just a little.

and now?

now the guy you were just on a secret date with—two days ago—was standing across the gym in a karasuno jersey, casually stretching like he didn’t know your entire world had tilted sideways.

you hadn’t even had time to come down from the high of that last kiss—rushed, stolen, tucked beneath the shadows of the park entrance as he’d muttered, “be careful going home,”

and you’d whispered, “you too, tobio.”

and now he was here. on the court. playing against your team.

your brother’s team.

and you were on the sideline with a clipboard and a name tag that practically screamed, i’m not supposed to be in love with the enemy.

you felt him notice you before you even looked up.

it was like gravity—an invisible pull that yanked your eyes toward him the second he entered your periphery.

he didn’t smile. of course he didn’t.

not where anyone could see.

not while oikawa was already glaring daggers across the net, mumbling things under his breath like “king this” and “how dramatic can one toss be.”

but his eyes lingered.

just for a second.

just long enough to say:

i missed you. i’m still yours.

you swallowed hard and turned back to your clipboard, pretending to check a lineup that didn’t need checking.

because the gym lights were too bright and your heart was too loud. the last thing you needed right now was to get caught looking at the boy you weren’t supposed to know so well.

the gym break was short—just ten minutes to refill water bottles, review line-ups, and let the boys stretch before the second half of the practice match.

naturally, your team scattered: oikawa started analyzing serve patterns with matsukawa and hanamaki, kunimi flopped onto the floor and declared he might die, and you?

you slipped away with your clipboard. casually. unassuming. just manager things.

except you didn’t go toward the benches. you went around the corner—past the lockers, down the hallway, and into the half-cracked storage room at the back of the building.

he was already there, waiting.

“you’re late,” kageyama mumbled, eyes flicking up as you closed the door behind you. his voice was quiet, but his shoulders eased the second he saw you.

“kunimi kept asking for another bottle,” you whispered, stepping toward him. “he opened one and dropped it without drinking. he’s so dramatic when he’s tired.”

“you’re one to talk,” he muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile in his voice.

it didn’t matter that it was barely five minutes, that there were shoes squeaking down the hall or that someone could open the door at any second.

none of that mattered.

because you were in his arms now—pressed into the familiar warmth of his chest, your clipboard awkwardly wedged between you and his jacket, but you didn’t care. his hand slid around your waist. his forehead pressed against yours.

“i missed you,” you breathed, and his grip tightened.

“i saw you two days ago.”

“that doesn’t count.”

you stayed there, just breathing, letting the tension melt, letting your nerves still, letting yourself be selfish for once. because it wasn’t fair, being in love with someone you couldn’t look at in public. couldn’t touch. couldn’t even acknowledge.

kageyama’s hand brushed behind your ear, gentle, like he was memorizing the shape of you again. the pad of his thumb traced the edge of your jaw in the way he always did when he was thinking too hard and feeling too much. his voice, when it came, was barely audible—just a breath against the quiet hum of the old gym light above you.

"wish i could walk you home today."

it was such a simple thing.

a small wish.

a little softness you were both constantly denied.

your throat tightened, heart clenching as your fingers curled lightly into the front of his jacket.

"me too."

and then—

he leaned in.

not rushed. not hungry. not desperate. no—he kissed you like he was trying to make time stop. like this was the only way he knew how to be gentle in a world that always expected him to be hard-edged and sharp.

his lips met yours softly, carefully—almost reverent, like he was afraid you’d break if he got too close too fast. the kiss was slow, lingering, full of the kind of longing that only came from nights spent staring at your phones, rereading unsent messages.

your eyes slipped shut. your breath caught.

you didn’t even realize how tightly you’d been wound until he touched you—until everything inside you softened just enough to breathe again.

his other hand found the small of your back, steadying you against him, grounding you like he always did when the rest of the world felt too loud. he didn’t kiss like the boy people saw on the court—didn’t move with the same fierce, brutal intensity. not here. not with you.

with you, he was all caution and quiet ache. like he didn’t want to waste a single second. like he wanted to remember exactly how your lips tasted before the world tore you apart again.

you tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to feel the way he inhaled against you—just a tiny, sharp breath like your touch startled him every single time.

god, how long had it been since you’d felt like this?

not just close, but real.

not hiding behind screens or waiting for his name to pop up in your notifications, but here, in the warmth of his chest, in the steady rhythm of his breath, in the way he clung to you like the clock wasn’t ticking down.

his lips broke from yours just slightly, lingering close enough that you were still sharing air.

"don’t look at me during the match," he whispered, voice low and serious, barely more than a hum against your mouth.

you blinked up at him, dazed. "what?"

his forehead pressed against yours. his thumb ghosted along your cheekbone. "you always smile. someone’s gonna notice."

you let out the softest breath of a laugh, eyes flicking toward the door. "that’s rich, coming from the guy who glances at me every time he serves."

"i don’t—"

"you do."

his ears went a little pink. he grumbled something under his breath, looking away for half a second like he regretted saying anything. but you caught the twitch of his lips, the almost-smile he didn’t quite let loose.

"then don’t smile too big," he said eventually, a little quieter.

"then don’t look at me so much."

the words hung between you like a shared joke neither of you could fully laugh at—not when you both knew exactly what was at stake.

he kissed you again.

this time quicker, firmer, like he was bracing himself. like it had to be enough for the next few days, weeks—however long it would take before the next stolen moment.

but just as you started to lean into him again—

knock knock knock.

your whole body jolted.

you and kageyama broke apart like magnets flipped the wrong way, panic shooting straight through your chest as the door creaked open a few inches.

you barely had time to breathe.

"you two are lucky it’s me," a familiar voice deadpanned, unimpressed.

iwaizumi hajime stood in the doorway like a disappointed older sibling who walked in just as the baby set the kitchen on fire. his arms were crossed. his brow twitched. and in his hand, swinging lazily like a weapon of judgment, was a half-empty sports drink.

you froze.

kageyama did too, like someone had just hit the pause button mid-breath. you didn’t even realize how close you were—chests brushing, hands still entangled—until iwaizumi’s stare made you hyper-aware of everything.

"oh my god," you whispered, voice barely a breath, panic bubbling in your chest. "oh my god, hajime don't tell—"

"calm down," iwaizumi said flatly, cutting you off without missing a beat. his tone was dry—borderline unimpressed, like he had caught a puppy chewing on his shoelaces. he looked at kageyama with that sharp-eyed, no-nonsense glance that had made entire first-years crumble during conditioning. "i’m not gonna snitch."

you and kageyama blinked at him in unison. "…you’re not?"

iwaizumi looked like he aged five years in that single moment.

"no," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like the weight of the volleyball world rested right between his shoulders. "but seriously—just don’t get caught."

your mouth opened, ready to thank him or explain or maybe grovel—but he lifted a hand before you could say anything, like he already regretted even engaging.

"actually—scratch that," he muttered. "do whatever the hell you want. just not before the exams."

there was a sharp silence.

iwaizumi sighed again, more soul-weary this time. "i’m begging you—not before exams."

he gestured vaguely between the two of you. "if he finds out now, it’s gonna be hell. he’ll cry. loudly. like full-volume dramatic-ass crying. there will be wailing, betrayal speeches, and possibly glitter involved. and then—then i’ll be stuck dragging his sorry ass through physics review while he rants about heartbreak and how ‘his own sister conspired with the enemy.’"

you stared at him, eyes wide. "he wouldn't—"

"he would," iwaizumi said grimly. "and he has."

your stomach flipped. kageyama glanced between you and iwaizumi like he was watching a very specific nightmare unfold in real-time.

"i just want to pass my exams," iwaizumi continued, now with the dulled tone of a man who had given up on peace a long time ago. "i want to take my tests, graduate, and never hear the phrase ‘iwa-chan, i’m emotionally devastated’ ever again."

and then, like the gods of timing were playing a prank on you—

"iwa-chan!" oikawa’s voice rang through the hallway like a foghorn dipped in glitter.

iwaizumi flinched. hard.

he closed his eyes for a beat, jaw clenching, like he was preparing for impact.

"for the love of—"

he didn’t even finish the sentence. just turned on his heel and started walking, muttering under his breath with the resigned energy of someone who had seen things.

his footsteps echoed down the hallway. his sports drink fizzed softly in his grip.

you exhaled, finally. like the air had been stuck in your lungs the whole time.

"we’re so dead," you murmured.

kageyama blinked. "…he said he wouldn’t tell."

"not before exams," you emphasized, slumping lightly against the wall. your pulse was still racing. your palms still warm from where they’d held his. "after midterms, we’re done for. that was a death warning with a time extension."

kageyama tilted his head slightly. "…should we study together?"

you looked at him.

"for physics?"

he shrugged. "…for hiding better."

you bit your lip. a laugh bubbled up despite the panic. god, how were you already this deep in?

of course, the secret dates continued.

you were both careful—meticulous, even. always watching the corners, checking your phone twice before stepping out, giving enough time between messages so no one would notice the rhythm of your habits. but there were still cracks in the walls. still moments where your heart forgot to be cautious and your smile forgot to stay small.

most of your time together was now cleverly disguised as studying. technically, it wasn’t even a lie.

kageyama was brilliant when it came to numbers, tactics, movement—but throw a dense japanese lit essay or a poetic passage with five layers of symbolism at him and he’d start blinking like the textbook was personally insulting him.

so you started helping. slowly at first—quizzing him over the phone, rewriting key points in color-coded notes. then came the in-person study sessions.

there was a little café, tucked just far enough away from the school that it felt safe. it had corner booths, soft lighting, and a playlist of instrumental jazz that made kageyama squint at the speakers like it offended him, but he never complained once.

he always ordered the same drink—a tall iced matcha with half the syrup—and you'd roll your eyes when he tried to drink it in one go during breaks.

"pace yourself," you'd murmur, sliding your annotated pages across the table. "we’re still doing comprehension later."

he’d groan softly. “do we have to do the one with the girl and the moon again?”

"yes. because you missed the metaphor. again."

you teased him, but your heart fluttered every time he listened—earnest, serious, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of romantic prose and implied emotion like he did with set plays and timing.

sometimes, he'd stare at you too long while you were explaining something, and you’d pause mid-sentence.

“what?” you’d ask, trying not to smile.

“nothing,” he’d mutter, eyes dropping to his notes, ears going red.

those moments were dangerous. soft. yours.

but back at home, back at school, your brother started noticing.

it started with the smallest things—how you came home a little later than usual, how you checked your phone a few more times at dinner, how your excuses were starting to sound a little too well-rehearsed.

one particular afternoon, you were slipping your bag over your shoulder, fixing your hair in the hallway mirror when oikawa appeared behind you, sipping juice from a ridiculous star-patterned bottle.

"you're going out again?" he asked, a bit too casually.

"study group," you replied smoothly.

"at the school library?"

"nope. cafe."

he raised an eyebrow. "again?"

you blinked once. slow. neutral.

"hajime also studies in cafes sometimes."

oikawa nodded thoughtfully, then squinted. "but hajime doesn’t come home smiling like a golden retriever that just got praised for rolling over."

you froze mid-step. shit.

"excuse me?"

"you heard me." his eyes narrowed. “you’ve been coming home with this dumb grin on your face lately. and don’t even get me started on how often you hum now. you’re humming, like you’re in a shoujo manga.”

you forced a tight smile and grabbed your bag. "you’re being dramatic."

"you’re hiding something," he said, still squinting.

you just turned on your heel and walked away, throwing over your shoulder, “i always smile when i get good grades. maybe you should try it.”

but your heart pounded all the way out the door.

not because you were afraid—not really. you were just… getting tired of hiding how happy he made you. of dodging glances and walking tightropes around oikawa’s nosy instincts. still, the thrill of it hadn’t dulled. not yet.

the sun hadn’t fully dipped yet, and the sky was washed in warm gold, streaked with pale blue and lazy clouds. it was late afternoon—the kind of day where everything looked a little slower, a little softer.

you spotted him immediately through the window of the café.

kageyama was already at your usual booth, tucked in the corner by the bookshelf display, two drinks on the table—yours already waiting. he was wearing that same dark zip-up jacket, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, one hand idly spinning his pen while the other hovered over his open notebook.

he looked focused, serious, and very much like a boy trying to pretend this wasn’t the highlight of his day.

your steps picked up slightly. you didn’t even mean to—it just happened. like your feet wanted to reach him before your thoughts could catch up.

he looked up the moment the door chimed.

and when your eyes met, his entire face changed.

his shoulders relaxed. the tension left his brow. and for just a second, the corners of his lips lifted—barely, but enough.

you were halfway to the booth when he stood up, leaned in, and—

softly, quickly—he pressed a kiss to your lips.

it wasn’t showy. not even particularly passionate. just… familiar. warm. the kind of kiss that said you’re here. i missed you. it’s better now.

your breath caught, just a little.

“hi,” you murmured.

“hey,” he said, voice lower than usual, eyes scanning your face like he was checking if anything was wrong.

he always did that—looked at you like he could solve something if you just let him.

“you okay?” he asked gently as you slid into your seat.

you nodded. “yeah. just—tooru’s getting annoying.”

“more than usual?” his brow twitched.

you sighed, pulling your notebook out of your bag. “he’s watching me too closely. says i’m smiling like a golden retriever.”

kageyama blinked. “but you do that all the time.”

you squinted at him. “…you’re not helping.”

he pressed his lips together in a line, like he wasn’t sure what the right answer was anymore.

then, under the table, you felt the nudge of his foot tapping against yours—soft. subtle. like a secret only the two of you shared.

you didn’t look up right away.

instead, you flipped open your own notebook and pulled out a mechanical pencil, letting the quiet between you stretch just a bit longer. outside, the sunlight spilled gold over the sidewalks and filtered through the glass in long shadows, painting the table in warmth.

“so,” you said eventually, keeping your tone light. “how many times did you rewrite your essay after i said i’d check it?”

“three,” he muttered, barely audible.

your head snapped up. “three?”

kageyama blinked, defensively. “i didn’t want you to say it was lazy again.”

you blinked at him, stunned. “…that’s honestly really impressive.”

he looked away, pretending to be too focused on his cup. “i still don’t get why authors have to say stuff without saying it. if they mean something, why not just say it straight?”

you couldn’t help it—you laughed. not loud, but a soft, honest laugh that made him look back at you. and when he did, his expression shifted slightly. like he was seeing something important.

you reached for one of his flashcards and tapped it against the edge of your palm.

“because people are complicated,” you said gently. “feelings are complicated. not everything can be said straight. sometimes… it’s easier to just show it.”

he went quiet at that.

the sounds of the café filled the silence—cups clinking, pages flipping, a quiet indie song humming overhead. and beneath the table, his foot was still lightly pressed to yours.

then he spoke.

quiet. barely above a whisper.

“do you think… someday…”

you looked up.

he was staring at his notebook, but his voice was steadier than his eyes.

“…we could stop hiding?”

you didn’t answer right away.

your heart ached just a little at the question—not because it hurt, but because of how tender it was. how careful he was being with something that clearly mattered to him.

“i hope so,” you said honestly. “i really do.”

he finally looked at you. and when your eyes met, there was no secret. no fear.

just the shared understanding of two people choosing each other—quietly, stubbornly, even when the world wasn’t ready.

he nodded once.

“okay.”

then he nudged a flashcard toward you. “i don’t get this one either.”

you snorted. “yeah, no kidding.”

and just like that, the two of you fell back into rhythm—side by side in a world that didn’t know yet, but someday, maybe, would.

the rest of that afternoon passed in quiet comfort. your voices stayed low, heads tilted toward each other as you moved through flashcards and mock questions and little scribbled notes in the margins of each other’s notebooks. occasionally, kageyama would murmur something about the material—and every time he got something right, your eyes would light up just a little, and his lips would twitch like he was proud but trying not to show it too much.

you left the café an hour later with the sun dipping below the rooftops and the shadows stretching long down the sidewalk. his hand didn’t touch yours. not in public. but when he walked slightly closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours on occasion, it felt like enough.

for now.

exams came and went in a blur of long nights, group reviews, and mental exhaustion. oikawa didn’t bother you much during exam week—too preoccupied trying to memorize formulas and force hajime to quiz him until 2 a.m. (which usually ended with iwaizumi throwing a pillow at him and telling him to sleep or fail in peace).

you barely saw kageyama during those days, save for the occasional text:

[tobio:] good luck on your history test. [tobio:] i’m still bad at reading. but i remembered your voice when i read the poem. [tobio:] can’t wait to see you again.

you smiled at your phone more than you probably should’ve. but you’d earned it.

because before you could even recover from the academic chaos—interhigh prelims began.

there was no easing into it this time.

aoba johsai versus karasuno.

the match was intense from the first serve.

you stood on the sidelines in your team jacket, clipboard in hand, trying to keep your expression neutral even as your heart threatened to leap out of your chest every time a certain setter lined up across the net.

kageyama was laser-focused. sharp. his sets were crisp, deadly. he and hinata moved like lightning bolts—chaotic but scarily effective. they were good. too good.

but your boys—your team—were better.

it was close. every set clawed for. every point hard-won. sweat dripped from foreheads, shouts rang across the court, and you were scribbling notes on the back of your clipboard with hands that trembled more from nerves than adrenaline.

in the final set, the score was 31-33.

match point.

the gym erupted.

your clipboard nearly slipped from your hand as the entire bench leapt up in celebration, the players pouring together at center court in a mess of cheers and fist bumps. oikawa was yelling something cocky about being the "great king of setters," and matsukawa had to physically drag him back from trying to gloat in front of kageyama.

your gaze, however, found him on instinct.

kageyama stood with his hands braced against his knees, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. sweat clung to the sides of his face, dripping from his chin to the polished court below. his brows were furrowed in frustration—but not anger. it was that quiet, inward kind. the kind that came when you gave everything and still came up short.

hinata was beside him in seconds, clapping a hand on his back and saying something—probably encouraging, probably loud. daichi offered a short, grounding pat to his shoulder as they regrouped. the rest of karasuno hovered close, murmuring, checking in, worn out but not broken.

he nodded at whatever they said.

but then, almost imperceptibly, his head turned.

and his eyes—those sharp, storm-colored eyes—scanned across the court until they landed on you.

just for a moment.

it was fast. a flicker, a second too long to be casual, a second too short to be noticed by anyone else, but you felt it like a heartbeat skipping.

your fingers tightened around your clipboard, knuckles paling against the hard edge.

you didn’t let yourself smile.

you couldn’t. not here.

not when oikawa was still riding high on victory and your team was halfway into their loud, smug celebrations. but your expression softened all the same, the corners of your eyes easing, the tension in your jaw loosening.

kageyama saw it. you knew he did.

because his shoulders straightened—not much, but just enough. like your silent exchange gave him a sliver of peace in the sting of the loss.

he gave you the smallest nod.

you nodded back.

it was enough. for now.

“did you see that block?” oikawa’s voice crashed into your space like a cymbal. “iwa-chan’s block?! textbook? no—no, wait—legendary.”

his arm slung around your shoulders before you could dodge, dragging you into his side like a trophy he was parading around with. he smelled like sweat, gatorade, and very loud pride.

you flinched, trying not to make a face. “obviously i saw it. it was textbook defense.”

“textbook?” he gasped. “it was poetry, manager-chan. the kind that should be written into the next generation’s coaching manuals.”

“you mean iwaizumi should be written into the coaching manuals,” you muttered under your breath.

as if summoned, iwaizumi passed by with a towel around his neck and a faint smirk on his face. his eyes caught yours—sharp, knowing. the look he gave you was brief, but unmistakable: i’m watching you. don’t be stupid.

you swallowed. tried to play it cool.

“great game, hajime,” you said a little too cheerfully.

he snorted. “just don’t let your brother get too annoying about it.”

then he walked off, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

because your heart was still racing—not from the win, not from the match.

but because you’d locked eyes with the boy who was supposed to be your rival.

the boy you’d kissed in the quiet corners of cafes and study rooms.

the boy who still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a gym full of noise.

aoba johsai had won.

but a part of you—quiet, aching—was still standing on the opposite side of the net.

you glanced around the gym, heart pounding. oikawa was still surrounded by a cluster of fangirls, grinning ear to ear like he hadn’t just fought tooth and nail on the court thirty minutes ago. his water bottle was tucked under one arm, towel slung over the other, signing something on a notebook that didn’t belong to him.

perfect.

you shifted your eyes to iwaizumi, who had just finished speaking to a staff member. when he turned and caught your gaze, you gave him a silent, pleading look.

he sighed—already looking like he regretted indulging you—but he tilted his head ever so slightly toward the hallway exit.

just a nod.

just enough.

you mouthed a quick thank you before slipping away, heart hammering against your ribs as you disappeared down the corridor and out the side doors.

you found him exactly where you hoped he’d be: by the bike racks behind the school, tucked between the shadows of the trees and the golden wash of the late afternoon sun. kageyama stood with his back to the building, water bottle dangling from his fingers, duffel at his feet. his hair was damp, his shirt slightly rumpled, and his entire posture radiated frustration.

you stopped just a few steps away.

“tobio,” you called gently.

his head jerked up immediately, and when his eyes landed on you, something in his shoulders loosened.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. but he didn’t sound like he meant it. he looked relieved.

“neither should you,” you replied, stepping closer.

he looked down, jaw tight. “i messed up some of the last plays. my sets weren’t clean. i kept thinking—” he cut himself off, brows furrowing. “you were watching. and i wanted to win. for you.”

your heart ached.

“you did great,” you said honestly. “you were amazing out there.”

“still lost.”

“but you didn’t lose me,” you whispered, reaching up to brush his bangs away from his forehead.

he didn’t flinch away this time. just leaned forward ever so slightly.

“i wish i could walk you home,” he murmured, voice rough.

“me too.”

and then, because the ache between you couldn’t be swallowed down anymore—you closed the distance.

your lips met in a soft, steady kiss. his hands hesitated, then landed at your waist, pulling you closer like he was terrified you’d disappear. you kissed him again, slower this time, and he tilted his head, deepening it without rushing. it wasn’t messy, wasn’t frantic.

it was you and him.

but then—

“unbelievable.”

your body stiffened like you’d been dunked in ice water. you turned slowly, dread sinking into your stomach faster than you could breathe.

oikawa stood a few feet away, his jaw slack, one brow raised, arms crossed like he’d just walked in on the betrayal of the century.

“of all the people,” he said flatly, gesturing dramatically between the two of you. “him? really?”

“tooru—” you started, but the panic made your voice come out weak.

he shook his head, holding up a finger. “don’t even. don’t try to explain. don’t give me that look. i am so mad at iwa-chan right now. he knew something.”

kageyama stood there awkwardly, lips parted like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or just accept his fate.

“you know what?” oikawa sniffed. “i don’t even have the energy for this right now. i’ve already carried this team on my back all day, and now i have to carry this betrayal too?”

he spun on his heel with unnecessary flair and stalked off.

you chased after him, steps quick. “tooru, wait—”

he didn’t look back. “i don’t want to talk to you. not right now. not today.”

“i was going to tell you—”

“oh, were you?” he said, voice rising just enough to make the words sting. “when? before or after you made out with our school’s rival setter behind the gym like you’re starring in a bad romance drama?”

you winced. “please, don’t be mad.”

“oh, i’m not mad,” he said. “i’m just… incredibly disappointed, betrayed, and now i have to process it while walking home with my secretive little sister, because iwa-chan says it’s too dark for you to go alone.”

you both walked in silence for a moment.

you thought maybe he’d calm down eventually. say something snarky but forgivable.

he didn’t.

he didn’t even glance at you.

you walked the entire way home in awkward silence, your steps slower than usual, your chest heavier than it had been after finals. every time you tried to speak, he either walked faster or pretended not to hear you.

he held the door open when you reached home.

but didn’t say anything.

just trudged inside dramatically, like he was carrying the weight of the entire volleyball world on his shoulders. you stood in the hallway, clutching your bag, heart still racing.

you knew it would blow over.

eventually.

probably.

but for now?

tooru oikawa was going to be the pettiest person on earth.

and honestly? you probably deserved it.

but that didn’t mean you had to take it lying down.

it had been three days.

three whole days of being iced out at home—no good morning, no passing the rice, not even a passive-aggressive complaint about how you never close the fridge properly. it was like living with a ghost who slammed the bathroom door louder than necessary just to prove a point.

so, by the third day, you snapped.

it was during practice. the gym was hot, humid, and your clipboard was already a mess of smudged ink and sweat stains. oikawa had just breezed past you again without a word, tossing his towel onto the bench like you weren’t standing two feet away with a water bottle he asked for this morning.

“seriously?” you muttered under your breath.

iwaizumi looked up from where he was adjusting his kneepads. “still not talking to you?”

you scowled. “it’s been three days, hajime.”

“he’s being dramatic,” he said, not even bothering to sugarcoat it.

“he’s being impossible. i live with him. i breathe the same air as him. do you know how hard it is to eat dinner next to someone who refuses to acknowledge your existence?”

iwaizumi snorted.

oikawa—like clockwork—called for another drill. his voice rang sharp across the gym, crisp and full of authority. too crisp. too theatrical. like he was performing for an invisible audience. maybe the lingering fangirls in the bleachers. maybe the teammates pretending not to care. maybe you.

he didn’t even look at you. not once.

instead, as he passed, he tossed a smug, self-satisfied smirk your way. no eye contact. no words. just that tilt of his mouth like he was winning something you didn’t even know was a game.

that was the last straw.

you didn’t even think. your hand shot out, fingers curling around the volleyball iwaizumi was holding. he looked at you in surprise, barely having time to register what was happening before you turned on your heel, wound your arm back, and spiked it with full intention—

—the ball slammed straight into oikawa’s shoulder with a satisfying thud, hard enough to make him stumble forward.

the gym went silent.

not the kind of awkward silence. the kind where people stop breathing.

hanamaki dropped the ball he was twirling on his finger. matsukawa froze mid-sip of his water bottle.

oikawa turned slowly, blinking like he’d just been assaulted by a meteor.

“what the hell was that?!” he barked, rubbing his shoulder like it had been hit by a truck instead of a regulation volleyball.

“that?” you snapped, walking toward him, your voice trembling more from rage than fear. “that was three days of you acting like a spoiled little brat because i had the audacity to make one decision in my life without you.”

his eyes narrowed. “you hid it from me!”

“because you act like this!” you gestured around wildly. “you’re dramatic. you make everything into a production. this isn’t your court to referee, tooru.”

“i’m your brother!”

“and i’m not twelve anymore!” the words ripped out of your throat before you could stop them.

oikawa reeled, but you didn’t stop.

“you’ve been ignoring me. you roll your eyes when i speak. you treat me like i’m your problem when i’m the one who’s been covering for your team, picking up after practices, organizing drills while you lounge around on your throne.”

he opened his mouth to fire back, but you were already walking away—fast, angry steps echoing through the gym floor as you grabbed your bag off the bench.

“where are you going?” oikawa demanded.

“home.” your voice was tight. your eyes burned. “and if you’re gonna keep being like this, then maybe you should find yourself a new manager—because i’m not doing this anymore.”

that shut him up.

completely.

the gym went dead quiet, the weight of your words hanging like fog.

iwaizumi stepped forward quickly, raising both hands, like someone trying to defuse a bomb.

“okay, whoa—deep breaths. both of you.” he looked between the two of you, frowning. “this is getting out of hand.”

“she hit me with a ball!” oikawa argued, still indignant. “this is assault, iwa-chan—”

“and you’ve been a pain in the ass for three days straight,” iwaizumi snapped back. “you’re not innocent here, don’t even start.”

“iwa-chan, please, let me handle this—”

“you clearly can’t!” and without another warning, iwaizumi smacked the back of oikawa’s head with the flat of his palm.

a sharp, satisfying thwack echoed through the gym.

“ow! iwa-chan!!!”

“that’s for being insufferable.”

oikawa looked personally wounded. “i’m trying to be a good brother!”

“you’re trying to win a one-man drama award.”

from the bench, hanamaki finally broke the silence.

