#hq!! x reader

[chimielie]

go loud

summary: Kita x F!Reader. you come back from university. he’s still waiting.

wc: 1.4k

cw: one (1) instance of kita lookin at ur butt, pining, misunderstandings, reader is carried but kita is a strong farmer so don’t be offput lol

a/n: sorry for being obsessed with using fanfic to work out feelings about my hometown

you've been acting weird around kita ever since you came back from the city.

when you decided to move back to hyōgo after graduating university, he'd been delighted in his own quiet, mild-mannered way. he'd always hoped for this outcome, though he had tried to hide it. you seemed happy when he came to visit you, but he always had the uncomfortable sense that you were becoming something beyond his comprehension, wearing styles that were unfamiliar, laughing about jokes for which he lacked context, your heart expanding at the rate of the universe but somehow without room for him in it.

he knew this was silly reasoning, but he just felt... drowned out in tokyo. it made him afraid that someday you would stop seeking his voice—but you hadn't. instead, you had called him one day and said "shinsuke, what do you think of my moving back home?"

he thought so highly of this idea he could have climbed the sky tree for joy. finally, things would return to the way they had been since you were children. you would meet him on saturday mornings and walk to the market with him, one hand supporting a book, the other holding his. he would be waiting in your kitchen when you came home from teaching language lessons at the high school, slicing up vegetables and laughing with your mother. you would sit on the narrow paths between the rice paddies as he weeded, mimicking the sounds of birds and frogs back over the water. his world would fall back into place.

it hadn't. you had come back with a little piece of that loud city life inside your soul. on saturday mornings, you no longer relied on him for guidance while you frantically turned pages and attempted to walk into poles; now, you face the morning with a bright smile and shout greetings to people even kita isn't familiar with from across the street. it takes fifteen more minutes to reach the market because everyone has questions for you that you answer bashfully, one hand on the brim of your sunhat as kita stands beside you, his hands in his pockets. you teach at inako, but don't come home until late, stumbling through the doorway and laughing about how much fun you had at karaoke with your colleagues. you always invite him, but his mornings are much too early. you insist on helping him weed when you come with him to complete his chores, borrowing a pair of his boots and sliding around in them as you stomp toward the paddies. occasionally, you slip, and he's forced to put a hand on your waist to steady you. your yelp startles all the birds, their feathers fanned out stark black and white against the sky.

this isn't what's weird. kita is pleasantly surprised that you've found your voice, having always chafed against what you felt was your stifling hometown. he's pleased to watch you smile, the flash of your teeth as your new friends compliment you, the sway of your hips when you return from karaoke inebriated. the feeling of your body beneath his square palm makes his heart pound fast, but that isn't anything new either. he's always been in love with you. how could he not be?

you, however, jerk away from kita's touch, water sloshing into your shoes when you stumble again. he asks you to taste test his cooking, but you knock the chopsticks away from his hand and insist on feeding yourself. he comes to karaoke and you don't look at him at all when he sings.

he walks home with you anyway.

you're wearing impractical shoes, the kind that make your legs very difficult to avoid staring at but that are now clearly hurting your feet.

"take them off," he says, exasperated.

"no," you say stubbornly. "you can't tell me what to do." he's grateful you kept your kansai accent, even though you can switch to a flawless standard dialect if need be. this is your real voice, the one you use with all your walls down.

"you're clearly hurtin'," he says pointedly as you stumble again. "take 'em off. i'll carry you."

"...fine," you say, already bending over.

(kita is a gentleman, but he doesn't quite look away fast enough, and the way your skirt rides up is seared into his brain forever.)

he unbuttons his shirt while you fuss with the straps, leaving him in a white tank, and gives it to you before you climb on his back.

"tie this around your waist," he instructs, and you goggle at him, speechless for a moment. too late, he realizes he's indicated that he was looking and briefly considers dying of shame right there on the sidewalk.

here lies kita shinsuke, who passed at age twenty-four, having unholy and perverted thoughts about his childhood best friend, who did not love him back.

mercifully, you say nothing for once and just let him carry you, your heels dangling from one hand and knocking against his thigh. your body is warm through the thin material of his undershirt, your voice soft as you hum absentmindedly in his ear.

he sets you down on your front porch and you wobble. instinctively, he reaches for you, but stops himself in time to hover only a few centimeters above your skin. your head snaps up and you look at him, mouth parted like you want to say something.

before you can, he blurts: "who'd you leave behind in tokyo?"

"what?" you say. he wishes he could slap a hand over his past self's mouth. then he keeps going.

"you're pining for someone, right?" he asks, shoving his foot deeper in his mouth. "that's why you're always singin' love songs and dressin' like you wish you had someone to impress."

you're silent, gaping at him like a fish. something he had been too stupid (lovestruck, lovesick) to consider before pops into his mind.

"or you didn't leave them behind? you're still together?" your hands are rising to your mouth as he speaks, abject horror written all over your face. he steps back and bows, his squeezed-shut eyes preventing him from seeing the way you move towards him, reaching out but not quite touching him. "i'm so sorry, L/N-san. i've been behaving improperly out of habit, i hadn't considered that it might have different implications now that we're adults. i apologize sincerely."

"shin!" your gasp brings him out of his bent posture, your hand holding his wrist. "stop that! and don't talk to me so formally. i'm not seein' anyone at all. in fact," the porch light pours gold over your face, neck, and shoulders, not helping with the way his skin prickles with your touch, "i did go on dates while i was away. i won't lie about that, but all i learned was that i didn't—i couldn't like anyone who wasn't you."

kita echoes your earlier question. "what?"

"i didn't understand it in high school because it was all i'd ever known," you admit, "but when i saw my friends start dating, it was unfamiliar. then once they settled down, i saw their love like i saw my feelings for you. i always wanted to come home to you because i knew you'd always listen, that you make me laugh harder than anyone, that i understood you without sayin' a single word, but i didn't know what it meant 'til now. i'm sorry you noticed. i really did try to keep it quiet."

kita stares at you. you look apologetic, your eyes wet, your lips curved down. he glances down at his wrist, which you're still holding, prompting you to drop it like it had burned you. his overfried brain mourns the loss of contact, so he grabs you by your hips and really touches you, hauling you in for a kiss so close your chests are touching, your lips soft and warm as he presses his own against them.

when you separate, both of you are breathing heavily. you thought you knew the depths of your heart’s beating for shinsuke. you were wrong.

"i was scared i was gonna lose you again," he tells you, resting his forehead against yours. “i thought nothing was ever gonna be the same.”

“it probably won’t be but that’s okay.”

“yeah,” he breathes, a slow, shuddering thing. something he hadn’t known was wound tight unravels in his chest. “yeah. but you wouldn’t—you stopped talkin’ to me.”

“i didn’t,” you draw back, looking insulted.

“not like this,” he puts his fingers to your lips, slightly swollen from his kiss, then on your breastbone, over your heart. “see?”

[milkymora]

left ✧ tsukishima kei x fem!reader ✧ fluff ending

note: uhh i originally had a different idea for this one, but then art block kicked in and i couldn’t find a way to end it how i wanted to, so, for the life of me, i changed it and this is the result. it’s kinda bland but i thought the idea was nice although clichè.

tw: period cramps, r! throwing up.

“kyoko is right.” said tsukishima in a low voice, so that only you could hear. confused, you turn your head to him, inquisitive stare seeking for his amber eyes.

he had his cheek resting on the palm of his hand, not really returning your stare, rather glancing at his plate, with a neutral expression that had a shade of dreaminess in it you weren’t sure you’ve ever seen before.

he seemed to be spacing out, actually.

“what was that?” you questioned, although having heard just fine his previous statement, stealing a forkful of pasta from his plate to get him to pay attention to you.

a subtle smile made its way across tsukki’s thin lips at your gesture.

“i said that kyoko’s right.” he repeated, eyes finally reciprocating yours, no shame in his apparently sincere compliment.

it wasn’t a tease, nor a joke. his voice was genuine, to your surprise.

“what do you mean?”

you knew. you knew what he meant, and he knew that you knew. yet, you wanted to hear him say it. to hear those sweet words, that never came out of his mouth, from him.

“you look gorgeous.” he admitted as if it was the easiest thing to say, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world, going with his fork to steal one of your french fries, mimicking your previous playful deed. though you didn’t even notice.

you had your eyes locked on his, shifting from his right to his left, too busy processing what you’ve just been told.

“oh,” you let out a nervous cackle, “thank you.” flashing him a timid smile. he responded with a simple nod, that subtle smile lingering on his lips as he did.

“sure but, don’t look at me like that.” abruptly, he added.

“like what?” you tilted your head.

“like i’m never nice.”

“would it be a lie?” you snorted, eyeing him from head to toe.

“yes. a blatant one.” unfazed, he responded.

“uh,” you lift your eyebrows at his words, “excuse me?” shock painting your traits, as you go to fill your glass with the water the waiter just brought to the table.

“wasn’t i lovey-dovey enough yesterday?” chuckling, he watches as you almost choke on your drink, coughing the life out of your lungs.

you keep coughing into your palm for a good moment, after having sent him a kick with the tip of your shoe on his calf from under the table, peering around you to make sure your friends hadn’t heard kei’s last sentence.

too bad you’re met by kyoko’s interested stare; when you make eye contact, it’s like you’ve seen a ghost.

“what happened yesterday?” she curiously wonders out loud. although her angelic face, you recognize those sly eyes.

“nothing,” you laugh, not helping the a little too high pitched tone, “he just dropped a couple books at my house, to, uh–” that would always kicks in when searching for a decent lie to tell.

“–to hand them back. i borrowed them from y/n over a month ago, but forgot to return them.” tsukishima chimed in at the pathetic sight of your struggling figure, being the good actor he’d always been.

“sure.” kyoko’s smile spoke volumes, however she simply accepted your response, leaving you alone... without flashing you a knowing smirk beforehand, though.

swallowing a pool of saliva formed in your mouth, you cleared your throat, detaching your gaze from her, your bashful face glancing at your empty plate.

quietly, you go back to eavesdropping the others’ conversations, finding yourself eventually joining yachi’s jokes after sharing laughters with tadashi and her.

and it went on like that for a good while.

until you felt a sudden, stinging pain in your stomach that made you drop the fork in your hand. nonody noticed you going silent at first, nobody except him.

