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Hinata has always had an obsession with hands.


Hands, like Kageyama’s—smooth skin stretched over rugged terrain, the calluses flattened out. Nails neat and trimmed, fingers tossing the ball with pinpoint precision, to where Hinata expects it against his palm. Hands, like Atsumu’s—all ten of his fingers splayed over a leather Molten, maximum care and maximum support for his spikers. Hinata thinks that Bokuto’s boyfriend, Akaashi, has pretty hands too. Slender and dainty, whether he’s tossing the ball, or translating ink to language.


There’re also Shimizu’s hands, warm and steady, when they had curled over his during one of their more nerve wracking matches in high school. Sugawara’s hands, when they had ruffled his hair—delicate fingers threading through tangerine curls, safe and affectionate. Osamu’s hands, kneading into rice. Molding, shaping, folding. Nestled in his palms, the most delicious onigiri Hinata’s ever eaten.


Hands of strangers he’d met in Brazil, whose names linger on his tongue like ghosts. Carlos, Luiz, Jose. They had pressed into his skin, burned on his flesh. One digit, two digits, three digits, fisted into his heat. And Hinata had fucked into those hands—hands, the same ones wrapped around his throat, as he stood on the precipice of release. Hands, hands, hands.


Nothing quite prepares Hinata for the hands of Sakusa Kiyoomi.


He’s currently crouched in front of the ex-Itachiyama ace, watching the backs of his hands fold underneath his wrists. From beside him, Bokuto is sparkly-eyed, musing, “I could watch all this day.”


Tell me about it, Hinata wants to say. There’s something about them—carpals and phalanxes, bendiness and elasticity, that’s doing things to Hinata’s stomach. A lot of things. 


“The way those tuck’s kind of like an animal tucking its paws.” 


“Stop staring,” Sakusa chides but there is no heat to his words. When he looks up from his hands their eyes meet and Hinata feels the flutters traverse everywhere, across muscle and flesh, to meet the surface of his skin. 


Of all people, really. But also, of course it’s him. It has to be him.




Sakusa Kiyoomi is unlike everyone else. Hinata, who’s always prided himself on his affability, who’s successfully befriended even the likes of Kageyama Tobio, felt like he had to work a million times harder to earn the outside hitter’s approval. Mr I got a fever and I got benched, Sakusa had greeted him the first time they met. It hadn’t been a great start to their cohabiting ventures, and maybe life would’ve been easier if management had put him and Atsumu or Bokuto together, but Hinata’s never backed down from a challenge. 


Sakusa has a few names to go by—the Itachiyama ace, the collegiate MVP, names that make you think of brute power and inevitability. But there’s something so quietly cutthroat about his plays that makes Hinata hitch his breath. The steadiness of his receives; the cleanness of his emergency sets; the control of his spikes, and then, with a flick of his wrist, the nasty spin on them that catches everybody off guard. He’s everything against what Hinata stood for in his early Karasuno years—bright lights and flashy plays. Cynosure. Now, he’s everything Hinata wants to work towards.


(The flick of his wrist, and then, the nasty spin on his spikes that catches everybody off guard.


The flick of his wrist, carpal and radius.)


It’s more than just competitive tendencies that explain Hinata’s efforts in getting Sakusa to like him. Hinata, who’s effortlessly had everyone gravitate towards him, is less frustrated about his housemate’s reclusion than you’d think. In fact, it’s precisely because Sakusa Kiyoomi is unlike everyone else that Hinata is allured.


Where others may give in to temptation, Sakusa portrays the kind of absolute discipline that Hinata had practised everyday in Brazil. A hundred percent thorough, in the way he wakes up on his first alarm and falls asleep by eleven at night. In the way he never misses a morning workout, rain or shine. In cleaning and keeping things tidy, in preparing his meals with utmost care—balanced, and using only organic or local produce. 


On and off the court, he’s everything Hinata has ever wanted to be. He’s everything Hinata has ever wanted.


Also, he has the hottest fucking hands.






Being housemates with Sakusa Kiyoomi is not as bad as everyone says it is. Hinata vaguely remembers his teammates betting on how long they could live together before Sakusa commits murder. Apparently, Sakusa’s cleanliness standards are far too demanding for an average human being, and he has, and Hinata quotes, zero tolerance for any kind of noise or clutter. But Hinata already has a well-established cleaning routine which, he thinks, does the job of killing two birds with one stone. He gets to practise his discipline until it transforms into habit, and it definitely helps in getting Sakusa to like him.


His efforts pay off one morning when Sakusa offers to make breakfast. Hinata’s usually the one to prepare meals, having inculcated the habit of cooking for two from his time in Brazil, while Sakusa manages most of the cleaning. So it comes as a surprise, one that hits him with a delirious wave of giddiness. Hinata feels awfully happy and triumphant, for something that’s supposedly trivial.