“…so are we still doing the drills or… should i also emotionally unpack something while we’re at it?”

matsukawa leaned over and muttered, “this is better than that reality dating show my sister watches.”

and just as oikawa turned to glare at both of them, the ball he’d been using earlier—previously balanced precariously on the ball cart—rolled off and nailed him square in the back of the head.

he yelped and fell forward with a grunt, collapsing face-first onto the court.

you paused mid-step, turning back just as hanamaki gasped, “oh my god. he’s being smited.”

matsukawa nodded solemnly. “the volleyball gods have spoken.”

iwaizumi just rubbed his temple like he was calculating how long it would take for the headache to kill him.

and though your shoulders were still tense, your hands still clenched—somehow, through the chaos and noise and sibling dramatics—you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

maybe this wasn’t over. maybe there was more arguing to come.

but right now?

you walked out of the gym knowing you weren’t the one who lost your mind in front of everyone.

that honor belonged to tooru oikawa.

you walked out of the gym knowing you weren’t the one who lost your mind in front of everyone.

that honor—undoubtedly—belonged to tooru oikawa.

and yet, even with the gym doors swinging shut behind you, the echo of raised voices and stunned silence still clung to your skin like humidity after a storm.

your chest felt tight. like your lungs were still in that room. like the words you shouted, the ones that had clawed their way out, were still lingering in the air behind you—echoing louder than the thud of the ball hitting his shoulder, louder than the stunned gasps, louder than your brother’s furious voice.

you stormed out, but the fury that had carried you out the door didn’t follow you far.

it fizzled slowly, eaten away by doubt and guilt and the quiet ache of something broken between siblings who used to be closer than breath.

you didn’t want things to end like that.

you didn’t want to walk away from the team you spent so much time managing, organizing, laughing with. you didn’t want to feel like this—that you had to choose between someone you loved and someone you were falling for.

you didn’t even realize where you were going until the school grounds had blurred behind you, until your steps grew automatic, your path familiar in the way a song plays in your head without realizing you ever pressed play.

you turned down the quiet street lined with faded shops and crooked telephone poles, past the bakery that closed too early and the bookstore that never seemed to restock. and there it was.

the café.

your café.

a little corner tucked into the edges of everything else—unassuming, warm, and private in all the ways that mattered. the kind of place no one from school would bother with. the kind of place that never asked questions. the kind of place that became yours simply because the two of you made it so.

you stood outside for a moment, the bell above the door jingling softly when the wind caught it. like it recognized you. like it missed you, too.

you stepped inside.

the air smelled like cinnamon and cheap espresso. one of the waitresses offered you a familiar smile, and you gave a polite nod before slipping into the booth in the far back—the one near the window, with the chipping tile and the scratched-up tabletop.

you didn’t even bother ordering anything. you just stared out the window for a while, watching the way the light curled on the pavement, watching the people who had no idea your world had tilted sideways.

then, with fingers that felt a little numb, you texted him.

i walked out. i’m at the café. i don’t know what i’m doing.

you put your phone face-down and rested your arms on the table, head bowed, trying not to let your emotions crawl out of your throat.

you hadn’t seen him in three days.

not since the argument started. not since oikawa started giving you the cold shoulder, and you started giving yourself boundaries. trying to prove—to your brother, to yourself—that you weren’t being careless. that you weren’t choosing recklessly. that maybe, if you just fixed everything first, it wouldn’t feel like betrayal.

ten minutes passed.

you hadn’t even touched the glass of water in front of you when the bell above the café door jingled again.

you didn’t look up at first.

but the quiet shift in the air—familiar footsteps, a presence you could feel even before you saw him—made your heart stutter.

kageyama tobio stood just inside the café, eyes scanning the tables with a kind of laser focus that made it look like he was analyzing a court mid-play. his hair was slightly damp, like he’d rushed out the moment he saw your message. his school bag slung lazily over one shoulder, jacket half-zipped, posture tense but eyes—

his eyes softened the second they landed on you.

he made his way over without hesitation, sliding into the seat across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he hadn’t missed you every second of those three days. like he hadn’t nearly worn a hole in his bedroom floor pacing.

you didn’t speak right away.

you looked at him. he looked back. and then, quietly, carefully, he reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers brushed your skin—gentle, grounding.

“you okay?” he asked, voice soft. quieter than usual. more fragile.

you swallowed, throat dry. “i walked out. i told him i was quitting. i think i yelled it in front of everyone.”

kageyama’s brows furrowed slightly, but he nodded like he understood. like he was trying to meet you where you were, not just listen but hear.

“did you… hit him?” he asked, eyes flicking down, lips twitching ever so slightly.

you let out a shaky breath. “yeah. in the shoulder.”

“was it a good hit?”

you smiled despite yourself. “clean.”

he blinked once, slowly. “i wish i saw that.”

you both sat there for a while, silence stretching, but not uncomfortably. you glanced down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of a napkin.

“i haven’t seen you in three days.”

“i know,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the espresso machine. “i didn’t want to mess things up more. i thought… maybe you needed space.”

you hesitated. then, quieter: “i missed you.”

he reached under the table and nudged your foot with his—lightly. gently. his version of reassurance. like saying i missed you too, without needing the words.

“i just… i thought if i fixed things with tooru first, it wouldn’t hurt as much,” you admitted. “but it still does. he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t want to.”

kageyama nodded slowly, and then leaned in a little, voice even softer. “i wanted to see you anyway.”

your heart cracked a little wider.

you reached across the table, fingers brushing his, and for a moment, all the noise from the past few days—the silence from your brother, the guilt, the confusion—dulled under the comfort of being beside him.

you didn’t know how it would all end. if you’d go back to the team. if your brother would ever accept it. if the world would ever get easier.

but here, at this table, in the quiet hum of something that felt safe—

you weren’t alone.

not anymore.

but that didn’t mean everything was okay.

at home, the cold war with oikawa continued. you didn’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary. meals were taken at different times. the house was quiet in that brittle, unnatural way—like it was holding its breath.

your family noticed, of course. your mom asked if something happened. you said you were just busy with exams. oikawa said nothing.

sometimes, though, you’d come into the kitchen and find a plastic-wrapped melon bread sitting on the table. your favorite kind. the one from the bakery across from the station.

you didn’t touch it.

just like how he didn’t speak to you the day you walked out of the gym.

tables turned, apparently.

and it made things worse—for everyone.

by day five, your absence was officially being felt. not just at home, but at practice.

which is probably why, at the worst possible time—fifteen minutes before your last class of the day ended—akira kunimi and kindaichi yuutarou showed up outside your classroom, both of them awkwardly shifting from foot to foot like they were about to beg you for your life.

and, in a way, they were.

“we snuck out of practice,” kindaichi whispered like it was a crime. “please come back.”

“yeah,” kunimi added, deadpan. “he’s making us run drills for everything. someone sneezed, and he made us do laps.”

you raised an eyebrow. “that sounds like a personal problem.”

“he was going to give us punishment laps for thinking about melon bread,” kunimi said.

“we didn’t even say anything,” kindaichi added, in full panic.

you crossed your arms, unimpressed. “so what? you want me to come back just because your captain’s being annoying?”

they looked at each other. then kindaichi said, “it’s not the same without you.”

kunimi nodded once. “seriously. the team’s falling apart. and oikawa-san… he’s—like, worse than usual. and that’s really bad.”

you sighed and ran a hand through your hair, the weight of everything pressing down like a slow, relentless tide. outside the window, the sky was stained in soft gold—afternoon sun falling over the school courtyard, shadows stretching long across the pavement. the final bell echoed through the hall, and the classroom emptied around you in a dull blur of chatter and footsteps.

you didn’t want to forgive him.

not yet.

not when he had been so quick to shut you out. not when he treated you like a kid again—like you didn’t know your own heart, like your decisions needed permission. not when he still couldn’t look you in the eye after everything.

but.

you didn’t want to stay mad forever, either.

not when he still left melon bread on the table.

not when you knew—deep down—that he’d always been the kind of person to love loudly but forgive silently, only after bruising everyone in the process.

your fingers hovered over your phone screen, thumb swiping over the empty home screen.

then it lit up.

[hajime:] come to the gym [hajime:] you might want to see this

your brows furrowed. hajime wasn’t the type to be vague—or dramatic. that was strictly oikawa’s department. if he was texting you right now, then something had happened. something important.

your heart picked up, slow and uncertain. and yet… somehow, you already knew.

you stood from your seat and slung your bag over your shoulder, ignoring the worried looks kunimi and kindaichi shot your way from the corridor. their expressions softened the moment they saw your face—because this time, you weren’t walking like someone who was furious.

you were walking like someone who had made a decision.

meanwhile, somewhere in seijoh’s gym, tooru oikawa was dangerously close to losing his mind.

his day had already been a disaster. morning drills were a mess, kunimi yawned mid-serve, and makki nearly spiked a ball into the coach’s clipboard by accident. and now, as he walked back from a quick water break, hoping for at least ten seconds of peace—

he stopped in his tracks.

standing just inside the open gym doors, awkward and stiff as a plank of wood, was kageyama tobio.

oikawa blinked once.

“what the hell.”

kageyama didn’t flinch. “good afternoon.”

his voice was polite. way too polite. like he’d rehearsed this in front of a mirror and still hated every second of it. his fingers curled around the strap of his bag, knuckles white with tension.

iwaizumi, mid-serve, dropped the ball. “you came here?”

“to me?” oikawa asked, brows arching high in disbelief. “here?”

kageyama nodded stiffly. “yes. i… i don’t want to fight.”

oikawa blinked again. “are you having a stroke?”

“no.”

“is he having a stroke?” oikawa asked iwaizumi, gesturing wildly. “because there’s no way he’s saying this to me.”

iwaizumi crossed his arms and sighed. “just let him talk.”

kageyama swallowed, stiff in the middle of the gym as half of aoba johsai watched like this was the most exciting episode of a drama they’d ever seen. his fists were clenched at his sides, but his voice—while tight—remained steady.

“i came here… to talk to you properly,” he began, glancing briefly at oikawa. “i know you probably think the worst of me. and that’s fair. you’ve never liked me. we were rivals once. maybe still are. but…”

he shifted his weight, eyes flicking to the polished gym floor, then back up. “you don’t know everything.”

oikawa’s expression twisted into a familiar scowl, but he didn’t interrupt.

kageyama pressed on. “back in middle school, i didn’t… i didn’t have a lot of people. i was good at volleyball, but i wasn’t good at anything else. i didn’t know how to talk to others. i didn’t know how to listen. i pushed people away without realizing it. i thought if i was perfect at the sport, nothing else would matter.”

he took a breath.

“but then—she came up to me. just one afternoon. middle of second year. said i looked lonely and asked if i wanted one of the melon breads she was holding. she didn’t care about the rumors. didn’t flinch when i barely said anything. she just… sat with me. asked me about practice. told me to drink water even when i didn’t feel thirsty.”

iwaizumi blinked. oikawa stood a little straighter.

kageyama kept going.

“after that, she kept talking to me. asking questions. helping me with literature assignments when i didn’t understand. i thought it would stop eventually. i..."

“…i thought she’d get tired of me,” kageyama said, voice quieter now, but still holding. “i wasn’t easy to be around back then. i didn’t know how to talk to people, didn’t know how to say things that made sense. i didn’t even know how to show i cared. i was just… focused on volleyball and pushing everyone away.”

his shoulders were drawn taut, like he was bracing for impact.

“but she didn’t leave. even when i barely spoke. even when i acted cold or didn’t know what to do with her kindness… she stayed.”

he paused, eyes drifting for a second toward the open gym doors, like his mind was replaying a memory only he could see.

“she used to bring me extra melon bread after practice,” he continued, softer now. “told me i looked like i needed it. and even when i didn’t answer, she’d sit there anyway, talking about class, or her brother being annoying, or how the sky looked weird that day. it was the first time someone made space for me, without asking for anything in return.”

his hand curled tightly around the strap of his school bag.

“and i know she could’ve had an easier life if she just walked away from me. but she didn’t. she came back every time.”

kageyama glanced up again, this time with something steadier behind his eyes—something unshakably real.

“it wasn’t just about school or volleyball. she became part of my life in a way i didn’t know i needed. she helped me understand things i didn’t get. she’s the reason i’m better now—at talking, at listening, at caring. she saw parts of me i didn’t think were worth anything, and she stayed.”

he took a breath. then another.

“and when we ended up at different schools… i thought i’d lose her. but we still found ways. late night texts. study sessions in quiet cafés. sneaking time in between practices. she made time for me, even when i didn’t know how to ask for it.”

then, finally, kageyama looked oikawa dead in the eye.

“i care about her. more than anything. i know what it’s like to be left behind. to be told you’re not good enough. and i swear… i’d never make her feel that way. not even once.”

his voice didn’t waver now.

“i’m not asking you to like me. i know you probably won’t. but please—don’t make her feel like she has to choose between us. that’s not fair. not to her.”

the silence that followed was deafening. even iwaizumi had gone still.

kageyama exhaled, slow and steady, before bowing at the waist—deep and full of quiet conviction. not just to earn approval. but to show the truth of what he said. to show he meant every word.

just beyond the gym’s open doors, you stood frozen—heart tight in your chest.

you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. hajime had only sent you a short text and your feet had carried you there faster than you could think.

but now… standing there, with your hand curled around the edge of the wall, you knew.

kageyama tobio wasn’t a perfect boy. but he was yours.

and right now, he was fighting—for you. for this. for something real.

and suddenly, the weight in your chest—the hurt, the anger, the ache of the past week—felt like it could finally, finally lift.

you didn’t wait another second.

your footsteps echoed across the gym floor as you stepped inside, every head turning in your direction. kageyama blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting you, but didn’t move—he just looked relieved to see you there.

oikawa, on the other hand, went stiff.

you could already see the defenses rising in his eyes—sharp, overprotective, dramatic. classic tooru oikawa.

but you didn’t give him the chance to speak first.

“i heard everything,” you said, walking until you stood beside kageyama. your voice wasn’t angry, but it was firm. steady. the kind of tone you’d been practicing in your head since the fight began. “and before you go off being dramatic again, just let me say something.”

you turned to him fully, folding your arms across your chest.

“i know you care about me, tooru. i know you’ve always looked out for me—and maybe you still see me as that kid who cried when she scraped her knee or begged you to play volleyball with her in the driveway.”

oikawa’s mouth twitched at that, like he was biting back a memory.

“but i’m not that kid anymore. and you don’t get to decide everything for me just because you’re my big brother.”

the gym stayed quiet, but you heard a faint snort off to the side—hanamaki, barely holding it together.

“i get that you’re protective. i really do. but you can’t keep treating me like i’m too fragile to make choices for myself. especially when—” your eyes narrowed, a teasing smile curling at your lips “—you literally dated someone in your first year too.”

iwaizumi choked on air.

“that was different—!” oikawa started, voice pitching.

“how?” you shot back, raising a brow. “because you were older? more mature? because you thought you knew better?”

“it was different,” oikawa muttered, ears turning pink.

off to the side, matsukawa leaned into hanamaki and whispered (loudly), “does he mean the girl who dumped him after two weeks?”

hanamaki wheezed. “he cried during practice, didn’t he?”

“shut up!” oikawa barked, spinning toward them as they barely managed to keep straight faces. “this is a serious moment!”

iwaizumi stepped forward, completely unimpressed. “you’re the one who got wrecked in your own intervention, dumbass.”

you rolled your eyes with a sigh, turning your focus back to your brother.

“look, i still care about you. you’re my brother, and nothing’s going to change that. but you need to stop acting like i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m growing up, and you’re going to have to trust me a little.”

your voice softened, just slightly.

“besides, you already know the kind of person he is now. he came all the way here just to talk to you. that’s gotta count for something.”

oikawa looked between you and kageyama—jaw tight, eyes conflicted—and for once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback ready.

and maybe that was enough for now.

because the silence that followed didn’t feel tense.

it felt like the beginning of something shifting. something healing.

and even if oikawa didn’t say it out loud yet—you could see it in the way his shoulders lowered, just a little.

you were still his little sister.

but now… maybe he was starting to see you as something else too.

oikawa groaned, dragging a hand down his face like the past ten minutes had aged him a decade. “fine,” he muttered at last, voice dramatic and full of suffering. “fine. i still think he’s the worst possible person on this earth, but apparently i’m the only one here with functioning brain cells.”

you crossed your arms. “tooru—”

he held up a finger like a traffic light. “but! if i’m going to allow this absolute disaster to continue, there will be rules. strict ones. regulations, even. signed. notarized.”

iwaizumi sighed. “oh boy.”

“rule one,” oikawa declared, pacing now, “no pda. none. not even a pinky touch. i don’t want to catch you smiling too long at each other. i don’t want to walk in and find you whispering sweet nothings near the vending machine. i want professional, platonic, painful distance at all times.”

“that’s not even how rules work,” you said flatly.

“rule two,” oikawa continued as if you hadn’t spoken, “if he ever—and i mean ever—hurts you, emotionally or otherwise, iwa-chan has full license to go feral.”

iwaizumi blinked. “stop volunteering me for your revenge fantasies.”

“it’s not a fantasy, it’s a safety net,” oikawa replied, then turned to kageyama with a perfectly straight face. “you get one chance. one.”

kageyama, red-faced and stiff as a statue, gave a sharp nod. “understood.”

“and rule three,” oikawa added, holding up three fingers, “i reserve the right to revoke all of this if you so much as breathe wrong around me. if you talk too loud. if you breathe aggressively. if i even sense a smug vibe, it’s over.”

“you’re not the dating police,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“hajime” you said louder now, “do the honors.”

without hesitation, iwaizumi delivered a swift smack to the back of oikawa’s head.

“ow! betrayal!” oikawa cried, stumbling forward a step. “you’ve turned him against me!”

“he was never for you,” hanamaki muttered under his breath.

“i thought you were my sibling!” oikawa pointed accusingly at you, rubbing the back of his head.

“starting to think hajime raised me better,” you shot back with a smirk.

“what?!”

“honestly,” matsukawa chimed in, “this is giving major sibling custody battle vibes.”

“this is a mutiny,” oikawa declared dramatically. “emotional warfare. i’m wounded.”

matsukawa laughed. hanamaki leaned over to whisper, “it’s definitely not you.”

and though he huffed and grumbled and muttered something about betrayal and replacing everyone with robots, tooru oikawa couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. even if he’d never admit it out loud.

he was still sulking, of course—arms crossed, mouth twisted into the most dramatic pout known to man—but the fight had gone out of his shoulders. maybe it was the way you stood your ground, or how stiffly kageyama bowed a third time like he was presenting himself to royalty. or maybe it was the fact that everyone in the gym, even iwa-chan, had stopped treating it like the end of the world.

you turned to kageyama then, eyes soft, smile just a little victorious. “come on.”

before he could even respond, you grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the doors with purposeful strides. his bag hit his hip as he stumbled after you, caught completely off guard.

“w-wait, are we—are we going somewhere—?”

“we are leaving before he changes his mind.”

behind you, oikawa suddenly snapped to attention. “wait—wait—where do you think you’re going—”

you ignored him.

“you’re holding hands! i said rule one, no pda! hands apart! separate!”

you laced your fingers through kageyama’s, just to spite him. “tooru, you can’t stop love!”

“stop quoting dramas you don’t even finish!”

“you finish them for me!”

“that’s not the point—”

“let them go, oikawa,” iwaizumi said with a tired sigh, arms crossed.

oikawa turned, betrayed once again. “iwa-chan! you were supposed to be my moral support!”

“you’re the reason i have stress acne.”

“you have what—”

you didn’t hear the rest. the gym doors closed behind you with a satisfying thud, muffling the chaos, leaving you and kageyama in the quiet of the hallway. your fingers were still intertwined.

he glanced down at them, then up at you, cheeks pink. “…you’re really not scared of your brother, huh.”

you shrugged. “he’s dramatic. not scary.”

kageyama blinked. “he tried to kill me with his eyes.”

you laughed. “he does that with everyone. you get used to it.”

he nodded slowly, then hesitated. “…thank you.”

“for what?”

“for staying. for pulling me out. for choosing me—even when it made things complicated.”

you leaned your head against his shoulder as you walked.

“i didn’t choose you because it was easy, tobio. i chose you because i wanted to.”

his grip on your hand tightened just a little.

and in the silence that followed, your footsteps echoing through the empty hallways, it was clear: no matter how dramatic the world around you got, this—this was the steady part. the quiet certainty. just the two of you, walking forward. together.

now, walking you home without getting caught was easier—not because the secret was gone, but because the war had ended.

oikawa still glared from the kitchen window sometimes, dramatically clutching a mug like a scorned housewife. sometimes he’d text you mid-walk: “i can still see you, you traitor.” other times he’d message kageyama directly: “take the long route or take your life, your choice.”

but it was all bark now, no bite.

iwaizumi had confiscated his lecture notes. hanamaki and matsukawa muted him in the group chat for a full day. even kunimi said “you need help” once with just enough deadpan to shut him up.

but the thing that mattered most?

he let you go.

he still muttered and groaned and promised revenge in the most theatrical ways, but he let you have this. let you be happy. and for oikawa, that was a bigger sign of love than anything else.

so now—after long practices and longer walks, after midterms and missed calls, after melon bread and volleyballs spiked in anger—you walked home hand in hand with the boy who’d always waited at the corner café, the one who learned how to stay.

you laughed when he tried to hide behind a lamppost the first time oikawa waved from the window.

“he can still see you,” you said, amused.

“i panicked,” kageyama mumbled, ears pink.

and maybe that was the real ending.

not the declarations or the fights or the compromises, but this quiet moment—the two of you, the streetlamp glow, the sound of your steps in sync.

together. still. always.

[yukkiji]

cross court

in a world where rivalries run deep and loyalties run deeper, a secret relationship between kageyama tobio and aoba johsai's manager tests the lines drawn between love, trust, and the net that keeps them apart

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi read part two here

starring. kageyama tobio x fem!reader ft. oikawa tooru

genre: fluff, romance, crack, older brother!oikawa, secret relationship, seijoh vbc always makes an appearance, siblings banter, reader and oikawa being petty mostly oikawa

wc: 11.3k

author's note: i enjoyed writing this so much and i probably have a thing for secret relationships lol anyways this would probably have a short part 2 but that would depend if i'm up for it or if someone request hehe enjoy reading!!

you had no intention—none—of dating someone your brother had a dramatic volleyball rivalry with. not just any rivalry, either. oikawa tooru was notorious for holding grudges like sacred relics.

and his longest-standing one?

kageyama tobio.

so, really. you had no plans of entertaining anything remotely romantic with the so-called “king of the court.” but… well.

it started in your second year at kitagawa daiichi.

back then, kageyama had a reputation that preceded him. ruthless. intense. someone you didn’t make eye contact with unless you wanted to get mentally spiked. but then again, you weren’t like most people. you did make eye contact.

you did ask questions and you did catch him staying late in the gym more times than you could count.

you’d started leaving your own club duties later than necessary, your route home conveniently passing the gymnasium. it became a routine.

a glance.

a nod.

then, eventually, a quiet: “you’re late again.”

“so are you.”

one of those evenings, after another failed toss from one of his teammates, he sat down in frustration, palms over his knees, head bowed. you hadn’t meant to speak, but your voice came anyway.

“maybe they’d trust you more if you didn’t look like you wanted to kill them.”

silence.

then, miraculously—he didn’t snap. he just looked at you with those impossibly intense eyes and said: “…i don’t.”

that was the beginning.

you weren’t sure what it was at first—friendship? understanding? tension in your chest every time his gaze lingered on you a second too long?

but then, the spring tournament came. you watched from the bleachers as kageyama played like a force of nature, and all you could think was: he’s brilliant.

and when you passed him a bottle of water after the match—heart thundering, hand barely brushing his—he said it with all the softness no one ever expected from him:

“thanks… i was hoping you’d come.”

you kissed him a week later behind the gym, after both your clubs had cleared out. it was clumsy and rushed and the dumbest decision you’d ever made.

but you didn’t stop. neither did he.

you promised to keep it a secret. not just because of the school rules. but because of your brother.

oikawa tooru would throw an entire fit—not just a tantrum, a full production—if he found out.

so you kept quiet. carefully.

even after you graduated middle school, the secret stayed tucked between you and kageyama like something sacred—something too delicate to name aloud.

you thought high school was supposed to make things easier. a new chapter, a fresh start but it didn’t.

in fact, it only made things messier.

kageyama ended up at karasuno.

you, on the other hand, followed your brother to aoba johsai—because of course you did. it was the obvious choice, the expected path, and it would’ve made your parents happy. and maybe, in some part of your heart, you thought staying close to oikawa meant things would be familiar. steady.

but nothing about that decision felt steady when you realized it would put you on the opposite side of the net from him.

to make matters worse, oikawa—your overly dramatic, high-maintenance, control-freak older brother—volunteered you for the volleyball club the second week of school.

he said you were “organized” and “smart” and “his favorite little sibling.” he left out the part where he just didn’t trust anyone else to hand him water bottles correctly and somehow, by the time you could protest, your name was already printed on the club roster.

just like that, you were in.

no interview, no hesitation—just a clipboard shoved into your hands and a whistle dangling from your neck like a leash. oikawa had smiled proudly, like he’d just done you the biggest favor of your life, completely oblivious to the way your stomach dropped when you realized exactly what it meant.

you were the new manager of aoba johsai’s volleyball team. his team. the one that would, inevitably, cross paths with karasuno.

you told yourself it wouldn’t be soon. that you had time, but life had a cruel sense of humor.

“we’ve got a practice match,” oikawa had said one morning, all smug grins and dramatic flair. “against some scrappy team from the mountains. should be fun.”

you almost didn’t check the name.

you almost didn’t need to.

your fingers paused on the gym rotation board, eyes narrowing as they landed on one word.

karasuno.

your heart stuttered. not because of the rivalry. not because of your brother’s unresolved grudge or the way he’d practically spit whenever the name “kageyama” came up.

no.

your stomach dropped because just two nights ago, you were sitting beside that very same boy—tucked into the back corner booth of a quiet café two stations away, a hoodie pulled low over his head, his hand hidden beneath the table so he could squeeze yours while pretending not to know you in public.

the worst part?

you were getting good at hiding things.

texting through locked screens, sneaking out the back gate after club hours, meeting halfway between neighborhoods just to walk a few streets together and knowing exactly how long it took to get home before anyone noticed.

you kissed him behind corner stores and train station pillars. shared rice balls and silence and the kind of looks that said, i wish this was easier. he rarely smiled around other people. but with you?

with you, he softened. just a little.

and now?

now the guy you were just on a secret date with—two days ago—was standing across the gym in a karasuno jersey, casually stretching like he didn’t know your entire world had tilted sideways.

you hadn’t even had time to come down from the high of that last kiss—rushed, stolen, tucked beneath the shadows of the park entrance as he’d muttered, “be careful going home,”

and you’d whispered, “you too, tobio.”

and now he was here. on the court. playing against your team.

your brother’s team.

and you were on the sideline with a clipboard and a name tag that practically screamed, i’m not supposed to be in love with the enemy.

you felt him notice you before you even looked up.

it was like gravity—an invisible pull that yanked your eyes toward him the second he entered your periphery.

he didn’t smile. of course he didn’t.

not where anyone could see.

not while oikawa was already glaring daggers across the net, mumbling things under his breath like “king this” and “how dramatic can one toss be.”

but his eyes lingered.

just for a second.

just long enough to say:

i missed you. i’m still yours.

you swallowed hard and turned back to your clipboard, pretending to check a lineup that didn’t need checking.

because the gym lights were too bright and your heart was too loud. the last thing you needed right now was to get caught looking at the boy you weren’t supposed to know so well.

the gym break was short—just ten minutes to refill water bottles, review line-ups, and let the boys stretch before the second half of the practice match.

naturally, your team scattered: oikawa started analyzing serve patterns with matsukawa and hanamaki, kunimi flopped onto the floor and declared he might die, and you?

you slipped away with your clipboard. casually. unassuming. just manager things.

except you didn’t go toward the benches. you went around the corner—past the lockers, down the hallway, and into the half-cracked storage room at the back of the building.

he was already there, waiting.

“you’re late,” kageyama mumbled, eyes flicking up as you closed the door behind you. his voice was quiet, but his shoulders eased the second he saw you.

“kunimi kept asking for another bottle,” you whispered, stepping toward him. “he opened one and dropped it without drinking. he’s so dramatic when he’s tired.”

“you’re one to talk,” he muttered, but there was a ghost of a smile in his voice.

it didn’t matter that it was barely five minutes, that there were shoes squeaking down the hall or that someone could open the door at any second.

none of that mattered.

because you were in his arms now—pressed into the familiar warmth of his chest, your clipboard awkwardly wedged between you and his jacket, but you didn’t care. his hand slid around your waist. his forehead pressed against yours.

“i missed you,” you breathed, and his grip tightened.

“i saw you two days ago.”

“that doesn’t count.”

you stayed there, just breathing, letting the tension melt, letting your nerves still, letting yourself be selfish for once. because it wasn’t fair, being in love with someone you couldn’t look at in public. couldn’t touch. couldn’t even acknowledge.

kageyama’s hand brushed behind your ear, gentle, like he was memorizing the shape of you again. the pad of his thumb traced the edge of your jaw in the way he always did when he was thinking too hard and feeling too much. his voice, when it came, was barely audible—just a breath against the quiet hum of the old gym light above you.

"wish i could walk you home today."

it was such a simple thing.

a small wish.

a little softness you were both constantly denied.

your throat tightened, heart clenching as your fingers curled lightly into the front of his jacket.