“you good?” his brows furrow the more the time passes, seeing no response coming from you. “i–” your arm goes to cover your stomach, but the pain is so strong you can’t even speak to explain.

abruptly, you jump up, unable to bear it any longer.

it wasn’t a bellyache from something you’ve eaten, you’d recognize those awful cramps from a mile.

without being able to alert anyone, you dragged your feet towards the restroom, closing the door behind you and letting out a groan as shimizu’s voice spoke from afar.

“y/n? are you okay?”

you ignore her, too busy hastily rummaging into your purse for your portable meds’ box as kyoko’s steps approach you, but when you open it, you remember that you hadn’t taken any pill with you for period cramps from home.

“ow—” you cry, the pain bending you, making you kneel down on the bathroom floor. “hey, hey-” kyoko spoke, laying a hand over your shoulder. “what’s wrong?” she asks, her hand traveling on your back to caress it in slow movements.

“do you have anything for cramps?” with tight teeth, you fight the nausea that threaten to make you throw up at any given second.

shimizu’s features softened at your request, wordlessly realizing the issue. “i think i do,” she begins, “i’ll go back where i left my purse to search it up, okay?” she continues. “i’ll be right back.”

you nod, and as quickly as she came, she was gone, leaving you alone with your aching lowerbelly.

you cursed yourself for your oversight, swallowing several times as to try not to actually vomit, when you hear another voice speak from behind the door.

“are you there?” kei’s knuckles knock on the door.

your voice trembles slightly, “yeah.”

he opens the door of a couple inches, his head sticking in to take a look at you. “come in,” you say, gesturing at him.

“um, are you sure i can...?” he doubts, eyeing the women sign glued on the door.

“oh, who cares!” you exclaim, before letting out another groan, closing your eyes in pain. you crouch into yourself further, as if that was somehow gonna relief that unbearable discomfort.

the door closes. his frame sits next to you the second later, so close to you that your shoulders are touching.

“i saw kyoko running back to the table, i figured she anticipated me.” he talks softly, his calmness somewhat comforting. “what happened?”

“just my period.” you lay your head against the cold tiles of the room, huffing and puffing as you tried to regulate your breathing. failing.

“is it that bad?” his face tilts slightly, glancing over every inch of your grimace. “what do you think, sherlock?” you turn your face on the opposite direction, avoiding his eyes as to not be seen like that.

“sorry,” he timidly apologizes, slapping a sense of guilt into your guts for giving him an uncalled for attitude.

“no–” you shake your head, “i’m sorry.” you sigh. “it’s just that it hurts so bad.”

the door pushes open once more, this time hitoka is behind it.

“oh,” yachi takes a step back, “did i interrupt something?” her squeaky tone makes you smile. “no.” you flash her a weak smile.

“i came in to tell you that kyoko doesn’t have anything for you, she told me... and neither do i.” her hands fidget with the little bows of her dress. “do you wanna go home? we will pay for your part.” her displeased face touched your heart.

however tsukki didn’t allow you to choose.

“i’ll pay for it and get her home, you girls don’t worry. i’ll take care of it.” he gets up from his spot. “go tell the others we’re leaving, please.”

his request meets a nodding yachi, that wastes no time heading back to your friends.

“here,” he lends you his hands, “hop.” he says as he helps you get on your feet.

“you really don’t have to, i ca-” you begin, “y/n, darling, spare me the “i can do it myself” speech for another day, okay?”

you try to rebut, “but, really, i can do this myself.”

“yeah, yeah. you’re an independent, strong, woman. i know. we all know. now let me help you.” he says, taking your hand into his, his warm skin pleasing to the touch.

although the nausea and the hammering pain in your womb, you can’t help but chuckle at his statement. “thank you.” you whisper, going on your tippy toes to print a phantom kiss on his cheek.

tsukishima paid for your and his part as he said, before giving a quick wave at the table where the others were still dining cheerfully, tossing on his shoulders his thick coat and opening the door of the restaurant for you and himself.

you and him walked out of the building, the freezing, nightly, dicember air hitting your skin like a whiplash, making your aching worsen immediately.

“shit,” you whine, his arm going around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “resist. we’ll be home before you notice.” he comforts, your frames starting to walk down the street hand in hand.

half an hour later, you’re finally home.

your face is sloped over the toilet, puking every single thing you’ve eaten. tsukki’s behind you, although your protests of not needing him to, holding your hair out of your face.

the cold hadn’t really helped, and your walk was terrible to say the mere least. you felt as if you were fucking dying.

“i’ll go make you something warm.” he offers, to which you jerk your face in his direction, tears in your glassy eyes, heavy breathing. “what?! no! i’ll throw that up as well!”

“okay! okay. what do you want me to do?” asks his intimidated self, “go grab my hot water bottle and fill it, please.” you command, rather desperately.

just like that, he goes upstairs, in your bedroom, taking a hot minute to find the needed object, that was buried between your peluches and covers.

you hear a bunch of rustling, then his steps descending the stairs, walking into the kitchen, taking out a small saucepan.

after another five minutes, his figure appears back into the bathroom, where your poor self had been sitting, sore.

“there.” he says, handing you the thing.

you grab it, laying your back against the wall and pressing the water bag against your abdomen so hard you almost burn your skin. “thanks.” you murmur.

“you think you can take the medicine now?” his finger goes to softly stroke your cheek, giving you a compassionate stare.

“yes...” you glance inside the toilet you just flushed, that erased all the gross shit that previously was there. “i think i’m done with it, if life wants to give me a break.”

“wanna go lay down?” he asks, the softness in his voice giving you sweet goosebumps. “are you gonna leave if i do?”

“wha- no. why would i?” his eyebrows jump slightly.

“i don’t know. just a feeling.” you look down, at your feet.

“i mean, if you want me to leave, i’ll leav-”

“don’t.” your hand goes over his. his fingers move under yours, bringing your hand to his lips. “okay.” before kissing its back.

“..stay for the night.” you move your head towards him, resting your forehead against his. “please.”

his face colored of a deep bordeaux.

“are you sure?” he questions. “mhm.” you hum.

you were left alone in the bathroom as he went to his house to quickly change into cozy clothes. you took the time to take your medicine, a short shower to get the smell off of you and brush your teeth– which you definitely needed as well.

just as you got out of the bathroom in your freshly washed pajama, he entered your place again, this time with flannel pants and a purple sweatshirt, that had a little yellow moon at its upper right.

“have you told your mom you’re staying here for the night? asking that for the sake of your ears, you know...” you joke, noticing, as you did, that your pain as already significantly lowered.

“ha-ha.” he sarcastically laughs at your joke, “don’t worry about that.”

you chuckled, the both of you walking upstairs into your room. “how’s your..?” he begins.

“good. thank you again, for... you know. everything.” you smile, entering your bedroom with him following.

“anytime, pipsqueak.”

you’ve turned on your pc, posing it on the bed, as he took out of your closet another pillow and a couple more fluffy blankets, in that room he’s been in so many times before.

he crawls up your bed, after having added all the necessities, before laying on top of your pillows and playing with one of your peluche.

precisely, the little t-rex he gifted you for your birthday when you were kids. which reminded you...

“oh!” you exclaim, making him jump upright. “what?” he asks, searching for any sign of pain on your face.

“i,” you blush. “i bought you something.”

he lets out a relieved sigh, “god, you scared me.” that quickly shifts into curiosity, though. “what is it?”

you clumsily slip out of your bed, running downstairs, where you left your purse. you grab it, going back to him.

the old woman at the shop had wrapped it up in christmas themed paper, with a red bow on top.

“before you say anything, i know it’s dumb.” you look away, stretching your arm out to him, with the thing in your hand. “i just... i don’t know. it made me think of you when i saw it, so i got it.”

he quietly grabs the object from you, unwrapping it. his expression remains impassive, which makes you nervous.

more than what you already are. “i got one for me too- a matching one.” you stutter mildly, taking out your own brown little bear.

when you go back to watch his face, you found him already looking at you. actually he keeps going back and forth to you and the white bear in his hand.

“you can give it back if you don’t like it.” you close your hand into a fist, hiding your bear in it, your cheeks darkening as you watch him get up from your bed. “tsukki?” you ask.

his arms wrap around your waist, lifting you up, mouth catching yours into a kiss. you tense up before realizing his gesture, loosing up and kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist.

it’s the sweetest kiss you’ve ever received. nothing compared to the passionate one he gave you yesterday, no, it was... so tender. so delicate.

he wasn’t using his tongue, he simply pressured your lips with his. again, and again. until finally stopping to look at you.

he sat down, you on his lap, watching you with an adoring gaze that made your breath cut short. “i love it so much. thank you, it’s adorable.” he goes to kiss you one more time. “and...” he whispers into your ear, “i’ve actually bought something for you too.”

“really?” your eyes lighten up at his words, a wave of excitement crushing your heart. “yes.” he chuckles.

“what is it?” you ask, making yourself more comfortable on his lap, resting your hands on his broad shoulders.

“just a pair of earrings. i... don’t really know your taste, but i thought of you when i saw them, so i just got them, like you.”

your heart fastened at his words, a smile painting your face from ear to ear. “can i see them?”

“no. not tonight.” he says, making your excitement drop into disappointment. seeing the change of your traits, he pulls you closer to him, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“don’t be sad. i took them home when i went to change. i’ll show you tomorrow, promise.” he nuzzles his face against your neck, occasionally kissing it, making those goosebumps persist on your skin.

“okay.” you smile, running your fingers through his short, golden hair.

a couple minutes later, you were laying back on the bed. you had the pc on your lap, as he kept watching and watching the bear you just gifted him. “so,” he starts. “which movie are we watching?”

“my little pony equestria girls.” you deadpan, holding in the urge to turn and see his expression.

“no way, how did you know it’s my favorite?” he exclaims with irony, making you burst out laughing wholeheartedly.

“no, seriously though, which movie did you pick?”

