dragonslayer-5fanfiction

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

price

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

This could be us - Matsukawa

for @xoxojisu and @sillyootori - words: 4,8k

Ahead of you, a boy and a girl are holding hands. 

Issei nudges you and nods in their direction.

"This could be us, but you're playing."

You kick him in the shin.

- - -

“Oh, this is amazing!” Matsukawa-san cheers, snapping away. Your own mother stands with her hands folded in front of her chest, like a prayer. 

“No, don’t let go,” Matsukawa-san demands when you try to pull your hand out of Issei’s grip. “This is too cute.”

You’re four years old and it’s your first day of kindergarten. And of course, Issei is coming along.

-

Your parents - your mothers, to be specific - meet in one of these ridiculous pregnancy prep courses, where you learn how to breathe properly and spend too much money on multivitamins. They bond over all those things women tend to bond about - the brand of their shoes, the fact that this is going to be their first and only pregnancy, or the seemingly sweet idea of not wanting to know your baby's gender until birth.

Only that they both know exactly what they want their baby to be.

The Matsukawas are hoping for a girl. The nursery has already been painted a pale pink, and princess dresses arrive in every gift from every possible family member or friend. They believe in manifesting their dreams, so they do.

And your parents, well, your parents own a Funeral Home, or rather, your Dad does, like his Dad and others before him. He doesn’t consider the possibility of having a daughter, because why would he? It’s not going to happen.

Only it does.

- - -

“No, Issei, don’t drag your hands through her hair, your hands are dirty.”

“Sweetie, don’t bite Issei, that’s not nice. I said no biting!”

- - -

Kindergarten seems nice. Lots of children your age, with a playground outside and rooms filled with toys inside. 

It seems fun enough that you can tolerate having to hold Issei’s hand on the way there, the way he makes too big steps, and drags you along, or the fact that Matsukawa-san takes pictures of you every single morning. 

She’s obsessed with putting you into cute little dresses.

But Kindergarten is only nice until you have to start sharing those nice toys.

“No,” you hold onto the doll you’d picked out, her hair short like you want yours to be. “I’m playing with this one now.”

“But I want it!” The other girl is bigger than you, and meaner too, tugging on the doll with all her might. “Give it to me!”

“She said no!” Issei points out from your side, smacking her in the face with what you later learn is one of his shoes.

He gets detention for that. 

You save him half of your dessert.

-

In here, where your parents aren’t constantly trying to force you to play with each other, Issei is not half bad.

He lets you join him and the boys when they’re playing ball - you’re really fast and you’ve got a good aim - and when he gets bored or the weather is bad, he sits next to you and keeps the mean girls away, making up stories for all the dolls.

But you can’t have any nice things with all those adults around.

-

“They are getting along very well,” your teacher explains when your parents visit. “I’d call these two best friends if I’ve ever seen one.”

Your mother clutches her pearls, and Matsukawa-san wipes away a tear before it can destroy her perfect makeup.

“Is that true?” They ask in unison while your fathers share a knowing look. 

You lean in as if to hug Issei… and bite his arm as hard as you can.

- - -

“Please, Hanamaki-kun, could you sit in between these two?” Sensei asks a tall, gangly boy with pinkish hair. “I can already tell they’re going to be trouble.”

You scowl. Issei pulls a face. But Hanamaki perseveres, slipping into the chair between the two of you. 

“What’s the matter?” He asks when Sensei’s back is turned. “Are you siblings?”

“Separated at birth,” Issei nods. “No,” you hiss, “We were switched at birth. Switched.”

“That’s the same,” Issei drawls.

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Is not.”

“Is too.”

“You two,” Sensei turns back, glaring. “If I hear one more word from you, you’ll get detention. Did I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sensei.”

-

Hanamaki is like a leech. But a nice one.

He’s impossible to get rid of and impossible to ignore. He’s as tall as Issei, which you hate, but he knows more jokes than you’ve ever heard. And he never snitches.

“So,” Hanamaki pulls three Chuupets out of a mixed bag and offers one to each of you. “Do you guys hate each other or not?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Issei asks, biting into his sweet and slurping it up.

“Yeah, I thought I made it clear.” You add, knocking your knee against his in the hopes of making him choke. “Also, why did you get pineapple? I wanted pineapple.”

“You hate pineapple.”