“Are you sure, Omi-san? I’m used to cooking anyway!”


“It’s not a big deal, Hinata. Let me cook for you this morning.”


It’s nice to watch Sakusa cook. 


Hands, cracking an egg seamlessly into a pool of flour. Fingers curled around the handle, whisking the mixture with practised ease. Hands, clutched around a shaker, pouring just a little more sugar, a little more cinnamon, into the bowl. The sweet scent of pancake better wafting through the air, and it makes Hinata’s mouth water. Hands, clasped around a spatula, flipping golden, buttermilk rounds on a pan. Condensation and grease building in the roofs of his knuckles. Hands, stacking pancakes with precision and then, a dance of sinuous fingers, as they drizzle maple syrup over the plate.


When Hinata digs into the pancakes, he has a momentary, horrifying thought that maybe Sakusa’s fingers would taste sweeter in his mouth. The first trickles of arousal pool low in his gut.


“Are you okay? Your face is red,” Sakusa comments, pushing a glass of water towards Hinata, who only blushes harder in response.


To make up for the meal, Hinata offers to clean the bathroom with Sakusa. They crouch side by side, rags in hand, and a pail of soapy water between them. Sakusa dips the towel into the water, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as he wrings it dry. Hinata spots the line of vein tracing along the side of his index finger, a stroke of indigo on pale skin, and thinks that maybe this is a terrible idea, because he’s dreaming of Sakusa’s fingers inside his mouth again.


Sakusa scrubs the walls with a kind of fervour Hinata recognises is born out of a need to be thorough. He understands—everyone’s hungry for success, for grand moments, but these are built in the little moments in between, blocks of discipline stacked over the years, until they’ve transformed into habit, until success is certain. Being thorough and seeing things to the finish are essential ingredients for achievement. 


But Hinata digresses. He’s honestly, still, pretty fucking distracted by Sakusa’s hands. The little creases below his nails, when he digs into the gaps between tiles. Really getting into the grime, making sure there’s not a speck of dirt left behind. The skin on his palms, slightly rubbed raw. It’s flaring red, and Hinata wants to swipe out his tongue, flicker along scarlet until the heat tempers. Salt and moisture.


He’s fucked, for sure. Hinata shakes his head and returns to his task, hoping he could match up to the man beside him, even if just a little.






In exchange for tips on how to master the Formidable Face Pose which, in all honesty, Hinata expected Sakusa to already have known, considering his flexibility and strength, Sakusa would show him his stretching routine. And Hinata is disgustingly excited about it—in fact, he feels kind of like a perv, experiencing an enthusiasm of such intensity for learning his teammate’s stretching exercises. As if Hinata’s secretly taking advantage of this situation, considering his slightly troublesome obsession with hands. Sakusa’s hands in particular. Well, he reasons with himself, these exercises are meant to improve flexibility, something he can leverage on for future plays. Yup, that’s right, it’s all for volleyball-related purposes. There’s completely nothing to do with his strange fetish for hands, right.


They begin seated on the floor. Sakusa places his hands on his thighs— milky thighs spilling out of too-short PT shorts, palms facing up towards the ceiling. “Clench your fists and raise them towards your body.”


Hinata watches him do exactly just that, fingers squeezed together to display rivers of veins stretching along his skin, the roofs of his knuckles glinting slightly under fluorescents. Forearms still touching his thighs, Sakusa raises his fists and curls them toward himself, bending so deeply his knuckles are brushing his wrists. “Hold for twenty seconds then repeat ten times.”


There’s a lump in Hinata’s throat. He tries swallowing it down, to not much success, as he imitates Sakusa. Beads of perspiration cluster around his temples, and his cheeks are seared with a mild flush, which shouldn’t be the case since they’re smack in the middle of winter. Maybe the heating is turned up too high.


Next, Sakusa extends his left arm, palm still facing upwards. Hinata wonders about the muscles around his forearm, if they are firm to the touch. So many volleyballs have bounded off those arms, up into the air in seamless arcs, shaping the flesh and tissue around radius and bone, tendon and sinew. He can only imagine their immense solidity, as a result.


Using his other hand, Sakusa presses his fingers down towards the floor, pulling them back towards himself. Hinata is now witness to the line of muscle running along the side of his arm. “Hold for thirty seconds and repeat five times for each arm.”


When they’re finished with that, Sakusa stands up, pressing his arms and elbows together in a prayer position. Hinata can’t decide if he should be feeling grateful or upset that the other’s biceps are currently hiding underneath loose sleeves, obscured from view. Sakusa doesn’t usually wear sleeveless clothing, unlike Hinata whose dressing is largely made up of tank tops after his two-year stint in Brazil, so he’s never got to fully appreciate the muscles rippled into Sakusa’s upper arms, except maybe during brief glimpses in the changing room. 


“Do it like this,” the outside hitter instructs, slowly peeling his elbows away from each other while his palms remain pressed together. Then, he lowers his arms until his hands reach in front of his belly. “And repeat ten times.”


