akaaiholic

[akaaiholic]

thank you for theo and yumiboo!! again!! much much love <3

Put My Hands On You by DEAN — if i fall down stairs will he drop an album iykyk

open tags!!

I wanna start a tag game

What song did you last listen to/are currently listening to

I'll go first

@preserves42 @chaos-cupid @apjofan @th3-r4t-48 @kuraikocho @thecrazyalchemist @spooky-cryptid-friend @stargazin-on-mars @k-is-for-potassium @boldofyoutoassumeicanspell @sun13koi @mun-urufu @goddess-of-bubblegum @bastet-the-best @the-eclipse-is-in-me @xx-neuro-xx @wretched-meadow @mildlybizarrecorvid @poe-the-failure @alexanderhamioton321 @cloverthesimp365 @ilov3b00kss0much @fukurouonthesea @permetutotheworld @the-official-failure @garden-of-runar @cceanvvaves @bastard-number-5 @auggies-dreamworld @rins-batcave @shutupheather13 @ning-ningx300 @aiko-sera @brickcpavement @1shouldbedoinghomeworknow @elizer-the-felon @/anyone else I've forgotten sorry

[akaaiholic]

wahh thank you theo and yumiboo!!

i do not talk much abt myself on here i think but i am allergic to watermelon and cantaloupe and anything else related to that aside from cucumbers ^o^

no tags because i don’t… interact with that many people here T T !!! feel free join in though <3

TELL ME A CURIOSITY ABOUT YOURSELF. NOTHING DISTURBING OR GLOOMY. SOMETHING SILLY LIKE YOU HAVE BRACES OR YOU HAVE A TATTOO OF YOUR FAVORITE CHARACTER

I have a lot of bridge in my feet, I walk silly and I'm not a good athlete for that lol

And tag your mutuals!

@agoodpretender, @angiem03, @tiberious-possum, @fukitche

[akaaiholic]

new theemee!!! 🥺😣😵‍💫 so cool

AAAH!! thank you 🥹🥹 i think it fits the bar theme a lot more :D

[akaaiholic]

kicking my feet in the air !! the plot is so good and it’s so cute !! (≧∀≦)

onigiris and confessions

wherein you were inarizaki’s manager, standing up to osamu’s twin during practice, and he thanks you with an onigiri—an unassuming gesture that quietly blossoms into something more.

starring. miya osamu x fem!reader

genre. fluff, romance, slow burn.

wc. 6.3k

author's note: slowly reposting my recent works (╥﹏╥)

It was the first semester of spring. The air was crisp but gentle, the trees outside starting to blush pink with the first touch of sakura. You walked beside Kita, your school bags slung over your shoulders as he guided you through the path toward Inarizaki’s gym.

He didn’t say much—not that he ever did—but his presence was steady, comforting. Familiar.

You’d grown up next door to him. Your families had always been close; your parents practically considered his grandmother their own mother, and you’d spent more summers than you could count inside the Kita household, learning patience and tea etiquette before you ever learned how to curse. So when he brought up the idea of you becoming the volleyball team’s new manager, it didn’t feel like a favor. Not even a suggestion. More like… inevitability.

“You’re organized, sharp, and you don’t take crap from anyone,” he said plainly the night before, while you were pulling weeds out of his grandmother’s garden. “You’ll be good at it.”

You didn’t argue. If Kita thought you’d be good at something, you probably would be. Besides, it wasn’t like you could say no when he looked at you like he already saw it happening.

So here you were, walking beside him as the gym doors came into view, your folder pressed against your chest and your school ID tucked into the front pocket of your uniform.

When you stepped inside, the sharp scent of varnished wood and sweat hit you first. Volleyballs echoed across the floor, thudding against polished hardwood and open palms. Laughter, shouting, sneakers squeaking—organized chaos.

Kita didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Gather up.”

The players immediately began converging near the center of the gym, jogging toward him, wiping sweat from their necks and pushing up sleeves. You could already see the difference—these boys respected him. Feared him a little, maybe, but trusted him too.

“This is our new first-year manager,” Kita said, glancing briefly in your direction. “She’s starting today. Treat her with respect.”

A few of them gave casual nods. One of the third-years murmured a polite, “Nice to meet you.” Another waved lazily from where he was stretching.

Then, of course, came the blonde.

You spotted him the moment he broke away from the group, all swagger and mischief, a cocky grin spread across his face. Miya Atsumu.

“Well, well,” he said, striding up with far too much confidence for someone still dripping sweat. “Didn’t know we were getting lucky this semester. You single?”

You didn’t even look at him.

Still flipping through the forms tucked neatly in your folder, you said without hesitation, “Atsumu-san, asking about my relationship status isn’t very professional.”

Your voice wasn’t raised, wasn’t biting—just cool and matter-of-fact, like you were pointing out an error on a form.

Then, just as calmly, you added, “If you’re finished with the unnecessary commentary, you still haven’t submitted your physical form or your updated dietary report. I’ll be expecting both by the end of today. I don’t plan on chasing you for them.”

That did it.

The entire gym went still. A few heads turned. Someone stifled a laugh that slipped out anyway, loud in the quiet.

Atsumu blinked at you, stunned, his mouth parted slightly like he wasn’t sure what just hit him. The grin he’d approached with faltered—not out of offense, but confusion. Like no one had ever just… told him off like that. Cleanly. Without blinking.

You finally looked up and met his gaze.

Unbothered. Unimpressed.

He blinked again. “...Right.”

Behind him, a low snort slipped from someone’s throat. You didn’t have to turn around to know it was Osamu.

Kita said nothing, but his faint nod beside you was all the confirmation you needed.

You turned and walked past Atsumu to set your things on the bench, flipping open your clipboard to get started.

By the time practice resumed, it was clear to everyone in the gym—especially Atsumu—that you weren’t here to play games.

And Osamu?

He was still watching.

Just… quietly.

That continued on for days, and before anyone realized it, you weren’t just part of the team—you were the team. The rhythm adjusted around you. The atmosphere, the routine, even the way the boys carried themselves.

They knew better than to mess with you.

You were sweet—always had been. You brought towels to the bench before they needed asking, sometimes even adjusting the fold for whoever liked it on their neck or their knees. You offered them snacks after drills, water during stretches, a cold pack when someone twisted wrong and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt. Off practice, you were just as warm. Passing by them in the hallway between classes, you’d offer a quiet smile, sometimes a chocolate bar, sometimes an energy drink if someone looked too pale to have eaten.

You’d bring extra snacks for everyone after exams, or when the weather changed and moods dipped, or on game days. Once, after a particularly hard-fought victory, you baked them cookies shaped like tiny volleyballs, and left them stacked in a tin by the door with a note that said, Good work. You earned this.

You were kind.

But you weren’t soft.

You knew when to draw the line—and you knew how to hold it.

The boys learned that quickly. The clipboard became your unspoken weapon. When the twins started bickering, which they always did, you didn’t bother raising your voice. You’d march over, swing the clipboard with practiced ease, and smack one on the shoulder and the other on the arm, expression calm as water. It always shut them up.

Once, a second-year made a stupid joke about stretching and ended up doing cooldowns twice over because you turned, clipboard in hand, and gave him a look that could’ve stopped a rally in mid-air.

Somehow, over time, the team came to fear your clipboard more than Kita’s silent disapproval—which said a lot, considering how terrifying silence from Kita could be. But even he didn’t argue with your methods. In fact, he stood beside you with a quiet pride you never mentioned, watching the way you carried them all like it was second nature.

The boys still teased you—when you were in a good mood. They called you Clipboard Queen, asked what you were baking next, joked that you ran the gym more than the coaches. But they never crossed the line. Not once.

Because they adored you.

And you weren’t the new manager.

You were the manager.

Their manager.

Even Osamu noticed.

He hadn’t said much since the first week, not like his brother who’d tried—and failed—to charm you with a pick-up line and got humbled so fast the entire team still laughed about it behind his back. No, Osamu was quieter. He watched. He took in the way you organized, the way you moved, the way you handled things so effortlessly without needing praise or attention.