“i haven’t picked one yet. i’ll let you do that.” you say, putting the laptop on his lap, going to lay next to him. “how do you wanna call your bear?”

“nice.” he smiles, as you guys fix your positions on the bed, your head going to rest on his shoulder as he bring the blankets over your bodies, fuzzy socks on your feet and a couple more peluches around the two of you. “pipsqueak seems appropriate. small, annoying. like you.” he says.

“what do you think?” he questions.

“i’m not annoying. be sweet for once.” you pinch his hip. “okay. i’ll figure out a kinder nickname.” he sighs, rolling his eyes with fake annoyance, although his smile betrayed him.

eventually, he picked his movie, series actually, something you’ve never heard of before, but that was quite his style.

the lights were now turned off, your hot water bag had gotten cold, but you didn’t need it anymore. tsukishima was a good substitute.

your eyes were slowly closing themselves as your hand caressed his chest, head under his chin, which he’d occasionally kiss, caressing your body in such loving way you felt like you were dreaming awake.

after all that’s happened between you and him, this moment was the last way you’d thought your relationship with this guy could turn into.

you weren’t complaining of course.

“tsukki,” you called, “are you asleep?” whispering.

silence. you moved your head slightly upwards, trying to take a look at his face. you couldn’t see much with only the pc screen’s light, yet his eyes seemed to be closed.

he looked so beautiful, an angelic, sleeping lamb.

his breathing was also slower. you watched as his chest rised and fell.

he must’ve been asleep.

“i love you.”

you confessed, closing the pc and going back to nuzzle your face against him, covering your bodies under the amount of blankets, ready to finally join him.

your relaxed face goes back into a smile, though, when you hear him whisper back,

“me too.”

✧ previous

[marisolls]

011925. cw | slightly suggestive (?) i hate him (affectionate)

if tsukishima kei learns the full extent of you losing your mind over the minuscule of things with everything he does,

babe, you’re done for.

if he learns that removing his glasses while kissing you makes your stomach do saumersaults, or when he fixes your clothes casually; smoothing down your skirt or adjusting your shirt, hand on your waist. or when he cups your face and squeezes both of your cheeks together, when it shows that he loves the physical touch in ways that feel crude if you say it aloud. in ways that no one else can speak about, makes you so mushy with him. to the point that it makes you sick, head throbbing.

if he learns that you find his jealousy kind of attractive, all cutting and ruthless, snappy. that you're totally not weak in the knees. if he learns that whenever he leans in whenever you speak is the cause of why you feel flustered, when he hums softly in question, tilting his head, or when he just hook you in his arms to get closer.

god. he will take absolute pleasure in pushing those buttons even more—actually, he’d press them with the precision of someone who knows exactly how far he can go to leave you reeling, all while pretending it’s no big deal.

and this is exactly what happens, as expected, but no less frustrated.

when he realizes how much removing his glasses during a kiss messes you up, he’d start doing it slow and methodical, taking his time to set them aside while giving you that piercing look, like he knows exactly what’s coming next. “what, nervous?” he’d ask, leaning in just a fraction, his tone laced with mockery, but his lips soft when they finally meet yours.

those casual touches? forget it. his hands—though he would ask first—roam your body and let them linger around your waist dangerously longer than necessary, you're not making it up now, you know you feel the slight squeezes his does on your skin, letting his fingers graze, just enough to send shivers down your spine.

when he holds your face in one hand, there’s something about how his thumb lingers near your jawline or how he leans in just a little too close. it’s playful, sure, but there’s a tenderness beneath it that leaves you spinning. because he knows. he knows all too well.

it's game over when he finally does this—one arm braced above your head, his whole figure towering over you, casting a shadow which makes him look ten times more insufferable. you cannot breathe.

his lips hover just shy of yours, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath. “do i really make you that nervous?”

"fuck off."

"really? that’s all you’ve got? how original.”

“kei, i swear to—” you start, but the words catch in your throat as his thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, the touch barely there but devastating all the same.

“what? gonna tell me to stop?” the glint in his eyes turns playful, pupils dilated, “you’re all talk, aren’t you?”

your hands twitch at your sides, torn between shoving him away and pulling him closer. “i hate you,” you hiss, but it lacks any real bite.

“sure you do,” he says, his tone dripping with mockery, and then—because of course he does—he closes the infinitesimal gap between you, his lips brushing against yours with infuriating slowness.

he kisses you chastely. it feels so wrong with how he already built so much tension. that this all just a stupid game he can easily control.

there’s a distinct edge of smugness to it, like he’s savoring every second of your undoing. when he pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, the smirk is still there, lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“still want me to fuck off?” he asks, though he already knows the answer to it.

you can only scoff and roughly smack your lips against his in a solid, and very straightforward reply. your heart pounding so loudly it drowns out everything else.

he relents to you just as easily, this is why he simply can't get enough of you.

my stupid writers block is not making me write properly for the hershey’s kisses mini series so i had to pull this stupid drabble outta my sick ass (coughing loudly as we speak)

[shouyuus]

I've been seeing this trend every where but how do you think our haikyuu boys would react to "this is my current boyfriend" 👀 I just know atsumu would throw a fit

not the fact that i had to look this up bc im so behind on sm trends but i actually now love this trend and absolutely atsumu would not fucking have it --

sfw, aggressive green flag atsumu

"hey guys -- so today, my current boyfriend and i are gonna be making some onigiri based on --"

"ha?"

you pause, blinking owlishly at the camera before pivoting to stare at your boyfriend. he's staring back, both eyebrows in imminent danger of disappearing into his hairline.

"what?" you ask, feigning innocence.

atsumu narrows his eyes.

"oi, what did you just call me?"

"i -- my current boyfriend -- is there something --"

"your current boyfriend," he parrots back, folding his arms across his chest. you lick your lips, feeling a fit of giggles tickling at the back of your throat.

"yeah, cause... that's what you are... right? currently, you're my boyfriend."

atsumu puffs out an annoyed breath, "uh, way i see it, i'm yer only boyfriend. now, 'n ferever --"

you try not to crack at the way his accent skyrockets; not that he usually tries to hide it but you've always loved the way his osakan twang gets thicker when he's agitated or excited.

you feel a hot flush eating into your cheeks, "right, so there's nothing wrong --" you turn away from him, pressing your lips tight to keep from grinning too hard.

"no, jus' say it normally -- i'm yer boyfriend --"

the tickle at the back of your throat gathers until you can't swallow it down anymore. you burst out laughing.

atsumu, to his credit, scoffs and eyes the phone before reaching out to click off the recording.

"y'tricked me."

you shake your head, clutching at your stomach; there are tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

"i -- i didn't! it was -- you -- you are my current --"

atsumu leans forward to hoist you into his lap, shaking you by your shoulders, even as he pins you to the table with a smirk.

"say that one more time t'my face," he goads, leaning in so close his nose almost brushes yours. you bite back another fit of giggles, blinking rapidly at him as he bears down over you.

"t-tsumu -- don't --" you squeal as he buries his face in the crook of your neck and blows a loud raspberry, his fingers digging into your waist. you try to squirm away from him, but he huffs right against your skin, tickling you on purpose.

"current boyfriend -- like yer gonna have another boyfriend or sumthin' --" he mumbles, scowling as he looks up at you from dark, hooded eyes. you still, crinkling our nose slightly as you tug on the ends of his bleached hair.

"well... you won't be my boyfriend forever, right?" you ask lightly.

atsumu opens his mouth to argue but he freezes before chuckling and leaning back to fix you with another shrewd look.

"mm... not ferever," he agrees, nodding as he looks you over; you feel a tingle race up your spine as he rakes his eyes up and down your form, still propped up in his lap. he leans in to brush a strand of hair from your cheek, brushing it with his knuckle.

"jus' till i marry ya, right?"

[seiwas]

you're the reason (i got a weakness) | miya atsumu

wc: 2.9k

summary: it’s not that atsumu doesn't like you dressing up like this—in fact, he loves it. just not when you're fighting. not when he can't even call you "baby".

contains: post-timeskip atsumu, arguments and atsumu feeling really sorry, flashbacks, uses the nickname “baby” & “my love”, reader is described as “pretty” and wears heels, hurt/comfort.

a/n: atsumu isn’t a sucky boyfriend he just gets carried away sometimes. song inspo: can you blame me? - kehlani, lucky daye.

part of the in's and out's new year/birthday event | request prompt: making yourself look good to feel good (your partner has something to say to you)

sponsored by @itskilau and @tasoyoru for the @ficsforgaza initiative. please check it out and support if you can!

“Bab—”

Atsumu lingers by your bathroom door, eyes drooping lower and sadder than they ever have. The steam makes the bleached strands of his hair cling to his forehead, his thick eyebrows now damp and flattened. 

You sigh, the big, heavy, and deep kind, shoulders dropping as you clasp the lock of your necklace.

He stares. 

That’s his job. You always ask him to do it the moment you step out of the shower. 

His lip trembles, eyes watery.

“Not now, Atsumu.”

You walk past him as you adjust the towel around your chest, your arm brushing against his. It’s a small thing, a sensation ingrained so deeply into the past two years you’ve been together, but he feels it like it’s the first time you ever touched him—and in a way, it is. Since yesterday, at least. 

The silence that trails after you is so deafeningly still, he thinks he can hear his heart breaking. 

“Atsumu,” your voice rings. 

Who the hell is “Atsumu”? 

He’s not supposed to be “Atsumu” to you. He’s “Tsum.” He’s “baby.” He’s “my love.”

Anything but “Atsumu.”

When you close the door of your walk-in closet to change, the metaphorical volleyball of hope floating right into the palm of his hand misses and drops straight to the floor. 

It started with volleyball, as all things with Atsumu do. 

You’d met him at the rise of his career, just a few years of him being pro. You were friends first, but if you ask anyone around Atsumu, they’d tell you you were never just a friend to him; he’d invited you to all his games and practice matches, spent a bit more time in the locker rooms before going out for dinner with you and the rest of the team. 

Osamu has the receipts of all the extra orders of onigiri Atsumu started adding to his regular weekly subscription since meeting you. 