"me too."

and then—

he leaned in.

not rushed. not hungry. not desperate. no—he kissed you like he was trying to make time stop. like this was the only way he knew how to be gentle in a world that always expected him to be hard-edged and sharp.

his lips met yours softly, carefully—almost reverent, like he was afraid you’d break if he got too close too fast. the kiss was slow, lingering, full of the kind of longing that only came from nights spent staring at your phones, rereading unsent messages.

your eyes slipped shut. your breath caught.

you didn’t even realize how tightly you’d been wound until he touched you—until everything inside you softened just enough to breathe again.

his other hand found the small of your back, steadying you against him, grounding you like he always did when the rest of the world felt too loud. he didn’t kiss like the boy people saw on the court—didn’t move with the same fierce, brutal intensity. not here. not with you.

with you, he was all caution and quiet ache. like he didn’t want to waste a single second. like he wanted to remember exactly how your lips tasted before the world tore you apart again.

you tilted your head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to feel the way he inhaled against you—just a tiny, sharp breath like your touch startled him every single time.

god, how long had it been since you’d felt like this?

not just close, but real.

not hiding behind screens or waiting for his name to pop up in your notifications, but here, in the warmth of his chest, in the steady rhythm of his breath, in the way he clung to you like the clock wasn’t ticking down.

his lips broke from yours just slightly, lingering close enough that you were still sharing air.

"don’t look at me during the match," he whispered, voice low and serious, barely more than a hum against your mouth.

you blinked up at him, dazed. "what?"

his forehead pressed against yours. his thumb ghosted along your cheekbone. "you always smile. someone’s gonna notice."

you let out the softest breath of a laugh, eyes flicking toward the door. "that’s rich, coming from the guy who glances at me every time he serves."

"i don’t—"

"you do."

his ears went a little pink. he grumbled something under his breath, looking away for half a second like he regretted saying anything. but you caught the twitch of his lips, the almost-smile he didn’t quite let loose.

"then don’t smile too big," he said eventually, a little quieter.

"then don’t look at me so much."

the words hung between you like a shared joke neither of you could fully laugh at—not when you both knew exactly what was at stake.

he kissed you again.

this time quicker, firmer, like he was bracing himself. like it had to be enough for the next few days, weeks—however long it would take before the next stolen moment.

but just as you started to lean into him again—

knock knock knock.

your whole body jolted.

you and kageyama broke apart like magnets flipped the wrong way, panic shooting straight through your chest as the door creaked open a few inches.

you barely had time to breathe.

"you two are lucky it’s me," a familiar voice deadpanned, unimpressed.

iwaizumi hajime stood in the doorway like a disappointed older sibling who walked in just as the baby set the kitchen on fire. his arms were crossed. his brow twitched. and in his hand, swinging lazily like a weapon of judgment, was a half-empty sports drink.

you froze.

kageyama did too, like someone had just hit the pause button mid-breath. you didn’t even realize how close you were—chests brushing, hands still entangled—until iwaizumi’s stare made you hyper-aware of everything.

"oh my god," you whispered, voice barely a breath, panic bubbling in your chest. "oh my god, hajime don't tell—"

"calm down," iwaizumi said flatly, cutting you off without missing a beat. his tone was dry—borderline unimpressed, like he had caught a puppy chewing on his shoelaces. he looked at kageyama with that sharp-eyed, no-nonsense glance that had made entire first-years crumble during conditioning. "i’m not gonna snitch."

you and kageyama blinked at him in unison. "…you’re not?"

iwaizumi looked like he aged five years in that single moment.

"no," he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck like the weight of the volleyball world rested right between his shoulders. "but seriously—just don’t get caught."

your mouth opened, ready to thank him or explain or maybe grovel—but he lifted a hand before you could say anything, like he already regretted even engaging.

"actually—scratch that," he muttered. "do whatever the hell you want. just not before the exams."

there was a sharp silence.

iwaizumi sighed again, more soul-weary this time. "i’m begging you—not before exams."

he gestured vaguely between the two of you. "if he finds out now, it’s gonna be hell. he’ll cry. loudly. like full-volume dramatic-ass crying. there will be wailing, betrayal speeches, and possibly glitter involved. and then—then i’ll be stuck dragging his sorry ass through physics review while he rants about heartbreak and how ‘his own sister conspired with the enemy.’"

you stared at him, eyes wide. "he wouldn't—"

"he would," iwaizumi said grimly. "and he has."

your stomach flipped. kageyama glanced between you and iwaizumi like he was watching a very specific nightmare unfold in real-time.

"i just want to pass my exams," iwaizumi continued, now with the dulled tone of a man who had given up on peace a long time ago. "i want to take my tests, graduate, and never hear the phrase ‘iwa-chan, i’m emotionally devastated’ ever again."

and then, like the gods of timing were playing a prank on you—

"iwa-chan!" oikawa’s voice rang through the hallway like a foghorn dipped in glitter.

iwaizumi flinched. hard.

he closed his eyes for a beat, jaw clenching, like he was preparing for impact.

"for the love of—"

he didn’t even finish the sentence. just turned on his heel and started walking, muttering under his breath with the resigned energy of someone who had seen things.

his footsteps echoed down the hallway. his sports drink fizzed softly in his grip.

you exhaled, finally. like the air had been stuck in your lungs the whole time.

"we’re so dead," you murmured.

kageyama blinked. "…he said he wouldn’t tell."

"not before exams," you emphasized, slumping lightly against the wall. your pulse was still racing. your palms still warm from where they’d held his. "after midterms, we’re done for. that was a death warning with a time extension."

kageyama tilted his head slightly. "…should we study together?"

you looked at him.

"for physics?"

he shrugged. "…for hiding better."

you bit your lip. a laugh bubbled up despite the panic. god, how were you already this deep in?

of course, the secret dates continued.

you were both careful—meticulous, even. always watching the corners, checking your phone twice before stepping out, giving enough time between messages so no one would notice the rhythm of your habits. but there were still cracks in the walls. still moments where your heart forgot to be cautious and your smile forgot to stay small.

most of your time together was now cleverly disguised as studying. technically, it wasn’t even a lie.

kageyama was brilliant when it came to numbers, tactics, movement—but throw a dense japanese lit essay or a poetic passage with five layers of symbolism at him and he’d start blinking like the textbook was personally insulting him.

so you started helping. slowly at first—quizzing him over the phone, rewriting key points in color-coded notes. then came the in-person study sessions.

there was a little café, tucked just far enough away from the school that it felt safe. it had corner booths, soft lighting, and a playlist of instrumental jazz that made kageyama squint at the speakers like it offended him, but he never complained once.

he always ordered the same drink—a tall iced matcha with half the syrup—and you'd roll your eyes when he tried to drink it in one go during breaks.

"pace yourself," you'd murmur, sliding your annotated pages across the table. "we’re still doing comprehension later."

he’d groan softly. “do we have to do the one with the girl and the moon again?”

"yes. because you missed the metaphor. again."

you teased him, but your heart fluttered every time he listened—earnest, serious, brow furrowed as he tried to make sense of romantic prose and implied emotion like he did with set plays and timing.

sometimes, he'd stare at you too long while you were explaining something, and you’d pause mid-sentence.

“what?” you’d ask, trying not to smile.

“nothing,” he’d mutter, eyes dropping to his notes, ears going red.

those moments were dangerous. soft. yours.

but back at home, back at school, your brother started noticing.

it started with the smallest things—how you came home a little later than usual, how you checked your phone a few more times at dinner, how your excuses were starting to sound a little too well-rehearsed.

one particular afternoon, you were slipping your bag over your shoulder, fixing your hair in the hallway mirror when oikawa appeared behind you, sipping juice from a ridiculous star-patterned bottle.

"you're going out again?" he asked, a bit too casually.

"study group," you replied smoothly.

"at the school library?"

"nope. cafe."

he raised an eyebrow. "again?"

you blinked once. slow. neutral.

"hajime also studies in cafes sometimes."

oikawa nodded thoughtfully, then squinted. "but hajime doesn’t come home smiling like a golden retriever that just got praised for rolling over."

you froze mid-step. shit.

"excuse me?"

"you heard me." his eyes narrowed. “you’ve been coming home with this dumb grin on your face lately. and don’t even get me started on how often you hum now. you’re humming, like you’re in a shoujo manga.”

you forced a tight smile and grabbed your bag. "you’re being dramatic."

"you’re hiding something," he said, still squinting.

you just turned on your heel and walked away, throwing over your shoulder, “i always smile when i get good grades. maybe you should try it.”

but your heart pounded all the way out the door.

not because you were afraid—not really. you were just… getting tired of hiding how happy he made you. of dodging glances and walking tightropes around oikawa’s nosy instincts. still, the thrill of it hadn’t dulled. not yet.

the sun hadn’t fully dipped yet, and the sky was washed in warm gold, streaked with pale blue and lazy clouds. it was late afternoon—the kind of day where everything looked a little slower, a little softer.

you spotted him immediately through the window of the café.

kageyama was already at your usual booth, tucked in the corner by the bookshelf display, two drinks on the table—yours already waiting. he was wearing that same dark zip-up jacket, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, one hand idly spinning his pen while the other hovered over his open notebook.

he looked focused, serious, and very much like a boy trying to pretend this wasn’t the highlight of his day.

your steps picked up slightly. you didn’t even mean to—it just happened. like your feet wanted to reach him before your thoughts could catch up.

he looked up the moment the door chimed.

and when your eyes met, his entire face changed.

his shoulders relaxed. the tension left his brow. and for just a second, the corners of his lips lifted—barely, but enough.

you were halfway to the booth when he stood up, leaned in, and—

softly, quickly—he pressed a kiss to your lips.

it wasn’t showy. not even particularly passionate. just… familiar. warm. the kind of kiss that said you’re here. i missed you. it’s better now.

your breath caught, just a little.

“hi,” you murmured.

“hey,” he said, voice lower than usual, eyes scanning your face like he was checking if anything was wrong.

he always did that—looked at you like he could solve something if you just let him.

“you okay?” he asked gently as you slid into your seat.

you nodded. “yeah. just—tooru’s getting annoying.”

“more than usual?” his brow twitched.

you sighed, pulling your notebook out of your bag. “he’s watching me too closely. says i’m smiling like a golden retriever.”

kageyama blinked. “but you do that all the time.”

you squinted at him. “…you’re not helping.”

he pressed his lips together in a line, like he wasn’t sure what the right answer was anymore.

then, under the table, you felt the nudge of his foot tapping against yours—soft. subtle. like a secret only the two of you shared.

you didn’t look up right away.

instead, you flipped open your own notebook and pulled out a mechanical pencil, letting the quiet between you stretch just a bit longer. outside, the sunlight spilled gold over the sidewalks and filtered through the glass in long shadows, painting the table in warmth.

“so,” you said eventually, keeping your tone light. “how many times did you rewrite your essay after i said i’d check it?”

“three,” he muttered, barely audible.

your head snapped up. “three?”

kageyama blinked, defensively. “i didn’t want you to say it was lazy again.”

you blinked at him, stunned. “…that’s honestly really impressive.”

he looked away, pretending to be too focused on his cup. “i still don’t get why authors have to say stuff without saying it. if they mean something, why not just say it straight?”

you couldn’t help it—you laughed. not loud, but a soft, honest laugh that made him look back at you. and when he did, his expression shifted slightly. like he was seeing something important.

you reached for one of his flashcards and tapped it against the edge of your palm.

“because people are complicated,” you said gently. “feelings are complicated. not everything can be said straight. sometimes… it’s easier to just show it.”

he went quiet at that.

the sounds of the café filled the silence—cups clinking, pages flipping, a quiet indie song humming overhead. and beneath the table, his foot was still lightly pressed to yours.

then he spoke.

quiet. barely above a whisper.

“do you think… someday…”

you looked up.

he was staring at his notebook, but his voice was steadier than his eyes.

“…we could stop hiding?”

you didn’t answer right away.

your heart ached just a little at the question—not because it hurt, but because of how tender it was. how careful he was being with something that clearly mattered to him.

“i hope so,” you said honestly. “i really do.”

he finally looked at you. and when your eyes met, there was no secret. no fear.

just the shared understanding of two people choosing each other—quietly, stubbornly, even when the world wasn’t ready.

he nodded once.

“okay.”

then he nudged a flashcard toward you. “i don’t get this one either.”

you snorted. “yeah, no kidding.”

and just like that, the two of you fell back into rhythm—side by side in a world that didn’t know yet, but someday, maybe, would.

the rest of that afternoon passed in quiet comfort. your voices stayed low, heads tilted toward each other as you moved through flashcards and mock questions and little scribbled notes in the margins of each other’s notebooks. occasionally, kageyama would murmur something about the material—and every time he got something right, your eyes would light up just a little, and his lips would twitch like he was proud but trying not to show it too much.

you left the café an hour later with the sun dipping below the rooftops and the shadows stretching long down the sidewalk. his hand didn’t touch yours. not in public. but when he walked slightly closer than necessary, shoulder brushing yours on occasion, it felt like enough.

for now.

exams came and went in a blur of long nights, group reviews, and mental exhaustion. oikawa didn’t bother you much during exam week—too preoccupied trying to memorize formulas and force hajime to quiz him until 2 a.m. (which usually ended with iwaizumi throwing a pillow at him and telling him to sleep or fail in peace).

you barely saw kageyama during those days, save for the occasional text:

[tobio:] good luck on your history test. [tobio:] i’m still bad at reading. but i remembered your voice when i read the poem. [tobio:] can’t wait to see you again.

you smiled at your phone more than you probably should’ve. but you’d earned it.

because before you could even recover from the academic chaos—interhigh prelims began.

there was no easing into it this time.

aoba johsai versus karasuno.

the match was intense from the first serve.

you stood on the sidelines in your team jacket, clipboard in hand, trying to keep your expression neutral even as your heart threatened to leap out of your chest every time a certain setter lined up across the net.

kageyama was laser-focused. sharp. his sets were crisp, deadly. he and hinata moved like lightning bolts—chaotic but scarily effective. they were good. too good.

but your boys—your team—were better.

it was close. every set clawed for. every point hard-won. sweat dripped from foreheads, shouts rang across the court, and you were scribbling notes on the back of your clipboard with hands that trembled more from nerves than adrenaline.

in the final set, the score was 31-33.

match point.

the gym erupted.

your clipboard nearly slipped from your hand as the entire bench leapt up in celebration, the players pouring together at center court in a mess of cheers and fist bumps. oikawa was yelling something cocky about being the "great king of setters," and matsukawa had to physically drag him back from trying to gloat in front of kageyama.

your gaze, however, found him on instinct.

kageyama stood with his hands braced against his knees, chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. sweat clung to the sides of his face, dripping from his chin to the polished court below. his brows were furrowed in frustration—but not anger. it was that quiet, inward kind. the kind that came when you gave everything and still came up short.

hinata was beside him in seconds, clapping a hand on his back and saying something—probably encouraging, probably loud. daichi offered a short, grounding pat to his shoulder as they regrouped. the rest of karasuno hovered close, murmuring, checking in, worn out but not broken.

he nodded at whatever they said.

but then, almost imperceptibly, his head turned.

and his eyes—those sharp, storm-colored eyes—scanned across the court until they landed on you.

just for a moment.

it was fast. a flicker, a second too long to be casual, a second too short to be noticed by anyone else, but you felt it like a heartbeat skipping.

your fingers tightened around your clipboard, knuckles paling against the hard edge.

you didn’t let yourself smile.

you couldn’t. not here.

not when oikawa was still riding high on victory and your team was halfway into their loud, smug celebrations. but your expression softened all the same, the corners of your eyes easing, the tension in your jaw loosening.

kageyama saw it. you knew he did.

because his shoulders straightened—not much, but just enough. like your silent exchange gave him a sliver of peace in the sting of the loss.

he gave you the smallest nod.

you nodded back.

it was enough. for now.

“did you see that block?” oikawa’s voice crashed into your space like a cymbal. “iwa-chan’s block?! textbook? no—no, wait—legendary.”

his arm slung around your shoulders before you could dodge, dragging you into his side like a trophy he was parading around with. he smelled like sweat, gatorade, and very loud pride.

you flinched, trying not to make a face. “obviously i saw it. it was textbook defense.”

“textbook?” he gasped. “it was poetry, manager-chan. the kind that should be written into the next generation’s coaching manuals.”

“you mean iwaizumi should be written into the coaching manuals,” you muttered under your breath.

as if summoned, iwaizumi passed by with a towel around his neck and a faint smirk on his face. his eyes caught yours—sharp, knowing. the look he gave you was brief, but unmistakable: i’m watching you. don’t be stupid.

you swallowed. tried to play it cool.

“great game, hajime,” you said a little too cheerfully.

he snorted. “just don’t let your brother get too annoying about it.”

then he walked off, tossing the towel over his shoulder.

you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

because your heart was still racing—not from the win, not from the match.

but because you’d locked eyes with the boy who was supposed to be your rival.

the boy you’d kissed in the quiet corners of cafes and study rooms.

the boy who still looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in a gym full of noise.

aoba johsai had won.

but a part of you—quiet, aching—was still standing on the opposite side of the net.

you glanced around the gym, heart pounding. oikawa was still surrounded by a cluster of fangirls, grinning ear to ear like he hadn’t just fought tooth and nail on the court thirty minutes ago. his water bottle was tucked under one arm, towel slung over the other, signing something on a notebook that didn’t belong to him.

perfect.

you shifted your eyes to iwaizumi, who had just finished speaking to a staff member. when he turned and caught your gaze, you gave him a silent, pleading look.

he sighed—already looking like he regretted indulging you—but he tilted his head ever so slightly toward the hallway exit.

just a nod.

just enough.

you mouthed a quick thank you before slipping away, heart hammering against your ribs as you disappeared down the corridor and out the side doors.

you found him exactly where you hoped he’d be: by the bike racks behind the school, tucked between the shadows of the trees and the golden wash of the late afternoon sun. kageyama stood with his back to the building, water bottle dangling from his fingers, duffel at his feet. his hair was damp, his shirt slightly rumpled, and his entire posture radiated frustration.

you stopped just a few steps away.

“tobio,” you called gently.

his head jerked up immediately, and when his eyes landed on you, something in his shoulders loosened.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly. but he didn’t sound like he meant it. he looked relieved.

“neither should you,” you replied, stepping closer.

he looked down, jaw tight. “i messed up some of the last plays. my sets weren’t clean. i kept thinking—” he cut himself off, brows furrowing. “you were watching. and i wanted to win. for you.”

your heart ached.

“you did great,” you said honestly. “you were amazing out there.”

“still lost.”

“but you didn’t lose me,” you whispered, reaching up to brush his bangs away from his forehead.

he didn’t flinch away this time. just leaned forward ever so slightly.

“i wish i could walk you home,” he murmured, voice rough.

“me too.”

and then, because the ache between you couldn’t be swallowed down anymore—you closed the distance.

your lips met in a soft, steady kiss. his hands hesitated, then landed at your waist, pulling you closer like he was terrified you’d disappear. you kissed him again, slower this time, and he tilted his head, deepening it without rushing. it wasn’t messy, wasn’t frantic.

it was you and him.

but then—

“unbelievable.”

your body stiffened like you’d been dunked in ice water. you turned slowly, dread sinking into your stomach faster than you could breathe.

oikawa stood a few feet away, his jaw slack, one brow raised, arms crossed like he’d just walked in on the betrayal of the century.

“of all the people,” he said flatly, gesturing dramatically between the two of you. “him? really?”

“tooru—” you started, but the panic made your voice come out weak.

he shook his head, holding up a finger. “don’t even. don’t try to explain. don’t give me that look. i am so mad at iwa-chan right now. he knew something.”

kageyama stood there awkwardly, lips parted like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or just accept his fate.

“you know what?” oikawa sniffed. “i don’t even have the energy for this right now. i’ve already carried this team on my back all day, and now i have to carry this betrayal too?”

he spun on his heel with unnecessary flair and stalked off.

you chased after him, steps quick. “tooru, wait—”

he didn’t look back. “i don’t want to talk to you. not right now. not today.”

“i was going to tell you—”

“oh, were you?” he said, voice rising just enough to make the words sting. “when? before or after you made out with our school’s rival setter behind the gym like you’re starring in a bad romance drama?”

you winced. “please, don’t be mad.”

“oh, i’m not mad,” he said. “i’m just… incredibly disappointed, betrayed, and now i have to process it while walking home with my secretive little sister, because iwa-chan says it’s too dark for you to go alone.”

you both walked in silence for a moment.

you thought maybe he’d calm down eventually. say something snarky but forgivable.

he didn’t.

he didn’t even glance at you.

you walked the entire way home in awkward silence, your steps slower than usual, your chest heavier than it had been after finals. every time you tried to speak, he either walked faster or pretended not to hear you.

he held the door open when you reached home.

but didn’t say anything.

just trudged inside dramatically, like he was carrying the weight of the entire volleyball world on his shoulders. you stood in the hallway, clutching your bag, heart still racing.

you knew it would blow over.

eventually.

probably.

but for now?

tooru oikawa was going to be the pettiest person on earth.

and honestly? you probably deserved it.

but that didn’t mean you had to take it lying down.

it had been three days.

three whole days of being iced out at home—no good morning, no passing the rice, not even a passive-aggressive complaint about how you never close the fridge properly. it was like living with a ghost who slammed the bathroom door louder than necessary just to prove a point.

so, by the third day, you snapped.

it was during practice. the gym was hot, humid, and your clipboard was already a mess of smudged ink and sweat stains. oikawa had just breezed past you again without a word, tossing his towel onto the bench like you weren’t standing two feet away with a water bottle he asked for this morning.

“seriously?” you muttered under your breath.

iwaizumi looked up from where he was adjusting his kneepads. “still not talking to you?”

you scowled. “it’s been three days, hajime.”

“he’s being dramatic,” he said, not even bothering to sugarcoat it.

“he’s being impossible. i live with him. i breathe the same air as him. do you know how hard it is to eat dinner next to someone who refuses to acknowledge your existence?”

iwaizumi snorted.

oikawa—like clockwork—called for another drill. his voice rang sharp across the gym, crisp and full of authority. too crisp. too theatrical. like he was performing for an invisible audience. maybe the lingering fangirls in the bleachers. maybe the teammates pretending not to care. maybe you.

he didn’t even look at you. not once.

instead, as he passed, he tossed a smug, self-satisfied smirk your way. no eye contact. no words. just that tilt of his mouth like he was winning something you didn’t even know was a game.

that was the last straw.

you didn’t even think. your hand shot out, fingers curling around the volleyball iwaizumi was holding. he looked at you in surprise, barely having time to register what was happening before you turned on your heel, wound your arm back, and spiked it with full intention—

—the ball slammed straight into oikawa’s shoulder with a satisfying thud, hard enough to make him stumble forward.

the gym went silent.

not the kind of awkward silence. the kind where people stop breathing.

hanamaki dropped the ball he was twirling on his finger. matsukawa froze mid-sip of his water bottle.

oikawa turned slowly, blinking like he’d just been assaulted by a meteor.

“what the hell was that?!” he barked, rubbing his shoulder like it had been hit by a truck instead of a regulation volleyball.

“that?” you snapped, walking toward him, your voice trembling more from rage than fear. “that was three days of you acting like a spoiled little brat because i had the audacity to make one decision in my life without you.”

his eyes narrowed. “you hid it from me!”

“because you act like this!” you gestured around wildly. “you’re dramatic. you make everything into a production. this isn’t your court to referee, tooru.”

“i’m your brother!”

“and i’m not twelve anymore!” the words ripped out of your throat before you could stop them.

oikawa reeled, but you didn’t stop.

“you’ve been ignoring me. you roll your eyes when i speak. you treat me like i’m your problem when i’m the one who’s been covering for your team, picking up after practices, organizing drills while you lounge around on your throne.”

he opened his mouth to fire back, but you were already walking away—fast, angry steps echoing through the gym floor as you grabbed your bag off the bench.

“where are you going?” oikawa demanded.

“home.” your voice was tight. your eyes burned. “and if you’re gonna keep being like this, then maybe you should find yourself a new manager—because i’m not doing this anymore.”

that shut him up.

completely.

the gym went dead quiet, the weight of your words hanging like fog.

iwaizumi stepped forward quickly, raising both hands, like someone trying to defuse a bomb.

“okay, whoa—deep breaths. both of you.” he looked between the two of you, frowning. “this is getting out of hand.”

“she hit me with a ball!” oikawa argued, still indignant. “this is assault, iwa-chan—”

“and you’ve been a pain in the ass for three days straight,” iwaizumi snapped back. “you’re not innocent here, don’t even start.”

“iwa-chan, please, let me handle this—”

“you clearly can’t!” and without another warning, iwaizumi smacked the back of oikawa’s head with the flat of his palm.

a sharp, satisfying thwack echoed through the gym.

“ow! iwa-chan!!!”

“that’s for being insufferable.”

oikawa looked personally wounded. “i’m trying to be a good brother!”

“you’re trying to win a one-man drama award.”

from the bench, hanamaki finally broke the silence.

“…so are we still doing the drills or… should i also emotionally unpack something while we’re at it?”

matsukawa leaned over and muttered, “this is better than that reality dating show my sister watches.”

and just as oikawa turned to glare at both of them, the ball he’d been using earlier—previously balanced precariously on the ball cart—rolled off and nailed him square in the back of the head.

he yelped and fell forward with a grunt, collapsing face-first onto the court.

you paused mid-step, turning back just as hanamaki gasped, “oh my god. he’s being smited.”

matsukawa nodded solemnly. “the volleyball gods have spoken.”

iwaizumi just rubbed his temple like he was calculating how long it would take for the headache to kill him.

and though your shoulders were still tense, your hands still clenched—somehow, through the chaos and noise and sibling dramatics—you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

maybe this wasn’t over. maybe there was more arguing to come.

but right now?

you walked out of the gym knowing you weren’t the one who lost your mind in front of everyone.

that honor belonged to tooru oikawa.

you walked out of the gym knowing you weren’t the one who lost your mind in front of everyone.

that honor—undoubtedly—belonged to tooru oikawa.

and yet, even with the gym doors swinging shut behind you, the echo of raised voices and stunned silence still clung to your skin like humidity after a storm.

your chest felt tight. like your lungs were still in that room. like the words you shouted, the ones that had clawed their way out, were still lingering in the air behind you—echoing louder than the thud of the ball hitting his shoulder, louder than the stunned gasps, louder than your brother’s furious voice.

you stormed out, but the fury that had carried you out the door didn’t follow you far.

it fizzled slowly, eaten away by doubt and guilt and the quiet ache of something broken between siblings who used to be closer than breath.

you didn’t want things to end like that.

you didn’t want to walk away from the team you spent so much time managing, organizing, laughing with. you didn’t want to feel like this—that you had to choose between someone you loved and someone you were falling for.

you didn’t even realize where you were going until the school grounds had blurred behind you, until your steps grew automatic, your path familiar in the way a song plays in your head without realizing you ever pressed play.

you turned down the quiet street lined with faded shops and crooked telephone poles, past the bakery that closed too early and the bookstore that never seemed to restock. and there it was.

the café.

your café.

a little corner tucked into the edges of everything else—unassuming, warm, and private in all the ways that mattered. the kind of place no one from school would bother with. the kind of place that never asked questions. the kind of place that became yours simply because the two of you made it so.

you stood outside for a moment, the bell above the door jingling softly when the wind caught it. like it recognized you. like it missed you, too.

you stepped inside.

the air smelled like cinnamon and cheap espresso. one of the waitresses offered you a familiar smile, and you gave a polite nod before slipping into the booth in the far back—the one near the window, with the chipping tile and the scratched-up tabletop.

you didn’t even bother ordering anything. you just stared out the window for a while, watching the way the light curled on the pavement, watching the people who had no idea your world had tilted sideways.

then, with fingers that felt a little numb, you texted him.

i walked out. i’m at the café. i don’t know what i’m doing.

you put your phone face-down and rested your arms on the table, head bowed, trying not to let your emotions crawl out of your throat.

you hadn’t seen him in three days.

not since the argument started. not since oikawa started giving you the cold shoulder, and you started giving yourself boundaries. trying to prove—to your brother, to yourself—that you weren’t being careless. that you weren’t choosing recklessly. that maybe, if you just fixed everything first, it wouldn’t feel like betrayal.

ten minutes passed.

you hadn’t even touched the glass of water in front of you when the bell above the café door jingled again.

you didn’t look up at first.

but the quiet shift in the air—familiar footsteps, a presence you could feel even before you saw him—made your heart stutter.

kageyama tobio stood just inside the café, eyes scanning the tables with a kind of laser focus that made it look like he was analyzing a court mid-play. his hair was slightly damp, like he’d rushed out the moment he saw your message. his school bag slung lazily over one shoulder, jacket half-zipped, posture tense but eyes—

his eyes softened the second they landed on you.

he made his way over without hesitation, sliding into the seat across from you like it was the most natural thing in the world. like he hadn’t missed you every second of those three days. like he hadn’t nearly worn a hole in his bedroom floor pacing.

you didn’t speak right away.

you looked at him. he looked back. and then, quietly, carefully, he reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. his fingers brushed your skin—gentle, grounding.

“you okay?” he asked, voice soft. quieter than usual. more fragile.

you swallowed, throat dry. “i walked out. i told him i was quitting. i think i yelled it in front of everyone.”

kageyama’s brows furrowed slightly, but he nodded like he understood. like he was trying to meet you where you were, not just listen but hear.