You were interesting. That’s what he told himself.

Not romantically. Not like that.

He just found himself noticing you more often than not. The way you stood off to the side during drills, making silent notes with a furrowed brow. The way your hair framed your face when you leaned forward to speak to Kita. The way you snapped the cap back onto your pen when you were annoyed.

It wasn’t serious. It wasn’t a crush.

He just… noticed.

At least, that’s what he believed.

Until the day nothing went right.

It started with warmups—he felt off. Not tired, not sore, just off. His shoes felt too heavy. His body wouldn’t move the way he wanted it to. The more he tried to shake it off, the worse it got. It was like his own rhythm had left the gym without him.

Then came drills.

Set after set, and no matter how sharp Atsumu’s tosses were, Osamu couldn’t land a clean spike. His timing was off. His body wasn’t listening. Everything was half a beat too slow or a split second too fast.

And Atsumu noticed.

“Oi!” Atsumu snapped mid-play. “That was dead on! Ya even watchin’ the ball?”

Osamu exhaled sharply. “That one was behind me, dumbass.”

“I gave you a perfect toss!”

“Then maybe your ‘perfect’ toss needs fixing.”

Their voices cut through the gym like the snap of a ball against wood. Practice paused. Several of the first-years turned nervously. Kita was watching, arms crossed. Silent.

Osamu ran a hand through his hair, sweat clinging to his skin. His chest ached—not from exertion, but from something worse. Frustration.

He hated this. Hated how nothing was clicking. Hated how Atsumu’s tone was only making it worse. Hated how everyone was watching now.

Then came the sound.

A sharp, clean snap.

The clipboard.

You hadn’t even raised your voice.

“Atsumu-san,” you said.

The way his name left your mouth was clean and final. Not angry. Not sharp. Just firm. Level. Like a door being shut.

Everyone stilled.

Atsumu flinched before turning toward you, sweat clinging to his temples.

You didn’t look up from your clipboard yet, pen poised over the stat sheet you’d been writing on. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped shouting at your brother like he’s the only one on this court.”

Silence.

“You’re frustrated. So is he. But if your set was really perfect,” you paused, finally lifting your gaze to meet his, “then it would’ve been where it needed to be. Half a step matters, especially at this level.”

Atsumu opened his mouth. Nothing came out. Not even his pride could argue with that.

You held his eyes for one more beat, then turned to Osamu, eyes softer now—just a flicker. Just enough.

You didn’t say anything to him, didn’t pat his shoulder or coddle him or even try to comfort him. You just met his gaze. Quiet. Certain. Like you saw the weight he was carrying. Like you understood.

Then you looked back down and returned to writing.

Atsumu didn’t speak again for the rest of practice.

Osamu didn’t either—not because he was sulking or too proud to admit you’d caught him off guard. It was something else. Something heavier. Something that lingered long after the drills were done, long after he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and packed up his bag, long after he watched you walk ahead with Kita into the staff hall, the edge of your clipboard peeking out of your side tote.

He didn’t sleep easy that night.

Not because of guilt. Not because of his off game.

But because he couldn’t stop thinking about how you looked at him—not with judgment, not with pity, but like someone who was already on his side without needing a reason.

So the next day, he got to school early.

Too early. The gym was still locked. His bag hung from one shoulder, and in his hand was a neatly wrapped triangle of rice wrapped in foil and sealed with a strip of paper tape.

He’d made it that morning—still half-asleep, hair damp from his shower, lips chewing the inside of his cheek while his hands moved by muscle memory. Salmon. Seasoned lightly, like how he made it for himself. It was simple. But it was careful.

And when he stepped into the gym and found the bench where you always sat—your clipboard usually resting there, your tote bag slung behind it—he crouched down and set the onigiri right in the center of the bench.

No note.

Just your name, handwritten in permanent marker across the tape.

He didn’t stick around.

He didn’t have to.

Later that day, when you arrived—five minutes early as usual—you stopped when you saw it. The foil glinted faintly under the gym lights. Your name stared back at you, scrawled in neat, slanted handwriting that definitely wasn’t Kita’s.

And across the court, already stretching with the rest of the team, Osamu kept his eyes on his shoelaces and pretended like he hadn’t done anything at all.

But when you sat down and took a bite halfway through warm-ups, you didn’t look at him.

You smiled, barely.

And Osamu felt it from across the room.

Something in his chest tightened again—no longer frustration, not quite confusion. Just heat. Quiet and steady.

He didn’t know what to call it yet.

But that was fine.

He had time.

And he knew now—you were worth slowing down for.

You already had a hunch who gave it to you.

No one said anything, and he didn’t look your way once, but you knew. The writing on the tape was familiar—slanted, steady, no frills. The way the rice was packed, shaped just a little tighter on one side like it was pressed by someone with muscle memory. The seasoning, the filling—salmon, not too salty, not too plain. It wasn’t flashy, but it was thoughtful. Meant to be eaten, not just gifted.

That alone told you everything.

Osamu.

So during their water break, you didn’t say anything at first. You walked across the gym like you always did, clipboard tucked under your arm, towel slung over your shoulder. You passed out the water bottles one by one, and when you stopped in front of him, he didn’t glance up—at least not right away.

But he reached for the bottle you handed him, fingers brushing yours for half a second longer than they had to.

And that’s when he noticed it.

A folded scrap of paper, neatly wedged beneath the elastic holding the bottle’s cap. Small. Private.

He blinked. Pulled it free when you moved on without a word.

In your handwriting:

"Thank you. It tasted good, Osamu-san."

No hearts. No smiley face. Just a clean, quiet note.

He read it once. Twice.

Then tucked it inside his pocket like it meant more than it should.

And for the rest of the day, even through drills and cooldowns and Atsumu’s usual loudness, there was a strange calm that settled over him—like something soft had unknotted itself in his chest. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t just noticing him back.

You already had.

Something shifted in Osamu as he found himself always giving you onigiri every now and then.

It wasn’t loud or sudden—just small, quiet moments strung together until it became part of how he moved. How he thought. How his day began and ended.

It was never planned, never announced. It simply became a rhythm—a quiet exchange woven into the time between drills and water breaks, like an invisible thread tethering you both closer with each handmade bite. Sometimes they were savory. Sometimes simple. Sometimes he wrapped them with little strips of patterned paper, once even tying one with a red string because he claimed he couldn’t find tape.

You didn’t believe him. But you didn’t call him out on it, either.

You never asked for them. Never hinted. But he gave them anyway. And you never said much about it, not after the first note, not after the soft thank-yous. Still, he noticed how you always ate them first—even when you brought your own snacks. How you started bringing green tea in a thermos and sliding the cap toward him during breaks when he looked tired.

He noticed. And he liked noticing.

It wasn’t a confession. Not yet. But you both knew what it meant, even if no one else did.

And somehow, in the hush of routine, that was enough.

Until one afternoon.

You were sitting near the open window, tallying up stats with your pencil tapping against your lips, and Osamu was perched on the edge of a bench nearby, chewing slowly through a rice ball he’d made for himself. You didn’t look up when you said it, just scribbled another number down like it was nothing.

“You know, you could sell these.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Your onigiri. For the school festival. The team doesn’t have a booth yet. You could lead it.”

There was a pause. He stared at you like you’d just asked him to run for office.

“…A food stall?”

“You already make them,” you replied, eyes still on your clipboard. “You’re good at it. The team listens to you when you talk food. Plus, who better to run a stand than someone who feeds the manager before every practice?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. “…You sayin’ I bribe ya?”

You didn’t smile—at least, not fully. But your eyes softened when you met his gaze. “I’m saying you have good taste.”

The suggestion must’ve stuck, because later that week, while the third-years were reviewing festival duties, Osamu cleared his throat and said—not too loud, but just enough—“I got an idea.”

By the next day, “Inarizaki’s Onigiri Stand” was penciled in as the volleyball team’s official booth.