These are just simple stretching exercises, but Hinata feels as though he’s just completed a fifteen-kilometre run. He’s glad that Sakusa isn’t facing him, lest he catches the deepening blush on his face—burning scarlet that he feels more than sees. For the last move, Sakusa picks up two tennis balls at his side and tosses one to Hinata.


Hinata swears his heart stops for a whole five seconds.


Sinuous fingers curled around the neon green ball in a vice-like grip, squeezing so tightly his knuckles turn white, bones jutting out of pale skin. Hinata sends a silent prayer to god, hoping it would quiet his brain and all the dirty, filthy thoughts circulating around it. I mean, really? Hands and balls? The fucking innuendos. 


“You have to squeeze it real tight. This would help strengthen your wrists. Repeat five times for each hand.”


Hinata wants to die.


That night, he has a lot of trouble sleeping. He recognises the flare of arousal, burning in the pit of his stomach, as hot as his own flushed skin, images of Sakusa’s hands in all their forms—flexed and bent and curled so tightly around a tennis ball—playing on a constant loop in his head. Hinata could reach a hand into his own pants, relieve some of that smouldering heat. But Sakusa, his friend, teammate, and housemate, is just in the room next door. Separated only by a wall, which makes Hinata feel like he’s committing a crime.


Separated only by a wall. For some sick, twisted reason, he finds that really fucking hot as well.


Hinata’s cock is already half-hard and he knows that at this point, it’s impossible to fall asleep without release. And the Jackals have a practice match with the DESEO Hornets the next day, he doesn’t want to turn up sleep-deprived. Really, Hinata’s only doing them a favour.


The orange haired-man pulls down his pants until they reach his knees, cock springing free. He lets out a shuddery sigh, stroking it to full length, letting it harden completely in his hands. Then, he flutters his eyes closed, imagines Sakusa’s slender, sinuous fingers cupping around his cock. His thumb brushing over the tip, pre-come leaking out, fingers stretching and pulling to spread the moisture around. 


Hinata pumps slowly, his hands taking on a completely different rhythm than he’s used to because these aren’t his hands, these are Sakusa’s hands and he imagines them slow and aching. Like Sakusa is teasing him—and really, Hinata feels teased, by the memory of his housemate’s fingers coiled around a tennis ball. Arousal thickens, sticky and hot, and Hinata moves to fondle his balls, all the while envisioning a certain dark haired-man squeezing them with his hands.


Omi-san, he imagines himself saying, faster, please. Hinata ends up whispering the words out loud, his free hand flying to clamp over his mouth in an instant. Fingers remaining curled around his cock, he raises himself to kneel on the bed, knees digging into sheets as he buries his face in his pillow, whimpering into it. 


A small, rational part of Hinata knows he shouldn’t be doing this, knows he should just jerk himself off quickly and call it a day. But Sakusa is just so hot, and the knowledge of him being next door only makes it hotter. Hinata finds himself fantasizing about Sakusa hearing him, bursting into his room and finishing the job for him. Omi-san, please, he groans into the pillow again, pained and desperate. 


Hands, stroking along the length, decisive and intent, building up speed. Fingers, brushing the surface, fluttery then firm. Thumb, swiping the tip, the head, and then fingers, again, pumping up and down, base to head, base to head. 


Hinata focuses on the heat and imagines, very pathetically, that it’s Sakusa who’s reading his cues—how hard he’s shaking, how desperately he’s asking faster, harder, to stroke, to push him to the edge . And then, with a buckle of his hips, Hinata finally explodes, shudders rippling through his body as he spills into his hands and the sheets, the name Kiyoomi forming in his mouth as he shivers through his release. 






Yachi had taught Hinata the art of palm reading in their second year of high school—life lines and head lines and heart lines running along the flat of a palm, crease and transverse. Reading his teammates' palms had been a fun post-club activity, and he’d linger around the storage room for minutes too long teasing Kageyama’s marriage line or deciphering the mounts on Nishinoya’s palm. Recently, this forgotten activity made a resurgence in the MSBY locker room, after Bokuto made an offhand comment about getting his palms read and the team learned that Hinata could do it, too.


Barnes lays out his palm on the bench and Hinata traces a finger along the head line, a short curve running across the slope of his thenar. He pokes his tongue out cheekily. “This means that you prefer physical achievements over mental ones.” The taller flexes his bicep in response and everyone around them roars with laughter. 


Then, Hinata tracks the heart line—a long wave that stretches from under Barnes’ pinky finger to the index, curling sharply at the tail. “And this means you are very open with your feelings. You’re expressive when it comes to love.” 


At that, Barnes flashes a million-watt smile, ruffling Hinata’s hair affectionately. “Can’t argue with that!” This is met with an assortment of reactions from the rest of the team, a mishmash of snickers, complaints, and some grunts of approval. 