“did you… hit him?” he asked, eyes flicking down, lips twitching ever so slightly.

you let out a shaky breath. “yeah. in the shoulder.”

“was it a good hit?”

you smiled despite yourself. “clean.”

he blinked once, slowly. “i wish i saw that.”

you both sat there for a while, silence stretching, but not uncomfortably. you glanced down at your hands, fiddling with the edge of a napkin.

“i haven’t seen you in three days.”

“i know,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the espresso machine. “i didn’t want to mess things up more. i thought… maybe you needed space.”

you hesitated. then, quieter: “i missed you.”

he reached under the table and nudged your foot with his—lightly. gently. his version of reassurance. like saying i missed you too, without needing the words.

“i just… i thought if i fixed things with tooru first, it wouldn’t hurt as much,” you admitted. “but it still does. he doesn’t understand. he doesn’t want to.”

kageyama nodded slowly, and then leaned in a little, voice even softer. “i wanted to see you anyway.”

your heart cracked a little wider.

you reached across the table, fingers brushing his, and for a moment, all the noise from the past few days—the silence from your brother, the guilt, the confusion—dulled under the comfort of being beside him.

you didn’t know how it would all end. if you’d go back to the team. if your brother would ever accept it. if the world would ever get easier.

but here, at this table, in the quiet hum of something that felt safe—

you weren’t alone.

not anymore.

but that didn’t mean everything was okay.

at home, the cold war with oikawa continued. you didn’t speak to each other unless absolutely necessary. meals were taken at different times. the house was quiet in that brittle, unnatural way—like it was holding its breath.

your family noticed, of course. your mom asked if something happened. you said you were just busy with exams. oikawa said nothing.

sometimes, though, you’d come into the kitchen and find a plastic-wrapped melon bread sitting on the table. your favorite kind. the one from the bakery across from the station.

you didn’t touch it.

just like how he didn’t speak to you the day you walked out of the gym.

tables turned, apparently.

and it made things worse—for everyone.

by day five, your absence was officially being felt. not just at home, but at practice.

which is probably why, at the worst possible time—fifteen minutes before your last class of the day ended—akira kunimi and kindaichi yuutarou showed up outside your classroom, both of them awkwardly shifting from foot to foot like they were about to beg you for your life.

and, in a way, they were.

“we snuck out of practice,” kindaichi whispered like it was a crime. “please come back.”

“yeah,” kunimi added, deadpan. “he’s making us run drills for everything. someone sneezed, and he made us do laps.”

you raised an eyebrow. “that sounds like a personal problem.”

“he was going to give us punishment laps for thinking about melon bread,” kunimi said.

“we didn’t even say anything,” kindaichi added, in full panic.

you crossed your arms, unimpressed. “so what? you want me to come back just because your captain’s being annoying?”

they looked at each other. then kindaichi said, “it’s not the same without you.”

kunimi nodded once. “seriously. the team’s falling apart. and oikawa-san… he’s—like, worse than usual. and that’s really bad.”

you sighed and ran a hand through your hair, the weight of everything pressing down like a slow, relentless tide. outside the window, the sky was stained in soft gold—afternoon sun falling over the school courtyard, shadows stretching long across the pavement. the final bell echoed through the hall, and the classroom emptied around you in a dull blur of chatter and footsteps.

you didn’t want to forgive him.

not yet.

not when he had been so quick to shut you out. not when he treated you like a kid again—like you didn’t know your own heart, like your decisions needed permission. not when he still couldn’t look you in the eye after everything.

but.

you didn’t want to stay mad forever, either.

not when he still left melon bread on the table.

not when you knew—deep down—that he’d always been the kind of person to love loudly but forgive silently, only after bruising everyone in the process.

your fingers hovered over your phone screen, thumb swiping over the empty home screen.

then it lit up.

[hajime:] come to the gym [hajime:] you might want to see this

your brows furrowed. hajime wasn’t the type to be vague—or dramatic. that was strictly oikawa’s department. if he was texting you right now, then something had happened. something important.

your heart picked up, slow and uncertain. and yet… somehow, you already knew.

you stood from your seat and slung your bag over your shoulder, ignoring the worried looks kunimi and kindaichi shot your way from the corridor. their expressions softened the moment they saw your face—because this time, you weren’t walking like someone who was furious.

you were walking like someone who had made a decision.

meanwhile, somewhere in seijoh’s gym, tooru oikawa was dangerously close to losing his mind.

his day had already been a disaster. morning drills were a mess, kunimi yawned mid-serve, and makki nearly spiked a ball into the coach’s clipboard by accident. and now, as he walked back from a quick water break, hoping for at least ten seconds of peace—

he stopped in his tracks.

standing just inside the open gym doors, awkward and stiff as a plank of wood, was kageyama tobio.

oikawa blinked once.

“what the hell.”

kageyama didn’t flinch. “good afternoon.”

his voice was polite. way too polite. like he’d rehearsed this in front of a mirror and still hated every second of it. his fingers curled around the strap of his bag, knuckles white with tension.

iwaizumi, mid-serve, dropped the ball. “you came here?”

“to me?” oikawa asked, brows arching high in disbelief. “here?”

kageyama nodded stiffly. “yes. i… i don’t want to fight.”

oikawa blinked again. “are you having a stroke?”

“no.”

“is he having a stroke?” oikawa asked iwaizumi, gesturing wildly. “because there’s no way he’s saying this to me.”

iwaizumi crossed his arms and sighed. “just let him talk.”

kageyama swallowed, stiff in the middle of the gym as half of aoba johsai watched like this was the most exciting episode of a drama they’d ever seen. his fists were clenched at his sides, but his voice—while tight—remained steady.

“i came here… to talk to you properly,” he began, glancing briefly at oikawa. “i know you probably think the worst of me. and that’s fair. you’ve never liked me. we were rivals once. maybe still are. but…”

he shifted his weight, eyes flicking to the polished gym floor, then back up. “you don’t know everything.”

oikawa’s expression twisted into a familiar scowl, but he didn’t interrupt.

kageyama pressed on. “back in middle school, i didn’t… i didn’t have a lot of people. i was good at volleyball, but i wasn’t good at anything else. i didn’t know how to talk to others. i didn’t know how to listen. i pushed people away without realizing it. i thought if i was perfect at the sport, nothing else would matter.”

he took a breath.

“but then—she came up to me. just one afternoon. middle of second year. said i looked lonely and asked if i wanted one of the melon breads she was holding. she didn’t care about the rumors. didn’t flinch when i barely said anything. she just… sat with me. asked me about practice. told me to drink water even when i didn’t feel thirsty.”

iwaizumi blinked. oikawa stood a little straighter.

kageyama kept going.

“after that, she kept talking to me. asking questions. helping me with literature assignments when i didn’t understand. i thought it would stop eventually. i..."

“…i thought she’d get tired of me,” kageyama said, voice quieter now, but still holding. “i wasn’t easy to be around back then. i didn’t know how to talk to people, didn’t know how to say things that made sense. i didn’t even know how to show i cared. i was just… focused on volleyball and pushing everyone away.”

his shoulders were drawn taut, like he was bracing for impact.

“but she didn’t leave. even when i barely spoke. even when i acted cold or didn’t know what to do with her kindness… she stayed.”

he paused, eyes drifting for a second toward the open gym doors, like his mind was replaying a memory only he could see.

“she used to bring me extra melon bread after practice,” he continued, softer now. “told me i looked like i needed it. and even when i didn’t answer, she’d sit there anyway, talking about class, or her brother being annoying, or how the sky looked weird that day. it was the first time someone made space for me, without asking for anything in return.”

his hand curled tightly around the strap of his school bag.

“and i know she could’ve had an easier life if she just walked away from me. but she didn’t. she came back every time.”

kageyama glanced up again, this time with something steadier behind his eyes—something unshakably real.

“it wasn’t just about school or volleyball. she became part of my life in a way i didn’t know i needed. she helped me understand things i didn’t get. she’s the reason i’m better now—at talking, at listening, at caring. she saw parts of me i didn’t think were worth anything, and she stayed.”

he took a breath. then another.

“and when we ended up at different schools… i thought i’d lose her. but we still found ways. late night texts. study sessions in quiet cafés. sneaking time in between practices. she made time for me, even when i didn’t know how to ask for it.”

then, finally, kageyama looked oikawa dead in the eye.

“i care about her. more than anything. i know what it’s like to be left behind. to be told you’re not good enough. and i swear… i’d never make her feel that way. not even once.”

his voice didn’t waver now.

“i’m not asking you to like me. i know you probably won’t. but please—don’t make her feel like she has to choose between us. that’s not fair. not to her.”

the silence that followed was deafening. even iwaizumi had gone still.

kageyama exhaled, slow and steady, before bowing at the waist—deep and full of quiet conviction. not just to earn approval. but to show the truth of what he said. to show he meant every word.

just beyond the gym’s open doors, you stood frozen—heart tight in your chest.

you hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. hajime had only sent you a short text and your feet had carried you there faster than you could think.

but now… standing there, with your hand curled around the edge of the wall, you knew.

kageyama tobio wasn’t a perfect boy. but he was yours.

and right now, he was fighting—for you. for this. for something real.

and suddenly, the weight in your chest—the hurt, the anger, the ache of the past week—felt like it could finally, finally lift.

you didn’t wait another second.

your footsteps echoed across the gym floor as you stepped inside, every head turning in your direction. kageyama blinked in surprise, clearly not expecting you, but didn’t move—he just looked relieved to see you there.

oikawa, on the other hand, went stiff.

you could already see the defenses rising in his eyes—sharp, overprotective, dramatic. classic tooru oikawa.

but you didn’t give him the chance to speak first.

“i heard everything,” you said, walking until you stood beside kageyama. your voice wasn’t angry, but it was firm. steady. the kind of tone you’d been practicing in your head since the fight began. “and before you go off being dramatic again, just let me say something.”

you turned to him fully, folding your arms across your chest.

“i know you care about me, tooru. i know you’ve always looked out for me—and maybe you still see me as that kid who cried when she scraped her knee or begged you to play volleyball with her in the driveway.”

oikawa’s mouth twitched at that, like he was biting back a memory.

“but i’m not that kid anymore. and you don’t get to decide everything for me just because you’re my big brother.”

the gym stayed quiet, but you heard a faint snort off to the side—hanamaki, barely holding it together.

“i get that you’re protective. i really do. but you can’t keep treating me like i’m too fragile to make choices for myself. especially when—” your eyes narrowed, a teasing smile curling at your lips “—you literally dated someone in your first year too.”

iwaizumi choked on air.

“that was different—!” oikawa started, voice pitching.

“how?” you shot back, raising a brow. “because you were older? more mature? because you thought you knew better?”

“it was different,” oikawa muttered, ears turning pink.

off to the side, matsukawa leaned into hanamaki and whispered (loudly), “does he mean the girl who dumped him after two weeks?”

hanamaki wheezed. “he cried during practice, didn’t he?”

“shut up!” oikawa barked, spinning toward them as they barely managed to keep straight faces. “this is a serious moment!”

iwaizumi stepped forward, completely unimpressed. “you’re the one who got wrecked in your own intervention, dumbass.”

you rolled your eyes with a sigh, turning your focus back to your brother.

“look, i still care about you. you’re my brother, and nothing’s going to change that. but you need to stop acting like i don’t know what i’m doing. i’m growing up, and you’re going to have to trust me a little.”

your voice softened, just slightly.

“besides, you already know the kind of person he is now. he came all the way here just to talk to you. that’s gotta count for something.”

oikawa looked between you and kageyama—jaw tight, eyes conflicted—and for once, he didn’t have a snarky comeback ready.

and maybe that was enough for now.

because the silence that followed didn’t feel tense.

it felt like the beginning of something shifting. something healing.

and even if oikawa didn’t say it out loud yet—you could see it in the way his shoulders lowered, just a little.

you were still his little sister.

but now… maybe he was starting to see you as something else too.

oikawa groaned, dragging a hand down his face like the past ten minutes had aged him a decade. “fine,” he muttered at last, voice dramatic and full of suffering. “fine. i still think he’s the worst possible person on this earth, but apparently i’m the only one here with functioning brain cells.”

you crossed your arms. “tooru—”

he held up a finger like a traffic light. “but! if i’m going to allow this absolute disaster to continue, there will be rules. strict ones. regulations, even. signed. notarized.”

iwaizumi sighed. “oh boy.”

“rule one,” oikawa declared, pacing now, “no pda. none. not even a pinky touch. i don’t want to catch you smiling too long at each other. i don’t want to walk in and find you whispering sweet nothings near the vending machine. i want professional, platonic, painful distance at all times.”

“that’s not even how rules work,” you said flatly.

“rule two,” oikawa continued as if you hadn’t spoken, “if he ever—and i mean ever—hurts you, emotionally or otherwise, iwa-chan has full license to go feral.”

iwaizumi blinked. “stop volunteering me for your revenge fantasies.”

“it’s not a fantasy, it’s a safety net,” oikawa replied, then turned to kageyama with a perfectly straight face. “you get one chance. one.”

kageyama, red-faced and stiff as a statue, gave a sharp nod. “understood.”

“and rule three,” oikawa added, holding up three fingers, “i reserve the right to revoke all of this if you so much as breathe wrong around me. if you talk too loud. if you breathe aggressively. if i even sense a smug vibe, it’s over.”

“you’re not the dating police,” you said, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“hajime” you said louder now, “do the honors.”

without hesitation, iwaizumi delivered a swift smack to the back of oikawa’s head.

“ow! betrayal!” oikawa cried, stumbling forward a step. “you’ve turned him against me!”

“he was never for you,” hanamaki muttered under his breath.

“i thought you were my sibling!” oikawa pointed accusingly at you, rubbing the back of his head.

“starting to think hajime raised me better,” you shot back with a smirk.

“what?!”

“honestly,” matsukawa chimed in, “this is giving major sibling custody battle vibes.”

“this is a mutiny,” oikawa declared dramatically. “emotional warfare. i’m wounded.”

matsukawa laughed. hanamaki leaned over to whisper, “it’s definitely not you.”

and though he huffed and grumbled and muttered something about betrayal and replacing everyone with robots, tooru oikawa couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. even if he’d never admit it out loud.

he was still sulking, of course—arms crossed, mouth twisted into the most dramatic pout known to man—but the fight had gone out of his shoulders. maybe it was the way you stood your ground, or how stiffly kageyama bowed a third time like he was presenting himself to royalty. or maybe it was the fact that everyone in the gym, even iwa-chan, had stopped treating it like the end of the world.

you turned to kageyama then, eyes soft, smile just a little victorious. “come on.”

before he could even respond, you grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the doors with purposeful strides. his bag hit his hip as he stumbled after you, caught completely off guard.

“w-wait, are we—are we going somewhere—?”

“we are leaving before he changes his mind.”

behind you, oikawa suddenly snapped to attention. “wait—wait—where do you think you’re going—”

you ignored him.

“you’re holding hands! i said rule one, no pda! hands apart! separate!”

you laced your fingers through kageyama’s, just to spite him. “tooru, you can’t stop love!”

“stop quoting dramas you don’t even finish!”

“you finish them for me!”

“that’s not the point—”

“let them go, oikawa,” iwaizumi said with a tired sigh, arms crossed.

oikawa turned, betrayed once again. “iwa-chan! you were supposed to be my moral support!”

“you’re the reason i have stress acne.”

“you have what—”

you didn’t hear the rest. the gym doors closed behind you with a satisfying thud, muffling the chaos, leaving you and kageyama in the quiet of the hallway. your fingers were still intertwined.

he glanced down at them, then up at you, cheeks pink. “…you’re really not scared of your brother, huh.”

you shrugged. “he’s dramatic. not scary.”

kageyama blinked. “he tried to kill me with his eyes.”

you laughed. “he does that with everyone. you get used to it.”

he nodded slowly, then hesitated. “…thank you.”

“for what?”

“for staying. for pulling me out. for choosing me—even when it made things complicated.”

you leaned your head against his shoulder as you walked.

“i didn’t choose you because it was easy, tobio. i chose you because i wanted to.”

his grip on your hand tightened just a little.

and in the silence that followed, your footsteps echoing through the empty hallways, it was clear: no matter how dramatic the world around you got, this—this was the steady part. the quiet certainty. just the two of you, walking forward. together.

now, walking you home without getting caught was easier—not because the secret was gone, but because the war had ended.

oikawa still glared from the kitchen window sometimes, dramatically clutching a mug like a scorned housewife. sometimes he’d text you mid-walk: “i can still see you, you traitor.” other times he’d message kageyama directly: “take the long route or take your life, your choice.”

but it was all bark now, no bite.

iwaizumi had confiscated his lecture notes. hanamaki and matsukawa muted him in the group chat for a full day. even kunimi said “you need help” once with just enough deadpan to shut him up.

but the thing that mattered most?

he let you go.

he still muttered and groaned and promised revenge in the most theatrical ways, but he let you have this. let you be happy. and for oikawa, that was a bigger sign of love than anything else.

so now—after long practices and longer walks, after midterms and missed calls, after melon bread and volleyballs spiked in anger—you walked home hand in hand with the boy who’d always waited at the corner café, the one who learned how to stay.

you laughed when he tried to hide behind a lamppost the first time oikawa waved from the window.

“he can still see you,” you said, amused.

“i panicked,” kageyama mumbled, ears pink.

and maybe that was the real ending.

not the declarations or the fights or the compromises, but this quiet moment—the two of you, the streetlamp glow, the sound of your steps in sync.

together. still. always.

[yukkiji]

HI HI I really love your domestic kenma fluff HUHUUHU with that is it okay to ask for a kenma domestic smut, where his like super stressed then you go down on him then you would continue it to the bedroom something like that. you can add more details if you want thankiess!!!

helloooo!! here you go hehe

soft reset

enjoyyy <333

[yukkiji]

soft reset

when your boyfriend kenma starts burning out from the pressure of developing his new game, you decide to help him unwind—in your own intimate way—even if it means slipping under his desk while he's live on stream.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. kozume kenma x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!kenma

wc: 6.8k

warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. oral sex (receiving and giving), praise kink, softdom!kenma, established relationship, domestic setting, multiple orgasms, spanking

life with kenma is quiet, but never boring.

you live together in a cozy house just outside the city—a place that still smells faintly of new paint and the sage candle you always forget to blow out. the air inside is always warm, like a weighted blanket, buzzing gently with the soft hum of kenma’s pc behind his office door. a hoodie of his is usually hanging over a chair. a half-empty boba cup sits on a coaster with some game dev scribbles tucked underneath. takeout boxes come and go like visitors.

the two of you have routines. but they’re soft around the edges. comfortable. familiar. easy.

kenma is currently neck-deep in his new game. that means longer hours at his desk, occasional grunts of frustration, and a more muted tone than usual, even when he's lying beside you at night, staring at the ceiling with tired golden eyes.

you know he won't ask for help—not out loud. but he’s been letting you test his builds lately, and that’s as much of an invitation as you’re going to get.

so, you start leaving sticky notes.

little ones. bright neon colors in your handwriting, dotting the edges of his monitor, nestled between his controller stands, sometimes slipped into the folds of his hoodie sleeves.

“your dialogue coding is getting better. that one npc made me snort my tea.”

“new soundtrack = chef’s kiss.”

“i’m not saying i’d die for this side quest, but i’m not not saying it.”

“this game’s so good it’s criminal.”

and the one you left last night, placed just under his mouse pad:

“if this game gets any hotter, i might need a cooldown in your lap.”

you honestly didn’t expect a reaction. kenma has always been unreadable when he wants to be. sometimes he blushes when you flirt; sometimes he just blinks like you’ve asked him to solve a riddle in an alien language.

but today…

today feels different.

it starts when you pad quietly into his gaming room, the soft plush of your socks muffling each step against the hardwood floor. his camera’s on—you can see the tiny green led above his monitor, the live preview window tucked in the corner of the screen showing his face in soft lighting, blurred slightly by the filter he uses to keep things pretty and distant.

he’s been streaming for over two hours. his posture is wrong for the game he’s playing—something peaceful, a cozy farming sim—but his shoulders are locked tight, his jaw set. he moves with precision, with rhythm, but no ease. his voice, smooth and low, dances easily enough through chat interaction, but you know the tone beneath it. it’s the one he gets when he’s on autopilot. pushing through. running on fumes.

you slowly kneeled in front of him, careful to stay just out of frame. the glow of the monitor painted soft light across your face, flickering gently as the game carried on without you.

"baby… what are you doing?" kenma mouthed the words more than he spoke them, barely moving his lips, careful not to let his mic catch anything. his eyes flicked from the screen to you, then quickly back again, as if looking too long might give him away.

you didn’t answer—just tilted your head slightly, giving him that innocent look he knew far too well. the kind that meant you weren’t planning on being innocent for long.

your fingers found the waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs sliding under the soft fabric. his breath caught. and then, slowly, deliberately, you began to undo the drawstrings.

he froze.

it was subtle—just a tiny shift in his posture, a barely-there twitch in his jaw, but you saw it. felt it. the effort it took for him not to react.

he knew exactly what you were doing.

and you knew exactly how long it would take before he cracked.

his voice returned, quieter now, strained in that barely-audible way that told you he was trying to stay composed, for the sake of the stream. "you’re serious?"

you looked up at him through your lashes, lips curving just slightly. then you eased the sweatpants down a little further.

his hand hovered near the mic toggle. his other gripped the edge of the desk. every inch of him was still as his eyes flicked once to the small camera light—still on.

still live.

and you were still kneeling.

a single muscle jumped in his jaw. his voice, when it came again, was barely more than breath.

“…you’re gonna get me killed.”

but he didn’t stop you.

not even close.

“don’t mind me, babe. just keep doing your thing,” you murmured, voice low and syrup-sweet as your hand curled around him.

he was already half-hard, the heat of him pulsing against your palm before you’d even started moving. the weight, the way his breath hitched the second your fingers tightened just slightly—it made you smile.

kenma’s jaw clenched. he adjusted slightly in his chair, posture stiff, trying to maintain some illusion of composure for the camera still trained on him. his hand hadn’t left the mouse, but his movements were no longer precise. the clicks were slower, more hesitant.

you dragged your hand down the length of him, then back up in a steady stroke, just enough to make his thighs twitch beneath you.

kenma went back to his stream, while you were still stroking him. an awkwardness in his tone is slightly masked by forced calm, but you can hear the subtle waver underneath whenever he answers. his sentences come slower, his usual ease fractured by the way your fingers keep working him—slow, deliberate, mercilessly patient.

he jolts—just slightly—when your mouth wraps around him without warning, his thighs tensing beneath your touch. a sharp, almost imperceptible inhale hitches in his chest, caught just behind his mic. he covers it with a fake cough, hand flying to the mute button for a beat too long.

his knuckles go white on the armrest as you sink lower, tongue dragging slow and warm along the underside of him.

you feel his hips twitch, his composure slipping one thin layer at a time.

still muted, he glances down at you, eyes wide and dark. his voice, when he unmutes, is pitched lower—slightly breathless, just shy of unsteady.

“yeah… no, i’m good,” he says to chat, smiling faintly at his screen. “just got distracted.”

you hum around him in answer. he stiffens.

the sound you make—low, deliberate—sends a shiver down his spine, and kenma’s hips twitch in response. his hand drifts from the mouse to clutch the edge of the desk, fingers curling tight like he needs something to anchor him, to keep him from slipping completely.

you love the way he feels—how he fits, how he reacts. whether he's buried in your mouth or pressed deep inside you, it's the same electrifying heat that spreads low and slow in your core. just the taste of him, the weight of him, has your body aching with want.

without even thinking, you shift in place, your hips instinctively pressing down against nothing, chasing friction. you're getting wet—need pooling and pulsing as the tension climbs. it's maddening, being this close to him and not filled.

kenma’s breathing has gone uneven, jaw tight, and his eyes are locked straight ahead—focused on the screen but seeing none of it. you start to move in a rhythm now, deliberate and steady, each glide of your mouth carefully controlled, paced with purpose.

he’s trembling under the surface, the kind of restraint that looks calm to everyone else but you. you can feel it—how close he is, how he’s trying to hold himself together for just another second.

but he won’t last long.

one of his hands slips off the keyboard, hovering for a moment before it finds your hair. his fingers thread through it slowly, almost reverently, as if grounding himself in the feel of you. the stream rolls on—his voice tight and frayed around the edges—but everything else has narrowed down to this: the warmth of your mouth, the steady rhythm, the helpless tension building in his gut.

you hum around him, a soft sound of encouragement, and the vibration shoots up his spine. his grip in your hair tightens involuntarily—not harsh, but needy. his thighs shift beneath you, restless.

he tries to speak, something about the game, maybe even a reply to chat, but it stutters on his tongue and fades out. his control is thinning, unraveling with each second you stay wrapped around him.

and you—completely in control, completely calm—can feel it. the way his breathing's gone shallow, how his hand trembles against your scalp. he’s close. you know it. and you’re not planning to let up.

not until he breaks.

his fingers tremble at the nape of your neck. he’s trying—genuinely trying—to keep his voice level, to play it off like everything’s fine. but the words on stream have started to taper off. a long pause. then another. his hand, still buried in your hair, gives a telling tug.

“mm… guys, i think i’m gonna… cut it here.”

he clears his throat, swallowing thickly, like he’s trying to shake the edge from his voice. “sorry. my head’s… kinda killing me all of a sudden. think i’m coming down with something.”

his chat floods with concern. hearts. quick wishes to rest. he mutters a soft thank you, already moving to shut everything down—mic muted, camera off. the second the screen fades to black, his whole body slumps back into the chair with a sharp, quiet exhale.

“you’re evil,” he breathes, looking down at you with glassy eyes, skin flushed. his voice is low now—just for you. a hoarse mix of disbelief and want. “you know that, right?”

you glance up at him through your lashes, your hand still wrapped around him, moving with slow, deliberate strokes. the corners of your mouth curve in a teasing smile.

“why’d you end the stream?” you murmur, your voice low, warm with mischief. “i kind of wanted to see you lose it while still on cam.”

kenma lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half a groan—caught somewhere between amusement and restraint. his hand finds your hair again, fingers threading through gently at first, then tugging with more purpose as his hips shift forward, searching for more of your warmth.

“you’re impossible,” he mutters under his breath, voice thick, a little frayed around the edges.

but he doesn’t ask you to stop.

his head tips back, lips parting in a quiet gasp as the pleasure crests higher. his thighs tense beneath your hands, and his voice drops to a breathy whisper. “i’m close… baby, i’m gonna—”

his hips twitch, and then he’s spilling into your mouth with a quiet, broken moan. you hold him there gently, letting him ride it out, not moving too fast—just letting him feel.

when you pull back, you tilt your head up slightly, mouth still open in teasing defiance. his flushed face darkens even more as his gaze locks onto you, both stunned and aroused.

“swallow for me,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

you do, slowly, deliberately, and when you’re done, he leans forward without hesitation, pulling you up from the floor. his lips meet yours in a kiss that’s not rushed, but deep and hungry, full of something that feels heavier than just desire.

his hands frame your face, thumbs brushing gently along your cheeks like you’re something he never wants to forget — like memorizing the feeling of you is as important as breathing.

the room feels warmer now, like the hum of his pc and the muted glow from the led lights have become part of the quiet spell between you. his fingers wander lower, slipping beneath the edge of your silk nightgown, slow and searching. when he realizes you’re not wearing anything underneath, he pauses — amber eyes meeting yours, amused and hungry all at once.

“no panties, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and threaded with affection, like he already knows the answer but loves hearing you admit it.

you only smile, your hands slipping under the hem of his hoodie to feel the warmth of his skin. "didn’t think i’d need them."

he huffs a laugh — barely — before leaning in and kissing you again, deeper this time. like he's grounding himself in the taste of you, the smell of your hair, the soft drag of silk against his fingertips.

“you’re trouble,” he whispers against your lips.

“only for you.”

kenma doesn’t say anything right away. he just smiles — that quiet, crooked kind of smile that never quite reaches anyone else but you — and settles you down in his chair, pulling you gently back against his chest. the leather is cool beneath your thighs, but all you feel is the warmth of him, the way his body fits so naturally around yours.

he parts your legs with care, resting each over the wide arms of the chair. the position leaves you open, vulnerable — but never unsafe. not with him. you can feel him against you, firm and unrelenting, pressing right where you’re already aching. a soft, involuntary roll of your hips has you grinding against him for friction.

but kenma’s hand catches your thigh, firm and grounding.

“no teasing, baby,” he murmurs, mouth close to your ear. “you already had your fun.”

you pout, making a small sound of protest, but he only chuckles — that low, lazy laugh that always sends a shiver down your spine. his fingers trail along your thigh, slow and feather-light as he lifts the hem of your nightgown. his breath hitches when he sees you — already wet, already waiting.

“no panties…” he says again, quieter this time. “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

his fingertips trace the inside of your thigh, close enough to tease, not close enough to satisfy. you shift your hips again, just slightly — needy. he smirks against your neck.

“patience,” he says, voice warm but commanding. “i’ll take care of you.”

and with that, his hand slides lower, purposeful now.

his fingers finally find you — warm, slick, and already pulsing with need. he hums quietly against your neck, the sound low and appreciative, almost reverent.

