#hate xx | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hatsukeii · 1 year ago

Text

fragrance: lazy sunday morning, replica / college!kageyama tobio x reader

notes: lily of the valley (top), iris (heart), white musks (base)

description: fresh laundry pulled from the wash, lazing around in the embrace of linen sheets.

disclaimer(s): faint sillage, poor longevity

wc: 3224

warning(s): mentions of panic attacks, but other than that nothing!!! gn reader too!!!

The first Sunday morning you spend together is at 6am in a residential laundromat. The two of you have occupied the lonely space, watching clothes spin as soap bubbled and sloshed against fabric. You kneel in front of the opening of the washing machine, basket in hand as you lazily yank dripping clothes and soaking sheets out. Kageyama leans on the edge of another washing machine, hip pressed against the side of it with his phone in one hand and the other propping him upright as he waits for his own bedsheets to finish .

You go home with a basket of double sized bed sheets, ones that hang much too loose on your twin bed, despite your many attempts to tuck them beneath your mattress. Kageyama goes home with a basket of twin sized sheets, ones that stubbornly snap off the corners of his double bed as he desperately tries to pull them across.

————————————————————————

The second Sunday morning you spend together is at the same laundromat, at 6am again. A week of sleeping without bed sheets has rendered both of you impatient, itching to reunite with your own. Both of you assume that the other would be at the laundromat again the next week, and both of you are correct in thinking so. This time, you arrive with a duffel bag, alongside a basket of unwashed clothes, and Kageyama enters the laundromat with two baskets, one stuffed with bedsheets, the other with his own dirty laundry.

“Sorry, grabbed them by mistake last week, didn’t even fit on my bed properly.”

“All good, I also slept without bedsheets for the week.”

Bedsheets are exchanged, stuffed into baskets and bags, and the two of you continue your laundry in silence, shoving dirty clothes and towels into separate washing machines. You glance at Kageyama, a D1 volleyball jersey peeking from his basket.

“You the new first year on men’s D1 volleyball?”

He hums in confirmation, tugging the jersey from his laundry as he shoves it into the machine.

“I watched you guys play last Friday, it was good.”

“Thanks. I’m pretty sure you’re in my lecture hall tomorrow too.”

Your eyebrows rise, surprised. You swear you have never seen him in your lectures, only ever on the court. You aren’t even too sure of his name yet. Standing up, you slam the washing machine door shut, pressing lazily at the buttons until a droning beep sounds, and soapy water begins to trickle into your laundry.

“Really? Never seen you there before.”

“I sit behind you most the time. y/n, right?”

You scratch at your frizzy bed head, too dazed to register his question. You hear the beep of a second machine, and the sloshing of clothes and water.

“Yeah. Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Tobio. Kageyama Tobio.”

————————————————————————

The twelfth Sunday morning you spend together, unlike the first, or the second, or the third, or any previous ones so far, is on campus instead, at 8am. Somehow, the both of you have managed to do your laundry during the week, perhaps for the reason of making it to the college’s open day on time. You rub your arms against a school emblem hoodie, and a staff lanyard, whilst Kageyama is clad in full volleyball attire, kneepads and jersey proudly representing the school’s men’s volleyball team as the two of you make your way from the residential quarters to the main campus.

“Don’t you look extra cool today, Mr. D1 athlete?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay, TA nerd.”

You grin, slinging an arm around Kageyama’s neck haphazardly and yanking him down. He yelps as his arm shoots up to your own, wrestling you off. Clicking your tongue, you kick the back of his knee and watch him catch himself halfway into his leg buckling beneath him, snickering vengefully. Ducking down swiftly and picking you up by the legs, he slings you onto his shoulder, arm wrapping around your waist as he continues walking. Kicking and flailing, your fists rain down on his rigid back, a vain attempt at forcing him to release you. His steps come to a stop, just to tighten his grip on your body.

“Let go of me! Or I’ll take your bedsheets again, asshole!”

“Yeah, if you can make it down, that is.”