“Alright, it’s time to get home, guys. Please drink up, eat well and remember to stretch some more,” Meian commands, shooing the team out of the locker room. Hinata grabs his bag and follows Sakusa into the carpark, humming a merry tune to himself. He expects to spend the ride home in companionable silence but there’s a momentary pause just before Sakusa starts the engine, his hand gripped tightly around the steering wheel.


“Is everything okay, Omi-san?”


Sakusa is quiet for a few moments and Hinata recognises the contemplative expression on his face, patiently awaiting his answer.


“Could you read my palm too?”


Hinata’s heart does a somersault in his chest and he feels more than sees the flush on his cheeks, reflected in the rearview mirror, burning scarlet that reaches the tips of his ears. He’s gone over the palms of most of their teammates—Atsumu, Bokuto, Barnes, Inunaki, and Thomas, but he’s never expected to read Sakusa, having assumed he wouldn’t want Hinata to touch his hands. 


“S-sure,” he replies, cursing inwardly at the slight stutter in his response, “we could make tea and do it in the living room!”


“That sounds nice,” replies Sakusa and he finally starts up the engine, driving out of the gym. Hinata feels himself getting warmer at the thought of pressing his fingers into Sakusa’s hand—the object of his fantasies on most (all) nights; and the way Sakusa’s fingers curl over the wheel, eyes coolly scanning the road, definitely does not help with calming his ricocheting heart. Thankfully, they don’t stay too far from the arena and Hinata’s suffering comes to an end within ten minutes. He hobbles out of the car and into the safety of their apartment.


After a quick shower, Hinata prepares two steaming mugs of green tea for the both of them—just a teaspoon of sugar for Sakusa, the way he likes it best, and sugarless for himself. The outside hitter mumbles his thanks, taking his seat opposite Hinata at the kotatsu. 


Splayed right in front of his eyes, Sakusa’s hand looks so much bigger like this. It makes Hinata’s heart throb, a rapid pulse thrumming through his bloodstream. He runs his eyes over the lines, transverse and crease, distal and proximal. Imprinting these visions to memory, before he presses his hands into skin, turning them into something as tangible as touch.


Sakusa’s hands feel surprisingly soft for an athlete, smoothened out by his daily moisturising routine, slightly bumpy where calluses once embellished. The first touch sends a ripple of electricity streaking along Hinata’s spine, raising goosebumps from the earth of his skin. He hopes that Sakusa can’t feel them against his hand.


Hinata first identifies the life line, cutting straight across Sakusa’s palm, nearly reaching the edge. He maps it with fluttery fingers, taking a little more time than he should to track the slight dip. A single bead of sweat trickles down his temple.


“This is your life line, Omi-san. It doesn’t have anything to do with your lifespan though, it just reflects your general well-being,” Hinata explains, “Yours is touching the edge of the palm so that means you’re...cautious, when it comes to relationships.”


Surprise flickers across Sakusa’s eyes and Hinata wonders if he’s struck a chord. His throat suddenly feels really dry and he reaches out for the mug, chugging half the green tea down in one go.


Next, Hinata finds the fate line—a deep stroke cutting vertically through the middle, overlapped by other creases. It touches Sakusa’s life line at the bottom. “This is your fate line. It depicts how much your life is controlled by fate. Yours says that...oh wow, that’s pretty accurate, Omi-san. The end of your fate line is joined to your life line, which means that you’re your own person. You’ve established your own ambitions and fate doesn’t control you.”


Hinata lets his fingers linger around Sakusa’s palm as he takes in the expression on his face—that same flicker of surprise lighting up his eyes, glossing a shine over dark brown irises. It makes his heart skip a beat, picking out the shifts in emotion passing over the other’s face.


Next, he moves on to the head line, a thin dash running horizontally above the thenar, easy to identify. Hinata follows it gently with the ridge of his thumb. “And this is your head line. It’s generally associated with intellect. Yours is thin and straight, which means you have a very realistic way of thinking.” He pauses, momentarily shocked at how accurate this has been so far. With the others, he’s always found something to laugh and tease about—a wavy line that indicates a short attention span, a marriage line that’s too short. 


Lastly, the heart line. Hinata’s heart sinks as he finds it a few centimetres under Sakusa’s pinky, short and straight. His thumb is still pressing onto the crease, digging into epidermis as he says, “And your heart line, Omi-san. It’s associated with your feelings and your view, romantic relationships. Yours is short and straight, so it could mean you’re generally not very interested in relationships.”


Hinata doesn’t know why he feels dejected by that, especially considering his accurate streak of line predictions thus far. Maybe, he doesn’t want to realise this supposed disinterest in relationships. Maybe he just doesn’t want it to be true. Where his thumb is still grazing the other’s heart line, warm and slightly sweaty, he notices that Sakusa’s fingers are trailing just right above. For a brief moment, all thoughts are lost, as he wonders about lacing their hands together, filling up the spaces between those fingers with his own.