“already this wet for me,” he murmurs, dragging his fingers through the heat of you, slow and deliberate. “just from touching me?”

you nod, breath catching as his fingers circle with maddening precision. his other hand is on your waist, keeping you still against him, even though your hips keep twitching forward on instinct, chasing more.

“kenma,” you whisper, reaching for his wrist.

but he doesn’t let you take control.

“uh-uh,” he breathes against the shell of your ear, pressing a kiss there. “you get to feel, not lead.”

his fingers press in slowly — one first, then another — curling just right. you gasp, arching slightly, your body responding instantly. he watches over your shoulder, eyes dark, jaw tight.

“look at you,” he murmurs, voice threading between fondness and possessiveness. “falling apart already and i’ve barely started.”

you’re trembling now, his fingers working a slow, patient rhythm while he keeps you spread for him, your legs draped over the arms of his chair. he’s everywhere — behind you, inside you, breathing you in like you’re something sacred. the chair creaks quietly beneath you both, the only sound aside from your breath, your whimpers, and the quiet, wet sounds of him loving you.

“i want to hear you,” he says suddenly, his voice quiet but firm. “let me hear how much you want me.”

you can barely manage words — only broken sounds that dissolve into moans when he brushes that one spot inside you just right. your head drops back onto his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut.

and he smiles.

“good girl.”

then, without warning, his fingers begin to move faster — deliberate, controlled, but unrelenting. the sudden shift makes your breath hitch, and your body tenses in his lap, the pleasure sharp and overwhelming.

one of your hands flies to his arm, nails digging in for something to anchor yourself with. the other reaches up, guiding his free hand to your chest, needing more of him — everywhere, all at once.

kenma gets the message. his palm slips under the silk fabric, fingers brushing over your breast before squeezing softly, teasing your nipple between his fingers. at the same time, he keeps his pace below, dragging you closer and closer to the edge with maddening precision.

his lips find your neck, pressing kisses that grow slower, deeper — lingering on the sensitive spots that make your toes curl.

“you’re so responsive tonight,” he murmurs, voice thick with heat, his breath fanning over your skin. “you feel everything, don’t you?”

you can’t answer — your mouth is open, but all that escapes are soft gasps and whimpers, your head rolling to the side to give him more access. every nerve feels like it’s on fire, and the coil low in your belly tightens with each stroke of his fingers, each pull of his lips.

he groans low against your throat. “you’re close, aren’t you?”

you nod, a shiver running through you.

“then let go for me,” he whispers, pressing his fingers deeper, right where you need him. “come for me.”

that’s all it takes.

your body tightens around his touch as the pleasure crests — hot, overwhelming — and then it crashes over you in waves. you tremble in his arms, breath catching, fingers digging into his as you fall apart, his name slipping from your lips again and again like a prayer.

kenma holds you through it, still stroking you gently, soothing the aftershocks while murmuring soft praises into your ear.

“just like that,” he breathes. “that’s my girl.”

your legs feel like they're made of air when you try to stand, muscles still trembling from the high. kenma’s arms wrap around your waist in an instant, steadying you. he keeps you close, grounding you.

his fingers, still glistening with your release, lift between you. without breaking eye contact, he brings them to his lips and licks them clean — slow, deliberate, savoring. the heat in his gaze doesn’t waver.

you feel your core clench again at the sight. it’s almost unfair, how effortlessly he can unravel you.

kenma leans in, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s all tongue and tenderness, low heat simmering between you. when he pulls back, his voice is soft but firm.

“come on,” he says, nudging your nose with his. “let’s take this to the bedroom.”

kenma lifts you up easily, his arms strong and secure beneath your thighs as you instinctively wrap yourself around him. your nightgown falls around your waist, forgotten, as he carries you through the soft-lit hallway, every step purposeful.

his lips press against your shoulder, your collarbone, anywhere he can reach as you cling to him. the steady thump of his heart beneath your chest only makes you more aware of your own racing pulse.

when you reach the bedroom, he lowers you gently onto the bed like you’re something precious. his eyes sweep over you—soft, but hungry.

“you look too good like this,” he murmurs, crawling over you slowly, deliberately. “i don’t think i’ll last long.”

kenma’s lips trail over your skin, soft and deliberate—your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your chest. he doesn’t rush. every kiss feels like he’s memorizing you, savoring the way your body responds beneath him.

he took his time at your chest, his lips wrapping around one nipple, sucking softly while his fingers toyed with the other—gently rolling, massaging, giving each the attention it deserved.

"kenma…" you whined, breath hitching, “stop teasing.”

he only chuckled against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. “but you’re so easy to tease,” he murmured, eyes glinting with mischief as he met your gaze.

his lips moved to your other nipple, lavishing it with the same slow, careful attention. you tangled your fingers in his hair, gripping just enough to make him moan softly against you—the sound vibrating through your chest and straight down your spine.

kenma’s kisses trailed lower, slow and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize every inch of you with his mouth. from your chest, he pressed kisses down your stomach, pausing every now and then to nip lightly at the sensitive skin. you gasped, your fingers still threaded in his hair as his warmth moved further down.

when he finally settled between your thighs, he looked up at you—eyes heavy, lips slightly parted. his hands slid along your hips, holding you gently, as though grounding himself before diving in.

“just relax for me,” he murmured, his breath warm against your skin.

kenma took his time, kissing a slow path down your body, his touch reverent like you were something rare—something he didn’t want to rush. you felt his fingers trail along your thigh before he settled between them, spreading you open with care.

he looked up once, catching your gaze. “let me take care of you,” he said softly, and then he was leaning in, his mouth finding you with practiced ease.

kenma always made it feel like more than just pleasure—like devotion. every stroke of his tongue was deliberate, slow at first, savoring. he groaned quietly as he tasted you, his hands firm on your hips to keep you steady as your legs threatened to tremble.

he was greedy for it—your sounds, your reactions, the way you gripped the sheets and whispered his name like it was the only word you knew. you could feel him hum against you, the vibration deep, coaxing even more out of you.

you arched into him, breath hitching. “kenma—”

he didn’t stop, didn’t even slow down. his mouth moved in perfect rhythm, chasing your release like it was the only thing that mattered.

your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips instinctively moving against his mouth as pleasure surged through you in waves. kenma held you firmly, not letting up, coaxing every last bit of your release with lips and tongue as though he could memorize your taste, your sounds, the way your body responded to him.

your thighs trembled around his shoulders, your chest heaving with every breath. “kenma… i—” your voice broke on the edge of another cry.

he pulled back only when he was sure you’d ridden the high completely, his lips and chin glistening, eyes dark and half-lidded with hunger. he kissed the inside of your thigh before finally looking up at you with a lazy, satisfied smile.

“still with me?” he asked, his voice low and teasing, brushing his knuckles along your thigh as if he wasn’t already driving you wild.

you could barely nod, your body loose and warm. “barely,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and filled with a kind of awe.

kenma crawled up your body, kissing along your skin again, slower now, as if grounding you.

he kissed your lips, soft but insistent, letting you taste yourself on him. “you drive me insane,” he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

then you felt him, hard and ready, pressing against your thigh.

“think you can take a little more?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.

your answer was a breathless nod, your fingers already reaching for him.

kenma peeled off the hoodie he was wearing, the soft fabric sliding off his shoulders. years of volleyball had carved subtle definition into his frame — lean muscle, toned arms, a strength that never flaunted itself but was always there, just beneath the surface.

your eyes followed the motion, drinking in the sight of him. he wasn’t showy about his body — he never had been — but the quiet confidence in the way he moved was more than enough to make your pulse race.

catching your gaze, kenma gave a faint smirk, lowering himself between your legs again. “you’re staring,” he murmured, brushing a hand over your side. his touch was warm, grounding, full of intent.

“can you blame me?” you replied softly, pulling him closer until his chest was pressed against yours.

his forehead rested against yours for a moment as he breathed you in. “i just want to make you feel good,” he whispered.

then, with slow, deliberate movement, he shifted, positioning himself against you. one hand cupped your jaw while the other guided himself to your entrance.

“ready?” he asked, voice low, careful — not because he doubted you, but because he always wanted to be sure.

kenma guides himself slowly, carefully, and when his tip finally meets your warmth, your breath catches — a soft gasp slipping from your lips.

he stills for a second, eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for any hesitation. but you only nod, your fingers tightening around his arms, urging him closer.

he presses forward with aching slowness, every inch a stretch that makes your back arch and your lips part. the moment is thick with heat, but also something unspoken — trust, connection, the quiet reverence in the way he touches you like you’re something sacred.

“you feel… incredible,” he murmurs, voice barely audible as he sinks in deeper. his forehead falls to your shoulder, his breath shuddering against your skin.

you wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him closer, and he responds with a deep groan — the sound low, restrained. he gives you a moment to adjust, holding you close, grounding both of you in the shared intensity.

then, his hips move — slow, deliberate — drawing a moan from your throat as your body melts beneath his. he rocks into you with care, but every movement is full of intent, of need. his hands find yours, fingers weaving together, grounding you both as he sets a rhythm that sends warmth coiling deep in your belly.

“just like that,” he breathes into your ear. “i’ve got you.”

your gasp melted into a sigh as kenma held you close, his forehead resting against yours. his movements were slow at first, careful, as if memorizing every part of you. he kissed your temple, then your cheek, his hands cradling your waist with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, his voice barely audible but thick with emotion.

you could only hold onto him, nails digging lightly into his back, grounding yourself in the moment. the world felt small — just you, him, and the warmth blooming between you.

kenma looked at you then, eyes dark but soft. “tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you shook your head, breathless. “don’t stop.”

he smiled, something quiet and tender. and he didn’t. his rhythm deepened, steady and certain, every touch saying what words couldn’t. you weren’t just connected — you were intertwined.

kenma’s pace stayed measured, like he was savoring every second, every soft sound that left your lips. his hand found yours and laced your fingers together, grounding you further as your bodies moved in sync — a quiet rhythm built on trust and closeness.

you felt your body react to him instinctively — the way his movements reached that perfect rhythm, the way his voice wrapped around you like warmth. kenma's breath hitched when he felt the way your body tightened around him, and he slowed just enough to press a kiss to your temple.

"you're close, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and breathless. "i can feel it."

you nodded, your fingers curling against his back as you buried your face in the crook of his neck, breath trembling against his skin. he held you tighter — not to control, but to keep you grounded, tethered to him.

“words, baby,” he murmured, voice rough near your ear. “need to hear you.”

“ugh… yes, kenma. please,” you breathed, the desperation in your voice making his heart stutter.

he smiled, lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss. “that’s my girl.”

one of his hands slipped between you, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. he began to rub slow, deliberate circles, coaxing you closer with every motion — his rhythm unrelenting, but full of care. you gasped into his mouth, your thighs tightening around his hips as your body began to tremble under the wave building inside you.

“just like that,” he whispered, his forehead pressed to yours. “you’re doing so well for me.”

your body trembled beneath him, every nerve alight as he continued to move with you — slow, intentional, like he didn’t want to miss a single reaction you gave him. his fingers remained on your skin, drawing soft circles, guiding you closer and closer.

“almost there, baby?” he whispered against your ear, his voice a low, soothing hum.

you nodded again, eyes fluttering shut as the wave built. kenma leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw — like he was trying to hold you together even as he helped you fall apart.

and when the release finally came, it was warm and overwhelming — your name caught in his throat, your body arching into his as he held you through it. his fingers didn’t stop until he felt you pulse around him, clenching tightly. that was all it took.

with a low, strained groan, kenma followed, hips stuttering as he pressed deeper. the warmth of his release filled you almost instantly, making you gasp at the sensation. he buried his face against your neck, breath heavy, arms trembling slightly as he held onto you like he never wanted to let go.

the room was quiet save for the sound of your mingled breathing — hearts still racing, skin flushed and sticky with heat.

kenma didn’t speak right away. he just kissed your shoulder softly, then pulled back enough to look at you, his gaze half-lidded but tender.

“we’re not done yet, baby,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.

his hands trailed down your sides with purpose, and before you could catch your breath, he gently guided you to turn, his touch both reassuring and firm. now you were on your knees, the sheets cool beneath your skin and his presence warm behind you.

you felt him press close, his hands exploring slowly, as if memorizing every inch of you all over again. a quiet moan escaped your lips as he leaned forward, his breath hot against your shoulder.

“still doing okay?” he asked, a hint of playfulness tucked beneath the concern in his voice.

you nodded, breathless, already anticipating what was next.

kenma’s body was warm against yours, his touch steady and slow as he guided your hips just right. you could feel the pressure of him behind you, the way he teased at your entrance with deliberate, featherlight motion — a silent promise that made your breath hitch.

he leaned over you, lips brushing your ear. “you feel too good,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

your hands gripped the sheets, knuckles pale, as he finally moved with more intent — slow at first, savoring every moment, every sound you made. the connection between you sparked anew, heady and overwhelming, and all you could do was let yourself feel it — every pulse, every shiver, every breath you took together.

when he finally entered you again, your body reacted instantly — a sharp gasp, a moan torn from your lips, your muscles trembling under the weight of overstimulation. every nerve felt alive, your skin tingling where his hands steadied your hips.

“still with me?” he murmured, his voice low and strained, pressed right behind your ear.

you nodded, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the intensity but craving more of it — more of him. each slow, deliberate movement pushed you closer to the edge again, your breath hitching with every deep thrust.

kenma’s fingers stayed locked with yours, his grip tight — not just for you, but for himself too. the room was filled with the rhythm of your connection: the sound of skin meeting skin, breathy moans tangled with soft groans, the kind of music only two people completely lost in each other could make.

his pace never faltered, steady and deep, every movement hitting that spot that made you shudder. you could feel how close he was again — the way his breath hitched, the subtle tremble in his hold, the quiet curse he let slip against your shoulder.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice hoarse, like he was holding on by a thread.

he kissed along your back, each press of his lips sending a ripple of shivers through you. the contrast of his tenderness against the intensity of his rhythm made everything feel more heightened, more intimate — like he was trying to show you, with every breath and every touch, just how deeply he felt it too.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and ragged.

your body responded instinctively, leaning into every word, every motion. the sensation built again — not just the physical, but the emotional weight of it all. it was consuming, a shared fire pulling you both closer to the edge, tethered by more than just touch.

his arm curled securely around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, while his other hand slid up to your chest, fingers splaying gently over your heartbeat. your back pressed flush against his bare chest, the heat of his skin matching yours, slick and electric with every movement.

kenma’s pace quickened, each motion purposeful, building upon the tension already thick between you. you could feel his breath against your ear — staggered, heavy, and desperate — matching the rhythm he set.

“you feel so good,” he whispered, voice low and breathless, as if the words were pulled straight from his core. “so perfect.”

every inch of you was alive beneath his touch. the way he held you — like you were something precious and irreplaceable — only deepened the intensity between you, making the pleasure that much harder to hold back.

he turned your face gently toward his, capturing your lips in a deep, breath-stealing kiss. it was messy, uncoordinated with urgency, lips parting between panting breaths and soft moans. his hand slid lower, finding that sensitive spot between your thighs, fingers moving in slow, deliberate circles that made your body twitch beneath him.

the other hand cupped your chest, thumb brushing over your skin with just enough pressure to make you gasp into his mouth. the sensations layered — the heat, the closeness, the way he murmured your name between kisses — until you could barely tell where your body ended and his began.

"kenma, can i please come?" you whimpered against his lips, your voice trembling with need.

"go on, baby," he murmured, brushing his lips against your cheek. "you deserve it."

with those words, everything unraveled. your fourth release crashed over you like a wave — intense and consuming. your body tensed and trembled in his arms, a breathless cry leaving your lips as he held you through it, never letting go.

kenma followed moments after, his release finding you again, warm and deep, leaving you feeling full and overwhelmed in the best way. the shared intensity lingered between you, breath mingling, bodies pressed tightly together.

he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your neck and shoulder, his lips barely parting between quiet, reverent praises — like every word was just for you.

kenma gently laid you down on the bed, his touch never leaving you. his hands moved slowly over your sides, massaging tenderly, easing the lingering tremble in your muscles. he leaned in, brushing soft kisses along your shoulder, your neck, your jaw — each one slow and purposeful.

between kisses, you heard the low murmur of his voice, barely more than a breath against your skin.

"mine," he whispered, possessive but gentle. "good girl."

kenma stayed close, his chest pressed to your back, breath still warm against your shoulder. the room had gone quiet now, save for the soft hum of your shared breaths and the distant ticking of the clock on the wall. his fingers moved slowly along your side, not with intent — just comfort, like he needed to feel you to know this was real.

you let out a small, content sigh, burying your face into the crook of his neck, where your warmth and his seemed to melt together. “you’re quieter than usual,” you whispered, your voice soft and sleepy.

he made a quiet sound, almost like a laugh. “just thinking,” he murmured, pressing a slow kiss to your temple. “you… really helped.”

you pulled back just enough to look up at him, eyes still heavy with exhaustion but full of quiet affection. “helped how?”

his thumb gently brushed your cheek as he looked at you. “i don’t know. everything’s loud lately — in my head. work. people. expectations. but when i’m here with you, it’s like the volume just… shuts off.”

your heart tugged at that, at how vulnerable his voice had gotten, at how carefully he let you see the pieces of himself he kept hidden from the rest of the world.

you leaned in, kissed his collarbone softly, then nuzzled against his skin. “i like it when you're like this,” you said quietly. “soft. real.”

kenma rested his chin lightly on the top of your head. “i’m always real with you,” he murmured. “even if i don’t know how to say everything out loud… you hear me anyway.”

the room stilled again, but this time the silence felt intentional — sacred, even. like nothing more needed to be said.

his hand slipped beneath the covers, coming to rest over your stomach, fingers splaying protectively. he pulled you a little closer, the warmth of him pressed fully along your spine. “you’re mine,” he murmured again, half-asleep but still clear. “always.”

you felt your heart flutter, soothed more than you expected by the quiet claim. your body, still tender and spent, finally began to relax completely. you let your hand reach back to rest over his, lacing your fingers gently with his own.

“did i destress you already?” you teased, voice thick with exhaustion and something sweeter.

kenma chuckled softly against your shoulder. “you did more than that,” he said, kissing the back of your neck again. “you brought me back.”

your eyes slipped shut at that, a slow smile curling on your lips. his hand didn’t leave yours, and the gentle rise and fall of his chest against your back began to lull you both toward sleep. the air was warm, his body even warmer, and for the first time in days — maybe weeks — your mind wasn’t racing. there was just him, and the steady rhythm of the two of you breathing together.

“i love you,” you whispered into the quiet, not even sure if he was still fully awake.

but he heard you.

“i love you too,” he murmured back, softer than anything, but real.

and in that warmth, tangled together beneath the covers, you both drifted — slowly, peacefully — into sleep.

[yukkiji]

footnote: uncle kotaro

your brother was never subtle, and neither was his love. so when it came time to tell him your news, there was no way to keep it quiet—or simple. especially not with twins.

chapters of us. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader ft bokuto kotaro

genre: fluff, romance, domestic fluff, timeskip!akaashi, pregnant!reader

wc: 1.1k

author's note: uncle kotaro finally made an apperance

the house is unusually quiet for a thursday afternoon. the kind of stillness that blankets the air before something momentous.

akaashi sits in the study, red pen tucked behind one ear, brow furrowed in focus as he marks up another page of his manuscript draft. the gentle scratch of pen against paper is the only real sound, punctuated by the occasional soft whistle of the kettle from the kitchen.

you’re perched at the edge of the couch, mug in hand, watching the second hand on the clock inch toward the top of the hour.

he’s coming.

you’ve held onto the news for over a week now—long enough that it’s settled into your bones, no longer a shocking new discovery but something you carry, quietly, with growing warmth. you’ve told a few close friends, your doctor, of course. akaashi was the first.

but one person, you needed to tell in person.

kotaro.

he’s been bouncing between prefectures with the jackals, volleyball tournaments, charity events, pr appearances. his texts have been short and scattered, half-lucid with exhaustion, peppered with blurry selfies and late-night voice notes. still, you’d waited. you wanted to wait. because when it came to bokuto, some things needed to be said face to face.

yesterday, finally:

[kotaro.bokuto] "back in tokyo baybeeeee!!! coming to you guys as soon as i drop my bag. get the snacks ready!! 😎🔥"

the knock on the door comes exactly as expected—three quick taps, then two more. his signature rhythm. like a fanfare announcing himself.

you’re already on your feet. the moment you open the door, there he is—kotaro bokuto, in all his chaotic glory. slightly windblown, hoodie oversized, duffel hanging off one shoulder, and hair a little less defiant than usual, probably flattened from the train ride. but his grin? blinding.

“heyyyyyy!!” he says, arms already open wide. “oh my god, i missed your face.”

“careful,” you laugh, stepping into his hug. “i’m not as sturdy these days.”

he pauses mid-hug, leaning back. squints at you. “huh? what does that mean?”

you just wink. “you’ll see.”

inside, the apartment is warm with the familiar smell of coffee and that soft domestic quiet that’s always settled around akaashi like a second skin. he looks up from his desk as bokuto steps in, smile faint but present.

“welcome back, bokuto-san.”

“akaashi!” bokuto beams, instantly charging toward the study, then stopping short halfway. “i brought snacks and—wait, no. i left them on the train. crap. i meant to bring snacks.”

“you brought yourself,” you say, guiding him to the couch. “that’s more than enough.”

he flops onto the cushions like he’s been away for years instead of weeks. then his eyes narrow, bouncing between you and akaashi. “okay. something’s up. you’re both acting weird. secretive. like… like you joined a cult and now you’re trying to convert me gently.”

“close,” you tease.

akaashi disappears briefly into the bedroom and returns holding something. a plain white envelope, slightly wrinkled from where it’s lived in the kitchen drawer all week. a secret between just the two of you. until now.

bokuto tilts his head, catching the shift in atmosphere instantly. “what’s that?”

“something we’ve been waiting to tell you,” akaashi says, offering him the envelope.

he opens it slowly. the moment stretches.

then his eyes freeze. they scan the photo again, slower this time, his brows drawing together. his breath catches.

“wait,” he murmurs, voice suddenly small. “is this…?”

“twins,” you say, barely louder than a whisper.

there’s silence.

then—

“twins?!” bokuto shoots up like he’s just scored match point, holding the ultrasound up like it’s a championship trophy. “you guys made two?! i’m gonna be an uncle?! oh my god—wait, do i get to name them? can i teach them to spike???”

you double over laughing, clutching your stomach. “no to the names. maybe to the spiking. once they can stand, at least.”

“indoor voice, bokuto-san,” akaashi says, calmly sipping from his coffee mug. but the corners of his mouth twitch.

bokuto ignores him, pacing now, hands flailing like he’s strategizing mid-game. “oh man. this is so cool. i have to tell kuroo—wait, no, he’ll tell everyone—nevermind. this is sacred. i’m keeping it locked down. totally classified.”

“you don’t have to—”

“nope! locked in the vault,” he says, miming a key and throwing it. then he turns to you, all that fire in his expression dimming into something quieter, gentler. “hey. you’re okay? both of you? the babies?”

you nod, resting your hand instinctively over your stomach. “yeah. we’re good. tired. nauseous. but good.”

bokuto smiles, and it’s that rare kind of smile—the one that strips away all his noise and leaves just the heart underneath. “i’m proud of you guys,” he says. “like… really proud. and stupidly happy. you’re gonna be the best parents.”

you swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. “thanks, ko.”

he stays for hours.

you all order delivery and eat on the floor. you talk about every ridiculous baby name suggestion he can think of (including, horrifyingly, "spikelyn"), and you tell him about your first ultrasound, how you cried even though you swore you wouldn’t. akaashi adds quiet observations here and there, balancing the chaos with a kind of grounding calm that bokuto clearly missed.

at one point, bokuto insists he’ll babysit “literally whenever,” and you make him promise to take an infant cpr class first.

“i do have gentle hands,” he protests, pouting.

“babies aren’t volleyballs, bokuto-san,” akaashi says dryly.

“yeah, yeah,” bokuto grumbles, “but you are gonna let me buy them tiny uniforms, right? matching ones?”

eventually, night creeps in.

bokuto hugs you again before he leaves—this time tighter, but with surprising tenderness. “tell the owlets i already love them,” he says into your shoulder.

akaashi walks him to the elevator. when the apartment settles into quiet again, it’s not the same kind of stillness as before.

you head to the bedroom and stop short.

there, on the pillow, are two plush toys: a soft, wide-eyed owl and a chubby little lion. you recognize them instantly—bokuto had won them at a festival game booth last year, declaring they were “for you and keiji to hold when i’m away on long trips!”

now they’re sitting side by side.

between them is a note, written in bokuto’s familiar, chaotic handwriting:

to the little owlets, i was gonna keep these for your mom and dad, but i think you two need them more. don’t tell them i cried (i totally didn’t cry). you’re already so loved. can’t wait to yell “i’m your favorite uncle!!” in your faces. love, uncle ko 🦉🦁

you sit on the bed, clutching the note in one hand and the owl plush in the other. akaashi appears in the doorway a moment later, quiet as always, and reads the note over your shoulder.

he doesn’t say anything.

but his hand finds yours. and he holds it.

in the hush of the room, with laughter still lingering in the walls, and two small plushies nestled between the pillows, it’s suddenly clear:

the twins already have a village.

and they are so, so loved.

[yukkiji]

off-camera

in the blur of spotlight and fame, a secret relationship brews between a beloved actress and japan’s star athlete—where what happens off-camera becomes the most unforgettable part of their story.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. hinata shoyo x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, smut, timeskip!hinata, actress!reader

wc: 13.8k

warning: 18+ mdni., smut. nsfw. unprotected sex. cunnilingus. spanking. pining. (inform me if there's more)

author's note: okay, hinata might be a bit of ooc here but i loved writing this and i hope you guys enjoy it!

you were a rising star in the acting industry, already building an impressive fanbase and stacking up offers—films, guestings, endorsements, you name it.

and you first met hinata shoyo during one of your guest appearances on a late-night talk show.

you knew his name—honestly, who didn’t?

a household figure in the world of volleyball, the fiery msby black jackals ace who went on to represent japan in the olympics.

he walked onto the set with that sun-bright smile, hair still slightly damp from some earlier shoot, and energy so loud it practically announced him before the host did.

you told yourself to keep it professional. he was just another guest. just another athlete doing press.

but then he sat beside you.

and leaned in.

and said, “you’re even prettier off-screen.”

like it wasn’t being recorded. like he hadn’t just derailed your entire ability to speak with one sentence, delivered so casually it almost didn’t register—until it absolutely did.

you were a professional. you were media-trained, polished, always quick with a clever reply or a charming laugh. compliments were nothing new. you heard them constantly—from directors, co-stars, hosts trying to flatter their guests. they rolled off your shoulders like wardrobe lint.

so why was hinata shoyo different?

maybe it was the way he said it, not with the usual sleazy undertone or that overconfident smugness some actors wore like cologne. no, his words were honest. teasing, sure. a little cheeky. but his eyes held nothing but admiration—like he meant it. like he’d thought it before and just didn’t bother stopping himself from saying it out loud.

and of course, you were a blushing mess.

you laughed, tried to shake it off, but your voice cracked a little when you spoke next. you avoided eye contact. your fingers tightened ever so slightly around your water bottle. and everyone noticed. the internet noticed. clips of the moment hit social media before the segment was even over.

and just when you thought you’d regained composure, the host turned to hinata with a follow-up question—something harmless about training schedules and balancing fame.

he blinked, lips parted, then smiled sheepishly before leaning into his mic and saying:

“i’m sorry, can you repeat that? i got distracted by the beauty beside me.”

you nearly choked.

the audience exploded.

your heart dropped straight into your stomach, bounced off your dignity, and kept going.

the host lost it, practically doubled over in laughter. your co-guest looked between the two of you like they were witnessing the birth of a scandal in real time. someone backstage dropped something loud.

and you? you froze. laughed. covered your face with your hands for a second before daring to look at him.

he just grinned, bright and unbothered, legs bouncing slightly like he hadn’t just shattered your entire professional facade on national television.

and in that moment—caught between the studio lights, the screaming crowd, and the burning heat crawling up your neck—you realized two things.

one: hinata shoyo was dangerously charming.

and two: you were absolutely, completely screwed.

the internet ate it up, of course.

within minutes of the episode airing, your name and his were trending side by side. edits popped up like mushrooms after rain—slow-mo replays of the moment he called you beautiful, zoom-ins of your flustered face, fan-made fancams with captions like “get yourself someone who looks at you the way hinata looks at her.”

the comment sections were feral.