“I don’t hate it,” you disagree, “I just didn’t want it the last time.”

“Every single time we had Chuupets, you didn’t want pineapple,” Issei points out. “What am I supposed to do, throw it back up like a mother bird?”

“You could have asked,” you argue, knocking your knee against his again. “He could have asked, right, Hanamaki?”

Hanamaki makes a face as if he’s thinking about it. “I think you should throw it back up,” he decides. “It would be gross, but also kind of cool.”

Issei’s face falters next. “I don’t think I can do that.”

“I can!” You tell them, not sure of it at all, but you won’t let them best you in anything. “It’s not that hard.”

“You can’t.”

“Can too.”

-

Hanamaki isn’t the only thing new about Elementary School.

It’s a little further away, and a bus takes you back and forth, one that your parents can’t ride with you.

One ride takes twenty minutes, which makes forty glorious minutes each day where you and Issei can sit right at the back, hide behind the backrest of the row ahead, and just… talk.

“I like Hanamaki,” Issei declares on the ride back home that first day, offering you a Chuppet he must have kept for later. It’s pineapple flavored.

“Me too,” you agree, pulling a chocolate from your own backpack to share with him. “He’s funny.”

Issei considers that for a second.

“Funnier than me?”

“No, just different.” You take a bite of the pineapple-flavored Chuupet and grimace. “This is disgusting.”

Issei grins. “Told you.”

- - -

“A Volleyball Camp?” Your mother asks, looking surprised. “But isn’t that too boyish for you? Matsukawa-san has found some really great camps for girls, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” you nod, bowing your head a little. “But we’ve been playing it in school, and I like it.”

“I don’t know,” your mother says, drawing out the syllables. “I will have to talk to Matsukawa-san about that. She really wanted you to go to this one camp. What was it called? Something about modelling, I’m sure.”

“I thought you’re my Mom,” you point out, and the flush in her cheeks tells you you’ve said the wrong thing. Again.

“We’re paying for Issei’s camp,” your mother tells you primly, clinging to her pearls. “So it’s only right that Matsukawa-san has a say in your holiday plans as well.”

“But Issei’s going to Volleyball Camp too.”

“Oh?” Your mother's mood switches terrifyingly fast. “Is that so? Well, in that case, I think I can allow it. You two really are close, aren’t you?”

“No, that’s not it! We just happen to both like the same- Mom!” You protest when it becomes clear she’s no longer listening.

-

Volleyball Camp is fun. There are not many girls there, but you’re too talented to be kept to the side as a manager, so they let you play along with the boys.

You make the most of it. Hide behind the changing rooms with Issei and Hanamaki to plan out pranks. You get caught pretty fast, but not after making an ass of the star player, pretty little Oikawa Tooru.

- - -

Junior High

“Here,” Iwaizumi offers you half his chocolate. “I still owe you for back in camp.”

You glance at the sweet. You remember him from Volleyball Camp, but not what he owes you. “Why?”

“No one dares to make fun of Oikawa. It was hilarious.”

“Thanks,” you take the offer. “But aren’t you his best friend?”

“So?” Iwaizumi shrugs. “I guess we’re like you and Matsukawa.”

“In love?” 

He blushes a feverish red. “What? Yuck! No! Are you-?!”

You laugh. “Relax. I hate him and I don’t hate him. I was just teasing you.”

“That was mean.”

You shrug. “Maybe a little.” 

With Iwaizumi and Oikawa around, you’re sure Junior High isn’t going to be half bad.

- 

“What’s going on with you?” You ask Issei on the way home. The bus route has gotten longer, but neither of you minds. 

“Nothing.” He knocks his knee into yours. You knock yours back into his.

“You’re an awful liar.”

“Am not.”

“Are too. Don’t try to distract me.”

He pouts. Looks out the window. 

“Your Dad,” he finally offers as an explanation. “He wants me to start working with him. Just once a month to get training in.”

You sit up straight. “WHAT? I have been asking him for ages to teach me!”

Issei cringes. “I know. What am I supposed to do?”

“Well,” you hesitate suddenly. “What if you ask if I can join?”

“He’s not your Mom.”

“Right.” You sigh. “I wish your Mom had a cool job like my Dad.”

Issei cringes. “I wish my Dad would let me help him with work. But it’s always ‘You’re not good with numbers, Issei.’”