Offended (not really), you stretch your arm as far as it can go, poking at his side. Kageyama squirms and writhes, the shit eating smirk once plastered on his face contorting into a pained laugh. His arm finally loosens around your waist, and you take the chance to wriggle out of his grip, landing on the ground in front of him.

“D1 athlete, but can’t keep someone half your height and weight on your shoulder, get good.”

Kageyama rolls his eyes. He is good. Great, even. He does, however, wish he could have revelled in the feeling of his arm around your waist for just a little longer.

————————————————————————

The twenty-fifth Sunday morning spent together is, once again, as always, at the laundromat. However, with the months of friendship the two of you have accumulated, a new step to your laundry routine has been introduced. No more are the days of staring at bubbling clothes and spinning sheets through the veil of chatter and gossip amongst the two of you, instead replaced by morning coffees, walks, even the occasional jog. Today, the two of you have decided on a coffee walk, the steaming cups residing within your numbingly cold fingers, their heat emanating into frosty winter air.

You blow at the opening of the lid, wisps of steam puffing from the liquid as you take a sip of the latte (ordered with only half a shot and extra milk with sugar). Still too bitter, you wince, smacking your tongue to wash the caffeine down. Kageyama huffs out a chuckle, before gulping down his own (also ordered with only half a shot and extra milk with sugar), and grabbing yours from your hand, devouring it too. Then, he tilts his head, looking at your surprised expression with furrowed brows and nibbling his lip in confusion.

“You don’t actually like coffee, do you?”

“Well it’s the only thing they have at this cafe. Plus, you like this place, so I keep coming anyway.”

Kageyama stares, baffled. Him? Liking coffee? Where did you get that from?

“I thought you liked it, considering you started these coffee runs? I’m pretty indifferent to be honest.”

You let out a breathy laugh, pointing at him instead.

“I thought I could try to like it, but I only started because I thought you’d be into coffee? Isn’t that what brooding guys like you enjoy drinking on Sunday mornings, while their laundry is running?”

Kageyama hates coffee. He has to order it with a 1:7 ratio of espresso to milk. Yet the hums of satisfaction (or so he thought) that seem to escape your throat at every first sip of hot coffee on chilly Sunday mornings makes every disgustingly bitter swallow of caffeine just this much more enjoyable. You also hate coffee, albeit not needing as extreme of an espresso to milk ratio (1:6 to be exact), yet Kageyama’s fluttering grin makes it clear what you have to do- suck it up and swallow your scathing, sickeningly tart (half) espresso shot, so you can keep, whatever this is, going.

“Yes, brooding guys like black coffees in the morning. But no, I don’t like coffee at all. Wanna go somewhere else from now on, my treat?”

From that Sunday morning onwards, the two of you skip the usual coffee stop, and head around the block for a cafe that serves chocolate instead. Kageyama’s grin would stretch into a satiated smile from the corner of your eyes, and your small, fleeting hums would turn into droning ones of actual satisfaction, much to the delight of Kageyama’s ears.

He wants to keep this going, through winter, then spring, then summer, and autumn too. You want to take the longer walks to the new cafe with him, for hot chocolate, maybe even iced coffee one day, if either of you suddenly develops the palate for it.

“So, you stuck around the cafe only because you thought I liked it? That’s sweet, Mr. D1.”

“What, like you didn’t suggest it because you thought I liked it in the first place? How nice of you, TA.”

————————————————————————

The thirty-fourth Sunday morning spent together, the two of you are perched on the edge of Kageyama’s couch, eyes trained to his laptop as a grey circle spins, and spins, and spins. On the coffee table ahead sits two cups of hot chocolate, stale and lukewarm.

“What if I’m not in?”

“Don’t be an idiot, look at you. You’re so in.”

The circle goes on for an unsettling period of time, and you swear you can hear the veins popping in Kageyama’s head. They can’t possibly reject him, they won’t. And if they do, you’ll be there to make sure the decision is fixed hastily. You’ve seen him play countless games by now, taking sessions of TA work off for the sake of watching a ball hit the ground over, and over, and over. Even for someone who doesn’t know the slightest thing about playing volleyball, you could tell that he deserved this. He was perfect, through and through.