Atsumu groaned immediately. “We could’ve done somethin’ cool! Like a haunted house or dunk booth or somethin’—”

“You can stand in the corner and be scary if you want,” you deadpanned, flipping your clipboard closed.

Osamu snorted.

Planning the booth turned into late afternoons in the gym after everyone left. You and Osamu stayed behind—first just to sketch out flavor ideas and price points, then to plan packaging, sourcing ingredients, designing signs. He got passionate fast. Talked about rice blends, grilling techniques, even which condiments the first-years liked best.

You listened. Took notes. Hummed when something sounded good. Suggested which ingredients the cafeteria might have and which he’d need to bring from home.

And somewhere between choosing toppings and booth colors, something quiet bloomed.

One afternoon, you sat cross-legged on the court floor, Osamu seated across from you with a notebook balanced on his knee.

“We’ll need a name,” he muttered. “Somethin’ catchy.”

“‘Onigiri Miya’ has a nice ring to it,” you said casually.

His pen froze. Eyes flicked up to yours. “That’s…”

You tilted your head. “Too obvious?”

He blinked. “No. Just… you really think it sounds good?”

You shrugged. “It sounds like a place I’d line up for.”

And he looked at you then—really looked. Like he was memorizing the moment. The lighting. The way your voice curled so casually around something that meant more than either of you dared say aloud.

When he nodded, it wasn’t about the name anymore.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think it does too.”

After that, you worked closer than ever. You tested flavors together after school, standing side by side at his kitchen counter. Your fingers brushed when reaching for the same seasoning, but neither of you said a word. Sometimes you’d sit on his porch afterward, eating the test batches, arguing about which would sell best.

He always gave you the first bite.

The booth came together in bits—lists, sketches, prep charts. You handled logistics, clipboard in hand, schedules laminated and taped to the inside of the club room wall. Osamu handled the menu—four flavors tested twice, then added a fifth after you offhandedly mentioned konbu.

Somewhere between flavor testing and shift delegations, the team began to notice things.

You and Osamu stood closer now—shoulders brushing when you leaned over the same checklist, arms brushing when you both reached for the rice paddle. Your voices, when directed at each other, were a little quieter. Gentler. There were glances exchanged that weren’t about prep work. There were small hesitations, like the way Osamu lingered when you tied back your hair, and how your fingers slowed when you packed away the rice mold he liked using best.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just watched.

Until one evening, after practice ran late and the clouds cracked open over Hyogo in one long, endless downpour.

Everyone scattered, umbrellas popped open, jackets pulled overhead, bikes kicked into motion.

You stood just outside the gym’s overhang, bag in hand, watching the sheets of rain crash against the pavement. You’d forgotten your umbrella. Of course you had. And with your phone battery nearly dead and no one else around who lived nearby, you were already thinking of just sprinting through it.

Then—quiet footsteps behind you.

You turned, surprised.

Osamu stood there, holding a dark green umbrella over both your heads. His uniform was damp at the collar. His hair was a little messy. But his eyes were steady.

“I’ll walk ya,” he said.

You blinked. “You don’t have to. I know your house is the other way.”

Behind him, Atsumu’s voice rang out from under a cluster of teammates by the lockers. “‘Samu, what the hell? Yer gonna walk her home in this storm? That’s, like, twenty minutes in the wrong direction!”

“It’s fine,” Osamu said, not even glancing back.

And that was that.

You didn’t protest again. You just stepped into the umbrella’s shadow beside him.

The walk was quiet—just the hum of rainfall and the occasional splash from puddles. He held the umbrella with one hand and kept his other in his pocket, steps matching yours exactly. You didn’t talk. Didn’t need to. But after a while, you noticed something.

He was getting wet.

Despite holding the umbrella, the slope of it leaned just slightly toward you, and the edge of his shoulder—his right arm—was already soaked. The rain had started seeping down his back, water trailing the curve of his collarbone.

You hesitated for just a breath, then reached out and tugged at his arm gently—pulling him in closer beneath the center of the umbrella.

His steps paused, then resumed, this time just barely brushing your own.

Still, he didn’t say anything.

And neither did you.

But what you didn’t know—what neither of you saw—were two dark figures trailing from half a block back, ducked beneath another umbrella.

Suna, phone in hand, camera angled steady and low.

And Atsumu beside him, whispering loud enough to hear over the rain, “You recordin’? You better be recordin’. This is gold. Look at ‘em! Shoulder to shoulder—oh my god, they’re walking in sync!”

“Quiet,” Suna muttered, deadpan. “You’ll ruin the audio.”

They followed until the edge of your street, before veering off into the side path with matching grins.

The next day, Suna sent a five-second clip to the group chat titled: Rain Scene, Episode One.

And the night before the festival, when the team was setting up the booth, you stayed late. No one expected you to—but no one was surprised either. You were always the last to leave anyway.

You were carrying two boxes—small baskets, folded towels—when Osamu stepped beside you and, without a word, took them from your arms.

“I had that,” you said, surprised.

“You’ve been carryin’ stuff since we started.” He glanced at you, brows slightly drawn. “S’nothin’ heavy.”

You walked beside him to the back of the booth. When he turned around, you were still looking at him, lips parted like you had something else to say.

But you didn’t.

You just handed him the tape roll and said, softly, “Thanks.”

And for Osamu, that was enough.

For now.

The festival opened the next morning beneath a sky as clear as glass, with sunlight spilling over the campus like something out of a movie. Streamers flapped in the wind. Music from the stage in the main courtyard blended with the laughter of students and visitors weaving between booths and attractions. It was louder than usual, busier than usual. Energy crackled in the air like the edge of summer—restless, electric, full of something blooming.

And right in the corner of the courtyard—strategically chosen by none other than Kita himself—stood Inarizaki Volleyball Team’s Onigiri Stand.

You had no doubt Kita’s precision had something to do with how successful your spot turned out to be. The booth sat in the perfect position: near the food strip, beside the drink station, and just close enough to the center stage that anyone lingering nearby had to pass through. Osamu had raised an eyebrow when Kita first pointed to the map, but no one questioned him after the line started forming twenty minutes before opening. Not even Atsumu dared.

The handmade banner, Onigiri Miya, stretched wide over the top of the booth, painted in clean brushstrokes by Ginjima the night before. The table was spotless, arranged with stacked baskets of rice balls wrapped in branded parchment paper—your idea. Neat chalkboards labeled each flavor with hand-drawn doodles beside them. Osamu’s calligraphy, your handwriting. Everything was personal, yet professional. Thoughtful in the smallest ways.

The sun hadn’t even hit noon and there was already a soft glisten at everyone’s hairlines from working under the canopy. The air smelled like grilled food and fresh batter, sweet and savory mixing with steam and sweat and festival charm. And your booth? Your booth was winning.

Suna leaned against the front post, handing out fliers with his usual blank expression. He barely said a word, just stared at people long enough for them to awkwardly take the flyer out of his hand. Somehow, that worked better than any actual sales pitch. Students—especially the girls—were lining up before they even knew what the booth was selling.

“You’re a menace,” you muttered as you passed him with another refill of napkins.

He blinked slowly. “They like mysterious guys.”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t deny it was working.

Atsumu, of course, was a walking spotlight. He charmed everyone who stopped by, laughed loud enough to draw attention, and leaned far too close when handing out orders.

“Oh? You want seconds? Or my number too?” he teased a group of girls from another school with a wink so practiced it could’ve been a commercial.

You didn’t even look up from organizing the sauce trays. You just calmly raised your clipboard and smacked his arm without a word.

“Focus on folding the wrappers, Miya.”

The girls burst into laughter. Atsumu made a show of pouting, rubbing his arm like you'd broken it. “You’re cruel,” he muttered dramatically.

“You’re annoying,” you muttered back.

Behind the counter, Osamu bit back a grin.