Your first ‘date’ was Atsumu treading the very fine line between teaching you how to play volleyball and teaching himself self-control. Keeping an eye on the ball is hard enough, what more when he has to resist staring at you in very cute volleyball shorts too? 

As MSBY’s success skyrocketed, so did Atsumu’s—brand deals left and right, solo work trips during off seasons, commercials; the whole thing. When Atsumu wasn’t training, he was either traveling  or attending events and photoshoots. Always on-the-go. Moving. 

And he knew you understood, knew you knew him and his tendencies to overwork; knew him, and his habit of getting stuck inside his own world. You’d driven to late practices with bento boxes to share, and you’d packed his gym bag more than a few times, brought in extra clothes without him having to say a word.

You’ve managed his lifestyle better than anyone could.

But, Atsumu has a bad habit of promising more than he should, of serving white lies just as easily as he does volleyballs behind the service line. 

“Won’t take long, baby. Swear it,” he holds on to the wall by your door, slipping his feet inside his dress shoes. “Pick ya up at 6:00?” 

He’d winked at you then, kissed you between your eyebrows and nose before sneaking one more right at that spot underneath your ear.

What he’d give to be able to do that right now. 

“Okay,” you giggle, swatting his chest as you nod, “better hurry then, you might be late.” 

When Atsumu remembers that moment, the way you’d agreed so doubtlessly, he hates himself even more. You trusted him, have trusted him so wholeheartedly this entire time, so maybe you’re right—

“Would it hurt for you to just be honest?” 

—Atsumu has no excuse standing you up on the date he promised you weeks ago all because he lost track of time in some brand event, listening to a potential collaboration on volleyball shoes. Atsumu has no excuse agreeing to “some drinks” right after just to meet the executives of the company. 

There are meetings for those things, ones that can be scheduled and agreed upon. Ones that don’t compromise or add on to the already long list of missed dates with you. 

“I know you’re busy and I understand,” you sigh, turning the knob of the kitchen stove as you heat up the kettle, “you know I do.” 

He stands before you a quarter past 11:00 p.m., cologne long faded and the smell of alcohol spilled on his sleeve. The kitchen island stands like a net on the court, the ball being sent over to his side. 

“Baby, I—”

He passes it back.

You turn from the stove, face fresh and hair tied into a messy low bun as you look at him—how could he have ever stood this–you–up?

You take the ball, “Can I finish what I have to say first?” 

He nods. The kettle begins whizzing.

“I’m happy and so, so proud that you have all these opportunities,” you reach for the cupboard above head to grab a mug. The box of tea bags sits to your right, a mix of Lemon Balm and Chamomile that Atsumu swears keeps his anxieties at bay during the night. “But at least tell me if you can’t make it.” 

You tear open a tea packet, dangling it inside the mug. The kettle whistles, and he feels the onset of a spike. 

“Please don’t keep my hopes up every time.” 

You turn back towards the stove, turning the burner off as you pour in the steaming water inside the mug. 

“Baby, I swear, they just–they started talkin’ ‘bout these shoes, ‘n I thought t’was cool, ‘n the execs–they said the execs’d be there in the afterparty, and—” he breathes, “won’t happen next time, baby. ‘M so—” 

“Can I really believe you next time?”

You approach the kitchen island slowly, holding the piping hot mug carefully as you set it down in front of him. 

Atsumu stood you up on your date, and you still made him tea. 

You hold his stare for a brief moment before you walk away, sadness and disappointment all-in-one.

It is now that Atsumu knows, he’s fucked up.

The ball lands on his side of the court. 

And so, he’s spent this entire day trying to make it up to you—breakfast in the morning, right before training (which he absolutely tanked because all he could think about was how sad you looked the night before); flowers that he brought home after lunch time, just to find the apartment empty. It’s only after a full text thread and three missed calls to your phone that he finally gets a response.

“Nail appointment. Going out tonight,” is your reply (using speech-to-text too, he suspects, with how formal it sounds). 

Which is fine and dandy to him; you should do everything that makes you feel better after he practically took you for granted. It’s just—he hasn’t even said sorry yet, can’t even call you “baby”, can’t even touch you even though he really, really, really wants to. 

And now, with you closing the door on him while you’re changing—there’s nothing else he can do, really, but to walk away and give you some space. 

He shifts his feet, dragging them lightly against the wooden floors of your bedroom.

The moment he hears the door of your walk-in closet slide open, he hurriedly sits down on the edge of your bed, acting as if he wasn’t just anxiously pacing, waiting for you to come out. 

He feels like shit, if he’s being honest—like how he does when he misses a serve; if not, worse. 

You look good. Make-up done to only emphasize the features he loves (which is your entire face, really), and your outfit perfectly accentuating the dips and curves of your body. 

He follows you as you exit the room, tailing after you like a lost puppy. When you stop by your entryway, all he can do is watch as you bend down to put on the straps of your heels. And it sucks, because if you weren’t fighting, Atsumu would be right by your feet, crouched low so that you wouldn’t have to. 

It’s pathetic and a little helpless of him to just stand and stare in the middle of your living room. He should say something at least, but, you just look so good, and his throat feels dry; his heart all achy and stomach twisty. 

He doesn’t want to be away from you. 

And it’s not that he doesn’t like you going out looking like this—he loves it. But as soon as you step out the door with a soft “don’t wait up for me” mumbled from your glossed lips, Atsumu can only taste bitter regret at the fact that he wishes he were coming with you. 

He couldn’t even give you a goodbye kiss. 

The blond groans, pulling at his hair as he rests his elbows down on the kitchen counter. 

“Don’t wait up for me,” you said. As if he can even sleep without you around. 

.

.

.

The hours go by but they feel like days. Atsumu’s done every possible thing he can do in this apartment and it still hasn’t breached 11:00 p.m.. He’s cleaned down the kitchen (twice!) and arranged the food inside the fridge like those ‘stock up my fridge with me’ tiktoks he’s seen on Sakusa’s phone. The clothes on his side of the closet have been arranged by color and length, with all the ones in his dresser refolded, Marie Kondo style. He’s also pretty sure he’s scrubbed the bathroom down enough that you can probably see your reflection on the tiles of the damn thing. The laundry baskets for both your clothes are now empty, and he’s changed the bedsheets too and—

He’s still restless. The numbers on the clock taunt him, moving up agonizingly slowly. He can’t stop looking at the time, itching for you to come home. 

Atsumu is sorry, so so so incredibly so, because you’re right―he hasn’t been fair to you at all, and he needs you to know that he knows it, too. 

His eyes go over the clock again, only a minute having passed since the last time he checked it. 

Is this how you felt? Every time you waited for him to come home for a date he promised you? 

He squeezes his eyes; it hurts him just thinking about it. 

That’s it, he decides, grabbing his phone and wallet as he walks out the door. 

. 

.

.

Atsumu doesn’t check your location often (maybe only a few times). It’s not a trust thing, he swears; it’s just for when he wants to make sure you’re somewhere safe, or in a place he can reach you should you need him there. 

And, you clearly don’t need him right now, but, Atsumu is a little selfish, he admits. 

Sitting at home with all his regret feels worse than seeking you out to beg for your forgiveness, whether you want him to or not. 

He’s barely dressed for the venue as he steps inside the bar, a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt with those fashionable Birkenstock clogs on. A few people seem to recognize him, tilting their heads and murmuring among themselves as he walks through door, but none of them approach him, thankfully, except for a server asking if he needs assistance. 

His eyes scan the tables first, searching for any semblance of the outfit he’d seen you leave in earlier. The dim lights make it increasingly difficult for him to look for your properly as he squints his eyes some more, narrowing his vision to the people at the front bar this time. It’s after the fourth person he dismisses that he feels himself getting desperate, nearly turning towards the server beside him to ask for help.

Until he spots you—tucked in the corner of the front bar, sitting on the barstool with your legs crossed as you swirl around your drink. 

You look bored, and a little sad, chin resting in your hand as you lean your elbow on the table. 

He frowns, thanking the server on the side as he makes his way to you slowly. You barely notice him as you bring out your phone, tapping on the screen as you stare at it almost longingly―a photo of you and him some time ago after one of his games. He knows it well, can still remember that day so clearly: when he became a PR nightmare because he couldn’t help but announce your relationship by kissing you in front of everybody. 

It makes his chest hurt. 

Then, you swipe it open, and he’s close enough now to be able to catch a glimpse of what’s on your screen: your text thread with him, his last message being, “Did you make it safely?” 

(You pout, eyes pricking with tears. You didn’t reply to him then because you weren’t ready to fully talk to him yet, still upset and disappointed. 

It was easy to make yourself feel better by dressing up and stepping out of the apartment earlier, the promise of good drinks and good company awaiting your arrival; you couldn’t think about how you felt if you were busying yourself with others. But now that all of those feelings have died down and most of your friends have started chatting up other people they’ve found, it’s beginning to hit you all at once just how much you still prefer Atsumu’s company more than anything else.

Your fingers hover over your text box, typing and deleting. Typing and deleting.) 

He’s two stools away from you now, and he can barely contain it―

“Baby,” his voice trembles, unsteady. 

Recognition fills you as you turn to the sound, half-confused at whether you’re hearing things; whether―

(“Tsum,” you mutter, eyes catching a pair of familiar warm brown staring back at you. His bottom lip quivers, the embodiment of a dam starting to crack, vibrating.

Your emotions are a mess, your breath on hold as you feel tears welling up in your lashline too. You still feel upset, still a little sad, and a tiny bit disappointed, but what coats them all is a sense of relief because—)

―he’s here, standing in front of you like he just rolled out of the house with barely enough time to get dressed (which, you’re sure is exactly how things went), and you’re sliding off the bar stool in the prettiest outfit, looking like the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. 

“‘M so sorry,” he breathes out, stepping closer as he grabs your hand, “Don’t ever wanna make y’feel like that again.” His knee gives way as he starts sinking to the floor, “I won’t do that anymore―” 

“Tsum,” you try to call his attention.

He’ll beg for your forgiveness whether you like it or not. 

(The interaction is causing nearby tables to look, murmurs and whispers in your periphery as you catch vague sentences here and there. He still is a public figure, after all.) 