The circle disappears, and the webpage goes blank. Then, twelve portraits pop onto the screen. The two of you inch forward, noses almost touching the laptop as you scan for one particular name.

"No.9: Kageyama Tobio, position: setter”

You barely have time to register his name in the national team roster before strong arms engulf your entire body in a tight embrace. Kageyama’s weight knocks you into his couch, his head buried in the crook of your neck as he finally exhales from relief. He’s close, closer than he ever has been before, and you catch a hint of white lilies and cotton on his pulse. Smiling, a pang of pride surges through your head and heart, and you let your arms wrap around Kageyama, pulling him close. You feel a trail of water trickle down the side of your neck, followed by a flurry of badly hidden sniffles and sobs, and one of your hands moves to stroke the back of his head.

“I made it…I actually made it.”

“I knew you would, Tobio.”

————————————————————————

The forty-fifth Sunday you spend together doesn’t start as a Sunday at all. Instead, it starts as a gloomy, rainy Saturday night, red numbers glaring from Kageyama’s bedside clock while he holds himself close, quivering breaths wheezing from his chest. The bed is damp beneath his sweating figure, hair sticking to his face and neck in his unmoving, curled up position.

The door to his dorm unlocks with a click, and you tuck the spare key back beneath the pot of the houseplant outside, nudging it in until it disappears, before stepping inside. The room is pitch black, spare of the buzzing streetlights seeping through his blinds, dissipating in hospital white threads. Your heart drops at Kageyama’s erratic breathing, his body curled into a little ball and sinking into his linen bed sheets.

“Hey, you called?”

He doesn’t respond, so you shut the door behind you, and shuffle towards his bed. Your hand presses into the mattress, the fabric damp beneath your fingers, and you sit beside him, your thigh pushed up against his back. His back remains turned away from you, yet you can feel the tension loosen ever so slightly. Your thigh nudges into his spine, and your hand taps at him to get up.

“Your bedsheets, they’re sweaty. Go take a rinse, I’ll change them for you, okay?”

Kageyama obeys, getting up for the first time in the past three hours and dragging himself into the bathroom. Pulling open every single drawer in his room, you search for his bedsheets, before finally finding the same set that you accidentally took home once. Water splashes and taps from the bathroom as you peel the old, sweaty sheets off the mattress, tucking in the new ones instead, and giving his blanket a fluff. His room is a mess, a volleyball sitting beneath his bed, scattered papers across his desk, knee pads slung carelessly over his chair. The national team jersey, however, hangs proudly at his door, as if to remind him who he is now. He is no longer just Kageyama Tobio, college student, health major, D1 college athlete. He is so much bigger than that now, reaching so high that his feet might just leave the ground forever.

Yet pain fills your chest as you stare at his new jersey from his bed, the school’s D1 shirt now tucked away into some unceremonious drawer. Is this really worth it? Is this worth hours of panic attacks? Or mornings consumed by training entirely, leaving your Sunday habits behind? You can’t remember the last Sunday you saw him at the laundromat, or grabbed that hot chocolate together, each week a cycle of training, class, training, then sleep. Like the unending spinning of wet laundry in a washing machine.

The bathroom door creaks, and Kageyama finally steps out of the bathroom to see a fresh set of bedsheets on his mattress, cool and dry beneath his body as he crawls in. This time, he doesn’t turn his back to you.

“Thank you, y/n. I’m sorry.”

“Just game nerves, I get it. I’m sorry I can’t be there tomorrow, Tobio.”

A knowing pout creeps onto his face, before it dissipates into a sad smile. He knows you’ve never missed a single one of his games, and that the only reason you won’t make it tomorrow is because of a TA promotion initiative. Of all games to miss though, why did it have to be his first nationals match?

“It’s okay, you deserve that promotion. You have to get it.”

You reach over to grab his broad shoulders, shaking them a bit as you stare him down.

“You are, quite literally, the best player I’ve seen in my life. You’re gonna be amazing tomorrow. Don’t worry.”

Getting up, you grab your phone from the floor, rolling over to leave the bed, when Kageyama’s arm shoots out to grab your wrist. If he can’t have you tomorrow, he’ll need to have you now.