He liked watching you in this environment—organized and capable, the clipboard tucked under your arm like an extension of yourself. Even when flustered, even when you were exhausted, you kept everyone on pace. You handled the money box, the schedules, the cleanup, and the boys all in one breath. And the way you moved—quick, sharp, purposeful—somehow still gentle underneath, like you genuinely cared about how the booth ran, how the food looked, how each person was treated.

Osamu liked that. Maybe more than he should’ve.

Earlier that morning, before the customers started flooding in, you’d tugged on your apron in a rush while trying to balance the coin box and stock notes in the same hand. Your strings were uneven, the knot loose. You hadn’t even noticed. But Osamu had.

Without a word, he stepped behind you and gently gathered the ends of your apron.

“Hold still.”

You froze, startled by his closeness. His voice wasn’t sharp like Atsumu’s or teasing like Suna’s. It was low. Steady. Careful.

He tied the strings with practiced fingers—firm but light, like he didn’t want to startle you. His knuckles brushed your lower back, and your breath caught without permission. You turned slightly to look at him, but he only murmured:

“Don’t want it falling off in the middle of rush hour.”

That was all. Then he stepped back, smooth and quiet, like it hadn’t made your pulse hitch.

Now, hours later, with your voice growing hoarse and your posture tired but unshaken, Osamu finally took a breath and walked over to the back corner of the booth—where you stood reorganizing supply trays without asking anyone for help.

He watched you for a second before calling out softly, “Oi.”

You turned, confused.

He held out a single onigiri, wrapped in parchment with your name written across the top.

You blinked. “What’s this?”

“Try it,” he said. “Made it with the konbu you liked.”

You stared at him for a second too long. Then looked down.

You could feel the faint warmth still trapped inside. The scent—familiar, comforting—rose gently through the wrap. The paper was folded differently. The tape wasn’t the usual label. It was soft gold and white. Patterned. Clean.

Your name.

Your flavor.

And you realized—he didn’t sell it. He made it for you. Remembered something you said weeks ago. Saved it.

You looked up again.

His eyes weren’t on the onigiri.

They were on you.

Waiting.

You didn’t speak. You just smiled—small, real, and the softest you’d been all day. The kind of smile you only gave when you felt safe.

From a few feet away, the rest of the team noticed.

Suna, half-lidded as ever, tilted his head just enough to nudge Ginjima, who made a low “huh” sound under his breath.

Atsumu stopped mid-wink. His head turned, watching as your shoulders dropped an inch like the tension had melted off you. Like that smile you gave wasn’t something you gave to just anyone.

Even Kita, from behind the booth where he was quietly counting the extra change box, paused—just for a breath—before returning to his clipboard.

None of them said anything.

But they knew.

They’d seen the shift.

And Osamu, standing there with his hand still open and rice between his fingers, knew it too.

This was no longer just about food. Not about school festivals or team obligations. Something in the way you looked at him told him you felt it now, too.

And quietly—certainly—he began to hope.

Then came the crash of reality—Atsumu.

He slid over with the subtlety of a brick, grinning way too wide. “Ya two look like a married couple,” he said casually.

You choked.

Osamu flushed.

And without thinking—without even looking—you both smacked him on opposite arms at the same time.

“OW—!!”

Osamu muttered, “Shut up.”

“You’re insufferable,” you added, voice strangled from fluster.

Atsumu rubbed his arms dramatically. “See? Already married.”

Even Kita cracked a faint smile. Ginjima just sighed into his water bottle.

But before you could properly recover, a group of girls walked past the booth—this time not looking at Atsumu.

Their eyes were fixed on Osamu.

“Ahh, that one’s the quieter Miya twin, right?”

“He’s so serious. I like it.”

“Right? His hands look strong.”

You didn’t say a word.

You just went very, very still.

Didn’t roll your eyes. Didn’t scoff. Just…silent.

And Suna, of all people, noticed immediately.

He smirked from his usual lean and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “Oi, Samu. The wife’s quiet.”

You nearly dropped the sauce tray.

Your head snapped toward him with a death glare so sharp even Atsumu looked impressed.

“What did you just call me?”

Osamu choked.

Atsumu howled with laughter. “Holy sh—Suna, you’re dead—!”

But Suna just shrugged. “I only said what we’re all thinking.”

Osamu turned red from the ears down. You looked seconds from tackling someone.

But deep down, buried somewhere beneath the burning of your cheeks and the chaos of the moment—you didn’t mind.

Not really.

Because if you were honest with yourself, the wife didn’t sound so bad when it was about him.

The festival had started like a wave—loud, colorful, electric. But now it had mellowed into something quieter, something softer.

The last of the booths were being packed down, including yours, and the sky above Inarizaki was painted in streaks of rose-gold and sleepy peach. The sun had dipped low, casting long shadows across the field, while laughter from the bonfire echoed through the gentle hush of a day nearing its end.

You were still at the booth.

Everyone else had drifted off. Ginjima and Aran had left together after encouraging the team to make it to the bonfire at least once. Suna had wandered off with a camera and suspicious intentions. Even Atsumu—no doubt already twirling someone to the beat of the music—had left his post hours ago.

You were alone, wiping down trays that didn’t need wiping, stacking supply boxes that were already stacked.

You hadn’t planned on joining.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because the idea of standing there in a crowd of paired-up dancers and warm laughter, unnoticed… it stung a little more than you cared to admit.

You laughed to yourself as you closed the lid on the last box. “Not like anyone would’ve asked me anyway.”

“You sure about that?”

You turned.

Osamu stood at the edge of the booth, the last light of the sun slipping behind him, his hands tucked into his pockets and a subtle expression on his face—somewhere between annoyed and fond. That expression he wore when Atsumu did something loud and dumb and he couldn’t not care.

You tilted your head. “What?”

“I said—” he stepped closer “—you sure about that?”

“I mean…” You waved vaguely. “You’re all busy over there. I figured I’d stay out of the way.”

Osamu stared for a moment. Then, without a word, he stepped forward and grabbed the strap of your bag, slinging it over his own shoulder. “You’re comin’ with me.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“We’re goin’. Aran told us to stop actin’ like ghosts and show up.”

You laughed, but something caught in your throat when his hand brushed your elbow, steering you toward the field.

And just like that—you went.

The bonfire was already burning bright by the time you arrived.

Golden light washed over the crowd like honey, flickering in the wind as classmates danced, swayed, and laughed beneath strings of fairy lights. The music had softened now, drifting into slower, sweeter territory—the kind that filled your chest and made your feet itch to move.

The moment Osamu stepped into the circle, the team noticed.

Atsumu spun a girl from your class with an exaggerated grin and pointed immediately. “OH LOOK, THE LOVE BIRDS HAVE LANDED.”

Suna turned from where he was crouched near the edge of the circle, camera already out. “I told you. They’d show up right after sunset. Very cinematic.”

Kita, seated quietly with a cup of tea near the bench, gave one approving nod.

You felt the weight of everyone’s eyes. Osamu seemed entirely unaffected.

He leaned in, voice low enough for just you. “They’re loud, huh.”

“They’re staring.”

“They’ve been doin’ that all day.”

Before you could reply, the music shifted again. Slower. Sweeter.

Around you, classmates began pairing off—some pulled in by friends, others by hopeful strangers. Ginjima already had a second partner. Aran was dancing with a girl from his class. Even Suna had recruited a phone-holding second-year to help him film angles.

You shifted awkwardly on your feet, hands behind your back, heart in your throat.

And that was when Osamu turned toward you again.

“You said earlier,” he began, his voice still calm, “no one was gonna ask you.”

You blinked.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat, “I’m askin’ you now.”

His hand was open. Waiting.

Your breath hitched, eyes flicking to the fire, the crowd, then back to his hand.

You didn’t speak.

You just placed yours in his.

His fingers curled slowly around yours—warm, steady, and a little hesitant. He stepped in, his other hand hovering above your waist like he wasn’t sure if it belonged there—until you nodded, just enough, and he let it settle gently.

You began to move.

It wasn’t a perfect dance. It wasn’t even practiced. But Osamu was solid beneath your fingers, guiding you through the slow rhythm with a quiet sort of confidence. You could hear the soft shift of his breath. You could feel the warmth of his palm against your back.