“He’s a dick,” you say emphatically. “You are good with numbers.”

“Thanks.” Issei leans his head against the window. “But he’s right.”

It’s unusual to see him this down. Rare enough that it shakes you out of your jealousy. 

You lean in, the familiar scent of him washing over you. 

Your mother washes Issei’s clothes. It’s a stupid thing, really, but it all started with Matsukawa-san’s obsession with pretty dresses. And it didn’t seem fair for her to do your clothes and Issei’s at the same time, so now your mothers meet twice a week to swap laundry baskets, chatting over your respective growth spurts.

It’s why he always smells like your mother's laundry detergent, the softener she uses for your father's clothes, like home and yet, not home, because Issei always smells like himself too.

You lean in a little further, until your chin rests on his shoulder and your cheek presses against his.

Issei is warm and solid, trustworthy despite his sometimes awful attitude.

Seeing him hurt hurts you too, in a way you don’t want to think about, not now, not ever.

Overwhelmed by that strange buzz in your chest, that fuzzy feeling in your stomach, the warmth in your veins, you open your mouth and dig your teeth into his cheek. 

Issei yelps. 

And then he fights back.

They kick you off the bus less than five minutes later.

Ahead of you, a boy and a girl are holding hands. 

Mattsun nudges you and nods in their direction.

"This could be us, but you're playing."

You kick him in the shin.

-

“Hey,” Issei drops into the seat on your right, his shoulders heavy with a burden only you know about.

“Hey,” you nudge his knee with yours, but do nothing against him sinking into you.

“You look like hell, man,” Iwaizumi points out. “Are you sick?”

Issei shakes his head and closes his eyes, falling asleep with his head on your shoulder.

You could shake him off. Kick him in the shin. Bite him. But you don’t quite dare when you know he’s feeling like hell.

“What’s going on?” Iwaizumi asks, whispering over the sound of pens scratching over paper, pages being turned. “Do you know something?”

“He’s started working for my Dad,” you whisper back. “They had to burry a kid this weekend.”

Iwaizumi pales.

You wonder if he, too, needs comforting now. Like Issei did, late last night, sneaking into your bedroom through the open window. 

It’s hard work, you know. Your Dad never made it look easy. 

But you wonder, not for the first time, if this is where it stops being fun and games. 

They can’t keep switching you around forever. Not when it breaks Issei in the end.

-

You give him another week.

Not because you want to, but because he asks you too.

One week of him slipping into your bedroom at night, your bed too short for his long legs, his arms always knocking against something as he tries to get comfortable.

In the darkness, you can admit that you like this. 

The shared warmth, giggling when his breath tickles your neck. 

And he’s always gone in the morning, way before your heart can kick up the dust that has settled over your anxieties.

-

“I want to continue working there,” Issei tells you on Friday, looking over the school grounds from his perch on the rooftop ledge. “I’m sure it will get better.”

You grimace. “What if it doesn’t?”

“What?” He grins. “You think I’m scared.”

“It would be okay if you were.”

“You just want the job for yourself.”

“Yes. And?”

He laughs, the sound unexpected and not less sweet.

“And here I thought you began to like me.”

You scoff. “Don’t lie to yourself.” But you let him pull you into something like a hug, wondering if he, too, misses the scent of his mothers laundry detergent. 

You start working for his Dad the very next day.

- - -

High School

“And then I dared him to kiss Emi,” Oikawa finishes, waving his hands around. “Now we wait what will happen. Hanamaki is with him to make sure he does it.”

You stare at him. Oikawa laughs awkwardly. “What? It’s funny.”

Iwaizumi scowls low under his breath. “You idiot. Don’t you-”

You get up before he can finish his sentence. “I think I wanna make sure he does it, just as much as Hanamaki. Where did you see them last?”

“The Gym,” Oikawa helpfully supplies and off you go, your hands shaking with a rage you didn’t know yourself capable off.

It’s not like this is the first step into the foreign land of dating. Not for you and not for Issei. Even Iwaizumi has gotten confessed to already, although he’s still working on the “accepting the confession” part. 

But- But-

You spot Hanamaki first, his telltale head of hair. You slip your left shoe off, aim and nail him in the head with it.

“What the f-” He ducks when he sees you aim the next shoe, and that’s just as well, because he’d been standing in the way.