“i don’t know what PR is cooking but it ain’t better than THIS.” “forget that boring actor, have you seen her smile around hinata??” “they look like a romcom waiting to happen.” “chemistry? that wasn’t chemistry, that was a collision.”

people weren’t just shipping you with hinata—they were invested. comparing photos of you beside the actor your agency was trying to push versus you beside hinata. and the verdict? unanimous.

you and hinata looked better. laughed harder. felt more real.

you scrolled through it all in the backseat of your car on the way home from the taping, trying not to smile, trying very hard not to double-tap anything.

the tweets were unhinged. the fancams were already being set to romantic bgm. and someone had somehow managed to find a frame-by-frame analysis of the exact moment you broke into a flustered smile, claiming it was “the visual representation of falling in love.”

you were about to laugh—really laugh—when your manager’s voice cut through the buzzing high of your phone screen.

"as much as possible, refrain from interacting with hinata," they said without even looking at you. their tone was clipped, scrolling through their own tablet in the passenger seat. "his image isn't what we want linked to you. the actor is much more… fitting. marketable."

you blinked.

“marketable.” like you were a product on a shelf. like genuine chemistry could be replaced with staged photo ops and forced smiles.

you didn’t reply. just locked your phone and leaned your head against the window, city lights flickering past like strobe flashes.

but even then, behind your closed eyelids, you saw his grin. heard the way he’d said “the beauty beside me” like it wasn’t a joke—like he meant it.

it replayed in your head like a scene from a movie you weren’t ready to let go of.

and fate, apparently, was a hopeless romantic.

because a few days after the interview—after your manager’s firm insistence that any interaction with hinata shoyo was off the table, sealed, buried, and locked away—you ran into him.

completely unplanned. totally unscripted.

at a small café tucked into a quiet street, the kind of place where no one cared about fame and your name wasn’t flashing on a marquee.

you were in disguise. hood up, oversized sunglasses on, one of your dad’s old college hoodies pulled over your head like it was a cloak of invisibility. you just wanted coffee and a quiet corner.

what you got instead was hinata shoyo—seated two tables away, halfway through a matcha latte and scrolling through his phone like he had no idea the universe had just handed him a plot twist.

you froze.

he didn’t.

he looked up once. blinked. tilted his head. then smiled.

of course.

he got up casually, walked over like this was the most normal thing in the world, and slid into the seat across from you before you could even decide whether to run or pretend you were someone else entirely.

"seems like fate is on our side, huh?"

his voice was just as warm as you remembered it—easy, teasing, like this was some private joke between the two of you.

you blinked at him from behind your oversized sunglasses, mouth parting in disbelief. “you’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered, even though it wasn’t exactly his fault fate had terrible timing and a flair for drama.

"funny," he said, leaning in just a little, chin in his palm, "i was about to say the same thing about you."

his eyes flicked to your hoodie, to the sunglasses, to the way you were hunched low in your seat like you were avoiding paparazzi in a spy thriller.

"and yet... here you are. incognito and all."

you gave him a look, deadpan. “i’m serious. if someone sees us—”

"then they’ll see two people enjoying coffee." he shrugged, like it really was that simple. "and maybe they'll think, ‘wow, that guy’s lucky to be sitting with someone that pretty.’”

you choked on your sip of coffee.

he smiled like he knew he got you again. like he wanted to.

and just like the night of the interview, the cameras may not have been rolling this time—

but your heart was.

recording every second.

every grin.

every word that made you forget why this was supposed to be a bad idea.

you didn’t even realize how long the two of you had been sitting there in that little corner café, tucked behind dark shades and baseball caps, fingers curled around warm mugs and stolen glances. the outside world blurred, your responsibilities momentarily quiet. it should’ve been a quick encounter—one polite hello, maybe a laugh or two before going your separate ways.

but hinata had a way of anchoring you to the moment. like gravity in the shape of a boy with a foxlike grin and eyes that sparkled when he teased.

he’d slid into the seat across from you like he’d been doing it for years, one arm slung over the backrest, the other bringing his drink to his lips. his orange hair was slightly damp, messy from what you could only assume was post-training sweat. and speaking of training—

you hadn’t meant to notice it at first. but it was hard not to.

his compression shirt hugged his torso like it was custom-made, drawing attention to the lean muscle of his shoulders, the defined curve of his biceps. he’d thrown on a hoodie, sure, but left it unzipped—like he knew exactly what he was doing. like he wanted you to look.

and god, you were trying so hard not to.

your eyes flicked up to meet his, only to find him already staring.

his grin widened.

“you okay there?” he asked, feigning innocence, tilting his head slightly. “you’ve been staring at my chest for a while now.”

you nearly choked on your coffee.

“i wasn’t—!” you started, cheeks going hot. too hot. your voice cracked halfway through the denial. “i wasn’t staring.”

he raised a brow, leaning forward just a little—elbows on the table, smug written all over his face.

“uh huh.” he glanced down at himself, then back up at you with mock curiosity. “must be something really interesting down here then.”

you wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

“it’s just a shirt,” you muttered, looking anywhere but at him.

“it’s a compression shirt,” he corrected, voice low and teasing, like he was thoroughly enjoying your slow descent into flustered oblivion. “made for performance. enhances blood flow. shows muscle definition…”

he smirked.

“…clearly working, huh?”

you hated how good he was at this. how effortless he made it seem. and yet, there was nothing cruel about it—nothing that felt mean-spirited. it was light, playful. flirty. but never below the belt.

still, your hands curled tighter around your mug as you fought the urge to smile.

“you’re impossible,” you muttered.

“and you’re adorable when you’re embarrassed,” he replied without missing a beat.

you rolled your eyes, but the warmth blooming in your chest betrayed you. no matter how much you tried to play it cool, hinata had this uncanny ability to slip right under your defenses—like it was second nature to him. his teasing wasn’t just harmless fun; it felt personal. intentional. like he wanted to see the way your guard cracked every time he looked at you like that.

he took another slow sip of his drink, eyes never leaving yours, then leaned in slightly—chin propped on his hand, gaze too amused for your comfort.

"i’ve been meaning to ask for your number last time,” he said, voice a touch quieter now, more intimate. “but you were whisked away like cinderella at midnight.”

you huffed a laugh, setting your mug down. “i think cinderella at least got to say goodbye. i was practically shoved into the car by my manager like i’d committed a crime.”

“well,” he shrugged with a playful glint in his eye, “you did commit one.”

you raised an eyebrow. “oh? do tell.”

he leaned in just a little closer, enough that you could catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean, fresh, a little woodsy. unfairly distracting.

“you stole my attention,” he said, lips twitching into a grin. “and didn’t even leave a shoe behind.”

you stared at him, momentarily stunned. how did he say things like that without flinching? without even a hint of hesitation? like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“you’re really going all in on the charm today, huh?”

he chuckled. “what can i say? i’ve got limited time. might as well make it count.”

and then, as if he hadn’t already knocked the wind out of you once, he added—softly, but without a trace of sarcasm,

"are you and that actor really a thing?"

you blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. it wasn’t accusatory or bitter—just curious. tentative. honest.

"no," you said, the word escaping with a sigh, your fingers absently circling the rim of your coffee cup. "pr stunt. apparently, for more exposure. buzz, clicks, articles—whatever keeps the spotlight burning."

you didn’t know why you felt the need to explain, but the moment you did, you felt lighter. like saying it out loud made it real—that you weren’t actually tied to someone else, that there was space for something else. someone else.

hinata leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable for a moment, eyes flickering down to his cup like he was turning something over in his head. and then—

"so you're saying there's a chance?" he asked, lips twitching into a grin that had no right being as endearing as it was.

you laughed, shaking your head, but you couldn’t hide the way your mouth curved, the way warmth bloomed somewhere deep in your chest again—persistent and impossible to ignore.

"you’re ridiculous," you muttered.

"but charming, right?"

your gaze flicked to his. he was relaxed in the chair, one arm casually slung over the backrest, still wearing that too-tight compression shirt that you swore he knew was unfair. it clung to him in all the right places, stretching across his chest and shoulders with an ease that made it impossible not to glance—more than once.

he caught you doing it again, of course.

"you keep looking at me like that," he teased, tilting his head, "and i’m gonna think you’re into me or something."

"maybe i’m just admiring the poor fabric trying its best to survive."

he laughed—loud and boyish and unguarded—and for a second, it made the world feel simple. like there were no managers waiting outside, no headlines looming, no risk in sitting here with him.

"next time, i’ll wear something looser," he said, still grinning.

"don’t."

the word slipped out before you could stop it, and it hung in the air between you—bold and shameless.

his eyebrows shot up. "oh?"

you cleared your throat, reaching for your drink to hide your flustered smile. "i mean... wear whatever. i don’t care."

but you did. and he knew.

and when he smiled again, this time it was softer. knowing. as if he was silently agreeing: yeah, this was definitely not a bad idea.

you shifted in your seat, heart beating far too fast for a casual café meetup, and fished your phone out of your coat pocket. with a playful raise of your brow, you slid it across the table to him.

"here—before my fairy grandmother calls and turns the carriage back into a press van."

he laughed, a real one, eyes crinkling with amusement. "so you are cinderella."

"more like cinderella with a publicist and a fake relationship contract."

"even better," he said, already tapping in his number, the screen lighting up in his hands. "means i still get to be the guy chasing you down with a glass slipper."

"or a phone number," you muttered, trying not to smile too obviously as you watched his fingers fly across the screen.

"both," he said, handing your phone back. "except i won't lose you this time."

and somehow, despite the noise of the café, despite the chaos of everything that had led to this moment, that sentence landed like a promise. it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t want to name. not yet.

he stood then, stretching a little, and your eyes betrayed you once again—flickering briefly to the way the fabric of his compression shirt moved with him. he caught it. again.

"really should’ve worn something looser," he said with a smirk, voice just low enough to make your face heat.

"you’re impossible."

"but charming, right?" he repeated, grinning as he grabbed his drink.

you rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the warmth blooming under your skin as he added, just before heading to the counter to grab a napkin,

"text me when you get home. and don’t disappear this time, cinderella."

he was halfway across the café before you realized—you were already reaching for your phone. already saving his contact. already typing something with a smile you couldn’t hide anymore.

it didn’t stop there.

one secret meetup turned into two. then three. then so many that you stopped counting.

you were both careful—god, you were careful. hoodies pulled low, caps shadowing your eyes, oversized sunglasses that made you look like you stepped out of a badly disguised spy movie. it should’ve felt ridiculous. sometimes it did.

but then hinata would catch sight of you from across the court—eyes lighting up mid-warm-up, a split second longer than necessary before he returned to his team—and suddenly, it was all worth it.

you’d sit high up in the stands, blending in with the crowd. pretending not to care. pretending like your chest didn’t swell every time he made a point, like you weren’t dying to run to him when his name echoed through the stadium.

after games, sometimes he’d find a way to slip away. duck behind staff exits, or fake a phone call just long enough to sneak into the backseat of a tinted car, breathless and grinning.

“you came again?” he’d whisper, like it was still unbelievable. like your presence wasn’t the thing that kept him going through grueling practice runs and double overtime.

“wouldn’t miss it,” you’d murmur back, brushing a strand of hair out of your face before it got caught in his jacket when he leaned in.

on off days, you’d meet at quieter places—a ramen shop near the river where no one paid attention, or a convenience store at 11 p.m. with instant noodles and laughter echoing off vending machines.

you learned that he trained too hard and slept too little. that his days blurred into morning drills and late-night strategy reviews, protein shakes and aching joints. he never complained, but sometimes—just sometimes—he’d let his voice soften during your calls, the exhaustion slipping through like cracks in glass. and you’d listen, quietly, offering nothing but your presence and the occasional: “you’ve done enough today, shoyo.”

he learned you hated the fake PR relationship. that you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt whenever your team sent over a new headline pairing you with that actor. the one who barely knew anything about you. who didn’t know your favorite song, or how you hated the cold, or that you could never finish a drink without biting the straw until it was bent out of shape. hinata did. he noticed everything, quietly.

he wasn’t the jealous type, not really. not in the possessive way that made people petty or loud. but on nights when you called him after a red carpet event or a staged dinner with your so-called co-star, he’d scoff.

lightly. like it was nothing.

“looked cozy with him tonight,” he’d say, clearly not meaning it. but also clearly meaning something.

you’d roll your eyes. “we were both acting. that’s the point.”

“yeah, well,” he'd mutter, “maybe i should start showing up to premieres in a suit and pretend to be your bodyguard or something. see how he likes that.”

it made you laugh. always did. because hinata didn’t know how to be jealous in the normal way. he didn’t brood or sulk. he just... got quiet. thoughtful. like maybe he was wondering if the world would ever let you be his for real.

but he never asked you to stop. never made you choose. he just waited—trusting, steady—like someone who believed that whatever you were building together could survive the noise.

and every time you heard that soft scoff or the way he’d shift his voice, just a little sharper, a little less sunny, you wanted to say: it’s not real. he’s not you. he’ll never be you.

but instead you’d promise, “soon,” because that’s all you could offer in the quiet, secret space you and hinata had carved between the cameras. and for now, it was enough.

what surprised you most—though maybe it shouldn’t have—was that hinata wasn’t just patient. he was your biggest fan.

he made it his personal mission to collect every magazine cover you were on, even if it meant ducking into convenience stores in full hoodie-disguise, mask on, hoping no one would recognize japan’s star volleyball player clutching three copies of elle like they were limited edition.

he’d send you pictures, too—half blurry, always with a dumb grin on his face.

“guess who’s on aisle three again?” he’d text, along with a photo of your face next to some shampoo ad, and “i told the cashier i knew you. she didn’t believe me.”

he made a point to stop and stare (dramatically) at every billboard you were on, whether it was in shibuya crossing or a random subway station. once, he even asked a stranger to take a photo of him standing beneath one. arms crossed. chin tilted up.

you could see the pride in his smile, even through the screen.

“should’ve signed it for me,” he’d tease, and you could only laugh, cheeks warm with something heavier than affection—something that felt dangerously like love.

he didn’t treat your career like it was something intimidating or separate from him. he treated it like something to cheer for. something to be proud of. and in those moments, between your exhaustion and his training, you realized that hinata didn’t just see the version of you the world wanted—he saw all of you. and still, he stayed.

still, he smiled.

still, he bought every single magazine.

every cover you landed on, every spread you graced—hinata had it tucked somewhere in his apartment. he never made a big deal about it, but you’d catch glimpses: one stacked beside his bed, another on the coffee table, a few more carefully placed on a shelf like trophies he didn’t win but still celebrated.

your shared off-days were quiet rebellions against the lives you both led in public. no disguises, no handlers, no staged smiles. just dim lighting, takeout containers, and the kind of peace that only came when the world wasn’t watching.

his place was your favorite hideout. not because it was spacious (it wasn’t), or particularly tidy (it definitely wasn’t), but because it smelled like him—fabric softener and worn-in cotton and just a hint of sweat from training. real. grounding.

you’d spend hours doing absolutely nothing. tangled in his sheets or curled on his couch, limbs overlapping like it was second nature. his arm slung over your waist. your fingers tracing absentminded patterns across the ridges of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. breathing in sync, like you’d practiced this rhythm your whole life.

sometimes, the kisses started lazy. playful. you straddling him without meaning to, a knee on either side of his hips while you teased him about something he said, your face hovering just close enough to make him chase it. his hands would find your thighs like muscle memory, pulling you down gently until your bodies met in full.

and then it would shift—slow lips becoming deeper, hungrier. like every second spent apart had built up behind a dam now cracking under the weight of want. you kissed like you were trying to memorize each other all over again, mouths moving in sync, breaths coming faster, more uneven.

your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. his palms, warm and sure, pressed into the curve of your spine, pulling you closer until your bodies aligned, chest to chest, like puzzle pieces that just fit.

his hands slid beneath the oversized hoodie you were wearing—his, of course. they moved with purpose, calloused fingertips skimming over your bare skin, teasing the soft dip of your waist before finding the swell of your breast. he cupped you gently at first, thumbs brushing just enough to draw a breathy gasp from your lips.

the sound made him smirk into the kiss, all boyish mischief and quiet satisfaction, like he was proud of himself for getting that kind of reaction from you.

“so sensitive,” he murmured against your mouth, the words a soft tease, but his tone reverent—like he was discovering something precious and trying to take his time with it.

your hips shifted instinctively, grinding down into his lap, and he let out a low, shaky breath—eyes fluttering shut as if your weight alone could undo him. his hands tightened on your waist, holding you there like he never wanted you to move. like he wanted to feel every shiver of your body right against his.

the kiss deepened again, slower this time, but still just as urgent. it was the kind of kiss that made time blur, that made your stomach flutter and your fingers twitch with the need to feel more. you could feel the heat of him through the thin barrier of clothing between you, his breath coming faster whenever you shifted just right.

his hoodie—oversized on you—was pushed up halfway by his touch, and when his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts again, you arched into him with a soft, broken sound that had him smiling into the kiss.

“you’re trouble,” he whispered, voice roughened by want, his lips ghosting along your jaw, down your neck, where he lingered just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. “you know that?”

you mumbled something in response, too breathless to be coherent, threading your fingers through his hair again and tugging lightly—because you knew how much he liked that. and he did, a quiet groan escaping him as he pulled you closer, letting you feel just how hard it was for him to stay patient.

but you two never let it go too far. not all the way. there was a kind of tenderness in your restraint—a quiet agreement between the two of you. this wasn’t just about need. it was about trust, about the slow, magnetic pull between two people who wanted everything but weren’t in a rush to take it all at once.

still, there were moments—lazy, drawn-out nights in his apartment or yours—where your hands would wander a little more boldly. where the kisses would trail lower. where you’d end up tangled in his sheets, soft moans filling the dim light between mouthfuls of laughter and whispered promises.

and sometimes, when the tension built too high and the ache was too much to ignore, he’d take his time with you—slow, unhurried, and focused like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. and maybe in those moments, you were.

you’d sink into the couch, already breathless just from the look he gave you. and he’d kneel between your thighs, hands steady and eyes locked to yours as if asking, again, silently, for permission. and when you nodded, or whispered his name, it was like flipping a switch.

because hinata could eat like a man starved.

his mouth was reverent, like he was worshiping more than just your body. he listened to every gasp, every soft cry, adjusting his pace, his pressure, until you were arching against his tongue, one hand gripping his hair, the other over your mouth to muffle the kind of sounds the neighbors definitely didn’t need to hear.

and when he finally pulled back, lips slick and eyes heavy-lidded with pride and affection, he’d always kiss your thigh, rest his cheek against it like it was the most natural thing in the world. and you'd laugh, breathless and dazed, brushing your fingers through his hair like you couldn’t quite believe how lucky you were.

those nights weren’t about release. they were about intimacy. trust. knowing someone would learn every part of you without rushing to take all of you.

and in that slow burn, in that secret, sacred space you shared—it always felt like enough.

but maybe the tension had already reached its peak the night you went to watch one of his games, still hidden beneath a hoodie and cap, tucked into the farthest seat you could find. you weren’t supposed to be there. no one knew. but you had to see him—not through a screen or a photo or someone else’s words. you needed to watch him move. to feel that electric pull in real time.

and something inside you always shifted whenever he played.

it wasn’t just the way he moved—though that was part of it. it was the way he pushed his body past its limits, the way his jaw set with determination, the way he called for the ball like he knew the whole court belonged to him. and yes, maybe the way his arms flexed after a spike or how his shirt clung to his back didn’t help the ache low in your stomach.

you were so wound up from watching him that when your phone buzzed, and it was his name lighting up the screen—“come to my room?”—you didn’t even hesitate.

you were already halfway there when you texted back, “on my way.”

his hotel room door opened just as you were about to knock, like he’d been standing there waiting. his hair was still damp from the post-game shower, and he was dressed in just a loose shirt and sweats—but his eyes lit up the moment he saw you.

“you came,” he said, voice a little hoarse.

“you called,” you replied simply, stepping inside, heart pounding, heat still coiled tight in your chest from watching him earlier.

the moment the door shut behind you, it was like the space between you snapped. he didn’t waste time with small talk—just reached for you, tugged you forward, and kissed you like he needed it as badly as you did.

and you kissed him back like you’d been holding it in all night.

your back hit the wall before you even realized he was walking you there—his hands gripping your waist, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like it could anchor you through the rush of it all. his lips never left yours, moving with a hunger that had been simmering under the surface for far too long.

he kissed like he was trying to make up for every second you’d spent apart. like the crowd, the court, the noise—all of it faded the second you walked through that door.

his body pressed flush against yours, one knee sliding between your legs, widening your stance. and then his hands—hot and sure—moved under the hem of your hoodie, finding bare skin and dragging a gasp from your throat.

you moaned into his mouth, and he smiled against your lips, a low sound of satisfaction rumbling from his chest.

“missed you,” he breathed between kisses, and you could barely answer, too busy chasing the next touch, the next kiss, the next place his hands would go.

he pressed you harder into the wall like he couldn’t stand the distance between your bodies—not even an inch. not now.

not after tonight.

"baby, tell me you want this. i don't think i can hold back anymore," he said, voice low and frayed at the edges, each word pressed into your skin like a confession.

his mouth trailed down to your neck—slow, deliberate—until he found that spot, the one he knew too well. the one that always made you shiver, no matter how many times he found it.

he lingered there, lips brushing over it once, then again, just to feel the way your body reacted, the way your breath caught, the way your hands clutched tighter at his shoulders.

“right here, huh?” he murmured against your skin, the smile in his voice unmistakable. he sucked, just a little—just enough to make your knees wobble and your head fall back against the wall with a soft whimper.

you weren’t sure what gave you away first: the way your hips tilted toward him like gravity had shifted, or the way your hands were already under his shirt, dragging it up, desperate for more skin.

“yes, shoyo. please,” you moaned—soft, breathy, and unguarded.

his breath hitched at the sound, like it struck something deep inside him. your voice—like that—was a kind of possession. one no crowd, no camera, no spotlight could ever compete with. it was his, and his alone.

“you have no idea what that does to me,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours for a second, as if grounding himself. and then his lips were back on yours—slower this time, but deeper. every kiss full of something he didn’t always know how to say out loud.

his hands were on the hem of your shirt, pausing, eyes flicking up to meet yours—checking, asking without a word. you gave him a nod, barely more than a breath, but it was all he needed.

in one fluid motion, your shirt was peeled away, tossed to the floor without a second thought. his hands were reverent—warm, calloused from endless hours of practice, but gentle as they skimmed over the bare skin now exposed to him.

your pants followed shortly after, unbuttoned with trembling fingers and slipped down your legs, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. they were flung carelessly across the room, a forgotten casualty in the urgency that pulsed between you.

“god, you’re…” his voice trailed off as his gaze dragged over every inch of you. there was awe there. hunger, too—but not the kind that rushed. this was slower. deeper. like he wanted to savor you.

he leaned in again, pressing kisses from your collarbone to your sternum, then lower, each one leaving a trail of warmth and intent. “been thinking about this since the moment you walked into the stadium,” he murmured, lips brushing the skin just above your bra. “you drive me insane, you know that?”

you let out a small squeak when hinata suddenly lifted you with ease, strong hands gripping the underside of your thighs, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. his mouth was back on yours before your back even hit the mattress—hot, urgent, tasting of everything you’d both held back until now.

his weight hovered just enough not to crush you, but you could feel every inch of him, feel the way his restraint was fraying with every second.

your hands found his shoulders, dragging down the smooth, toned lines of his back as you gasped against his lips, “shōyō… take off your shirt too.”

he pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, chest rising and falling with sharp, shallow breaths. “yeah?” he teased, voice low, fingers already reaching for the hem of his shirt. “been thinking about this, haven’t you?”

you only bit your lip in response, watching with wide, hungry eyes as he peeled it off in one motion—revealing the full view of his sculpted chest, the lines of muscle carved from years of training, the light sheen of sweat from the game still clinging to his skin.

“this what had you distracted the whole match?” he said, leaning closer, his nose brushing yours, that teasing grin back on his face. “because i saw you. front row. couldn’t even look away when i stretched, huh?”

you hated how right he was.

and he knew it—especially when your hands slid down his chest like you were confirming every part of it was real.

his lips found your neck again, mouth warm and relentless as he left a trail of small, possessive love bites. each one pressed into the sensitive skin with just enough pressure to make you whimper, to make you shift beneath him. you knew they’d darken into purple and red by morning—badges of something secret, something sacred—and the thought made your breath hitch.

his hands slid around your back with practiced ease, fingers finding the clasp of your bra and undoing it in one smooth motion. you barely registered the sound of it being flung somewhere behind you, too focused on the way his eyes dropped, hungry and reverent all at once.

the chill of the hotel room kissed your skin, and your nipples perked up from the sudden cold—but before you could shiver, his warm palms were already there, cupping your breasts with a tenderness that made your breath catch. his thumbs brushed softly over the peaks, slow and purposeful, and the contrast of his touch against your cooled skin made your back arch almost instinctively.

he chuckled, low and warm, his breath ghosting over your collarbone. “so sensitive, baby,” he murmured, like he was committing every sound you made to memory.

his mouth dipped lower again, this time latching onto one nipple, tongue flicking in slow, teasing circles while his fingers rolled the other between his fingertips. you whimpered, hips bucking lightly beneath him, needing more—needing him.

“you always get like this for me,” he said, pulling away just long enough to whisper the words directly into your skin, “so perfect, so responsive.”

his lips latched onto your other nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently—giving it the same slow, thorough attention while his free hand traced hot trails down your body. the pads of his fingers danced along your stomach, pausing just briefly at the waistband of your underwear before slipping beneath.

he didn’t rush. he touched you like he had all night—like he wanted to memorize every reaction.

his fingers found your clit, and he started slow, dragging them up and down with the lightest pressure, teasing, testing. your hips jerked at the contact, breath catching in your throat as he began to circle, gradually adding just enough pressure to make your thighs tense around him.

“s-shoyo. ngh,” you moaned, your voice shaky, almost pleading. “it feels so good…”

he hummed against your chest, clearly pleased by every sound that escaped your lips.

“yeah? already this wet for me, baby?” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. his fingers moved in slow, deliberate circles over your clit, then dipped down to gather more of your slickness before returning, dragging out every wave of sensitivity. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

then, without warning, one finger slid inside of you—slow but sure—stretching you just enough to make your back arch off the bed, a sharp gasp catching in your throat.

“sh-shoyo—” you breathed, hips pushing forward instinctively.

his lips never left your skin, still trailing across your chest—kissing, sucking, his tongue flicking over your nipple with slow, deliberate devotion. every movement was purposeful, almost reverent. he touched you like you were sacred—like he needed to memorize the taste of your skin, the way your body reacted to him, every breathless sound he pulled from your lips.

then, he added another finger—sliding in beside the first, curling just right. your hips jolted as another moan escaped you, raw and needy. and when a third joined, moving in rhythm, his palm grinding softly against your clit, you swore you could’ve come undone right then. just from his fingers. just from his mouth on your chest.

“gonna cum, baby?” he asked, voice low and thick, his lips now hovering over yours.

you nodded quickly, almost desperate—but he pulled back just an inch, teasing.

“i want words, baby. tell me.”

“yes—ugh, shoyo—please, i’m gonna cum,” you gasped, barely holding it in.

that was all it took for him to smile, all soft and satisfied, before kissing you again—deep, consuming, like he wanted to feel your pleasure through your mouth.

and then it hit—your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, white-hot and blinding. your body arched, back lifting from the sheets, thighs trembling around his hand. for a moment, everything blurred, all thought wiped away by the intensity of it. all you could see were stars behind your closed eyes.

then, gently, his hand moved up to your cheek, brushing back a few damp strands of hair. his thumb caressed your skin, grounding you, coaxing you back into your body.

“you did so good,” he murmured, voice soft but thick with heat. his eyes were locked on yours, gaze heavy with something deeper—affection, need, pride. “my good girl.”

he pressed a kiss to your lips, slow and reassuring. but when he pulled back, the smirk that curved his mouth told you everything.

“but we’re not done yet.”

true to his words, hinata pulled you toward the edge of the bed, his hands firm but gentle as he guided you exactly where he wanted you. he dropped to his knees before you, eyes dark with hunger as they swept over your body—bare, flushed, and still trembling from your last orgasm.

your soaked panties were peeled off slowly, almost teasingly, before being tossed aside to join the scattered pile of clothes on the floor.

you were completely bare now. exposed. vulnerable. wanted.

his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them with ease, and he looked up at you like you were the only thing that existed.

“all mine,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “so fucking beautiful.”

then he leaned in.

his tongue met your folds with no hesitation—lapping you up like he’d been craving you for days. it was messy, intense, almost greedy. he flattened his tongue against your clit, dragging slow, deliberate strokes before switching to firm, rhythmic suction that made your hips jerk and a strangled moan catch in your throat.

“fuck—shoyo,” you gasped, hand flying to his hair, fingers curling tight as he buried himself deeper.

hinata always ate you out like this. like he worshipped the taste of you. like your body was something sacred and he was the only one allowed to kneel before it. each lick, each suck, each flick of his tongue was laced with the kind of hunger that left your legs shaking around his head.

he moaned against you—low and guttural—the vibration making your toes curl. he thrived on the way you trembled, on the way your thighs tried to clamp shut around his face. and he didn’t stop. not when you cried out, not when your hips bucked up against his mouth. in fact, he gripped your thighs tighter, holding you open like a man on a mission.