Your heart beat too fast.

And then—he leaned down.

Not too close. Just enough that his voice brushed your ear like a secret.

“I need to tell you somethin’.”

You froze.

His hand didn’t let go.

“I thought it was just a little crush at first,” he said, quietly, almost like he was afraid someone might overhear. “The way you yelled at Atsumu. The way you take care of everyone without askin’. You’re always stayin’ late. Always cleanin’ up. Always lookin’ out for the team like it’s nothin’. And I…”

You looked up, eyes wide, breath stuck in your lungs.

He swallowed.

“I like you.”

Silence.

Only the fire crackled, and somewhere in the background, a camera clicked.

“I’ve liked you for a while,” he continued, softly. “I didn’t say anythin’ ‘cause I didn’t wanna make things weird. You’re important. To the team. To me.”

You blinked hard—once, twice.

“I didn’t think you liked me back,” he said. “But I kept hopin’. And maybe that’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” you whispered, cutting him off.

He blinked.

“I like you too.”

His breath caught.

And just for a second—his hand tightened on your back. His eyes flicked over your face, searching, like he couldn’t quite believe it. You felt him lean in again, this time slower, as if the world might shatter if he rushed it.

Your face tipped up.

And then—

You kissed him.

It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t dramatic. Just the lightest press of your lips against his cheek, shy and warm and so full of feeling it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

But it was enough.

Because from behind you—

“OH MY GOD,” Atsumu screeched. “THEY’RE KISSIN’. THEY’RE ACTUALLY—”

“Shut up,” Suna hissed, still filming, whispering like it was a nature documentary. “This is the confession scene. We don’t interrupt the confession scene.”

Aran gave a soft “finally” under his breath. Ginjima clapped once. Even Kita looked… pleased.

You pulled back from Osamu’s cheek, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

He smiled—soft, small, but completely, completely real.

And he whispered again—just for you:

“Told you someone would ask you.”

And he didn’t let go. Not through the end of the song. Not through the teasing. Not even as the bonfire burned on and the festival faded into memory.

You danced.

Together.

With your fingers laced in his, hearts on your sleeves, and the rest of the world slowly, quietly falling away.

© 2025 yukkigiri ☾ creations by luna — please do not repost, copy, or translate without permission.

[akaaiholic]

guys i heard this song live last night. suna rintarō please kiss me right

Kiss Me Right

suna rintarō + gn!reader — wc: 695 | cw: slightly suggestive (author’s note at the end)

No one knew how thrilling it was to be in a secret relationship with Suna Rintarō.

The satisfaction he gets when you text him, “I miss you”, the adrenaline he gets after following up your message with a suggestion, “Come by for one night”, the images that circle around his head about what you guys could potentially do tonight after you tell him, “See you after practice, Rin” reminds him that he’s wrapped around your finger.

He was getting annoyed with you for not dropping by for a couple of weeks. The thought of ending this “relationship” came by once in a week but he was secretly praying for you to text him once more. The little ping! on his phone while untying his shoes post-practice sent him into excitement and suddenly all was well once more.

After his shower, he had scrambled to get the textbooks off his bed and onto the desk, his duffle bag from practice put neatly into a corner of his room. The bottles that once were left over on his coffee table from a recent debrief he hosted at his house were now cleared. All he had wanted out of it? A picture of his friend ugly crying about his situation.

On your end, you had just came to his house directly after work and all you wanted after a long, tiring day was human touch. You were sick of these blind dates you went on, every person you met was just as generic as the next because no one matched your energy the way Suna did. No one shot back with your snarky remarks unlike him and you enjoyed the chase you had after him, especially the “who will text first” game.

Suna appears at the door with a blank face, the scent of his cologne and his home hits your nose all at once.

“Did you get here safe?”

You nodded, stepping inside and taking off your shoes and letting him take your hand and guide you through his house once more.

“Mhm, ‘missed you. Tell me about your day.”

Suna sat you down on the couch, sitting next to you with his knees to his chest while looking at you. He started rambling about his day as you nodded attentively, giving your commentary here and there,

“…everything was annoying to me until you texted me first.”

You let out a little giggle,

“Because I wasn’t talking to you? Sorry. All these blind dates had me sick.”

He knew you went on blind dates because that’s how he met you but he knew he could’ve given you what you wanted.

Suna found it a little irritating that the small talk wasn’t getting the both of you as far as he wanted it to be, he was impatient now. His hand was itching to hold you once more, to hold that face of yours, and to kiss you right.

“I could do better than those people.”

You look up at him.

“Pardon?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I could do better.”

“Then do it.”

You won this time, Suna leans in for a needy kiss on the couch and a little grin.

“Fucking finally, I’ve been waiting all day for this.”

You get up to signal his room, with eyes that plead for more. He nods as it was your turn to take him through the somewhat familiar room to you.

The moment you guys touch lips in his bedroom is where he takes everything back. He doesn’t want to end the “relationship” nor does he want to end the craving he gets for people to find out you two are something.

Both of your hands roaming on eachother’s body is what makes him want more but god forbid him from knowing if there’s anyone else out there waiting for you despite your claim of being sick of blind dates.

You pull back first, the two of you breathless. Suna cups his hands and puts it on your nape and looks in your eyes with small pants,

“Tell your man he gotta take notes. You keep coming back, If I kiss better then just say so.”

authors note: hallooo ^_^ i fought tooth and nail js to write this and thank you for everyone threatening to kick my ass for leaving this in the archives.. let’s be twt mutuals !! @/akaaiholic

tags: @mackisbored @yumiyawning much love ♡

[akaaiholic]

iwa under cali sun this… cali iwa that… what about cali sun wakatoshi……please….

[akaaiholic]

Ushijima Wakatoshi x Implied Fem!Reader | Self-Indulgent Comfort Fic ♡

Ushijima notices the first time you’re experiencing intense emotions. You feel like every complaint and demand that can be heard nearby is crawling under your skin, and your body feels like it’s fueled to only do the basic necessities for the day.

He notices your tone towards other people, the blade of your tongue is sharper than usual. Despite all your best efforts to disguise it with soft and sweet vocabulary around him, he notices it within the small complaints you make by calling it your life “updates”.

Ushijima isn’t the type to ask you how you feel because he knows you’ll tell him sooner or later. Even if you don’t, he knows when you’re feeling wrong because of the small ache he feels for you in his chest. Your boyfriend pulls you into a hug on his bed, your head on top of his chest. He plants a kiss on your forehead and muttering, “I love you.” Ushijima will let you cry, sigh heavily, fall asleep, or just lay there in silence. He will never let you go unless you pull away first because he’ll feel okay if you’re okay.

[akaaiholic]

sobbing at 3am i love girldad ushijima 🥹🥹🤍

જ⁀✦ Everywhere I Look

( ushijima wakatoshi x fem! reader )

✩ a/n — meet the robinsons mentioned !

✩ word count — 1.1k

✩ content — ushijima wakatoshi x fem! reader, dad! ushijima, timeskip!!, husband! ushijima, uh yeah i made him a girl dad so what, fluff, just domestic cuteness, uh yeah, not proofread

✩ synopsis — From the day Ushijima Wakatoshi met you, he's loved your eyes. And now, as he looks into those same eyes- only on his daughter, he wonders if it's possible to love a feature so much it hurts.

── .✦ our lives are made in these small hours

When Ushijima Wakatoshi first noticed you, he felt sick.

Not because you stunk. Or you were obnoxiously loud. And definitely not because he liked you. Or so he thought.

No, it was because you walked into his life like you were always supposed to be there.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. 

Not even in some sort of movie-like slow motion where time stopped and the only two people in the room were you and him.

You just… appeared.

It was second year of high school, and he was walking the same path he always did, to the gym and back again. 

Volleyball. Study. Sleep. Repeat. 

Life was simple. Clean, obnoxiously so to some. Understandable.