“Can you stay the night?”

Your face flushes. Never have you ever been offered to stay the night before by a partner, let alone a friend. Yet he looks like a lost puppy, eyes searching desperately for some semblance of calm within the harrowing match that looms dreadfully in the near future. Somewhere in there, is a thick cup of hot chocolate, puffing steam from the opening of the lid on a frosty Sunday morning, a basket of clean bedsheets, freshly dried and warmed from the laundromat as the sun rises above the horizon, and the stupid TA lanyard that he searches amongst crowds and lecture halls for, day in and day out.

“Of course.”

The bedsheets shuffle as you crawl back in, making sure to inch away from Kageyama’s body just enough to give him space. You look at him, face pressed into his pillow and eyes threatening to snap shut at any moment, and smile gently. The mask of lilies diffuses into something even softer, like morning dew sitting on iris petals, and pollen wafting into spring air, so delicate that it threatens to drift away at each breath. His fingers shift around the bed to find your own, hooking his pinky with yours as he drifts off to sleep, finally, after two hours of sweating, and crying, and failing breathing exercises.

Your phone buzzes, text messages from your professor popping up to cancel your meeting for sick leave.

The clock by his bed ticks into 00:00. Sunday morning has come.

————————————————————————

Kageyama wakes up before you do on the forty-fifth Sunday morning, national team jersey stretched across his body and a duffel bag hanging from his shoulder. He watches your nose twitch a little, adapting to the warm, now empty spot on his bed. He decides to watch you a little longer, so he can remember your finger wrapped around his beneath his blankets, and the stripe of light on your face as the morning sun shines through the blinds. He swears it will make him better, as long as he knows every detail of your knee touching his own under the covers, and can hear the small, hitched breaths you take in your sleep in his head, and he steps out the door.

You find yourself sprinting out of a taxi towards Kamei arena at 1pm, finally having read the messages from your professor. Wet hair from your morning shower leaves lines of water in the fabric of your sweater, barely having had the time to take it in the first place. The arena is expansive, every corner turned leading you to the wrong sports hall, until roaring cheers erupt from one of them, and you finally burst in through the right door.

Kageyama stands at the serving line, bouncing the volleyball against the ground. If they take this set off this serve, they might just have a shot at qualifying. Warm fingers, hot chocolate, knees touching, fresh laundry, hitched breaths, lanyard. He has to remember it all. Feel it all. He scans the crowd, and a lone figure stands at the door.

“You got this.” He can roughly make out from your lips, now realising that he doesn’t need to remember, or feel, or envision it at all.

He takes aim, jumps, slams his hand into the ball with as much precision and power as his arms can conjure up. The serve hits right on the line, too close for anyone to think to save it, yet in bounds nevertheless.

The referee calls the match point, and the team hasn’t even had the chance to approach him in celebration, before Kageyama sprints off the court, and towards you. He runs into you, knocking you back a few steps as his entire body engulfs your own in an embrace. He doesn’t spare a second, before grabbing your face, and pulling it towards him, planting a firm kiss onto your lips. You hesitate, confused, before your arms find his neck, looping around to hold him as your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in the notes of lilies, and musk, and irises, mixed with his sweat and adrenaline. The smell of Sunday mornings. The crowd screams. His teammates also scream. His hands pull your face away from his, so he can properly stare at you, irises darting between your eyes. Fuck a trophy, or a medal, or a national title. He would happily pretend to like coffee, just so you could take him to every single coffee shop in the world if you so desired. He would be satisfied with your knees touching beneath his blankets on lazy Sunday mornings, maybe his arms around your waist too, and your legs tangled up in each other, instead of just his finger wrapped around yours. He would willingly do laundry every single morning for the rest of his life, if it meant getting to pull bedsheets out of washing machines with you.

“I thought you couldn’t make it?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Tobio.”

author's note:

this was ok! i wanted to experiment with vignettes but it's hard to find a balance... but! im 4/7 done with finals, and i finally have the weekend to rest, so i decided to get it over with and finish off this piece!! im so stupid i like accidentally posted it way too early while checking my blog at like 6am so i was very confused when this draft went missing ummmm

anyways! hope you enjoy!! don't let the word count get to you!! please!! i poured a lot of effort into this because 3k words is more than i have written in like weeks!!

tag time!!