But Atsumu is unaware, looking at you and you alone as he pleads, “No, please hear me out first. I promise I’ll tell ‘em they can speak ‘ta―” 

“Tsum,” you squeeze his hand, whispering more firmly as you try to pull him up. 

“Baby, please. Gimme the chance ‘ta show ya that I―”

(You look around and notice even more eyes on the two of you, fond looks on their faces as they prepare their phones for what seems like something momentous. Then it hits you, how this looks―)

“Tsum, please stand up,” you tug at his hand strongly, urging him to stand. His eyebrows furrow as he obliges, only comprehending why when you explain it to him softly, “people were starting to think you were about to propose.” 

He pauses for a moment, a slight, “Oh,” as he ponders on it. “Well, if that’s what’ll prove it t’ya, then—” 

You roll your eyes, the corners of your lips curling slightly as you hit his shin with your foot and squeeze his hand again, “Don’t joke about things like that.” 

Well, it’s not the first time it’s crossed his mind, if he’s being honest. 

He sighs, sitting on the stool beside you as he rubs his thumb over your hand again, bringing it close to his lips to kiss softly. 

“‘M really sorry, baby,” he mumbles against your skin before moving your hand over his heart. “Don’t ever want ya feelin’ like this again.” 

“I know,” you give him a small smile, patting down some of the strands of his hair that stick out, “you didn’t have to come out here though, you know. I was about to go home soon, anyway.” 

“Can ya blame me? Seein’ ya off like that?” he grips your hand tighter as his voice softens. “Y’re too pretty to be sad,” he plays with your fingers, intertwining them with his.

You hit his shin again, feeling shy. You always do when Atsumu likes to sweet-talk you. 

“Do ya forgive me?” he asks after some time, as you take the last few sips of your drink. 

You hum, looking him in the eyes as you nod, pouting, “I don’t like being mad at you, you know.” He lights up, beaming, but you add on, “We still have to talk about it properly, though. Later, when we get back.” 

He nods in agreement, holding your hand as you slide off the barstool, guiding you out of the bar and into the car. 

. 

.

.

(You both do talk about it properly, and the next time Atsumu promises you a date, he blocks it out of all of his calendars, sending the date to his manager even, just to be extra sure.) 

a/n: this has been such a long time coming, i'm sorry to those who waited! i hope you enjoyed even though this simmered with me for way too long 😭 i love writing atsumu a little lovesick but i also think he deserves someone who is equally as in deep as he is 🥺

thank you notes: to 🍧 anon for helping me figure out "what would make you mad at atsumu?" and to @ceroseis and @mieiri for always listening to my shenanigans pre-writing!

comments, tags, and reblogs are greatly appreciated ♡

[airybcby]

We've Already Done It In My Head ;)

( kissing with the haikyuu boys )

a / n — was listening to guilty as sin? by taylor swift and knew i had to write something for my boys

content — haikyuu! boys x GN! reader, some suggestive parts, some characters repeated,

synopsis — just kissing with the haikyuu boys <3

✿.｡. “ without ever touching his skin, ” .｡.✿

Always feels like the first time

they're always so giddy to give you a kiss, whether it be a small peck or a full make out session, they are always bouncing up and down in excitement. while they're always the most excited to kiss you, they're also so insanely clumsy about it too.

you couldn't keep count of how many times the two of you had clinked your teeth together, accidentally headbutted each other, and even accidentally bitten each others lips.

maybe it wasn't always the most picture perfect kiss, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

after all, people do say they wish they could experience their firsts again, and you get that anytime you're around them.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ HINATA SHOYO, shohei fukunaga, YAMAGUCHI TADASHI, asahi azumane, TOBIO KAGEYAMA

Always turns into a make-out session

if there was one thing that was 100% certain in your life, it was that you could never kiss them in a purely innocent way. you could be in a very - and i mean VERY - public place, and if you want to give them a small peck?

nope, it's turning into a whole pda session. sometimes you don't mind, but other times you're a little embarrassed because of their boldness.

even while you're at a big event, they have to have their hands on you at all times. "you look so good right now." ignore. "wanna kiss you so bad." ignore. "wanna go to the bathroom?" ignore, ignore, ig-freaking-nore!

if the two of you can get through the whole evening without a big display, maybe you'll reward him when you get home ;)

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ ATSUMU MIYA, korai hoshiumi, BOKUTO KOTARO, hinata shoyo

Always ends up in you getting what you want

it's not nice to manipulate people, especially not by kissing them until they can't tell you no. your boyfriend was a meanie. nothing more and absolutely nothing less.

all you wanted was to watch a rom-com for your weekly movie night, but nooo, they wanted to watch some boring history retelling film. you weren't sure if they really wanted to watch it or if they were only putting it on to piss you off.

so, of course, what else were you supposed to do besides slide yourself onto their lap and start kissing them until you could slip the remote from their hands and into yours.

" i hate you." he grumbled as you switched from the boring documentary to one of your favorite rom-coms of all time.

" no, you love me. " "...sadly."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ KEI TSUKISHIMA, suna rintaro, OSAMU MIYA, TETSURO KUROO, yaku morisuke

Always gives the perfect kisses

they're literally a perfect specimen, it's really unfair.

you're sad? they're always there giving you small kisses on your head, forehead, and of course your lips. you're in the mood to just be hateful? he's there rubbing your back and kissing your temple while nodding along to your words.

there is no place in the world where they won't fit in perfectly.

and you're just lucky enough to be part of it.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ AKAASHI KEIJI, koshi sugawara, KITA SHINSUKE, toru oikawa, HAJIME IWAZUMI

✿.｡. “ how can i be guilty as sin ? ” .｡.✿

thanks for reading!!

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!

[mochiqa]

synopsis. you can tell kageyama is obsessed with you has a soft spot for you, karasuno's manager, when even daichi stares at him weirdly for the way he looks at you. tags/notes. fluff.

ko-fi page here for your consideration, masterlists here for your entertainment.

“no no, kageyama! i’m telling you, i could definitely tame one of shiratorizawa’s horses! maybe the black one, it looked a lot like you actually…” hinata mumbles, trailing off into a rambling conversation about a fourth topic within the 10 minute span kageyama had been walking with him to the gymnasium.

“you boys are late! we’ve got practice serves going until tsukishima and tadashi show up so join when you’re ready,” daichi calls out from across the gym, his voice loud and echoing over the squeaking of shoes and the sound of the ball landing. tanaka and asahi are going at it, the former screaming a number of profanities when he misses the ball for what is likely not the first time.

you speed-walk towards the entrance of the gym after rummaging around the supply closet in the back, a few bibs and an extra ball in hand. “hey, you two,” you greet warmly, smiling. “i’ve got your bibs here, water’s there if you forgot yours.” you nod towards the few bottles lined up on the bleachers, their gaze following.

well, hinata’s gaze follows. kageyama more so glances at them before snapping his attention back onto your face. you’re not really paying any attention to him, but then again why would you? maybe he’ll pretend to injure himself during one of his serves so that you can rush towards him with that worried, attentive expression of yours and patch him up - and hopefully not realise that he’s faking it.

hinata rushes towards the bleachers and snatches a bottle up before taking a bib from you with a rushed bow, then hurrying towards the court to wait for his turn. “c’mon, kageyama! i need you to serve for me!” the ginger calls out, bouncing on his feet and stretching his arms above his head.

tsukishima and tadashi walk in a few seconds after, the blond mumbling an apology with a quick bow of his head, tadashi scrambling one out quicker than the ball soars across the court to smack tanaka in the face. you give them the same treatment, running through your lines again the same smile you gave kageyama (he thinks you were smiling straight at him, your gaze just so happened to land on him first though.)

"i've got it this time- stop looking at me like that, man-bun!" you hear tanaka scream, which earns him a quiet sigh from suga and a smug snicker from tsukishima.

while the two go to get themselves ready and set up, kageyama sits on the bleachers, swapping his school shoes for his trainers, his deft fingers working to tie his laces. he chews on his tongue as he does, his eyes struggling to fix their sights on the floor instead of you who’s standing a few feet away.

a little while later, when kageyama’s had his turn to both serve and receive, he jogs back to the bleachers to rest and sip on his water. this time, he allows his gaze to slowly travel to you, observing your face as you mimic his movements unknowingly. he watches the way your throat works to swallow down the water, the way you sigh contentedly when you pull the bottle away and cap it again, and senses his ears and the tip of his nose heating up.

you catch his gaze this time and smile like you know something you shouldn’t. he purses his lips, likely the closest thing to a smile he could muster without scaring everyone in a two mile perimeter.

“did you change your hair?” he asks suddenly, causing your shoulders to twitch. his chest tightens with something he’d rather not, or perhaps cannot, name.

“i did, yeah. trimmed it a little, if that’s what you mean. if you’re talking about the fact that it’s in a bun, then yeah i changed that too,” you ramble, voice flowing and quiet like you’re entrusting him with a secret.

you usually have your hair down, but the neat bun you have it up in now makes his tongue dart out to lick his absurdly dry lips. he clears his throat and nods. kageyama isn’t one for small talk, you know that, but you’re curious as to why he’s trying it with you. when you turn your head, you see daichi near the net, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips parted. you follow his line of sight only for your eyes to land on kageyama again, who’s not so subtly burning a hole into the side of your head.

his head whips away when you catch him.

“another, kageyama!” hinata shouts from the other side of the court.

kageyama places his bottle down and leaves without another word, even as the back of his neck sears with a heat stemming from his racing heart.

[heartkaji]

★ HQ BOYS + COPY MY SNAP !

౨ৎ synopsis. based on the tiktok trend where you send them a bicep pic & ask them to copy it !

౨ৎ author’s notes. this has been in my drafts since january & it’s just seeing the light now.. ik this trend is dead now but whatever 💔 enjoy !!

౨ৎ starring. suna rintarou, atsumu miya, osamu miya

❤︎ THE SNAP !

❤︎ SUNA RINTAROU !

❤︎ ATSUMU MIYA !