And that was just the way he liked it…until you joined his class and took the seat next to him and smiled like the sun didn’t know it had to compete for “brightest star” award.

And that was the first moment he thought something was wrong with him.

Because when he walked into the gym that afternoon, he didn’t think about his serves. 

Or practice. 

Or that he had to push himself to be better.

He wondered if you’d smiled like that at anyone else.

He kept looking for you after that.

In the halls. On the stairs. In the break before class started.

At first, he told himself it was fine. You were just… interesting. 

You liked strange snacks. You wore mismatched socks. You hummed songs under your breath when you thought no one could hear you. (you hummed awfully loud, he learned )

But it was when Tendou leaned over and whispered, “Do you know you’ve been staring at that girl for like, ten minutes?” that Ushijima realized this wasn’t something that he’d felt before. 

It was something strange. Something that kept growing. He would say it was curiosity, but even then he didn’t think that was the case.

To everyone else, it was so painfully obvious.

Ushijima Wakatoshi had fallen head over heels for the new girl.

So when you asked him to walk you home, nervous, cheeks flushed, and you told him “I think I like you. Actually, no, I know I do,” he just stared at you for a second.

Not because he didn’t feel the same.

But because for the first time, it felt like the air had changed.

Like the world had shifted and made room for something new.

Something that wasn’t just volleyball had taken up space in his mind for far too long.

And he looked into your eyes, opened his mouth to respond.

And now, years later, he’s looking into those same eyes. But smaller. Brighter. Full of laughter.

His daughter runs in circles on the grass, chasing the petals falling from a tree she calls “The Magic One.” She’s got his hair, your nose, and your eyes. 

Especially your eyes.

Ushijima watches her with the kind of still attention most people find intimidating. But if they looked closer, they’d see the corners of his mouth tilt up every time she lets out even the smallest giggle.

You sit beside him on the picnic blanket, brushing grass from your jeans and stealing a sip of the juice box he opened for her.

You lean into his shoulder, and he shifts ever so slightly to let your head rest there.

“She’s getting faster,” you murmur.

“She’s getting stronger,” he agrees, eyes still on her. “She might be able to jump higher than me someday.”

You snort. “She’s five. She doesn’t even like sitting through your games.”

He doesn’t respond, but you feel it—how proud he is. How happy.

How completely and utterly devoted.

People think Ushijima is secretive about his family.

But they’re wrong.

He’s private. There’s a difference.

He doesn’t hide you. He doesn’t hide your daughter. He just doesn’t parade you around for people to gawk at.

He’s never once turned down a question about his home life during press conferences. 

It’s just… no one’s brave enough to ask.

Except for once—during a post-game interview after a big national match. His team had won, and everyone was exhausted. Ushijima still had sweat clinging to his neck and a towel slung over his shoulders.

And right there in the front row, sat a little girl in a dinosaur hoodie with her legs swinging from a chair far too big for her.

Beside her was you, softly coaching her not to eat the mic if they let her ask a question, even though you’d never been asked one before.

The public loves a little kid, what can I say?

The reporter blinked. “Is that your…?”

Ushijima didn’t look away from the camera. “My daughter. Yes.”

“And your wife?” another asked.

“She’s the love of my life. We met in high school.”

There was a beat of silence. Then frantic typing.

You didn’t look embarrassed. You were just smiling that same sun-bright smile that had first drawn him to you. 

And your daughter was now waving at the camera, whispering, “Papa! Papa look! I'm on TV!”

He blinked once. Then lifted a hand in a small wave.

The crowd melted.

Sometimes, people still whisper things.

“He never talks about them.”

“I know he’s cheating on her”

“She’s in it for the money.”

But none of them are brave enough to ask him directly.

And those who know him, and know your relationship, don’t need to.

He wears his wedding ring every day. 

When asked about his greatest achievement, he said once, with no hesitation, “My daughter. And that she has her mother’s heart.”

His friends tease him sometimes, sure.

“You’re soft, Ushijima,” Tendou once said when he came from france to celebrate your daughters birthday ( with a hand crafted chocolate bear in tow, mind you )

“Yes,” he agreed, without irony. “I am.”

He doesn’t need to prove how much he loves you.

But he’ll do it anyway.

One night, after your daughter has fallen asleep curled between you two on the couch, you trace the lines of his palm.

“She’s going to be someone really special,” you whisper.

“She already is,” he says softly, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“You’re a good dad,” you add, quieter.

He doesn’t say anything. Just holds your hand a little tighter.

But later, when he tucks her into bed, you hear it.

“I hope you grow up to love someone the way I love your mama.”

Because everywhere he looked when he was young, he looked for you.

And everywhere he looks now, he finds you.

In her eyes. In your smile. 

In his heart.

And that is the greatest win of his life.

જ⁀✦ ©airybcby ✩ masterlists

✩ likes ✩ comments ✩ and reblogs are appreciated

for this req !

[akaaiholic]

Could you write a blurb about Sugawara who had feelings for reader in hs (never acted on them) and finally sees them at like at the grocery store (like yk catch him off guard)

HII MOOT yes i did!! thank u lots for waiting i actually had a lot of fun with this ^^ read here

[akaaiholic]

To The Sun,

Suguwara Kōshi x GN!Reader — unrequited love | author's note utc

If he were to define his first love, Sugawara would describe you. To start off, he would smile and say how you were like the sun.

In the middle of the drink aisle, Sugawara can’t help but chuckle at himself at the reoccuring thought of the saga he went through in high school; a teenage boy and his teenage crush. 

Surely there were attractive people around school, but no one had left a stain on his heart as permanent as you did. For first impressions, he had thought you clicked with him in an instant, from being able to make small talk that leads to getting to know each other on a closer level and you were always somewhere within reach. From the stands during his volleyball matches to a few desks away, he could take a glance and feel the warmth you carry wherever you go. 

If Sugawara wasn’t nervous about his matches, it would be about how he would face you before you guys graduate, always mumbling to himself about how he could maybe catch you after school one day or maybe whenever fate blesses him with perfect timing.

Graduation finally came around and mixed emotions were consuming him. Happiness for moving on to the next chapter of his life, regrets because he wished he had taken the opportunity to excel in other areas of volleyball and more regrets because missing out on opportunities was what he was best at. He was not going to confess to you today because he continues to falter beneath the feet of cowardice. The racing thoughts of unrequited feelings felt like a needle slowly pushing into his heart with any other emotion that came with leaving high school and being kicked into adulthood.

As he breathes the cold, crisp air that winter brings with a heavy heart, he accepts that eventually, the sun's radiant warmth will find him again.

The can of soda catches his eye, picking it up to examine it. 

“Melon Soda..?” 

“Kōshi?”

Sugawara’s head whipped around to your familiar voice, like he had always been in your reach. His eyes meet yours, feeling the warmth of the sun once more. He was surprised to see you once more but he knew this time, it would be different. You guys are now adults with careers and aged maturity but somehow, it feels like he's back in highschool. His body betrays him, stuttering breathlessly trying to create small talk before you walk away.

"H-hey, it's been a while,"

You notice the stutter in his words, was he surprised? Nervous? Your eyes wander to the familiar can of soda in his hand. There's so much you want to catch him up on but in a busy place where people come and then go about their day, it's hard to keep someone waiting when they would most likely have other things to do.

"Yeah, it has.. Have you been doing well? Being a teacher like you planned to and everything?"

Sugawara could only give an affirming nod, averting your eyes and putting the can back with a chuckle.

"I'm doing well, the sun is shining so all is okay."

Akaai's Notes: Fake idgafer I saw you yearning!! anyways i hope i wrote sugawara okay (ó﹏ò｡) i also finally created a taglist if you would like to be tagged in my posts ^^ much love ♡

[akaaiholic]

what if i start writing femkyuu…. oh femkyuu save me…. femsamu…. please please please please save me……. i’ve never been saved before i’ve always wanted a helping hand…… oh save me!!