@starlysama @chuuya-brainrot @bailey-reeds @fiannee @afyrian @iiwaijime

ok love u guys see u soon bye bye

#kageyama x reader #kageyama tobio #haikyuu kageyama #hq kageyama #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #haikyuu scenarios #haikyuu au #kageyama headcanons #kageyama imagine #kageyama scenarios #haikyuu!!#haikyuu headcanons #hq x reader #guys i am so tired but lowkey i loved writing the vignettes like they were so cute and fun ngl #kageyama definitely does not like coffee and thinks it tastes gross and stunts your growth #i lie though i do love me my black coffee so for reader to hate it here hmmmmm #anyways i love you guys bye bye xx

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forlorn-crows · 2 months ago

Note

Consider, if you will, Mist and Alpha when it was good. There must have been a few moments where they were happy.

alpha is an ass through and through, but somehow mist still fell for him. we're straddling the beginning of an end here with them, but for now . . .

Mist takes a drag of her cigarette and exhales the smoke into the cool night air. In the distance, footsteps of retreating concert goers echo off the pavement. Excited chatter floats past the venue's fences into the alley where her and Alpha stand quietly, only de-costumed enough to not get smoke and ash on their tunics.

"It's getting old," Mist sighs after another moment.

Alpha scoffs. "What is?"

Mist gestures vaguely into the alleyway. "This. The touring. Performing."

"You've barely done anything," Alpha laughs, stamping his own cigarette butt into the ground. He cracks his knuckles and turns towards her with a smirk, arms crossed.

She narrows her eyes at the fire ghoul. "I'm sorry, I forgot I was talking to heartthrob attention whore Alpha, second only to 'impregnate me right here on this floor' Omega. My mistake thinking you'd sympathize with me." Mist says it with venom and post-show exhaustion on her tongue, but she can't help the tinge of affection that still weaves its way in.

"Dude's not even fuckin' here and you're still talking about him."

"So is the rest of the population; you only have more adoring eyes now that big brother Megs isn't here to steal your spotlight. Because they certainly are not looking at Delts or I."

"I'll look enough for all of 'em," Alpha flirts. "Just 'cause they can't see that little ass under that tunic doesn't mean I can't."

Mist rolls her eyes and leans back against the brick wall. Sending another plume of smoke into the air. "Maybe you should focus on something else. Your playing, perhaps? Look at my ass on your off time, bastard."

"Oh, I do."

The heat of him gets closer, close enough to penetrate through Mist's leather jacket. Slightly elevated from prancing around and playing all night. She staunchly avoids eye contact.

"C'mon, Mist," he says, even closer now. He smells like sweat and smoke and trashy cologne, and it's taking all of her willpower not to grab him by his collar and shove him to the concrete.

She really doesn't feel like doing this tonight.

"Why don't we get 'em in on the fun?" Alpha leans his elbow on the wall above her head. "Play around with each other on stage---give 'em a little show of our own, huh?" He slides a few fingers into her half-open breast pocket on her jacket, intending on going further until Mist snatches the fabric away from his hand. Metal teeth on the zipper scraping against his knuckles.

"Motherfucker--" She throws her cigarette to the ground and stomps it out, spinning to face him head-on. "You make me. Fucking crazy," she hisses.

Alpha grins, all teeth. Predatory and far too enticing. "You like it," he says. "And you're always mad that you like it. Should be flattered I never take my eyes off of you."

"Shut. Up."

"Make me, you little urchin."

And fucking Lucifer, it's cliche and she hates it, but he's goaded her into it now. Mist grabs him by the front of his sweatshirt and pushes his back up against the side of the building; then, with a tight fist, she yanks him down to her height by the collar. Smashing their lips together with as much fervor that her post-show emotions will allow her.

"Fuck, there you are," Alpha grins and groans against her mouth. He curls one hand around the back of her neck and cradles the side of her face with the other, needy and insistent.