“That’s not true,” Sakusa says, puncturing the silence. Hinata jumps out of his reverie, immediately extracting his hand. The outside hitter turns his face, slightly obscured from Hinata’s view. “I’m...I’m interested. In romantic relationships, I mean.”


The air suddenly feels really hot and Hinata wonders if he’s conjured up this entire sensation in his head—the heated, bubbly atmosphere, meeting the surface of his skin in prickles. He quickly downs the remaining of his green tea while Sakusa sips at his mug.


There’s something blooming inside of Hinata’s chest—warm, heavy, and slightly asphyxiating. It’s as though all the air is knocked out of his lungs and he’s run out of breath. He thinks of Sakusa who doesn’t like getting touched, who doesn’t believe in fate and fortunes, much less being dictated by the lines on his palm. Yet, he’d asked to get them read. Yet, he’d told Hinata that he was interested in pursuing relationships.


And so maybe the unfurling in his chest feels awfully, dangerously, like hope.






Hinata knows that it’s okay not to be okay. It’s an awareness settled deep into his bones, ever since he’d fallen to the floor during that one match with Kamomedai years ago. Unforgettable—the stickiness of his skin, the inability to move, the surge of cold that ran through his body despite burning with fever. He’d cried and he’d shivered and after that, he’d worked himself to the bone, so he would never have to go through that again. Still, the wave of unease that washes over him feels excruciatingly familiar as he collides into Thomas, falling onto the floor and scraping his knee against pine wood.


Everyone freezes and Hinata thinks he hears someone shout an apology but all the noises fade out into an obscure buzz, ringing incessantly in his ears as he checks in with himself. Scratches mark the skin on his knee in a criss-cross pattern, bleeding scarlet over it. With bated breaths, he flexes the muscle there, checking for any pain in his bones. Thankfully, the injury seems to be surficial and he’s hit with such a strong tide of relief that tears begin to gather at the corners of his eyes. All the surrounding noises return.


“Shouyou-kun, are you okay?!” Atsumu rushes up to his side, scrutinising the damage. Thomas has his hands clasped together, murmuring frantic apologies. And Hinata wants to answer them, reassure his teammates that he’s okay, but the lights are too bright, and his heart is beating too fast, reverberating rapidly around his chest. The words die in his throat, as he begins to choke up.


Sakusa’s authoritative voice pierces through the court. “Give him space.”


Everyone disperses around Hinata and he finally lowers his head, letting a few tears slip out of his eyes. It’s not pathetic, he tells himself. Chanting like a mantra, it’s okay not to be okay, until he’s internalised each and every word into his core. When he’s calmed down a little, Meian instructs him to clean up his wound. To Hinata’s surprise, Sakusa walks up to them with a first aid kit in hand, offering to help. The outside hitter slings an arm around Hinata and he shudders at the contact, hyper aware of the dirt and sweat on his body. He wonders why Sakusa isn’t repulsed by him. Tinges of guilt flutter up from the base of his stomach. 


Hinata’s limping slightly, so Sakusa guides them both slowly to the benches as the rest of the team continues practising. Opening the kit, he puts on his gloves and removes the necessary items for clean-up—plasters, cotton wool, disinfectant, and cotton buds. The guilt within Hinata deepens, unspooling in his gut.


“You don’t have to do this, Omi-san,” says Hinata, because it’s true. He knows how much Sakusa hates touching other people and who knows what kind of germs he has to come in contact with, just to help Hinata clean his wound.


“It’s okay. I used to do this for Motoya when we were kids. That idiot got injured a lot,” mentions Sakusa as he dabs a cotton bud into the disinfectant. Hinata lets this piece of knowledge sink in the recesses of his mind, neatly archived in the list of facts he’s gathered about Sakusa Kiyoomi. It’s a short list, so he’s grateful for anything he can add.


“It’s just a skin injury, right?” the outside hitter asks, eyes flitting around cleverly as he checks around the wound. Hinata nods his head. “I’m not hurting anywhere else.”


The influx of bad feelings returns as Hinata remembers the first time he’d met Sakusa, when he’d called him Mr I got a fever and I got benched, when he’d told him there was nothing more that he hated than people who were careless and underprepared. The orange haired-man runs through his actions leading up to the fall—had he missed Thomas at the corner when he’d dived for the ball? Had he not noticed the flurry of motion happening by his side, eyes too focused on the blue-yellow Mikasa, on his teammates at the other side of the net? Hinata marinates in guilt, Sakusa’s words playing on loop in his head. Careless, underprepared.


“It’s okay, Hinata,” the outside hitter suddenly says, as if he’s reading Hinata’s mind. Hinata’s breath hitches in his throat, and he feels like choking up again. 