“so fucking sweet,” he murmured between strokes, “you were made for this.”

your hands moved instinctively, cupping your breasts and squeezing, thumbing over your own nipples in desperate search of more friction—more of everything. and hinata looked up just long enough to see you like that—head thrown back, lips parted, hands on your chest as your body begged for more.

god, he nearly lost it right there.

“fuck—baby,” he groaned, voice rough with want, “you’re gonna make me cum just watching you touch yourself like that.”

but he didn’t stop. if anything, it spurred him on—his mouth working even faster, tongue flicking and circling your clit with purpose. his grip on your thighs tightened, dragging you impossibly closer to the edge of the bed, like he needed to be closer, like he’d crawl inside you if he could.

every moan you let out, every tremble in your legs, was feeding something wild in him. it lit him up from the inside, drove him deeper into you with an intensity that felt almost primal. he wasn’t stopping—not until you were unraveling again, trembling and wrecked, completely his.

“sho—i’m coming,” you gasped, voice breaking on the edge of a cry.

hinata looked up briefly, his eyes dark and full of hunger, lips glistening with your slick. “go on, baby,” he said, voice low and rough, like gravel and heat. “cum for me. i want it—need it.”

and with that, his mouth was back on you, sucking and licking like he knew every spot that made you come undone. it didn’t take long—your second orgasm slammed into you like a jolt of lightning, thighs tightening around his head, body convulsing under the weight of your release. your hands gripped the sheets, breath catching in your throat as the pleasure surged through you.

he didn’t stop until your legs were trembling, twitching from overstimulation, and your breath came in broken gasps. only then did he slow, tongue now soft and lazy, his lips trailing reverent kisses along your inner thighs—like he was thanking you for letting him worship you.

hinata rose from between your legs, crawling back up your body. his hands smoothed over your sides, warm and grounding, gently coaxing you back to earth. he pressed his lips to your shoulder, then your collarbone, each kiss a soft anchor.

“still want to continue?” he murmured between kisses, voice low, tender—but laced with heat.

his eyes searched yours, fingers still drawing slow, soothing circles on your hips, grounding you in the moment. there was no rush in him now—just heat, reverence, and something deeper.

“of course,” you whispered, voice a little hoarse from all the moaning, but filled with certainty. your hand came up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing just beneath his eye. he leaned into your touch instantly, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, as if grounding himself in you.

“my girl,” he breathed, so softly it was almost a prayer, before he kissed your palm, then your lips again—slower this time, but no less hungry.

with gentle care, hinata shifted beside you, adjusting your position so you were lying comfortably against the pillows. he smoothed your hair back from your face and tucked a pillow beneath your lower back, like he knew exactly what your body needed after everything.

“there,” he murmured, voice still thick with affection and desire, “comfy?”

you nodded, heart fluttering as he kissed your forehead, then your jaw, then trailed lower again, as if starting all over—but this time, slower, deeper, more deliberate.

he wasn’t just taking his time now. he was savoring you.

your hand trailed slowly down his chest, fingertips brushing over his skin with intent. you felt the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch—every inch of him responding to you. your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats, tugging at the knot, and without hesitation, hinata helped you, quickly shimmying out of them, his boxers following right after.

your hand wrapped around his length, warm and pulsing in your grip. he hissed softly through his teeth, his hips twitching at your touch. he was big—thick and long, the veins along his shaft prominent beneath your fingers. the sight of him, paired with the heat radiating off his body, had your mouth watering and your core clenching in anticipation.

hinata’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as you stroked him slowly, your thumb grazing the bead of precum that had gathered at the tip.

“fuck,” he breathed, voice rough and low, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

your body was already responding to him again, the ache between your thighs growing deeper, wetter, as you imagined what it would feel like to have him inside you—stretching, filling, claiming. your legs shifted restlessly beneath him, need blooming hot and fast all over again.

“shoyo, can i suck?” you asked, voice soft, eyes wide and innocent—but laced with heat. hinata swore under his breath, jaw tightening at the sight of you like that, looking up at him so sweet and desperate.

he leaned down, brushing his nose against yours as he chuckled lowly. “not now, baby. maybe next time, yeah?”

you pouted, lips pushing out slightly, and it only made his cock twitch in your hand. but he just shook his head, pressing a kiss to your lips.

“i want to pleasure you,” he murmured, voice deep with intent, “tonight’s all about you.”

he kisses you again—slow and warm, with a hint of growing urgency—before pulling back just enough to reach toward the drawer beside the bed.

his brows furrowed a little as he rummaged through it. “shit,” he muttered under his breath, still searching.

you bit back a smile, watching him with a mix of amusement and affection. “can’t find it?”

“i swear i put one in here,” he grumbled, lifting and shuffling through random things—lip balm, a stray pen, an old receipt—everything but what he needed.

“it’s okay,” you said softly, resting a hand on his arm. “i’m on the pill.”

he paused, eyes flicking to yours, the heat in them momentarily eclipsed by something tender—concern.

“are you sure, baby?” his voice was low, careful, but laced with desire.

you nodded, your thumb brushing slow circles against his skin. “you don’t have to worry about going raw with me.”

his jaw flexed, clearly affected, and he leaned in to kiss you—slow, deep, reverent. when he pulled back, his voice was rough with restraint.

“fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

he pulls you closer, one hand gripping your hip as the other wraps around his cock. he drags the head through your folds, teasing your clit, smearing your slick over the tip and down his length. the sensation makes you gasp, hips twitching toward him.

“so wet already,” he groans, his voice low and shaky, “all for me, huh?”

he keeps rubbing the tip against you, slow and deliberate, letting the tension build. every little twitch in your thighs, every stuttered breath, was making him lose his mind.

“fuck, shoyo, stop teasing.”

your voice was breathless, almost whining, and it made him smirk—eyes dark with want.

“can’t help it,” he murmured, dragging the head of his cock over your entrance one more time, just to hear you gasp. “you’re too perfect like this. squirming for me.”

but then he leaned down, kissed you like he couldn’t bear to wait any longer—and he didn’t.

with one slow, steady push, he began to slide in, inch by inch, filling you completely.

he was big—thicker, longer than anyone you’d ever had—and your walls clung to him greedily, stretching around every inch. it burned in the best way, a slow, delicious ache that had your breath catching in your throat.

your eyes fluttered open as you pulled back from the kiss, gasping. instinctively, you looked down between you, where your bodies met—where his cock was slowly sinking deeper into you—and your stomach flipped at the sight. he wasn’t even all the way in, just halfway, but you already felt impossibly full.

“fuck,” you whispered, legs trembling, fingers digging into his shoulders. “shoyo, you’re… so big.”

he groaned, low and strained, watching every twitch in your face with hungry eyes. “you’re taking me so well, baby,” he murmured, leaning forward to kiss your cheek, your jaw, your neck. “so tight… feel so fucking good around me.”

you could feel your eyes roll to the back of your head the moment he finally bottomed out—every inch of him snug inside you, stretching you just right. your breath hitched, and your nails dug slightly into his back as you tried to ground yourself.

hinata paused there, buried to the hilt, his forehead resting against yours. he was breathing just as hard, holding himself still for you, his hands gripping your hips like a lifeline. his restraint was barely holding, his muscles trembling with it.

“you okay?” he whispered, voice rough and shaky.

you nodded, lips brushing his. “you can move now, shoyo. please.”

that was all he needed.

hinata moved with a hunger that had been simmering beneath the surface—now unleashed. his thrusts were deep and purposeful, hitting all the right spots with practiced ease. it was overwhelming in the best way, the drag and push of him inside you sending your mind spiraling.

he was feral, and you loved every second of it.

the way he gripped your thighs, the way his hips slammed against yours—it was like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t have enough of you. each thrust had your breath catching, your moans spilling freely into the air between you.

and god, the sounds—skin meeting skin, his low groans, your gasps—they could send you straight into cloud nine.

his name tumbled from your lips like a chant—shoyo, shoyo, shoyo—your nails digging into his back as he fucked you like he needed you to breathe. his pace was relentless, but not careless; he knew your body too well, chasing every twitch, every gasp, every tremble like it was a reward.

“look at you,” he gritted out, sweat dripping from his brow as he hovered over you, his thumb finding your clit and circling it just right. “taking me so fucking good.”

“fuck—look at that,” he growled, eyes glued to where your bodies met. his cock twitched deep inside you at the sight of your slick coating him, a creamy ring forming at the base. “you’re making such a mess on me, baby.”

his thrusts deepened, slow but punishing, each one pulling a gasp or moan from your lips. his thumb never let up on your clit, drawing tight circles that made your thighs tremble around his hips.

“feel that?” he groaned, pressing your hand down gently against your own lower belly, his eyes locked on yours, dark and wild with desire. “that’s me—so deep inside you.”

you could feel it—his cock, thick and pulsing, pressing against your insides from the inside out. the sensation made your breath hitch, made your body clench tight around him, earning a low, broken moan from his lips.

“fuck, baby… you’re so wet,” he muttered, hips rolling with deeper intent now, grinding into you as if he wanted to mold himself to every part of you. “can feel you dripping all over me.”

your body was burning, shaking with overstimulation and pleasure—but the way he moved, touched, and praised you only made the fire grow hotter.

“you gonna cum for me again?” he asked, thumb working your clit faster now. “wanna feel you fall apart on my cock.”

"yes shoyo, fuck, i'm cumming," you moaned.

hinata pulled out just slightly before slamming back in, his thrusts becoming more erratic, rougher, deeper—chasing both your highs like he needed it to breathe.

the only words you could form were broken chants of his name, over and over, like a prayer on your tongue—and he loved it. every sound you made pushed him closer to the edge.

hinata's eyes were wide in awe at the sight before him. you looked breathtaking—mouth open in bliss, chanting his name like it was the only word you knew, your tits bouncing with every deep thrust, decorated with the red and purple marks he'd left across your skin.

to him, you weren’t just beautiful. you were a goddess—divine, untouchable, and yet here you were, unraveling just for him.

he lets out a deep, guttural groan as he feels your walls clench tighter around him. you were so close—he could feel it in the way your body trembled, in the desperate way you held onto him. and fuck, so was he.

“come on, baby,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, breath shaky against your ear. “cum for me. i wanna feel you fall apart around me.”

his thrusts were deeper now, heavier—less rhythm, more need. the way you clenched around him, warm and tight, was making him unravel faster than he wanted to admit. but he held on, just long enough to get you there.

his thumb found your clit again, circling it with practiced pressure. your moans grew higher, breathier, body tensing beneath him. your hands clawed at his back, nails dragging down as the pleasure built and built until you couldn’t take it anymore.

you cried out his name, voice breaking, back arching off the mattress as your orgasm slammed into you like a wave. your whole body shook with it—legs trembling, walls fluttering around him so tightly he almost saw stars.

“that’s it,” he groaned, watching you fall apart completely. “just like that, baby. fuck—”

the way you squeezed him, so wet, so perfect, pushed him right over the edge. with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken moan, spilling inside you. his hips stilled, trembling slightly, chest heaving as he pressed his forehead against yours.

you both stayed like that for a moment, breath mingling, skin hot and slick with sweat, hearts pounding in sync.

“fuck… you’re perfect,” he murmured again, softer this time, almost reverent. his arms wrapped around you protectively, pulling you into his chest like you were something fragile and precious.

your fingers found his hair, running through it gently, grounding both of you. and for a few quiet seconds, the world disappeared—just him, just you, tangled in warmth and something deeper than either of you could name.

hinata leans in, breath still heavy, and begins peppering your face with soft kisses—your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, anywhere his lips could reach. between each kiss, he mumbled in that warm, husky voice, “good girl… so good for me… fuck, you’re amazing…”

his fingers gently ran up and down your sides, grounding you as your body slowly came down from the high. you were still shaking slightly, but his touch was tender, soothing. each press of his lips felt like reassurance, like he couldn’t get enough of you—not just the sex, but you.

“you did so good,” he whispered again, eyes soft as they met yours. “you’re everything.”

he pulled you closer into his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. his hand rubbed your back in slow, lazy circles while he continued to kiss your hairline.

of course, it didn’t stop with just one round.

the two of you were insatiable—drunk on each other, on every touch, every kiss, every moan that fell between tangled sheets. it was like something had snapped the moment he first slid into you, and now, neither of you could stop. time blurred, and the only thing that mattered was the way you felt in his arms, how perfectly your bodies moved together.

at one point, you were straddling him, thighs shaking but determined, riding his cock at your own rhythm. hinata laid beneath you, flushed and panting, his eyes dark with lust and adoration. his hands roamed your waist, guiding your movements as his mouth latched onto your breasts—kissing, licking, sucking like he couldn't get enough. he moaned against your skin every time you sank down fully, the wet drag of your bodies moving together making you both shudder.

"just like that, baby… ride me," he whispered, voice hoarse, lips brushing against your nipple. your name tumbled from his lips like a prayer, like you were something divine—something to be worshipped.

but he needed more.

he flipped you over with ease, manhandling you like you weighed nothing. the next thing you knew, you were on your knees, face down in the pillows, your ass raised high for him. he knelt behind you, hands spreading your cheeks as he watched his cock slide back into you with ease, slick from everything you’d already shared. the angle had you seeing stars instantly, your cries muffled in the sheets.

"fuck, look at this pussy... taking me so good," he groaned, leaning forward to press his chest against your back, his hand wrapping around both your wrists and pinning them behind you. you felt so exposed, so completely at his mercy—and you loved it.

his free hand found your hip, pulling you back into him with every thrust, and then—

smack.

his palm came down on your ass, the sting blooming across your skin and making you clench around him. he grunted, losing himself a little more every time your body reacted like that.

your mind was a haze of heat and pleasure, completely undone. words stopped making sense. all you could manage were broken, breathless moans and endless chants of his name.

you had no idea how many times you'd come—three? five? more?—but every time you thought you couldn’t take anymore, hinata gave you another reason to fall apart.

he never once let you go untouched. his lips, his hands, his voice—they were all over you. his mouth kissed your spine, your shoulders, your neck. he kept whispering filthy praise, calling you his good girl, his perfect baby, his everything.

"you’re so fucking pretty when you fall apart for me," he breathed, fingers digging into your waist. "so tight—so wet. fuck, i can’t get enough."

your legs trembled, body slick with sweat, sheets tangled around your limbs—but still, you wanted more. and so did he.

and long into the night, even when your body was too spent to move, he’d still be touching you, still be pressing kisses to your skin, still making you feel wanted, worshipped—completely his.

because this wasn’t just about sex.

it was about you. and for hinata, that was everything.

you thought you were done.

your bodies were sore, your legs barely steady, and your throats hoarse from the moaning, the whispering, the breathless gasps that filled every corner of the room. the sheets were a mess—damp and tangled, the air heavy with heat and the scent of shared pleasure. both of you were exhausted, limbs tangled together as your chests rose and fell in sync, basking in the quiet aftermath.

but hinata wasn’t quite finished.

"come on," he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to your temple as he stood. "we need a shower."

you groaned, muscles aching, but followed him into the bathroom, your hand resting in his like it belonged there. warm water began to cascade down, steam rising around you both as you stepped in together. he pulled you close beneath the stream, hands gliding over your skin with tender intent, washing away the sweat and evidence of everything you'd shared—at least, on the surface.

his fingers lingered a little too long. his gaze roamed, a spark reigniting behind those warm brown eyes. his touch shifted from gentle to teasing—thumb brushing over your nipple, hands sliding down the curve of your waist, his body pressing against yours from behind.

"i know we should stop," he whispered against your ear, his breath hot, "but you feel too good… i can't help it."

before you could answer, he was inside you again—slow, deep, the water masking your gasp as your hand gripped the slick wall for balance. you were already so full from the night, overstimulated and tender, but that only made every thrust feel more intense. every inch of him hit home, coaxing another wave of pleasure from a body that didn’t know it could take more.

"shoyo—" you whimpered, your voice trembling, but he only shushed you with a kiss to your shoulder, his pace steady, deliberate.

"just one more," he promised. “wanna feel you like this. warm, wet… mine.”

the water dripped down your bodies, slicking your skin as your back arched into him. he held you tight—one hand on your waist, the other slipping between your legs again, determined to wring out one last climax from you. and when you came, trembling under his touch, your name a breathless whisper on his lips, he followed not long after, burying himself deep with a groan of your name.

you leaned back into his chest, heart racing, your body humming with aftershocks.

and this time, when he washed you gently, carefully, whispering soft “thank yous” and “i love yous” between kisses, you knew—for sure—you weren’t just full of him.

you were full of something deeper. something lasting. something real.

you woke up the next morning feeling sore in places you didn’t even know could ache. every little movement reminded you of the night before—of his hands gripping your hips, his mouth trailing heat down your skin, the way your bodies moved together again and again until you both lost count.

but the ache was worth it.

you turned your head and smiled softly at the sight beside you—hinata, fast asleep, hair tousled and lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. his body bore the evidence of everything you gave him. faint red scratches down his back, purpling love bites along his collarbone and shoulders—your marks, painted proudly on his skin.

he looked peaceful, completely undone, and yet, wholly yours.

you reached out and gently traced a finger down one of the marks on his side, careful not to wake him. he stirred a little, brow twitching, but didn’t open his eyes—just moved closer, as if even in sleep, he needed to be near you.

your heart swelled.

yeah, you were sore. but if this was the price for being loved by him—touched, marked, and held like that—it was worth every single bruise, every ache, every breathless moment.

and you’d do it all over again.

you reached over to the bedside table, grabbing your phone with a quiet click of the screen. the morning light filtered perfectly through the curtains, casting a soft golden hue across the room. it was calm, warm—the kind of stillness that made everything feel dreamlike.

slipping on hinata’s hoodie, the fabric smelled like him—clean sweat, a hint of his shampoo, and something distinctly him. it was oversized on you, falling mid-thigh and completely swallowing your frame. the warmth of it soothed your sore muscles, a comforting reminder of last night.

you padded across the room toward the mirror, tucking strands of messy hair behind your ear. something about the glow in the room and the way the hoodie fell just right made you pause. you lifted your phone, angled it slightly, and snapped a mirror selfie.

it was casual, almost innocent at a glance—hoodie-wrapped, bare legs, no makeup, just soft morning light on bare skin. but if someone looked closer, really looked, they might notice the faint silhouette behind you. hinata’s muscular back, the curve of his shoulders half-covered by the sheets, was just barely visible in the corner of the frame. not enough to be obvious—just enough to hint.

you posted it anyway. no caption, just the image.

you laid back down on the bed, the soft mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight as you turned to face him. hinata was still asleep, his breaths slow and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed you instantly.

the golden morning light streamed lazily through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room—and across him. it kissed his skin in the most delicate way, highlighting every dip and curve of his toned body. the tan of his skin looked impossibly rich in this light, glowing like sun-warmed bronze.

hinata’s eyes slowly fluttered open, adjusting to the soft golden light filtering through the curtains. it took him a second to focus, but the moment he saw you—curled beside him, wearing his hoodie, your hair a little messy and your lips curved in a sleepy smile—his heart felt like it might burst.

a soft, warm smile spread across his face as he reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“good morning, baby,” he murmured, his voice still raspy from sleep.

he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth waking up to. his thumb brushed gently across your cheekbone, his touch lazy, affectionate. “you look so pretty right now,” he added, voice low, like he didn’t want to break the calm.

you leaned into his touch, your nose brushing against his. “you’re not so bad yourself,” you teased, and he chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners.

his arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close until your foreheads touched. “how are you feeling?” he asked, his tone more serious, concern hidden beneath the warmth in his voice.

“sore,” you admitted, with a grin. “but worth it.”

hinata let out a low laugh and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “i went a little crazy, huh?”

you shrugged, playful. “you were just passionate.”

his grin widened. “and you were perfect.”

his hands slid down to your thighs, warm and familiar, fingers tracing soft circles against your skin. slowly, deliberately, they inched higher, slipping beneath the oversized hoodie you wore—his hoodie. his touch was gentle, teasing, but purposeful.

“shoyo,” you whined, shifting slightly under his hand, “stop... i’m still sore.”

he paused, eyes flicking up to meet yours, a crooked smile forming on his lips. “sorry,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. “can’t help it. you’re just too pretty like this.”

his fingers rested just at the edge of your folds, not pressing further—just staying there, tempting. he leaned in, brushing his lips along your jaw, then your neck, slow and unhurried.

“i won’t do anything,” he whispered, voice low and soft. “just touching... promise.”

you rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop the way your breath hitched when his thumb gently caressed the inside of your thigh, the sensation light but electric. he was taking his time, just enjoying the way your body responded to his touch—even in your sore, sensitive state.

“you’re insatiable,” you mumbled, barely suppressing a small gasp.

“only with you,” he said, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, grinning against your skin. “besides... we don’t have to do anything. i just wanna feel you.”

his fingers traced the delicate curve of your folds, barely touching, just enough to make you shiver. the teasing motion sent a spark straight through your core, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that slipped past your lips.

“shoyo…” you breathed, your voice already tinged with need despite the soreness lingering in your body.

he grinned against your skin, lips ghosting over your neck as he murmured, “mm, hear that? you’re already getting wet for me again.”

his fingers moved a little more deliberately now—slow, featherlight strokes that made your thighs twitch and your breath hitch. the hoodie you wore suddenly felt too warm, too heavy, as heat bloomed between your legs.

you buried your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the way your cheeks burned. “you’re unbelievable,” you whispered, hips tilting just barely into his touch, betraying your own resistance.

“i could say the same about you,” he chuckled, fingers now slick with your arousal. “still sore, but your body’s already begging for more.”

his free hand slid up your back, holding you close while the other toyed with you—slow, careful circles that had your stomach tightening all over again. it was maddening, how easily he could unravel you even in the quiet, golden light of morning.

“just a little more,” he whispered. “let me make you feel good again.”

hinata was insatiable, and despite the soreness still lingering in your muscles, you found yourself on top of him once again. his hoodie was now discarded and crumpled beside the bed, long forgotten in the heat that bloomed between your bodies.

your thighs trembled slightly as you straddled him, but his hands on your hips steadied you—warm, firm, possessive. his mouth was latched onto your nipple, tongue flicking and lips sucking greedily, like he couldn’t get enough of you. soft whines and gasps spilled from your mouth as his teeth grazed your sensitive skin, leaving faint love bites in his wake.

“you drive me crazy,” he murmured against your chest, voice husky, breath warm.

you began to roll your hips slowly, your slick folds gliding over him, teasing him both with friction and restraint. he groaned, his head tipping back against the pillow, the veins on his neck straining as he fought to hold himself back.

your hands splayed over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palms, and you smiled—half dazed, half wicked—as you sank down on him again.

his cock filled you deeply, stretching you open all over again, and your moan echoed his own. your pace started slow, deliberate, savoring every inch as your walls clenched around him.

“fuck—just like that,” he gritted out, hands tightening on your waist as you bounced on his cock, the wet sound of skin against skin filling the room.

every movement made your breasts bounce, and he couldn’t help but sit up, wrapping his arms around you, mouth finding your chest again as if he’d been starved for it.

“you’re so perfect like this,” he murmured between kisses. “riding me like you were made for it.”

and in that moment, with the sunlight casting a golden glow across your bare skin and his name tumbling from your lips like a prayer, it was impossible to disagree. every thrust, every moan, every desperate kiss he pressed to your collarbone made you feel like the center of his world—and you basked in it, drowning in the overwhelming pleasure only he could pull from you.

of course, hinata didn’t stop until he’d wrung two more orgasms from you—each one more intense than the last. your body trembled, overstimulated and utterly spent, but he held you through it, whispering soft praise and brushing sweaty strands of hair from your face.

“that’s it, baby… you’re amazing,” he murmured, voice rough but tender as he kissed your temple.

by the time he pulled the blankets over both of you, tucking you into his chest, you were already slipping back into sleep. your breathing slowed, your limbs heavy and warm, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

he held you close, one arm wrapped protectively around your waist, his lips resting against your forehead as the morning quiet settled around you both.

when you woke up again you felt the other side of the bed empty.

"he probably went to the gym."

your guess was spot on the moment you saw the instagram notification pop up on your screen: shoyo_hinata just posted a photo.

curious, you opened it—only to nearly choke on your own breath. it was a picture of his back, shirtless, his toned muscles on full display and unmistakably covered in fresh scratch marks. red, raw, and clearly recent. and the caption? just a smirking emoji and a volleyball. classic hinata. subtle, but not really.

your own post from earlier—taken just an hour before—was now blowing up too. the mirror selfie you’d casually posted in his hoodie, his faint silhouette in the background, had fans in full detective mode. and they were ruthless.

your notifications were in chaos.

@spikemyheart: OH MY GOD IS THAT HINATA IN THE BACK??? @liberoinmydreams: wait the scratch marks on his post… YOU DID THAT??? @sweatyforthevballboys: y’all are literally feral i’m not even mad @kneesforhinata: this is so nsfw and i LOVE IT @softservequeen: you’re sore aren’t you. blink twice if you need electrolytes 💀

later that afternoon, hinata came back to the hotel room, still a little damp from the post-training shower he’d taken at the venue, his bag slung over his shoulder and a smug grin playing on his lips.

he dropped the bag by the door, immediately walking over to where you were lounging on the bed, scrolling through your phone—still trying to recover from the wild fan theories flooding your dms and comments.

“so…” he started, plopping down beside you and tugging you close until you were tucked against his chest. “guess the internet had a little meltdown today, huh?”

you groaned, hiding your face against his neck. “don’t even start. some people are already making tiktoks syncing the posts with timestamps and analyzing the lighting.”

hinata chuckled, low and satisfied. “well… serves them right. we were subtle. kinda.”

you looked up at him with narrowed eyes. “subtle? you posted your back covered in scratches like you just survived a bear attack.”

he shrugged, clearly unbothered. “what? it’s art.”

then he tilted his head slightly, grin turning mischievous. “but hey…” he leaned in, brushing his lips just shy of your ear. “you think they’re still gonna link you with that actor now?”

you stiffened, pulling back to stare at him. “shoyo—”

he laughed, fully amused at your expression. “what? just saying. guess they know exactly who made those marks now, huh?”

you smacked his shoulder lightly, cheeks burning. “you’re impossible.”

“mmh. maybe. but at least now they know you’re mine.” he said it so easily, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

as if on cue, your phone buzzed in your hand, screen lighting up with a message from your pr team:

[urgent – need you at the office asap. call when you’re en route.]

you stared at it for a moment, dread pooling in your stomach. hinata glanced down at your expression, then raised a brow. “bad timing?”

you sighed, sitting up slowly and tossing your phone onto the bed with a groan. “it’s my pr team. i think they saw the posts.”

he leaned back on his hands, clearly not surprised. “oh, now they noticed?”

you shot him a look. “they’re probably trying to figure out how to spin this before it explodes more than it already has.”

hinata just grinned, watching you pull his hoodie back on. “want me to say i scratched myself in my sleep?”

you blinked at him, deadpan. “please never say that in front of my publicist.”

he chuckled, standing up and helping you gather your things, stealing a kiss here and there as you tried to get dressed. “don’t stress, babe. worst case, we just tell them the truth.”

“that i spent the weekend getting railed by japan’s volleyball star?”

“well…” he smirked, leaning in to kiss your neck. “worked out pretty great for both our engagement, didn’t it?”

you shook your head, unable to fight your smile as you grabbed your phone again. chaos or not, the internet could wait. but your publicist definitely couldn’t.

you sat inside the sleek glass-walled conference room of your agency’s office, dressed in a hoodie you borrowed (stole) from hinata’s suitcase and a pair of oversized sunglasses to shield your face from curious stares. despite the casual outfit, the room was filled with an unmistakable energy. your manager, two assistants, and even someone from the PR team were all seated across the table — and right next to you was hinata, legs sprawled, hand casually resting on your thigh under the table like this wasn’t the most high-stakes meeting of your month.

you felt slightly overwhelmed, if not dazed, from the sudden turn your morning had taken. not even an hour ago, you were in bed, your hair still damp from a too-long shower turned… something else. now you were staring at a stack of documents and your manager practically vibrating with excitement.

“okay, i’m just going to say it,” your manager started, slapping a stack of printouts on the table. “this is insane — and i mean that in the best way possible.”

you raised a brow. “what is?”

“you. hinata. the photo. both of your photos. the internet basically exploded.” she turned a few pages, revealing printed-out screenshots of social media reactions. “you broke the algorithm.”

hinata leaned in, amused, as your manager continued. “people figured it out immediately. ‘oh my god, is that hinata’s back?’ ‘are those her nails on his shoulder?’ and don’t get me started on the slow-motion analysis videos on tiktok.”

you felt heat rise to your cheeks. “they’re analyzing the nails?”

“yes,” one of the assistants chimed in. “there’s already a fan account documenting your ‘secret soft launch’ relationship timeline.”

hinata chuckled beside you. “i told you they’d figure it out. you think they’re still gonna link you with that actor guy now?”

you shot him a side glance. “i forgot about him.”