Mist nips at the tip of his tongue before it can go past her lips. "Stop talking," she huffs. And she slips him her own tongue before he can say anything else---kissing to claim, kissing to devour. Putting all her frustration into the movement of her lips and the force with which she attacks Alpha's mouth with her own.

Alpha can take it. He always does.

He slides his hands down her back. Surprisingly, they don't go straight to her ass like Mist expects, but stay at her lower back, keeping her flush to his body. Taking all she gives him with little more than a huff and a rumbling groan.

Mist makes a frustrated noise, nipping hard enough at his bottom lip to make him hiss a little through his nose. Metallic bite of his blood flooding her senses like an electric shock. She curses, nearly losing her balance where's she's put one foot over Alpha's to gain leverage. Fangs scraping over the wound, catching just enough on his skin that she has to fight herself to keep from doing it again, over and over.

The taste of smoke and beer eventually sours in her mouth, and slowly she lets the kiss lose steam.

"Mist." Alpha pulls away, but doesn't let her go. He rests his forehead against hers, apologetic, and offers a questioning hum. "You okay?" he asks.

Mist watches his tongue dart out to catch the slowly oozing blood from his lip. "Could have asked me that earlier," she mumbles.

"You're always prickly, though, how am I supposed to tell when you need me to ask?"

Mist grumbles and crosses her arms. Doesn't answer.

He places a chaste kiss to one side of her nose. "Babe, you know I love you, right?"

"Could have done a better job of showing it. Asshole," Mist sniffs.

Alpha sighs and runs his hands through her cold, sweaty hair. "Make it up to you?"

"Your dick is going nowhere near me tonight. Let alone this week."

Alpha just rolls his eyes. "It's still gonna be in the same room with you. Doesn't mean you have to look at it."

He gets close to her again, thumbing across her cheeks as he teases at her lips, even as they start to form into a snarl. "Can't I treat you right, though? I'll let you shut me up any way you want. Take all of that pretty little cock, baby."

Mist growls. "You're about to get a fist to the mouth instead." She pushes hard at his chest and steps away, striding back towards the service entrance doors.

"Oooh," he laughs after her. "You're pissed, huh?"

"Wow, stupid, what gave you that idea?"

And yet, she still leans into the arm he puts around her as Alpha guides her back. All she can do is sigh and hold onto her own jacket tighter. He shields her from the bustle of the roadcrew taking down stage pieces and stowing away instruments, walking in stride with her back to the rest of the group.

"You owe me another cigarette," Mist says eventually as they round the corner to the greenroom. " . . . And a sloppy blowjob," she adds as an afterthought, only loud enough for Alpha to hear.

"Those things I can do," he purrs smugly. "On my knees? Choking on it? You wanna use my belt as a leash agai---ow."

Mist shoves him into the vanity counter as hard as she can, retreating to her usual corner behind the costume racks. She shakes up the leftover mixture in her water bottle, downing the slightly salty, duckweed-infused water in a few gulps, trying not to let the liquid slip out the side of her smirk---Pebble's laughing at Alpha's collision with the counter, Cowbell trilling his own laugh behind them.

"You want me to punch him for you?" Delta asks on the other side of the garment rack. The fluorescent lights make his iridescent eyes, currently narrowed in amusement, shift to their more purple hue as he peeks over the clothing.

Mist wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. "Nah. I'll do it later."

Delta smiles. "Good." He looks over to the rest of them and watches Pebble grab two more beers (seemingly from nowhere) and thrust one of them into Alpha's hand. "Hm. Maybe we can get him sloppy drunk enough to grovel instead."

"Not a bad idea, rainbowfish."

#the band ghost #nameless ghouls #mist ghoulette #alpha ghoul #pebble ghoul #delta ghoul #cowbell ghoul #era iii ghouls #nameless ghoul fanfic #the band ghost fanfic #alpha/mist #crow caws #crow writes #i hate them /pos #to my partner in mist/alpha crime xx #their relationship is so complicated (to us) its v important to me #askingforthesun #alpha x mist #air's in there somewhere but i dont really care about that grumpy old man that much /lh

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