❤︎ OSAMU MIYA

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈 ー do not steal, edit, copy, translate or re-upload

[deardaichi]

025. whistles, warmups, and wandering eyes — oikawa toru.

wc: 0.5k cw: gn!reader. seijoh 4 friendship. oikawa has a crush ^.^ a/n: sorry of this is a little ooc. can you guys tell i really love the seijoh 4. i love them more than anything. i hope you enjoy <3 requested by @sxnnee

you don’t notice him at first.

there’s too much going on — tape rolls, clipboard sheets, tanaka forgetting which knee he’s supposed to wrap. the gym’s full of echo and movement, stretching mats shuffled across the floor, someone setting to no one in particular just to feel the rhythm of the ball.

but when you finally glance up — towel bag slung over your shoulder, heading toward the bench — oikawa is already looking.

he doesn’t look away fast enough.

just shifts his weight and starts talking to iwaizumi like he wasn’t staring in the first place. but you saw it. clear as anything.

iwaizumi jabs him lightly with his elbow, the kind of jab that says you’re obvious. matsukawa catches it too and grins behind his water bottle. hanamaki says something under his breath that makes oikawa flick his towel at him in protest.

you don’t dwell on it.

you stack towels, check your rotations, make sure the bench is clean and water bottles are full. oikawa doesn’t look again. or if he does, he’s better at hiding it now.

but a few minutes later, once stretching ends and teams shift into more focused warm-ups, you catch footsteps near your bench.

not one person.

four.

“karasuno’s manager,” hanamaki greets, hands in his pockets, expression entirely too casual. “nice to finally meet you up close.”

“we’ve decided you should transfer,” matsukawa adds. “come to seijoh. cooler jerseys. better snacks. cleaner benches. better view.”

you raise a brow. “view?”

“oikawa,” hanamaki supplies, nodding at him. “he’s a little obsessed.”

“i am not,” oikawa says immediately, in that calm, practiced voice that only cracks a little at the edges.

iwaizumi, predictably, looks done. “we told you not to come over here.”

“i came over here to say hi,” oikawa mutters, before correcting himself. “we came over here. as a team. to be polite.”

“and to scout,” hanamaki adds. “don’t forget that part.”

matsukawa leans in slightly, voice light. “you don’t scare easy, huh?”

“i’m used to worse,” you reply, tone even. “we practice with hinata.”

oikawa huffs a laugh at that — the real kind. soft, surprised.

you look at him then, fully. he’s calm again. composed. like he didn’t get caught looking before. like he’s been doing this a long time.

“good luck today,” you say, not teasing.

he nods. “you too. not too much, though.”

a whistle cuts through the gym — sharp and short — seijoh’s coach signaling warm-up rotations. iwaizumi gestures toward the court with a tilt of his head.

“coach’s calling.”

“saved by the whistle,” hanamaki sighs. “see you around, manager-san.”

they turn to go — all four of them, shoulder to shoulder, seijoh blue moving back across the court like they never stopped being a unit. but oikawa glances back once.

just a flick of his gaze.

like maybe he thinks this won’t be the last time.

you watch him go.

and you think he might be right.

taglist (open. ask to be added <3): @tangerinelovr @oligbia @megapteraurelia@iwantfoodpleasebuymefood @dira333 @kcandyliciouss @beee1221249qq

© deardaichi | everything here is written with care — please don’t repost, copy, or alter my work without permission.

[ktsumu]

18+ NSFT MDNI. POLY MATSUHANA. ALCOHOL.

“What do you mean you don’t like making out?”

Makki looks at you like you’ve betrayed him, on his side of the couch with his half-full beer can in hand. “That’s the best part!”

You shrug. “Dunno. Just never been with the right person, I guess.”

“That’s some bullshit. Guys don’t even know how to kiss a girl right? We used to hunt, you know—“

“Makki sucks at it, too,” Issei chimes, leaning against the other end of the couch with his own can half-empty. He nurses it in one hand, lazily plays with a curl in the other. “Can’t say shit.”

“What the fuck? I’m such a good kisser,”

“You—“

“Wait, why do you know how good or bad he is?” you ask, turning towards Issei on your left.

Over your head, he and Makki share a grin.

“Actually? Forget I asked.”

“Don’t be green, friends kiss all the time.”

“Yeah, sure.”

You slide your back down the couch, crossing your arms over your chest as you focus back on the movie playing on the TV. Your cheeks feel hot.

You’re aware of their legs craned out to rest on the coffee table, a set on either side of you. You’re watching them out of your line of view, but when Makki’s head cranes back over the couch to look at the man to your left, you lose track of them.

They’re bickering, you can tell. Issei keeps breathing out little laughs and Makki’s making obscene hand gestures, shaking the cushions when he tries to reach behind you and smack him.

It’s the fifth time the couch jerks that you groan, pushing yourself back upright to break them up.

“Can you not?” you groan. “I’m trying to finish the movie?”

“I’ll stop when he admits I’m not a shit kisser.”

“Too much tongue, babe.”

“I was drunk!”

You swallow. “You’re probably both good kissers, okay? Settle it at that.”

They quiet after that.

The room gets quiet, save for the wind coming through the window and the movie playing still. There’s a steady picking on fraying cushion behind you, no doubt from Makki’s antsy hand.

“You think we’re both good?” Issei prods.

“Sure. Whatever floats your guys’ boats.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“How would I know, Issei?”

The three of you— you’re close enough friends by now that silence is rarely awkward, but you’re not dumb. You know what hole you just dug.

Dig your grave and lie in it, or whatever.

“You wanna find out, then?” he asks, maybe a little quieter if you’re paying close attention.

Makki is hot against your other side, leaning ahead to see the both of you as good as he can. You slink back a little into the sofa— you’re in deep literally and metaphorically.

Issei slips his hand up your leg, watching your lips part the second he sets his eyes on yours. It stays on the backside, coming back up to skip over your ass, resting on your back.

His other hand is hot on the side of your face, tilting your chin up so you’re almost touching him.

“Can I show you something?”

You huff a quick breath, and nod even quicker.

Issei takes you whole, it doesn’t feel like just a kiss. It’s not just lips, even though it starts that way— it’s a graze of his teeth against your jaw before he steals your breath away that makes you slump down the couch, an exchange of power that gives your all to him.

He’s languid and slow, tongue taunting yours and his hand dauntingly large on your side. Makki’s slips beneath his and then under your sweater, nails scratching beneath your navel as they span over your skin.

You forget to breathe. He tastes like espresso and a good time. You lose track of whose hands are which. You don’t know anyone but them. You forget any other lips who have ever tasted yours.

When you reach up into his hair, knotting your knuckles in his curls, Makki takes the back of your neck and pulls you back. You’re looking at Issei, but he doesn’t look mad.

He’s smiling. You blink. You’re looking at Makki, now, and he’s smiling too.

“My turn?” He says it like a question. He might be saying it like he’s begging.

Makki moves so he’s just about on top of you, coming from above when you lean your head back to see him from below. He’s quicker than Issei, hard against your teeth and against your thigh, dizzying in how he pushes and pulls, rutting against you like he’s always wanted this.

Issei tugs your leg over his, smoothing his hand up the inside of it, skipping over where you’re too sheepish to say you want it.

It rests on your stomach, fingertips dipping beneath your waistband as Makki groans so low it vibrates in your throat. They’re playing give and take with you, back and forth like magnets, closing in and giving you space again like a corset.

Issei’s hand cups your chest and Makki’s rests on your throat. You’re being swallowed whole, and all you want them to do is spit you up and do it all over again.

Then, the storm breaks, and when you come to, they’re starry-eyed and staring at you.

“What?” you gasp.

You turn your head back and forth, looking between them like you’re checking your blind spots. You still think somethings gonna come out of nowhere and hit you; bring you back to reality.

“Nothing,” Issei shrugs. But, he leans back. “Do you wanna stay overnight? Save you a drive in the dark.”

They surround you. They encapsulate you differently, like smoke and water. You’re hot and all too aware of the things you’d say yes to.

Makki’s fingers burn against your shoulder, dragging the collar of your top down your collarbone as you nod.

Issei grins, cheshire and warm. “Mm, good.”

[ikchos]

★ THREE'S COMPANY.

feat. hajime iwaizumi & tooru oikawa (hq)

cw. MDNI, afab reader, smut, threesome (reader x iwa x oikawa), oral (male receiving), face-fücking / deepthröating, cümplay or cüm-eating whatever you wanna call it, cursing, hair pulling, kinda bratty tooru / reader & softish dom iwa? mentions of polyamory? pet names (sweet girl & baby).

author's note — this is my first full-length smut fic, i hope it's okay... [not beta read] and a happy (very) belated bday, iwa! ♡

HAJIME... sat on the couch, a mix of disbelief and want washing over him as he glanced down. there you and tōru were, both kneeling between his legs, creating a sense of intimacy that was palpable in the air. the atmosphere crackled with unspoken desire, a tension that had weaved itself into the fabric of your friendship for as long as he could remember. it reminded him of a wine glass, filled to the brim with water, just waiting for the slightest touch to send it tumbling over the edge, spilling its contents and an undeniable passion onto the surface.

the eldest of the two men finally understood what that surface tension felt like as his two best friends licked at his (almost embarrassingly) hard cock. would hajime be a complete liar if he said he never dreamed of a moment like this, being pleasured by his two friends—his treasures? absolutely. but he didn't expect it to ever happen in this lifetime.

his rough hand petted through yours and tōru's hair, a relieved sigh escaping his throat as the two of you worked in tandem to get him off. your lips, glossy from lip gloss and saliva, kissed and gently sucked at the pinkish-tan tip of his cock... it seemed you were wanting more. the way your eyebrows furrowed when tōru's head bumped into yours and your cute huffing when you couldn't get to the spot where you wanted.

"iwa... tell tōru to stop being so fucking greedy," you whined. to this, he let out chuckle.

"not my fault, be more... proactive, y/n-chan." tōru was being his usual annoying self, hogging up the space, taunting you. however, his snark disappeared the moment hajime tugged on his friend's chocolatey brown locks to pull him away. "ah! sorry, sorry!"

hajime looked down at his long-time friend, eyes squinting and an expression on his face that left no room for nonsense as he began to scold him. "be nice..."

with a pout from tōru, he did what he was told—he usually did whatever hajime told him to do anyways, he didn't want to get smacked around like he knew he would. tōru shared the space between his friend's legs as you smiled happily.