“I mean, you could have watched where you were going. Thomas had been nearer to the ball so I would have steered away,” Sakusa reprimands belatedly, “but you could have tried your best, and still be human, at the same time.”


Hinata’s eyes are glittering by now. “Thank you, Omi-san.”


“Don’t make the same mistake twice.”


Sakusa applies the disinfectant on Hinata’s knee. Fingers, neatly pinched around the spindle, swiping the bud gently across dried blood. Hinata winces, but the pain is bearable. Besides, the dabbing motion is oddly comforting, and there’s a nice, cooling sensation that lingers on his skin. Thumb, pressing cotton over the wound, creating a slight pressure where metacarpal meets Hinata’s skin. He shudders. But the moment goes as quickly as it came, and Sakusa finishes by sticking the plaster over the wool.


Hinata is brimming with emotion. There is just so much grace with which Sakusa uses his hands. They’re swift, pretty, strong, and intent. But Hinata’s starting to think that there’s a lot more to what he feels than just hands.






Pardon the pun (though Fukunaga would most definitely be proud of him) but Hinata’s started getting a little handsy around Sakusa, fueled by that dangerous sense of hope simmering in his belly. He’d test the waters—placing a hand on Sakusa’s shoulder when they’re conversing, letting it linger for a few seconds too long before retracting in fear; raising his fist for a bump whenever they score a point during practice matches, watching for any signs of hesitation on Sakusa’s face when he returns the fist bump; and when Hinata’s feeling particularly brave, lacing an around around Sakusa’s waist as the outside hitter flips pancakes over the stove. 


He can’t explain it—this wave of tension between them, taking a palpable form, an electric push and pull. It’s like the time he’d read Sakusa’s palm, and Sakusa had told him he was interested in pursuing relationships, except the compulsion is amplified, and Hinata feels thoroughly absorbed. He wants him so, so badly. He wants Sakusa’s hands, around his face, throat, thighs, waist. Wants to fuck into those pretty fingers, and it’s a thought that haunts him constantly as he pumps his own cock in the dead of the night.


Tension and hope, shaking hands, simmering, building, up, up, up, and it finally reaches a climax when Hinata finds himself standing at the edge of Sakusa’s room, desire threatening to burst at the seams.


“Why are you standing so far away, Hinata?” 


“I’m not sure if you want to be near,” he admits, shivering, “but I want to, Omi-san. To be near you, I mean.”


There’s a clouded look in Sakusa’s eyes and Hinata prepares for the worst, for hope to spill out of his skin, to leave behind a drained, empty vessel. But the dark haired-man turns towards him, wearing just the slightest upcurl of lips. “You’re not reading this wrong, Hinata. I’ve been waiting to.”


With that, Hinata closes all the distance between them, circling his arms around Sakusa’s neck and pulling him close, until their bodies are meeting chest to chest. He’s still trembling when he asks, “Is this really okay, Omi-san?”


“It is. I said I want to . Now you tell me what you want.” And there’s something about Sakusa’s voice, the authoritative timbre to it, that makes Hinata shudder, makes him want to come undone right then and there. But there’s also a hint of challenge weaved into his baritone, and Hinata wants to rise up to it, to make Sakusa shudder like that, too. He tilts his head upwards, lips brushing the curve of Sakusa’s ear. “I want you to fuck me, Kiyoomi.”


Oh, and there it is, the slight tremble in Sakusa’s skin. It makes Hinata’s nerves zing with thrill. The outside hitter cups his face, turning it towards his own, finally capturing their lips together. Mouths, hot and wet, lining up and colliding with ease, and Hinata sighs into the kiss. He bites on Sakusa’s lip teasingly, and the outside hitter opens his mouth to retaliate, sliding his tongue through rows of pearly whites, flickers of muscle along the round of Hinata’s jaw. Hot and wet, as want, as desire; thick, as arousal, swelling in Hinata’s gut.


Sakusa mouths at Hinata’s neck, lips traversing the dip of his clavicle, the expanse of his collar. Sucking, nibbling at the skin, leaving behind crescent-shaped teeth marks and lovebites which, Hinata knows from experience, will deepen into darker shades of red and purple the next day. Sakusa’s hands are digging into Hinata’s waist, hot around his flesh, and Hinata moans so loudly he thinks their neighbours might hear them. He wraps his legs around Sakusa so their hips are touching, grinding down where they meet, contact and friction.


Breathless, they extricate their mouths from each other and Hinata sees the glazed look in Sakusa’s eyes, his own desire reflected in dark, glossy irises. He thinks he might explode with it, when the outside hitter raises a finger to Hinata’s lips, brushing his index over the epidermis. Without thinking, Hinata opens his mouth to wrap around Sakusa’s fingers, running his teeth over the roofs of his knuckles. Index and middle—he sucks onto them passionately, feeling out the phalanxes and carpal bones with his lips and his teeth. There’s a brief moment of worry as he wonders if Sakusa thinks that it’s unhygienic, but it’s quickly unfounded as the outside hitter rams his fingers deeper, reaching the entrance of Hinata’s throat.