Issei catches your other shoe, blinking in surprise. “What did I do now?”

“You know exactly what you did!” You shriek, stomping over. “A dare?!”

“Oh,” Issei blinks once more. “That. Oikawa told you?”

You’re still shaking with rage, unable to get the words out. There are no words for what you’re feeling, this kind of betrayal that runs red hot through your insides. 

“Are you jealous?” Hanamaki asks, and he’s lucky Issei knows you better than the rest of them, that he’s not afraid to step in and pull you back by your shoulders when you’re already launching yourself forward.

“Let me go!” You hiss, trying to break free from what could have been a hug but feels more like a straight jacket. “I’ll kill him.”

“You wouldn’t survive in jail.”

“Try me.”

Hanamaki rolls his eyes. “I’m gonna leave now.” He salutes you, or maybe rather Issei, before turning away. 

Issei’s still holding you, though his head rests now on top of yours, as if keeping you contained is no work at all.

“You’re dead to me,” you tell him, trying to sound as mad as you feel.

“Mhm,” he makes in the back of your throat. “For what? For eating dirt.”

“No, you know what for.”

“I’m not sure, because I ate dirt before and you didn’t react like that then.”

“You didn’t eat dirt just now.”

“I did,” he sounds actually proud of it. “But now I won’t get to see Oikawa’s face when Makki tells him. Shame on you.”

All fight leaves you. Issei still keeps a hold on you.

“You ate dirt? But Okaiwa said he dared you to-”

“Kiss Emi or eat dirt. And wouldn’t you know, the ground behind the Gym tastes just like last time.”

“Let me turn around!” You whine when he keeps you firm in his hold. “I need to look you in the eyes so I can smack you over the head.”

“Nah,” He curls around you a little more, tightening his hold. “I think I prefer it this way. I’m your straightjacket now.”

You’re pretty sure you could fight your way to freedom. You’ve done it before, during pillow fights and other times.

But Issei’s warm. He smells good. And he didn’t kiss Emi. He didn’t kiss anyone at all.

-

“Issei?” You slip through his bedroom window, hissing when you step on the buckle of his belt on the floor. 

He grunts sleepily and you make your way to his bed, the room familiar from all the times you were forced to visit as a child. 

It’s been a while since he snuck over. A while since he had nightmares from working at the funeral home. 

His back is warm when you slip under the covers, his bare skin as familiar as if it were your own.

“I had a dream just now,” you admit into the quietness of his room. “But I’m not sure if I was dreaming or if I was still a little bit awake.”

“Hmm?”

Your heart races as you press your face into the crook of his neck, willing yourself to talk.

But the words won’t come. 

You can’t tell him. Unshed tears burn, but these won’t come either.

“What did you dream off?” Issei asks, turning. His chest is even warmer, his hands familiar with the shape of you, pulling you in.

“Was it me?”

“Mhm.” 

“Was it a nice dream?”

“Mhm.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Did we kiss?”

“Mhm,” you’re almost unable to make the sound. But he must have known, right? How else could he have guessed.

“Funny,” he yawns as if he doesn’t care at all. “I had the same dream before you barged in here.”

Quiet settles as you process his words. One after the other after the other.

His skin is warm against yours. His breath washes over you.

“Want to try and see if it’s like we dreamed?” 

In the end, you’re not sure who said it. Sometimes your voices sound too similar to keep them apart.

- - -

There’s always been a part of Issei only you knew. 

You know the depths of his anger, and how easy it can be for him to cry. 

You know the pranks he’s pulled as a child, some that will never be mentioned ever again, and you know that he prefers to sleep with his socks on.

You know which color lipstick he likes best on you. That he’s ticklish on his sides. That his eyes flutter shut when you kiss the side of his mouth, or the curve of his brows.

-

“Where are you going?” Your mother asks.

“Out,” you slip into your shoes. “I’m going on a date.”

She gasps. “A date? With who? Does Matsukawa-san know?”

You still and stare up at her. “Why should she know?”

The angry red flush on her cheeks tells you that you’ve said the wrong thing. Again.

“After everything she’s done for you, it’s only fair-”

“She’s not my Mom,” you point out, that rebellious streak never leaving you. “You are. And I’m telling you that I’m going on a date.”

She’s pale now. Shaken.

“Do I know him?”

“You do,” you nod. “Someone from my school.”