“your pr team didn’t,” said the woman from PR, adjusting her glasses. “but don’t worry. that ship has officially sailed. now, onto the real news…”

she pulled up a presentation on her laptop and turned it toward you. “endorsements. projects. appearances. not just for you individually — but together. turns out, everyone wants a piece of the ‘it couple.’”

you stared at the screen in disbelief. makeup brands, fashion lines, travel companies, even a luxury watch brand — all with interest in pairing you and hinata together for campaigns. one of them was a magazine shoot titled undeniable chemistry. another was a high-profile drama offer for a couple-centric storyline, with an optional steamy twist if “the actors are comfortable.”

hinata whistled under his breath. “we’re gonna be busy.”

your manager grinned. “if you say yes to even half of these, you’re set for the year.”

you leaned back in your chair, overwhelmed but not entirely displeased. the idea of working so closely with hinata was… distracting in a way that made your stomach flutter. he must’ve sensed it, because his thumb gently rubbed slow circles on your thigh under the table.

“so,” your manager asked, eyes expectant. “do we want to ride the wave?”

hinata answered before you could. “yeah. we’re in.”

you looked at him, wide-eyed. “you’re just going to agree to everything?”

“not everything,” he said, smirking. “but the stuff with you? absolutely.”

you tried to play it cool, but the way his voice dipped lower at the end made something in you stir. you crossed your legs, subtly pressing them together.

“fine,” you said, clearing your throat. “we’ll look through the offers.”

“great,” the PR rep said. “oh, and… try to keep it PG for a bit. at least until the magazine cover drops.”

hinata gave a lazy shrug. “no promises.”

you groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “this is going to be a lot.”

“maybe,” hinata said, grinning at you sideways. “but at least it’ll be fun.”

and deep down, even with your nerves tangled and your heart racing, you knew he was right.

you eventually left the meeting with a folder full of contracts, a dozen potential collaborations swirling in your head, and hinata’s hand still comfortably entwined with yours. the hallway buzzed with agency staff and interns sneaking glances, whispering to each other, probably already texting their friends about seeing you two together in person.

as the elevator doors closed, hinata leaned against the mirrored wall, watching you with that lazy, satisfied smile.

“you good?” he asked, voice softer now that it was just the two of you.

you looked down at your reflection, then up at his. “i don’t know. i think so? it’s a lot. but also kind of… exciting.”

he tilted his head. “scary?”

“a little,” you admitted.

hinata reached out, brushing your hair behind your ear. “well, don’t worry. we’ll figure it out.”

“you sure about that?”

he leaned in, lips ghosting over your jaw. “you’re stuck with me now. might as well enjoy it.”

you laughed under your breath, eyes fluttering shut for just a second, letting the moment settle. the doors opened with a soft ding, and the sunlight poured in once more, casting that same golden glow that started this whole thing.

you stepped out together — not just into the lobby, not just into a brand-new set of projects and headlines — but into something that felt, for once, completely right.

you didn’t look back.

[yukkiji]

sticky notes and bento boxes

a quiet morning of bento-making turns tender when your daughter calls sugawara papa for the first time, and suddenly, it all feels like home.

crayon colored days. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. sugawara koshi x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, timeskip!sugawara, single mom!reader, found family, domestic fluff

wc: 1k

the first thing you register is the smell.

something warm. miso and dashi, maybe. a faint undercurrent of grilled fish. but there’s also… something sweet? soy sauce caramelizing on something thin and delicate. tamagoyaki, probably.

the second thing is the laughter.

light. bubbling. familiar in a way your bones recognize before your brain does. it’s the kind of sound that makes a house feel like a home.

you stir slowly beneath the sheets, sunlight soft against your cheek through the slightly parted curtains. the bed beside you is empty, the blankets tousled and warm from someone who woke earlier than you. not cold—but lived in. like someone had kissed your forehead before slipping out.

you listen, smile tugging at your lips, and stretch lazily. there’s a lull in the giggles, followed by:

“do you think mama will like the kitty sausage or the flower one?”

your daughter’s voice is filled with such focus, you’d think she was preparing a bento for the emperor himself.

“hmm,” comes the reply—smoother, older, and undeniably sugawara’s—“let’s go with the kitty. flowers are so last season.”

she gasps. “nuh-uh!”

you chuckle softly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you slip your feet into slippers and shuffle toward the kitchen.

and there he is.

sugawara koushi, in all his sleepy, domestic glory. wearing flannel pajama pants and a soft grey shirt with a towel slung over his shoulder like he’s been doing this for decades. an apron wraps around his waist—light blue, with little embroidered strawberries—and his silver hair is sticking up in the back, a clear result of towel-drying and no mirror time. he's hunched slightly beside your daughter, who’s sitting on a chair pulled up to the counter. her tiny fingers are hovering over pieces of carrot shaped like stars, her expression scrunched in concentration.

you pause in the doorway, heart caught somewhere between your ribs and your throat.

sugawara whispers something to her. she giggles so hard she drops a piece of broccoli, and he catches it mid-air like a reflex. “your ninja training is improving,” he says, deadpan. she beams.

he hasn’t noticed you yet, too focused on helping her align little edamame beans into a smiley face.

you don’t interrupt. not yet. you take in the way the kitchen hums with quiet music from his phone (an acoustic playlist he always puts on in the morning). the way the rice cooker sits steaming in the corner. the extra bento box sitting by the coffee machine—you recognize your lunch container, already half-packed with your favorites.

the sticky notes on the table catch your eye. one is a bunny with crayon ears. another is just a row of little stars and the words: shine bright like your star carrots! love, me & papa

you blink.

papa.

that’s new.

sugawara finally looks up, catching your gaze.

“well, good morning,” he says with a grin that’s so soft, so full of something you still don’t have words for, it takes the air from your lungs.

“morning,” you whisper. “you two’ve been busy.”

“operation: bento extraordinaire is nearly complete,” he says, holding up a tiny panda-shaped rice ball like a trophy.

your daughter grins and wiggles her fingers at you. “look, mama! i made the eggs into flowers. papa cut the carrots like stars. i picked the sticky note!”

“i saw. you’re both professionals.”

sugawara sets the panda down gently and leans in, brushing a kiss to your cheek with the warmth of someone who’s lived in this rhythm long enough to make it instinct. he smells like miso and soap and sunshine.

“you’ve got one too,” he murmurs, nodding toward your lunch.

you lift the lid and find a sticky note tucked between your salmon and pickled plums. don’t forget your umbrella—30% chance of rain, 100% chance i love you. —koushi ♡

you stare at it, heart stuttering. it’s not the first note he’s given you—but this one is different. a little cheesy. a little bold. domestic in a way that feels like years of future mornings are folded into it.

you glance up. “papa, huh?”

sugawara’s eyes widen. “she said it this morning. i—wasn’t sure if i should correct her.”

your daughter answers before either of you can continue. “i said it’s okay now. ‘cause he always packs bento and tells silly bedtime stories. that’s papa stuff, right?”

you kneel beside her, brushing a piece of rice from her cheek. “yeah, baby. that’s exactly papa stuff.”

you look at him, heart wide open, and say: “you okay with that?”

his voice wavers, just a little. “more than okay.”

the moment stretches—quiet, golden, full of the smell of miso and the sound of toast popping. a soft clatter as he drops two slices onto plates.

“little burnt,” he admits sheepishly.

“perfect,” you reply, already buttering yours.

your daughter scrambles down and zooms off to brush her teeth, her sing-song humming echoing down the hallway. the silence that follows isn’t empty—it’s filled with sleepy glances, the clink of spoons, and a quiet that says everything that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.

sugawara comes to stand beside you. he leans into your shoulder. “this morning… felt like something.”

you nod. “felt like a family.”

he brushes his fingers along yours, linking your pinkies like it’s second nature. “can’t believe we made it to this kind of morning.”

you glance down at the bento boxes, sticky notes, burnt toast, and his crumpled apron. “me neither.”

and yet, somehow, it all feels exactly right.

[yukkiji]

editor's note

you and akaashi talked about starting a family once. quietly. gently. a passing dream between cups of tea and weekend mornings. now, the dream is real—and you’ve been carrying the secret, waiting for the right moment to tell him. that moment arrives in the softest, most “you” way possible.

chapters of us. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, domestic fluff, timeskip!akaashi, pregnant!reader

wc: 1.1k

author's note: second chapter is now up! tbh i don't really have a specific number on how many chapters there will be, so it may be possible that even as the kids grow up, there would still be a few chapters or like short spin off with uncle kotaro who knows hehe

mornings with akaashi were always a kind of poetry in motion.

not loud, not extravagant. just slow, peaceful things—clinking mugs, slippers brushing over wood floors, your wedding rings catching faint morning light as they clinked against porcelain at the kitchen table. outside, the world was still half-asleep, clouds low and gray with the promise of gentle rain, birds calling lazily from the trees.

you’d been married for nearly two years now, and life with him was soft in all the right places. being his wife didn’t mean grand declarations or dramatic romance. it meant the small things, the real things. like freshly folded laundry left at the foot of the bed. like sticky notes on your lunch with doodles of flowers and sleepy cats. like the way he kissed the top of your head when you passed each other in the hallway, or how he made your tea just the way you liked it—without asking.

love with him wasn’t loud. it lingered. it lived in the quiet moments—the fogged-up mirror after your shared showers, brushing your teeth in sync, leaning into one another while half-asleep on the couch. it lived in the subtle touches, the whispered goodnights, the way his hand always found yours beneath the covers, even in dreams.

and it meant you knew—truly knew—how to tell him something life-changing. something terrifying and beautiful and big.

you hadn’t said the words out loud yet. you hadn’t needed to. instead, you gave it to him the way he gave things to you: subtly, thoughtfully, meaningfully.

you placed the envelope between the chapters he was editing.

he’d been working on a novel from one of his favorite authors—a returning client whose prose was deliberate and complicated, someone he admired for the slow unravel of emotional arcs. it felt fitting. like slipping truth into fiction. and you knew akaashi. you knew he read deeply. nothing escaped his eye.

he’d been up before you that morning, as usual. hair slightly tousled, glasses perched low on his nose, hoodie loose around his frame like it belonged more to you than him. you found him in the kitchen, already two sips into his coffee, one hand holding a red pencil, the other absently stirring the air in rhythm to whatever he was reading.

you leaned in, kissed his temple. he hummed something unintelligible and warm. when you refilled his mug, he didn’t even glance up—just murmured, “thank you, love,” like second nature. he didn’t suspect a thing.

now, it was just past 10 a.m. and the soft gray quiet of the house felt deeper than usual. the gentle scent of petrichor drifted in through the slightly cracked window. the world outside was still yawning. you were curled in a blanket by the window, your book long forgotten in your lap. you'd reread the same paragraph four times, your heart beating a little faster with each minute that passed.

waiting.

you didn’t know what page he was on. you didn’t know when he’d reach it.

but you knew he was close.

then came the shift—the change.

at first, just the slight pause in pencil movement. the absence of page turns. then the silence grew, thick and heavy with stillness.

he found it.

your breath caught.

from across the room, you heard the rustle of paper sliding out from between the chapters. the envelope being unfolded. and then, that long, unbroken quiet—the kind that held emotion too full to name.

you didn’t move. you didn’t dare. you only looked up when you heard the chair creak.

akaashi stepped into the doorway of the study, slow and disbelieving.

his expression was unreadable at first—stunned, wide-eyed, soft. his left hand trembled slightly where it held the ultrasound photo, while his right gripped the side of the door like he needed something to anchor him. his mouth parted, then closed again. his eyes—those gentle, intelligent eyes—met yours.

you stood.

neither of you said a word for a long moment.

he stepped forward, cautious, like he was approaching a fragile, precious truth. when he reached you, his hand rose to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing beneath your eye.

“i just…” he started, voice barely above a whisper. “i just flipped the page. i was ready to critique a scene. maybe circle a line. and then—” he exhaled shakily, holding up the photo, “this was there.”

your throat tightened.

“i didn’t know how to tell you,” you whispered. “so i gave you a story.”

his laugh was small, cracked around the edges. “i was marking up clichés. and then i found… everything.”

he dropped his forehead to yours, the photo between your hands now. the silence wrapped around you again—but this time, it was warm. full. whole.

you closed your eyes as he let out a breath that shook through his shoulders.

“twins,” he said, almost like it wasn’t real unless he heard it out loud.

you nodded. “i found out last week. i kept trying to find the right moment, but… they never came.”

“this was the right moment,” he murmured, his lips brushing your temple. “you gave me something real in the middle of something imaginary. you always know how to reach me.”

and then, with such reverence it made your knees weak, he crouched before you. his palm pressed gently to your stomach.

there was no bump yet. no visible sign. just the quiet knowing. just them.

you watched his lashes flutter as he looked at your stomach like it held galaxies.

“i hope they inherit your laugh,” he whispered. “i hear it every time i fall in love with you again.”

your heart fractured open at that. emotion welled, unspoken and overwhelming.

you dropped to your knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders as he held you like the whole world had just fit into his hands.

“they’re going to be so lucky to have you,” you whispered, voice cracking.

he pulled back just enough to look at you—really look at you. “no. we’re lucky to have them. lucky to have this life. lucky to have each other.”

he pressed a hand to your cheek, brushing away a tear with his thumb.

“you’re everything i’ve ever wanted,” he said simply. “and now there’s more of you.”

a tear slipped down your face as a smile broke through. you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t need to.

his thumb swept over your lower lip.

“may i kiss you?” he asked, quiet and sure.

you smiled, eyes shining. “you always can.”

and when he kissed you—it wasn’t hurried or desperate. it was slow, grounding, tender. the kind of kiss that told stories. that promised futures. that sealed every unsaid word between you with something sacred.

you melted into it, into him, into the moment that changed everything.

and somewhere behind you, on the desk in the study, the manuscript sat—unfinished. still open to the page where fiction had been interrupted by truth. but tucked between the chapters, untouched by red pencil or revisions, was a new story now.

a new beginning.

the kind you don’t write. the kind you live.

[yukkiji]

first draft

married life with akaashi is quiet and steady, filled with soft glances and shared silences. you’ve known him since high school—bokuto’s little sister tagging along to practice, him the quiet setter with a book in hand. now, you're older, married, and something new is blooming in your chest—a quiet, hopeful feeling you're almost afraid to name.

chapters of us. haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

starring. akaashi keiji x fem!reader

genre: fluff, romance, domestic fluff, timeskip!akaashi, reader and akaashi are married

wc: 1k

author's note: first chapter of the series is up!

the house is quiet except for the scratch of pencil against paper and the slow ticking of the wall clock. golden lamplight spills across the living room floor, catching on the edges of mugs, half-folded laundry, and the soft curve of your husband’s brow as he reads.

akaashi is cross-legged on the couch beside you, dressed in a hoodie you’ve threatened to steal too many times to count. his glasses slide slightly down the bridge of his nose, and his pencil moves with the fluidity of habit as he marks up the pages of a manuscript on his lap. he hasn’t noticed that you’ve stopped reading your book. you’ve been watching him for the last five minutes.

not that he’d mind. he’s always noticed your gaze, always looked up from whatever he was doing to meet it, to share a small smile like a secret only the two of you understand.

you trace your wedding band with your thumb. it catches the lamplight, shimmering like the day he put it there—his hands shaking just slightly, voice steady despite the pink in his cheeks.

you’d never forget the way his eyes looked at the altar: like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten this lucky, but he’d spend the rest of his life making sure he didn’t lose it.

you hadn’t expected to fall for akaashi when you first met him. back then, you were bokuto’s loud little sister, all wide eyes and energy, sticking your nose into fukurodani practice just to pester him. akaashi had barely said two words to you that first week, his eyes always following your brother, calm and unreadable.

but then… you caught him laughing at something you said.

not just polite laughter either—the real kind. eyes crinkled, shoulders relaxed, voice low and warm. after that, he stopped looking through you and started looking at you. and one day—years later, when you were both older and clumsier with your feelings—he started writing to you. notes tucked into books. margins filled with quotes. confessions that bled through paper long before he said the words out loud.

now, here you are. sharing a home. a name. a thousand tiny things that belong to no one else but the two of you.

you take a breath.

“keiji?”

he looks up immediately, pencil pausing mid-mark. “yeah?”

“i was thinking about something,” you say, adjusting the blanket over your lap. your heart is starting to pound, but you keep your voice even. “about… the future.”

his brow lifts just slightly, and he sets the manuscript aside without hesitation. it’s always like that with him—his full attention is yours the moment you ask for it.

“what about it?”

you hesitate.

it’s not that you’re scared of how he’ll react. it’s just… this is big. and your life right now is already so full, so rich in its quiet simplicity. you spend mornings cooking together in your small kitchen, evenings reading on the couch, weekends wrapped up in errands and bookstore visits and long walks through your neighborhood. it’s enough.

but lately, something inside you has begun to ache—in the gentlest way. a soft yearning. like the pages of your life are asking to be turned.

“i’ve just been wondering what the next chapter might look like,” you say slowly, fingers picking at the seam of the blanket. “like… a year from now. or five.”

he watches you, expression unreadable—but not unkind.

“okay,” he says. “what do you see?”

you swallow. “i think… maybe… i’ve been thinking about having a baby.”

the words sit heavy in the space between you. not crushing. just real.

akaashi doesn’t move for a second. then he leans back, eyes wide but not in shock. just… still.

“you’ve been thinking about it?” he echoes.

“yeah.” you laugh nervously. “for a while now, honestly. i just didn’t know how to bring it up. things are already so good. but i keep imagining it—us, with a little one. someone who looks like you. or kotaro, if we’re cursed.”

that earns a soft laugh. you let it out too.

“seriously,” you add, quieter now. “i think… i want to build something more with you. a family. i don’t know when. but i want that future. with you.”

his eyes soften, and then he exhales in that quiet, reverent way he does when something moves him too much to speak right away.

“i think about it too,” he says finally. “not all the time. but sometimes, when i’m watching you fold laundry. or when we walk past that bookstore near the park. i imagine holding a baby in one arm and your hand in the other.”

you blink. “you… do?”

he nods once. “i’m just afraid.”

“of what?”

he looks down. “that i won’t be enough. that i won’t know how to be a good father. i didn’t exactly have the best model.”

you reach across the couch and take his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“you’re already more than enough. you love like it’s breathing. you care about things other people don’t even notice. you’re going to be an amazing dad, keiji. i know it.”

he presses your hand to his lips. his breath trembles.

“i’d like that,” he whispers. “a family. with you. god… especially with you.”

you lean into his shoulder, your heart full to the brim. this man—the quiet boy you once teased at volleyball practice, the writer who proposed with a first edition and a trembling smile, the husband who folds laundry in silence and buys you flowers without a reason—is the love of your life. and now, maybe, he’ll be the father of your child.

nothing is official yet. there’s no test, no countdown, no nursery paint colors chosen. just the two of you. and a future waiting quietly in the wings.

still… you feel it.

a beginning.

the first draft of something beautiful.

[yukkiji]

OH GOD I AM ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED WITH „CRAYONS, AND MAYBE LOVE” THAT WAS THE VEST READ I HAD IN A WHILE‼️ WE WILL NEED A SECOND PART IMMEDIATELY OR ELSE I MIGHT SUFFER FROM LACK OF PERFECT BALANSE OF ANGST AND FLUFF

but like seriously, this was amazing! i would love to see this one shot turn into full fic with many chapters and evolving story and characters.

i hope my little crash out over cuteness overdose finds you well! have an amazing day/afternoon/night, whenever you read it. lots of love💖

hi hi!! as per requested, your wish shall be granted — hehe, hope you enjoy!! 💫✨ here's the continuation mini series of crayons, and maybe love: crayon colored days

i haven't post the first chapter yet, but i'm already starting to work on it so look forward to it 💖

[yukkiji]

crayon-colored days

you were used to doing everything on your own—morning rushes, packed lunches, bedtime stories. love wasn’t something you had time to entertain. then came sugawara koushi: the gentle kindergarten teacher who adored your child, and somehow, slowly, came to love you just as fiercely. now, months into your relationship, it’s not just about dating—it’s about the quiet art of becoming a family.

author's note: this mini series follows the aftermath of crayons, and maybe love. feel free to read that first to understand the plot!

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

chapter one. | sticky notes and bento boxes. fluff. (wip). ↳ a quiet morning of bento-making turns tender when your daughter calls sugawara papa for the first time, and suddenly, it all feels like home.

chapter two.

chapter three.

[yukkiji]

chapters of us

a soft, slice-of-life series following your married life with akaashi keiji—from quiet mornings and shared laughter to raising your twins and making memories with your extended volleyball family. each chapter is a snapshot of love, family, and the little moments that make life feel full.

haikyuu masterlist. leave a little stardust on my ko-fi

chapter one. | first draft. fluff. ↳ married life with akaashi is quiet and steady, built on years of shared glances and soft silences since your days as bokuto’s little sister watching fukurodani practices. but lately, a quiet, unfamiliar hope has started to bloom in your chest—one you’re almost afraid to name.

chapter two. | editor's note. fluff. ↳ a quiet morning turns life-changing when akaashi discovers the surprise you’ve hidden in his manuscript—a new chapter neither of you saw coming: twins.

chapter three. | footnote: uncle kotaro. fluff. ↳ your brother was never subtle, and neither was his love. so when it came time to tell him your news, there was no way to keep it quiet—or simple. especially not with twins.

chapter four.

chapter five.

[yukkiji]

i have a mini series idea with akaashi and i might post the first part later

[yukkiji]

how they remember the little things about you

headcanon ft. isagi, bachira, reo, nagi, chigiri, sae, and rin

author's note: a part 2 will also be posted and possibly a part 3 with the other characters

ISAGI YOICHI

he remembers the things that makes you, you.

he’s the type to remember what snacks you avoid and quietly brings your favorites instead. if you once mentioned in passing that you like watching sunsets, he’ll point them out when you're walking together.

“didn’t you say you liked that mint-choco drink from that one café? i passed by today, so i got it for you.”

keeps mental notes of things you like or dislike—even your preferred pen grip. thoughtful in that lowkey boyfriend way, where he makes you feel seen without being showy.

he notices when your mood shifts—how you go quiet when something's bothering you or how you pick at your nails when you're anxious. without calling you out, he’ll just gently nudge your hand away or lace his fingers through yours to ground you. you never have to explain twice with isagi; he listens once, and it stays with him.

if you’ve had a long day, he’ll already have your favorite playlist queued up in the car and your go-to comfort meal ready at home. he isn’t extravagant about it; he just wants to take care of you in the way you need—not the way he thinks you need. that’s how tuned in he is.

sometimes you catch him looking at you with this soft, awestruck expression—like he’s memorizing everything about you for later. and honestly, he is. the way you furrow your brow when you’re focused, the exact tone of your sleepy voice, how you always sigh before laughing—he stores them all like precious, quiet secrets.

BACHIRA MEGURU

he remembers through feelings, expressions, and colors.

will randomly go, “this song? it’s so you,” and you’re like ??? but it fits perfectly. he remembers the way your eyes light up at weird art or your odd habit of mixing fries with ice cream.

draws doodles that represent things you’ve said or done. he has a sketch of you sleeping with your hand curled like a shrimp.

“you always laugh like that when you’re nervous—kinda like a hiccupy giggle. it's cute, y’know?”

he remembers the way you describe things, like how you once called the sky “blueberry milk-colored” during sunset. now whenever the sky looks even slightly like that, he’ll text you a picture with a 💙 emoji and a smiley face. your words stick to him like glitter—he collects them without even trying.

sometimes he’ll do the most random things and say, “this reminded me of you,” like handing you a rock shaped like a heart or a flower crown he made while waiting for practice. you don’t get it at first, but then you remember that you once told him you loved finding little treasures in boring places—and suddenly, it makes sense.

even in his chaotic, unpredictable energy, there’s this strange attentiveness. he knows when you're overwhelmed, when your smiles feel too tight, and when you're quietly sad. he’ll pull you away from a crowd, sit you down, and doodle something silly just to hear you laugh. it's never grand gestures with bachira—it’s the tender, strange, vibrant kind of remembering that colors your whole world.

MIKAGE REO

he remembers everything. it’s his love language.

your ring size, your shoe size, that one offhand comment about wanting to visit kyoto in the fall? he’s booked it already. he listens to you very seriously—even when you don’t think he is.

remembers the exact date of your first ramen date down to what toppings you picked. keeps track of anniversaries you didn’t even know were anniversaries.

“you said you liked lavender-scented laundry, so i switched all the detergent at my place. hope that’s not weird?”

he keeps a running list in his head of your favorite things—like which side of the bed you prefer, how you like your eggs cooked, and that one specific café order you only get when you’re sad. it’s not about being perfect—it’s about making sure you feel prioritized, cherished. he never wants you to think you're asking for too much.

reo is the kind of boyfriend who will remember the name of your childhood pet, the story behind your favorite necklace, and that one movie scene that always makes you cry. he’ll randomly quote it back to you during a quiet night, just to see you smile.

and if you ever think you're hard to love or too much to deal with, he’s already ten steps ahead—remembering every version of you and loving each one fully. “i pay attention because you matter to me,” he says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. and to him, it is.

NAGI SEISHIRO

he remembers weirdly specific details without even trying.

like, the name of your favorite background npc from that one game you love. or how you like your pillow slightly cold.

“didn’t you say you hate soggy cereal? i let yours sit for exactly 14 seconds.”

he acts lazy, but his attention to you is razor-sharp. he won’t say much about it—but he’ll do something about it when it counts.

he remembers the way your voice drops when you're tired, or how you always twist your hair when you're thinking hard. and when you’re upset? he doesn’t ask questions—he just pulls you into his arms and plays your comfort show in the background like it's second nature.

sometimes he’ll pause a game just to ask, “didn’t you say this character reminds you of your brother?” and you’ll blink, surprised he even caught that from a months-old convo. but that’s nagi—quietly filing your words away and pulling them out when you least expect it.

he doesn’t do big romantic gestures. instead, he does stuff like fixing your blanket in the middle of the night or handing you the exact snack you were craving without a word. “i don’t forget stuff about you,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. but you know better—it is.

ITOSHI RIN

he remembers quietly, and it lingers.

he won’t say it out loud, but he remembers how you take your coffee, what books make you cry, and how you fidget when you're lying.

will text you “good luck” exactly when you need it, even if you never told him you had something going on that day. he just knows.

“your playlist had that one song with the violins… i downloaded it. it reminded me of you.”

he pretends not to notice the little things, but he does—like how your lips twitch when you're about to laugh or the exact expression you make when you're holding back tears. he stores those moments like secrets, holding them close like they’re too precious to speak aloud.

you once mentioned your favorite season is early autumn because it feels like a soft goodbye. now, every time the air turns crisp, rin gets quieter, more tender, like he’s trying to wrap that feeling around you. he won’t say “i remember”—he’ll just walk beside you and let the silence speak for him.

he's not the type to gush or make a show of affection, but when he holds you, it's careful. deliberate. like he's memorizing how you fit against him. “i don’t need to say it all the time,” he murmurs once, voice low, “you know i do, right?” and somehow, you do.

CHIGIRI HYOMA

he remembers the things you don’t want to admit.

like how you pretend to be fine but blink faster when you’re about to cry. or that you act brave when you're scared of thunder.

keeps spare hair ties because yours always break. notices how you hum when you're happy, and makes it a point to hear it often.

“you always stretch your arms like that when you’re tired. want me to massage your shoulders?”

he’s observant in a gentle way, never pushing, never prying—just quietly collecting pieces of you like petals. he remembers how you always look away when you're overwhelmed and how you cling a little tighter when you’re scared, even if you don’t say it out loud.

you once told him you hated being seen as weak, so he never calls you out when you're struggling—but he’ll show up at your door with your favorite tea, or wrap a blanket around you without saying a word. his way of caring is soft and unobtrusive, but deeply rooted.

and when you're feeling like too much or not enough, chigiri’s the one who reminds you—through every small, thoughtful act—that you're more than enough just by being you. “you don’t have to say anything,” he’ll whisper, brushing your hair back gently. “i see you.” and he always does.

ITOSHI SAE

he remembers selectively—but the things he does remember? burned in.

you think he doesn’t listen, but he does. the memory just resurfaces in actions instead of words.

like ordering your comfort food after a rough day or buying you that keychain you liked months ago in a vending machine.

“you wore that perfume the first time we met. thought i forgot, huh?”

he’s not the type to react when you talk about random things—he’ll just nod or grunt, eyes still glued to his phone. but later, somehow, he’s referencing that one thing you mentioned once at 2 a.m., like it permanently etched itself into his brain. and it did.

sae remembers the things that mean something to you, even if he doesn’t understand them. if a song made you cry once, he adds it to his playlist. if you get quiet on rainy days, he’ll make sure you have a warm hoodie and nowhere to be. he won’t ask why—but he’ll always make space for you to feel.

and when he does speak, it’s always low and intentional. “i remember because you matter,” he says, tone flat but eyes soft. it’s not about grand gestures or sweet words with sae—it’s the way he holds onto your pieces like they’re made of glass. careful. permanent. yours.