[akaaiholic]

i love when people interact with me and talk to me they absolutely make my day and i am full of love and whimsy for everyone

[akaaiholic]

my yumiboo is back 🥹🥹 ♡

¡hurt no comfort, angst, slightly fluff, death of major character, cancer awareness, husband cries multiple times, husband never gets over it!

The air felt too still, too lifeless for Atsumu's sleep deprived brain as his hands shook, fumbling with his keys to unlock the door of his then-house. Opening the door feels like slowly letting go of a crushing piece of himself, and Atsumu can't help but feel his chest and throat tighten up under the weight of these coursing feelings. He inhales sharply before stepping in the lone, hollow looking house. His eyes follow the curve of the furniture that once made the house feel warm; now it just seems empty. A couch, where countless (and pointless) arguments had taken place, a book shelf where you had placed your latest buys, under his amused eyes, a kitchen counter on which he wishes he had hugged you more. His eyes dropped on the various plants you assured needed love, that now had withered. Atsumu suspected these flowers had sensed your absence as well; after all you did tell him about the human presence and its consequences. Maybe they did react to your own brightness after all.

The young man then squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a sob crawling up his throat, threatening to overtake his already shaky demeanour before swallowing thickly and wordlessly strolling through the house. He comes across an old picture of your wedding, with you all smile-y and happily holding onto his arm while he looks at the camera with flushed ears and happy tears brimming his eyes. He remembers that day all too well, the sun beaming on your warm skins, your laughter filling the air as Osamu mocked him for being too "smitten" and your eyes full of love as he hiccuped through his vows. Never in a million years had Atsumu thought there would be a world without you in it.

She's gone. She's gone. She's gone—

Atsumu caressed each polished furniture, remembering every cherished memories linked to you. Your smile that made his playful behaviour melt into a hidden softness ; your gentleness towards him, even when mad; everything about you made his heart expand and flutter in his chest and his hands sweat a little. The man strolls quietly through the house, passing by the different rooms, reminiscing your last moments in this house, stilling by the sight of your shared closet, that until this day is stil filled with your clothes, that had once fit you before the cancer. Atsumu approaches the closet and opens it carefully, like a precious artefact that could break at any slight harsh contact. Here they are. In a box hidden at the bottom of the closet, hundreds of video tapes with thousands of clips on there with a few cameras. Some are broken, the others have just ran out of battery. Atsumu swallows and chews on his lips, contemplating, before picking up the box and laying the content on the floor.

He reverently grazes the old tapes, wondering if you had watched them before your death, if you had anticipated this would happen. He can't help but have many questions, feeling crushed and confused and his breathing is starting to pick up already—

Atsumu's vision blurs a bit, wondering if you had anticipated your own death.

«how cruel of you to leave me behind, sweet girl»

His hand trembles slightly as he grabs a tape before turning on the TV and inserting the disk in the tape player. Bracing himself, his back straightens and he brushes his hair back, habit you used to pick on when he got nervous or overwhelmed. The TV starts playing and Atsumu sees a much younger version of himself, in high school, chatting with his twin, being recorded by a much younger you. You're giggling behind the camera and Atsumu sees himself flashing a besotted smile at you, while Osamu and Suna make obvious gagging sounds before snickering and calling him «enamoured». The video gets cut and switches to another timestamp, in which you're in your college years and secretly recording Atsumu asleep at his desk, whispering and chuckling to yourself, calling him a «workaholic». After saying that, you bring a blanket to lay it on top of his shoulders, making the actual Atsumu's lips curl up at the edges, watching his younger self wake up disoriented while you giggle at him. He scrolls through the videos taken with care, before stilling at recents videos taken.

«C'mon baby, could you atleast give me that,?» you plead up at the shaky camera as sniffles can be heard in the background and Atsumu answers with a wobbly voice

«Do I have to? I don't want to suffer more»

«Suffer?? You won't suffer!! and you promised it to me yesterday at the ER!» you look up at the camera, pouting as the then-Atsumu lets out a shaky chuckle before nodding and hugging you tightly. «Alright baby, I'll do it»

Atsumu feels his throat stifle, as if thorns were digging in his skin every time he breathed. Progressively through the clips, Atsumu watches how you start to look paler, weaker. And you knew. Even if you acted like everything was alright, Atsumu only now watched with an external point of view how you'd grip the table, forcing yourself to feed so Atsumu wouldn't feel alone at dinner, how you'd wobble on your steps as you took late night walks with him, or how you'd be hesitant to share the bed with him, in fear of being "too much for him", much to his chagrin. Atsumu didnt look away from the screen for the entire duration of the clips, silent tears streaming down his cheeks, nose red and runny. Until finally, the last tape was envisioned. It clearly was a hurried set-up as it took a few seconds for the camera to focus on you. Atsumu let out a choked sob, pressing his fist to his mouth, as you started speaking to the camera with an exhausted, barely there smile.

«I assume you're not expecting this video, Atsumu. I'm sorry I kept it from you. I'm sorry for a lot of things. But now isn't the time for regrets, I don't have much time left, after all» you coughed harshly into your palm, blood dripping onto your fingers and smiling shakily.

«I’ve had so many thoughts about how to start this. So many things I still want to tell you. But above all, more than the sadness, more than the fear… is gratitude. Thank you. For every morning you kissed my forehead, even when I was too tired to open my eyes. For every night you laid next to me and pretended not to hear me cry when the pain got too loud. You were always there. Every treatment, every needle, every scan. You gave me laughter when my body forgot how to feel light. You gave me dignity when I felt like I was losing everything.» You swallowed thickly, tears brimming in yours eyes as Atsumu let out a pained sob. «And love—oh, you gave me so much love, even when I didn’t know what to do with it. Even when I was too shameful or too weak to say it back. You never made me feel like a burden. You made me feel like home. I know this hasn’t been easy. Watching me fade… I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.» Your recorded self and Atsumu let out synced sobs, making his chest hurt even more, his breaths growing shallow. «But you never once looked away. You were brave for both of us. And I'm so proud of you for that. You made my life, as short as it was, worth living and for that I love you. I know I won't be awake when you watch this tape, but I wanted to let you know I'll always be there for you. As corny as it sounds, I'll watch over you, so—» You sniffled, wiping your tears off your cheeks. «Don't go looking for other girls or I'll haunt you forever—» You smiled tenderly at the camera, and Atsumu swore his heartbeat slowed as he pathetically sniffled into his sleeves. «Well I suppose, that's it my love, I have to go back to get some scans done. See you in another life where maybe we're not as doomed as here.» The screen shuts off, but Atsumu is too overwhelmed to notice it, leaning his face down onto the floor, gripping his chest, crying hysterically and sobbing, calling out your name until his throat is sore and his head is buzzing with memories of you.

5 years later, at the Thanksgiving dinner, Atsumu is fiddling with a necklace with a locket pendant with a tiny picture of you. He seems well put-together, chatting with his family and bickering with Osamu, and to much his unawareness, old aunties starting gossiping on his situation.

«Poor guy, his wife died a few years ago and he hasn't moved on from her yet» The eldest one sighs, as others nod solemnly.

«Didn't he move out of the country for a year? was it linked to her death?» Another one asks, making a third one tutt. «Of course it was! Poor boy had to take a step back from it all, he moved countries to Peru I believe and came back changed» They all exchange looks before the first one calls over Atsumu with a bark of his name. Atsumu startles and strutts over to them with a sheepish smile. «Yes Auntie?» he asks, wrapping his arm around her shoulder. The old woman stares at him with a scrutinising look. «Have you lost weight?! You need to eat more!» she exclaims under the amused looks of her comrades, to which Atsumu chuckles. «I didn't, Auntie, matter of fact I even gained some». The old woman stares at him and pats his shoulder, with a rare smile grazing her lips. «She's watching over you, don't disappoint her». Atsumu smiles tenderly and soothingly rubs the locket pendant in his hand and murmurs «I know Auntie, I know.»