“I want this,” Hinata moans around Sakusa’s digits, slotting haphazardly in and out of his mouth, squelching in saliva as his lips pucker around them, “want your dick in my throat like this, Omi-san.”


Sakusa grunts in response and they work to remove the layers of fabric between them, kissing in between various states of undress, until their bodies are pressed flush against each other, meeting skin to skin. Hinata’s hands descend Sakusa’s body, trailing down his neck, collar, chest, stomach, and then, finally meeting the hips, fingers threading through the tuft of hair down there. As expected, it’s neatly trimmed. 


Sakusa is big, definitely bigger than what Hinata imagined and it makes his mouth water as he cups the base with his hand. In his periphery, he watches the dark haired-man fist into the bed, sheets crumpled around his wrists, and Hinata feels a strange sense of pride wash over him. To know that he could affect Sakusa like that, after all the months and ways Sakusa has affected him.


Puckering his lips around the head, hollowing his mouth until he feels the sides of Sakusa’s cock pressing against his jaw, Hinata sucks deeply, keeping his fingers curled around the base to pull the skin. Slow, achingly slow, because this is just the appetiser before the main course, the prelude to the centerpiece. He can hear Sakusa’s breathing become rapid and shallow, his beautiful fingers tangled between Hinata’s orange locks, tugging at the scalp. But it’s not enough and Hinata takes him in even deeper, until the tip of his cock is touching his throat.


“Fuck, Hinata. Just like that.” And the sound of his voice, laced with want and desperation, tingles on Hinata’s skin, zipping electricity through his veins. Hinata is hungry, ferocious, and he wants Sakusa Kiyoomi in his entirety. He spits on Sakusa’s dick, flickers his tongue along the length, mapping out the throbbing vein that runs along the side of it. And he knows the outside hitter must like it, because he pulls onto Hinata’s hair even harder. 


When Sakusa’s hips begin to buckle, thrusting forward to dig deeper into Hinata’s throat, the orange haired-man pulls away, wiping at the spit on the corners of his mouth. “I’d like to be fucked now, Omi-san. If that’s okay with you.”


Sakusa is smiling again, that tiny upcurl of lips. His voice is delightfully raspy when he says, “It’s more than okay with me.”


Hinata’s heart throbs violently against his chest as he watches Sakusa coat his fingers slick with lube—one, two, then three digits, glimmering slightly under fluorescents. He lies flat on the bed, thighs raised and legs tangled around Sakusa’s neck, as the dark haired-man slides his first finger in. Hinata thinks that he might explode with the weight of this moment—culminated by months of fantasies where Sakusa’s slender, beautiful fingers are fitted into his heat, shifting around the muscle. He hisses, squeezing his eyes closed to sink in the sensation, pre-come leaking from the tip of his cock.


(Hands, a blissed, fucked-out memory of them flipping pancakes, scrubbing walls, stretching, spiking, receiving, squeezing around a tennis ball. Hands, life lines and head lines and heart lines running across them, traced by Hinata’s fingers. Hands, gently dabbing and prodding at old wounds. Hands, that have found their way around his heart—sinuous fingers gripping around beating muscle.)


“You’re so tight,” Sakusa breathes out, sliding his finger in, out, in, out, and then adding another, curling into the flesh. A shudder ripples through Hinata and he moans aloud again, horribly turned on from the sound of Sakusa’s wrist slapping against skin, as he squeezes his thighs harder around the other’s neck.


More, ” he cries out, like all the times he’s moaned into his pillow, “faster, please, Omi-san. Harder. I need you.”


And so, Sakusa slides the third finger in and Hinata is thrusting his hips to meet him halfway, hot and wet and desperate. His nerves are singing, skin tingling with electricity, and god, he really needs Sakusa’s cock inside of him right now.


“I’m ready, Omi-san. Fuck, I’m ready!”


Sakusa lets out a shuddery exhale. He wipes his fingers across the back of Hinata’s right thigh, leaving behind a trail of salt and moisture. The orange haired-man raises his legs, watching intently as Sakusa wears the condom and spreads lube around his cock, his heart skipping a beat when its head is brushing the rim of Hinata’s entrance. And then, Sakusa is holding his legs upright as he pushes his cock in, slow and careful. “Fuck, Hinata,” he curses.


Hinata inhales and exhales deeply through his nose, as he absorbs the feeling of Sakusa’s cock deep inside him, the fullness of it. Shudders, endless ripples of them, traverse through his body—seismic waves of electricity that meet the tips of his fingers, the pads of his toes. Frenetic, explosive. “So big, Omi-san...Feels so fucking good.”


“Hinata, you’re so,” Sakusa gasps, thumbs pressing into the line of muscle running along Hinata’s calves. 