“And?”

“And I’ll be back in time.” You lean in to kiss her on the cheek. “Don’t wait for me.”

-

“I told my Dad I’m out with Makki,” Issei says when you meet him at the end of the street, your hand finding his like it was always meant to be.

“And Makki?”

“Makki knows I’m with you.”

You grimace.

“Makki doesn’t snitch.”

“He might.”

“He wouldn’t.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s your sorry ass if he does.”

“You like my ass.”

You roll your eyes even harder. “You wish.”

-

Life is good when you’re with Issei. When it’s just you and him. When you can forget about the anger inside you and the unfairness of the world around.

But sometimes it still manages to intrude on your moments.

“Sometimes I think I should run away,” Issei admits one evening, the two of you huddled up on a swing set meant for smaller children than you are, pretending that the city lights below you are a worthwhile exchange for the stars you cannot see.

“Yeah?” You rest your head on his shoulder. “Where to?”

“Not sure. Europe, maybe. Oikawa is talking about going to Argentina. And Iwaizumi is applying to some College in America.”

“You couldn’t survive without Makki in the same country as you,” you tease him, your heart beating double time trying to catch up with your head.

But Issei’s always been quicker at this than you are.

“Could you survive without me in the same country?”

You purse your lips. The words are hard to come by. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because you’ve learned how dangerous it is to be honest.

But Issei’s got weapons that he knows how to use. The depth of his gaze and the warmth of his hold. It eases the truth from you every single time.

“No,” you admit quietly. “I don’t know how to be myself without you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. But the way he leans into you, heavy and warm and himself in every way, you know he feels the same.

“What if we applied together?”

“Europe?”

He grins. “Three picks each. Better chances.”

-

Issei gets accepted to a College in Scotland. You can’t pronounce the name properly and he teases you about it, counting down the days until your own letter arrives.

You know he wants to go. You can see it in his eyes, in every single movement he makes. 

But your letter doesn’t want to come. You hear from Germany first - they won’t take you. Spain arrives next, a thick envelope filled with papers and brochures, the letter heavy with promises of the future. It sits heavy in the first drawer of your nightstand.

You want to go. You want to leave this life behind, be yourself and nothing more… but not without Issei.

-

The letter is too thin. You know what it says without opening it. 

So you don’t. Put it in a bag with the others, slide it into your backpack and race down the stairs.

“I’m going out,” you tell your mother in the kitchen, don’t wait for a response.

Issei hasn’t yet stepped out of his house so you race down the street, your heart beating double time to make up for it.

He catches you just in time, slides onto the bus right beside you.

Issei’s heavy against your side, leaning into you with everything that he is.

You wonder if he could burry you, if he tried.

Neither of you talks until you have to step off, cross the street and get onto the train.

Makki waves from where he’s saved both of you a seat. You sit on his left and Issei on his right.

Makki chatters away, swaying into you or Issei everytime the train takes a little turn, but the things he doesn’t say weigh heavier.

-

“I can’t do it!” Oikawa declares with his usual flair, thrusting his letter forward. “Someone else do it for me.”

You pick the letter from his hands and rip it open, ignoring his dramatic whining as you start to read out loud.

“Dear Oikawa Tooru. We are happy to tell you that we welcome you to our team- Wait, team?”

“Yeah,” Oikawa beams proudly. “I’m not going to College. I’m going to become a Professional Athlete instead.”

You stare dumbly down at the paper in front of you. “In Argentina.”

“In Argentina! Iwa-chan, you’re next.”

“I already read it,” Iwaizumi waves his paper about. “I got accepted. California.”

“And you’re going?” You ask. He blinks back at you. “Course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Issei and you share a look. Makki’s quiet for the first time since you’ve met him, all those years ago.

“I got accepted to a College in Spain,” you admit, pulling the colorful brochures out of your bag. “But I’m not going.”

“You’re not?” Oikawa asks, clearly confused. “Why not?”

“Because someone needs to take care of Makki,” you point out. “And I’ve already got a job offer from Issei’s Dad.”

“Sure,” Iwaizumi crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re just worried about Makki. Sure.”

“Yeah,” you nod. “Because I’m a good friend, unlike you.”

“That’s not-”

“I’m staying too,” Issei interrupts Oikawa. The brochures in his hands are slick with sweat. “I got a job offer as well. What’s in Scotland that I can’t have here?”