𐔌 𐦯 Karma by MizuSua

AN: IM BACK FROM HIATUS!!!! LMK HOW YALL ARE FEELING THIS DRABBLE (took me literally 12 hours....) it's not readproof btw!

taglist! @the0ishere @wordsofelie @cherriteaa @stellar-headquarters @blvewave @akaaiholic 💗

[akaaiholic]

Ok off topic I love ur theming and idk if u take reqs (couldn’t see it on ur pinned post) but do you have any thoughts or hcs about yearning yet awkward and offputting ushijima

Thank you lots for the compliments !! I FINALLY GOT TO THIS REQ!! ok i am not the best at writing hcs and i end up dragging it out to be a drabble σ(^_^;) but if u squint enough.. u can see it….

read here <3

[akaaiholic]

To Know You More

Ushijima Wakatoshi x GN Manager!Reader | they’re hcs if you squint …

Ushijima who believes that talking to the Schweiden Adlers’ manager at least once a day will make his daily routine complete. Despite the intimidating nature he brings because of his figure, he always asks how your day has been so far, sweet and simple questions. You also ask how he’s been out of kindness and on some days, he asks for you to repeat your question because his eyes has lingered on you for a little longer than it should’ve.

Eventually Hoshiumi and Kageyama catch on to this crush he has on you, they’re both encouraging him to follow you first on different SNS platforms. He rejects the idea because he is afraid that it will seem like he’s attempting to invade your privacy, despite everyone else on the team being mutuals with you.

They encourage him to compliment you back after you compliment on his skills everyday, he can’t help but have dusted pink cheeks and cough out,

“You look nice today.. Like the weather.”

You can’t help but chuckle and thank him for being the sweetheart he is. Has he not noticed that he is the only person you compliment?

Ushijima glances at you during breaks, hearing your laugh makes him wonder if he could make you laugh like that. He wants to know what you do on your day off, he wants to know the way you dress outside of the court, the places you enjoy going on your day off, he wants to know you more than just being his manager.

Eventually he finds the courage to ask you out, the intimidating aura that once loomed over him is now nothing but a gentle space, trying to understand you more than anybody else will.

akaai’s notes: truthfully i’ve been having writer’s block for two wks until i started playing tears of themis again σ^_^;… i’ve also never realized i probably have twt mutuals that find me through my fics here ?? please be my mutual though!! i don’t bite ♡ @/akaaiholic

[akaaiholic]

i might be in writer’s block and getting lazy because of this awful heat that is getting to me right neow but i promise i’ll be back soon !!! TT i’ve been working on reqs too 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i promise i am working hard !!!

[akaaiholic]

suddenly i love mornings ^o^

── LAZY SUNDAY MORNING 黒尾 鉄朗 kuroo tetsuro

contains: fem!reader, post-timeskip!kuroo, fluff, established relationship, domestic bliss, pet names (baby)

word count: 1.2k

as part of the hq! summer fic exchange — for miss misu @bouqette ♡

the other side of your bed is surprisingly empty.

while that's not uncommon for kuroo who often has to get up early for his nine to five, it is strange for a weekend.

he still keeps up with his regular morning fitness regime, not truly being able to drop the well oiled routine he's cultivated even after stepping down as captain of the volleyball team in high school. it's ingrained in him after all this time, though he's a lot more lenient with himself since then. he's still firm, just a tad softer, and you love it all the same.

but that's saturday's business.

it's sunday morning, the mutually understood and agreed let's not care about breakfast and rot in bed until lunch pocket of time that you've carved out in your personal schedules no matter the circumstances.

and he's missing.

sunlight's tricking in through the smallest gap between the curtains and you groan, rolling over to blindly pat around the bedside table and check the time on your phone, the glare temporarily flashing you and you squint, not quite ready to face the day just yet.

8:34AM. it's still way too early.

the sheets on the side where he lays is still warm, he probably hasn't been up for too long, you muse as you gently rub your eyes and reluctantly pull yourself up, slipping on the first t-shirt on top of the messed up pile of clothes at the foot of the bed. it sits wide on your shoulders, one side slipping off and the hem grazing your upper thighs.

smells like kuroo, smells like home.

you pad quietly towards the sound of a sizzling pan and soft humming, a song playing quietly around the open kitchen with lyrics that ring a bell but your barely conscious mind can't put two and two together. it's a sight to behold, so peaceful and quaint, you wish you could take a picture but alas, your phone remains charging on your bedside table.

warmed by the golden rays of saccharine sun shining against his bare broad back, kuroo's almost glowing, a few small moles and marks littering his back like a sea of constellations in a clear night sky and you can't help but be drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

goosebumps rise on his skin when he feels you loosely wrap your arms around his waist, tensing up in surprise for a second before registering the softness of hands that can only belong to you, relaxing as your thumbs find purchase on the waistband of his shorts.

"mmm, good morning." you mumble against his skin, apologetically pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade for unintentionally scaring him as you relish in the heat radiating off him from the inside out. "you're up early."

he hums, free hand pushing the wild strands of his jet black hair in all of it's early morning mess back before placing it above your own, finding yours like its instinct, second nature. "wanted to make you something."

"what's the occasion?"

"what, can't spoil my girl with breakfast in bed?" he glances back now with a cheeky grin, and you return a sweet smile, eyes trailing across his features, extra boyish and youthfully fresh out of slumber. you take a deep inhale, chest pressing against his back as you take in the aroma of a wonderful home cooked meal and his natural scent mixed with what seems like your body wash. soap thief. "speaking of, why aren't you still in bed?"

you murmur with droopy eyes and the smallest pout you don't even know you're making, and kuroo has half the mind to kiss it off your face, "you weren't there..."

"aren't you a clingy little baby hmm?"

he chuckles fondly when he feels your soft hum vibrate against his back, not even trying to deny his statement. you always did love hanging off him like koala. with his stature and physique, how can you not?

his hand gently squeezes yours, "i'm almost done here, do you want to get you and your cute butt back into bed?"

you nod and make a sound of agreement but put in no effort to leave, instead tightening your hold on his waist, finding solace in the subtle yet steady rise and fall of his torso with every breath he takes. it's a comforting feeling, a motion almost like the rocking of a chair, rhythmic and constant, and you're sure that any longer of it will begin to lull you back into the gentle, irresistible embrace of drowsiness.

he sighs dramatically, borderline whining, and you just know he'd be clutching his chest if his hands weren't busy with the food and toying with your own, "you're so stinking cute it's unfair..."

it easily falls into a dreamy, comfortable silence aside from the occasional clang of utensils and clinks of ceramic, the flame of the stove turning down slowly until it fizzles out and completely disappears. you take turns spooning food into each other's mouths and exchanging kisses in between, surrendering to the moment of respite with eyes barely open. you swing your legs back and forth while perched on the counter, the surface cool against your skin as kuroo remains close, never straying too far as he stands between your thighs nursing his first coffee of the day with a hand absentmindedly tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ears.

this little compact kitchen's enveloped in a special flavour of comfort, never quite filled but always full, of mutual love and shared aspirations, whispered promises and bellowing laughter.

many nights have been spent with hands clasped over the clean marbled island after long days, and countless mornings of what seems like rush hour in your own home with the both of you scrambling to have a cup of anything caffeine and small bites before inevitably having to run off to your commitments.

from carelessly dancing barefoot with the backdrop of the refrigerator light to giggling with scrunched noses and scrubbing the life out of a pan charred from burnt food, it happens more often than you think when distractions are abundant with someone like kuroo, countless of little instances and silly happenings have carved it's mark into the nooks and crannies of this space.

time has come and gone, seasons changing as with the stages of your life but this? simple moments like this will never fade, a small but unwavering fire burning in the many walls of your home and hearts, tucked away with a lock and the matching key that's been disposed of a long time ago, long before exchanged vows and three words spelled out by eight letters.

and you wouldn't have it any other way.

a/n: started writing this like a month ago jeez, then shit hit the fan and now i'm here / title is also one of my favourite perfume scents ;3

masterlist

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© opulace. please do not repost, plagiarise, translate, or feed my work to ai.