"go ahead, baby, take what you want," hajime cooed, allowing you more access to him now. immediately, he groaned as you wrapped your plush lips around the head of his cock. your tongue swirled around the tip, tasting the salty precum leaking out. "ha- that's..."

his cock was so much bigger than you had expected it to be when you and tōru had whipped it out of hajime's pants. not only that, it was prettier too. hajime threw his head back onto the couch cushion, reveling in the feeling of your hot mouth slowly taking him into your throat. tōru made himself useful below the belt, going between kitten licking the spots that you just couldn't reach and sucking gently on hajime's balls... and the sounds hajime made were just so blissful.

"fuck... i'm so lucky aren't i?" hajime didn't realize his words were said out loud but he meant it. who wouldn't feel lucky in his position? his rough hand cupped tōru's cheek tenderly. tōru wasn't used to the affectionate gesture—he was always on the receiving end of a punch or hard pat on the back, he almost moaned at the touch.

all of that bickering was set aside and replaced with quiet hums being muffled as you both focused solely on hajime's pleasure. it was like both you and tōru were finding just as much joy in giving as he was receiving. long stripes from the base to the tip from both of you, hot tongues almost clashing against each other. fuck, hajime was a goner for sure. he couldn't help but push tōru down when you had given the younger man space to take the full thing into his mouth. tōru, a charismatic smooth talker, was great at using his mouth in other ways it seemed. it took everything in hajime not to buck straight up and fuck his face... would he even have minded if he did?

no, he wouldn't.

tōru gurgled and gagged around hajime's cock but didn't show signs of wanting to stop—that only spurred hajime to making the choice to fuck up into tōru's mouth.

"holy sh- fuck..." hajime ran breathless as his friend's throat wrapped snugly around his dick with wet squelches. you climbed onto the couch next to him to pull him into a hot kiss. your tongues thrashed against each other, not competitively but complementary. as hajime's hand snaked up to the nape of your neck to force you closer to his face, he groaned into your mouth. his other hand tangled itself in tōru's soft hair, forcing him to bob his head to take the entirety of his length. the tip hit the back of tōru's throat repeatedly.

"sounds like you're feelin' good," you said, trailing kisses towards his reddened ears. you bent down and pushed sweaty strands of hair away from tōru's face when he came up for air. you took over for the guy, trying to give him a brief break. hajime's hand roamed down your back and gripped your skirt-covered ass that was poking up into the air.

your mouth was more gentle but still eager to please him. that soft pink muscle trailed over the long vein of his cock before fully taking him in with a sweet, suppressed moan. hajime didn't want to push you down, he wanted to be gentle to you. there were clear differences in how he showed you affection versus how he showed tōru but that didn't mean that he loved you any less than him or vice versa.

"sweet girl... that mouth is so perfect."

"i think he's close, y/n..." and hajime was so close... he felt that familiar burn in his stomach as you pulled off and joined tōru back on the floor. hajime bit his lip while watching his two friends wrap their hands around his length and stroke him together. his eyes nearly watered at the feeling and the sight of both you and tōru working to get him off. he didn't want to let go, not right now. he wanted to savor this feeling for as long as he possibly could—he didn't know if this would be a one-time thing, he wished he could do this forever.

you spoke out before hajime could even make the decision about holding off. "cum for us, iwa, it's okay." he had a strong love for you both. the two of you were so special to him, a piece of his heart that would be permanently damaged if you weren't there.

with two open mouths in front of him, two pretty mouths, hajime couldn't hold anything back. he let out a strangled groan, eyes barely staying open. thick ropes of cum coated both yours and tōru's tongues, a sight that could've made him fall in love.

then, you and tōru shared a kiss—a sloppy one, swapping spit and cum between each other... yeah, he definitely fell in love. the kiss was heated and hajime couldn't tear his eyes away. when you and tōru pulled away, you shared a look.

"that was gross, you're so disgusting," you said frowning. your words made tōru jump defensively.

"you kissed me too! how am i disgusting?"

hajime watched the both of you bickering, already accustomed to it and kind of endeared. taking yours and tōru's chins into both of his hands to face him and cease the battle, he looked at you both with fondness.

"are you two even friends?" hajime joked.

you and tōru looked at each other for a moment, almost confused.

"have any of us ever been just friends?"

© ikchos. ⌇ do not steal or translate my work.

[chimielie]

“what’s the wi-fi password?” you ask tooru. more accurately, you ask tooru’s back, because he’s busy turning on the tv and setting the channel to JSPORTS.

“oh, your name,” he says, “and then 13.”

you snort at his predictability. your name is kind of sweet, though, you remember watching it with him as teenagers, the tears running down his face and his thick denials that he totally wasn’t crying at the end.

Incorrect password for “Oikawifi.” your screen reads.

“it didn’t work,” you say, leaning over the back of the couch and stretching your arm out towards him. he’s standing about a foot from the screen with his left hand on his hip and the remote in the other, looking vaguely reminiscent of a father trying to navigate technology.

“dumb-dumb,” he turns to you, “did you forget how to spell your own name?”

“eh?” you say. “your name?”

“no, your name,” he says your forename then, and you color brilliantly, or at least it feels like it, your face hot, suddenly unable to look at him head-on. “and then 13. like—“

“josé blanco, i know,” you roll your eyes fondly, a defense against whatever this reveals about him. “you’re gonna get hacked.”

“no way, blanco will protect me,” he says. “and you. you’d protect me, wouldn’t you? since i put your name as my password and all?”

“uh-huh,” you say, distracted as your phone accepts the password combo. “hey, is your bank account password my name too?”

[milkymora]

left ✧ tsukishima kei x fem!reader ✧ pt 10

note: i never really left notes on this fanfiction, but i thought it was needed to make it for the last chapter of this story. i wanted to thank everyone who sticked to the end, or simply liked a couple chapters, from the bottom of my heart. i know i’ve been incredibly inconsistent with it but seeing the usual familiar users liking every chapter release has been such a motivation to keep going. thank you all so much for liking this silly fic, really, i have no idea how you managed to enjoy this shit writing lol. i promise you i can make better and longer stories than this... and i hope to see you around when i’ll write them! i plan on making more about the haikyuu characters. this was my first fanfiction published here, but it definitely won’t be the last ❤️ love you all, hope you’ll enjoy!

taglist: @tsukkisbbygirl , @haechansbbg , @astolary

summary: the choice is yours. will the dinner be sweet or spicy?

there was a song coming from the corners of the room. the words were bleared by all the voices chatting all around the tables distributed through the hall, still you found yourself liking its tranquil vibe. it soothed your nerves, making your wall of anxiety drop down brick by brick.

calmer than before, your legs began approaching the table where all your friends were sat at, which was placed in a cozy corner with a small heather next to it. kageyama and hinata wasted no time making everyone notice their arrival, saying their hellos and beginning to throw jokes around with the others almost immediately.

you, on the other hand, had a quieter entrance, waving and smiling at each one, strolling with your eyes the remaining free seats.

of course, what were the odds that the spot left for you was none other the one next tsukishima and shimizu.

hinata and kageyama took their seats, while you walked towards the empty chair at the other end of the table, and as you did, you felt a pair of golden eyes lock their gaze on your perfumed figure.

the second you returned his gaze, the tiny, imperceptible, smile he had made flashes of yesterday’s evening appear in your mind.

it wasn’t explicit imagines, no, it was just details. his smell, the fabric of his sweater, the taste of his saliva...

enough to make your blood pressure rise and your skin turn reddish.

“hey,” said kiyoko at your right, shifting your attention to her. she had her elbows resting on the table, her cheeks between the palms of her hands and her blue eyes looking right at you.

you took a moment to take in how beautiful your friend was; her cherry red lipstick that matched her long, almond shaped nails and her short dress, so elegant and a little risqué too.

“miss “it’s just a dinner with friends, not a gala” sure does know how to catch gazes!” you exclaim, letting out a laugh, “my god, you look stunning, kyoko.” giving her your biggest and most sincere smile.

she chuckled, shaking your compliments away with her hand. “i was about to tell you the same.”

“my girls are so pretty!” you heard yachi squeak in front of you, who had been listening to your interaction and wanted to add her say on the matter, like always.

kiyoko gave her a tender look, probably not hearing that for the first time that day, and you did as well, before initiating small talk with her and the other people who shared that corner of the table; yamaguchi, daichi, sugawara. completely and involuntarily discarding tsukishima at your left, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of you not one moment, even when you weren’t looking.

the waiter came in to take each one of your orders, taking at least 5 good minutes to write all of them down, as you guys occupied the biggest table in the whole room.

you silently watched your friends order their favorite meals and sharing thoughts and opinions on the new little restaurant you were at, which, to you, seemed just perfect.

small. cozy. not crowded at all– which was undoubtedly the thing you liked most about it.

the walls were colored of a soft yellow, that faded into a peach orange towards the floor. there were lots of wooden decorations, like little carps statues, that matched the parquet floor. and the windows were so big, one could see the entire square from it. the restaurant was placed in such good spot.

although being a bit far from you, you felt the urge to conversate with yamaguchi a bit. you tried to avoid the sensitive topic, but you also questioned him a couple times how he was feeling. turns out, everything was fine, he was fine. and that was all that mattered.

it was about half an hour later that you guys began eating the meals you’ve ordered. you quietly ate your food, whilst listening to everyone chit chat about frivolities. yachi kept throwing jokes around like her usual self, trying to rip a laughter out of tadashi, daichi and sugawara were talking about the weather and the amount of homework to be done during the coming two weeks, and shimizu played around with yachi and yamaguchi.