“You’re so dirty. A dirty talker.”


Hinata smirks gleefully. “You like that, Omi-san?”


“I don’t do well with dirt,” Sakusa teases, “but I could make an exception for you.”


With that, the dark haired-man begins moving, slowly at first so Hinata can get used to the motion. He’s so patient, Hinata thinks—gentle and composed as opposed to the meanness of his exterior that everyone believes. It makes his heart melt, amidst the filth and moisture, skin slapping against skin. Hinata bucks his hips, angling to meet Sakusa’s cock, and the outside hitter takes it as an indicator to build up speed, accelerating their rhythm.


Hinata sees his own heat—compressing into a fiery ball of energy, fizzling around the edges, pulling the surrounding muscles towards its climax. He’s panting, they both are, and just as he’s about to reach the precipice, Sakusa moves his sweat-slick fingers to curl around Hinata’s hard cock, pumping in rhythm to their bodies. 


“Omi-san, fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna-”


“Come for me, Hinata. Come on.”


And Hinata’s finally clenching around Sakusa as the heat unravels, spilling white onto hands and skin and sheets, electricity surging through him in amplified frequencies, hot and relentless. “Kiyoomi!” he shouts out, shaking through his release. The tightness of it makes Sakusa come, too, twitching inside Hinata as he pants into the crown of his head.


Sated, Hinata falls back onto the bed, waiting for the vibrations to subside into duller energies. Sakusa disposes of the condom and joins him, their limbs tangled over the sheets, his arm draped around Hinata’s side, and Hinata’s nose nuzzled into Sakusa’s chest. It takes a few minutes for reality to catch up to him, when he realises he hasn’t cleaned up his own come, and that he’s lying on Sakusa’s bed, which is honestly kind of unhygienic, and Sakusa might dislike him for it. Hinata shoots up. “Wait, we have to clean up!”


The dark haired-man groans, taking him by surprise. He pulls Hinata back to the bed. “Later. Stay here with me for a while.”


Hinata feels really soft—not just physically, but his heart feels soft too, at the sight of Sakusa with his eyes closed, lashes fanned out prettily, heaving frame languid and relaxed, asking Hinata to stay. He can’t help smiling to himself, not purely because they had sex (though he really does feel like a winner about that one), but it’s nice to see all these different sides to Sakusa, to unravel him thread by thread, and savour his beauty, his enigma. Take away the physicality, and Hinata’s left with his emotions again, brimming with them.


“So my hands, huh?” Sakusa suddenly asks, peeking an eye open. Hinata’s cheeks begin to burn. “You noticed?”


“You stare at them. A lot.” That observation only makes him flush harder. Hinata nods his head because he isn’t a liar. But a realisation strikes him, and he widens his eyes, mouth hanging agape. “Oh my god, is that why you asked to get your palms read, Omi-san? And the weird stretching exercises too?”


There’s a smirk playing around Sakusa’s lips that only confirms his answer. Hinata chuckles in response, laughing into the other’s chest. “I can’t believe I got played by you, Omi-san. But I forgive you for your amazing hands.”


Sakusa hums, closing his eyes again. There’s a tugging at Hinata’s chest as he realises that he doesn’t want this moment to end, to contain their interactions within the mere context of physical attraction, of anatomy. In the haze of his vulnerability, as he goes over the months spent between them, he comes to a conclusion that his feelings run, have always run, deeper than skin and bone, carpals and phalanxes, radius and capitate. So he inhales deeply, and admits, “It’s more than just the hands, Omi-san.”




“I like you because...I look up to you, so much. As a person. I admire everything about you, your thoughtfulness, your discipline, your demands for excellence, the way you see everything through. Y’know, the time I fell down during the Kamomedai match? Ever since then, I swore to become a person who took care of themselves. And after coming to MSBY, I realised, the person I wanted to become was you . You can be blunt and aloof, but you’re also so much kinder and gentler than people think you are. And living with you in the past few months has made me realise all of that.”


Sakusa’s eyes are fully open now, irises shining under the low lights. There’s a look of pleasant surprise washed over his face, a rare moment of openness, and it makes Hinata’s heart sing with hope. 




“I like you, Omi-san,” he reaffirms. 


“You’ve proven to me,” Sakusa whispers, “ever since the day you moved in, you’ve already proven to me that you’ve grown from that person you had been in high school. Intent. Disciplined. That’s what I think about you. Do you know what I mean?”


Hinata scoots even closer, evaporating every millimetre of distance between their bodies, and tilts his head upwards to level Sakusa’s gaze. “What?”


“It means I like you too.”




Hinata has always had an obsession with hands. Sakusa Kiyoomi’s hands, in particular. Carpal and bone, radius and capitate, skin and tissue, tendon and muscle. Intent, beautiful hands. But even so, he thinks, nothing beats the thrumming muscle, the pink and blood, of Sakusa Kiyoomi’s perfect heart.