✧ fluff ending ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀smut ending (+18) ✧

✧ previous ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

[marisolls]

122524. i keep thinking about how tsukishima kei is perceptive but is awe-struck when he meets you because you’re worse. because you’re far more understanding and painfully receptive to harsh truths. you’re sharper but much more softer. and when you meet him, that awe-struck would slowly turn into something unsettling because of how casually intimate you are with your friends—with him.

you pat him in the back. or just rest your hand there. give him a look, a half-smile and eyes wholly meeting his. i’m here. “look, it’s your favorite,” or “you sound like this song.” you eat lunch with him, he doesn’t know if you’ve purposely situated yourself by his side but he dares not ask. you include him in your book shoppings, and you’re not fazed when your friends cancel in the last minute. you say he should bring his friends—he could only scoff at you and shake his head no.

and even though you give so easily—even though tsukishima kei holds no such attachment to miniscule gestures, or trinkets, the ones you would slide or plant in his palm not as a gift but just a normal thing to do as friends— it still feels weird. feels…nice. there’s warmth in it, a genuineness he can’t find in the common.

your definition of friends is blurry to some. thus, people would think you’re flirting with them. and they fall for you in the process. everytime this happens, he’s already prepping for midnight snacks & creative witty jokes as your name shows up on his screen. calling him. he’ll listen to everything: how you hate it when people think they’re special just because you gave them your undivided attention, how they think you owe them when they’ve showered you enough affections, for you to reciprocate them, for you to feel something over such trivial things.

that’s not how you operate, he knows. you give and give and give. you only take what your hands can carry, but it’s ironic, how you can receive harsh truths over someone’s heart ready to take care of you. how you’ll choose to have this casualness than to think about a love for a lifetime’s worth.

you deserve it, though. a love for a lifetime’s worth. to meet your gentle hands and knowing gazes and easy laughs. a love that doesn’t feel like a chore, just a normal thing to do, a habit—like you and your trinkets that you save.

in the distant, kei thinks you’re afraid of a few harsh truths. if there’s a light in your kindness, there’s a dark and hollowness that comes with you, too. your big heart means a bigger pill to fucking swallow.

you’re his harsh truth. but one he doesn’t choke on. only aching in some vague, hidden way.

and kei knows he’s a fool for it.

for letting himself get tangled in the ache. for leaning into the quiet way you fill the room—not with noise, but with presence, with weight. the kind that sneaks up on him when he’s least prepared, the faint murmur of your voice pulling him out of his head, or your hand always resting somewhere on him; on his shoulder or his back or even atop his hand at random.

you don’t try to fix him, and maybe that’s what draws him closer, what keeps him tethered to you despite the sharp edges you unknowingly press against his ribs. you see through people too easily, yet never pry. you offer but never push, even when he knows you should.

that hollow kindness of yours, the dark undertone of it, really perplexes him. there’s a careful distance you keep, no matter how much you give. you’re too soft with the world and too harsh with yourself, like you’ve already decided there’s a limit to how much you’re allowed to take. somehow, kei becomes part of that equation—close enough to feel the warmth of your light but never bold enough to reach out and hold it.

he tells himself it’s better this way. that your strange intimacy is manageable only because it’s casual. that you’d pull back if he ever pushed.

but the truth—the harsh, undeniable truth—is that he doesn’t know how to navigate this thing you’ve become to him.

it’s not friendship, not really. friendship doesn’t taste like the bitter pang of jealousy when someone else claims your attention. it doesn’t feel like this quiet, bone-deep longing to hold onto every piece of you before it slips away.

and kei is perceptive enough to know that it will slip away. that one day, your hands will stop reaching for him, your laughter will echo somewhere he can’t follow, and all he’ll have left is the memory of trinkets he didn’t think to keep.

but not yet.

for now, he lets you be his harsh truth. the ache that he doesn’t choke on, the weight he doesn’t know how to carry but refuses to put down. because for all the hollowness you carry, you’ve filled something in him he didn’t even realize was empty.

and that’s enough.

for now, at least, to have you so casually is enough.

it’s better than losing you completely. to sit with you in the silence, in this limbo he doesn’t want to name.

he won’t pry if it means keeping you close.

what a strange, cruel truth to admit—that he loves you only for an inch, not ready to take the mile.

i dont have the spiritual writing energy to expand this all im feeling rn is yearning 😆 i’ll reblog this if i find the time to write the whole version. merry christmas! 🎁

[shouyuus]

─── 飛雄 HE LIKES TO HOLD YOU, sling his arms around your shoulders, press his knee to your knee, crowd into your personal space; he likes to nose into the hollow of your neck, the warm, soft spot behind your ear, even if it makes you squirm away from him, he'd just pull you back and grumble at you to stay still, to stay close.

because he'd always want you close, wouldn't he? always want you within arm's reach, because tobio is nothing if not needy, nothing if not persistent in his petulant want for closeness, for the satisfying friction of skin on skin, for the warm tingle of goosebumps that chase up the length of your arms whenever he presses his lips to your cheek, your neck, the bare skin of your shoulder.

and he'd drink in the way you laugh, the tiny puff of breath before your gasping inhale — his name falling from your lips like a wish or a prayer.

"t-tobio!"

"what?"

he revels in the flush working into your cheeks, his eyes half-lidded in the starveling dark of this izakaya the jva's booked out for the night, the two and a half beers he's had fizzling in his stomach just enough to make his body feel light, to tug at the dwindling edges of his self-restraint till it's fraying. he pulls you into his chest, biting down a smirk at the shiver that shakes down your entire body as you peer up at him with dark, curious eyes.

"people... people will see!"

tobio frowns in earnest then, cocking his head as he weighs the implications. he blinks down at you.

"so?"

but before you can protest again, he bends down to catch your lips in his, humming against your lips, satisfaction unfurling in his chest as he feels you go molten in his arms. he pulls back to trace a thumb along your bottom lip, a dull pounding at the back of his mind, telling him that maybe, just maybe it's time to beg off from this party. he shoves the nagging feeling away for the comfort of pressing his forehead to yours, tracing a finger along the plush of your cheek.

"'s not like people don't know you're mine."

[admiringlove]

[14:22] . . .

“screw this,” you mutter, the words tasting bitter in your mouth as you shove the pen across the book you hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. “i’m going home.”

kuroo tetsurō looks up from his own mess of notes and highlighters, his face an assemblage of quiet mockery—one eyebrow perched like it’s considering leaping from his face, the corners of his mouth lifting into a half-smile, the kind that made you think he was perpetually on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t. when he speaks, his voice is a drawl, a flick of something sharp: “oh yeah?”

“yeah,” you snap, a little sharper than intended, though the satisfaction of it dulls the sting of your frustration. your hands fumble as you cram the book into your satchel, pages bending at the corners. “screw this. and screw you.”

his smile falters for just a second, replaced by something unreadable—surprise, amusement, offense, some strange combination of all three. “what’d i do?”

you stop then, standing still in front of him, the strap of your satchel clenched tight in your hand. your chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm, your breath catching on the edge of something you can’t quite name. he’s looking at you with those stupid, stupid eyes—sharp and dark and just a little too knowing, except for the moments when they aren’t.

you exhale sharply, the sound of it cutting through the low murmur of the library. “you’re an idiot.���

he tilts his head, clearly amused now. the slight quirk of his lips tells you he’s not taking this seriously, and why would he? you’ve never managed to hold your own against him before. not when he looks at you like that. “an idiot?” he repeats, as though the word is foreign to him, his voice teasing, lilting.

“yes,” you bite out, the word sharp and precise. “a dense, oblivious idiot.”

you’re walking away now, your steps purposeful, though there’s a tremor in your hands as you push the heavy library doors open. the hinges groan in protest, but you don’t stop. he’s already following you, the sound of his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor echoing in the quiet space.

“wait, wait, wait,” he says, stumbling over the words as he catches up to you. his hand hovers in the air between you, like he’s unsure if he should reach for you or let you go. “what do you mean by ‘dense’? what’s that supposed to mean?”

you stop at the threshold, the cold air from outside rushing in and biting at your skin. the streetlights cast long, wavering shadows on the pavement, and for a moment, the two of you are framed in that glow—his tall figure towering over yours, his expression softening with something you can’t quite place.

“for someone as smart as you,” you say slowly, deliberately, your voice low and steady, “you’re so stupid. you’re blind, tetsurō.”

he blinks at you, the words clearly sinking in one by one, but his confusion remains intact. “okay,” he says cautiously, “and why, exactly, am i blind?”

you let out a long, exasperated sigh, your breath visible in the chilly air. “you flirt with me,” you say, your voice rising now, “and then you flirt with other girls—girls who wouldn’t know what a periodic table was if it hit them in the face! and i’m just supposed to sit there and watch?”

“wait,” he interrupts, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “you’re mad because i flirt with other girls?”

you narrow your eyes at him, your face heating despite the cold. “i’m mad,” you hiss, “because you don’t get it. you don’t see it. you’re too busy being... being you.”

he’s staring at you now, the realization dawning slowly, like a sunrise he hadn’t expected to see. “oh,” he says, the sound soft, almost reverent.

“yeah,” you snap, your voice thick with something you don’t want to name. “oh.”

for a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind and the faint hum of distant traffic. then, he takes a step closer, his breath warm against your skin despite the chill in the air. “so... you like me?” he asks, his voice quiet but steady, like he already knows the answer.

you don’t look at him when you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. “yes. i like you, you idiot. and you’re so... infuriating about it.”

his laugh is soft, almost disbelieving, and when you finally look up, his face is inches from yours. there’s something in his expression that makes your stomach flip, something raw and unguarded. “if it makes you feel any better,” he says, his voice low, “i’ve been trying to get you to notice me for two years.”

“two years?” you echo, your voice cracking slightly.

he nods, the smirk returning to his face, though it’s softer now, almost shy. “two years,” he repeats.

and then he’s kissing you.

it’s soft at first, tentative, his lips barely brushing yours like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. but when you don’t—when you lean into him, your hands clutching the front of his shirt—he deepens it like he's been waiting for this his entire life, his hands sliding to the small of your back, pulling you closer. the world blurs around you, the cold and the noise fading into nothing as his mouth moves against yours.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead resting against yours, he’s grinning like he’s just won the lottery. “three years,” you mumble, your voice shaky.

he pulls back slightly, his eyebrows furrowing. “what?”

“i’ve liked you for three years,” you admit, your cheeks burning.

his grin widens, and he leans in again, his lips brushing yours as he whispers, “then i guess we’ve got a lot of time to make up for.”

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