“Girls,” Oikawa offers, squeaking in pain when Iwaizumi hits him over the head.

Makki’s still quiet. Your eyes meet Issei’s over his head and your heart leaps when an idea forms in your head.

“We could move in together. After school.”

- - -

Adult Life

“No,” you stare at the blinking numbers. “NO!”

The door opens. Issei blinks at you, a toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. 

“The washing machine isn’t done yet!” You point at the offender. “It said ten minutes left thirty minutes ago!”

Issei grabs you by the shoulders and pulls you out of the room. 

You put up a fight but he’s stronger than you, and soon you find yourself on the other side of the door.

“What’s it now?” Makki asks from the kitchen table. He takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces .”The milk went bad.”

“I told you to buy some two days ago.”

“I know,” he pours his coffee down the drain. “But I told you not to tell me what to buy while I’m sitting on the toilet. Have some respect, will you?”

“I-”

Makki turns to glare at you. “I pretend I’m sharing a room with Issei everytime your parents come over. You can let me have my toilet time in peace.”

“Fine,” you huff. “Did you at least buy Cereal?”

“What about toilet time and groceries did you not understand?”

-

Your parents wouldn’t have let you move out on your own.

So when it became clear that you’d do it anyway, they sat down with the Matsukawa’s and offered you a compromise.

They’d pay half of your rent if you’d be willing to take in Issei as a roommate.

You whined and Issei bargained. Now they’re paying half the rent and Makki’s name is on the lease as well.

They come over every second weekend. So far they still have no clue you’re dating.

-

“Look at you,” Issei meets you at the front door half an hour later, his breath minty fresh as he leans in for a kiss. “You look like a proper office bee.”

You grimace. “That doesn’t sound sexy.”

“It is to me.” He presses another kiss against your temple. “Now tell me I look sexy in my suit.”

You give him a once over. “You look decent.”

Issei grins. “Is that supposed to be a compliment.”

“I’ll get you a better suit once I get my promotion.”

“Now we’re talking.” He takes your hand as you head on down the street, toward the subway station. “Do you want to get a drink after work? Spend some time without our annoying roommate?”

“I heard that!” Makki points out two steps behind you. “I’m coming with!”

- - -

The door to your room opens. 

You sit up, ready to yell at Makki for waking you early on a Sunday, only to come face to face with your mother. And Matsukawa-san right behind her.

“No one was opening the door,” Matsukawa-san points out politely. “And we have a second set of keys for emergencies.”

Your mouth is dry. On your left, Issei wakes, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he sits up as well. He’s barely wearing any clothes.

“Oh… Well…” Your mother squeaks. “I always knew you two got along well.”

Issei looks at her, slowly registering her words. He looks at his mother, at the impatient curve of her mouth. When he looks at you, you catch a glimpse of a time past.

Of fights during photo sessions and biting him to make sure everyone knew you hated him - even though you didn’t. Of him sitting on top of you or pulling your hair.

You’re not sure who raises the pillow first. But you both try smothering each other at the same time.

“You two are hopeless,” your mothers say, slipping out of the room. “We’ll be in the kitchen, cleaning up. It’s a mess.”

Join my Taglist

@kaykaystrings @tsxkishimx @rory-cakes @cookielovesbook-akie

@a-girl-cant-decide-on-a-name @alexxavicry @theferretkids

@animegamerfox @applepie972 @qardasngan

@notsochillnerd @darthferbert @kyluskaye @moochiwoochi

@stellar-haikyuu @alienaiver @thelameone101 @haikyuusunsalad

@lemurzsquad @natdu @lees-chaotic-brain

@tsumtsumya @integers @zizishleezy5 @tetsuukuroo

@dog55teeth @ume17 @missmadness123 @bijuu-naginata

@venusxxsstuff @katbug37 @crystal-lilac @lonnie19

@joyfullittlethings @dazaisfavgf @chloyappa @youraggedybitch

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

i’m so done with you nerds. waka-chan out

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

無断転載・AI学習利用禁止 / Do not repost or use for AI training.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Knocked Up | Masterlist

— pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader 

— warnings/info: 18+ only | Accidental Pregnancy AU; (unprotected) sex/smut; hurt/comfort; angst; humor; jealousy; teammates to lovers; cussing; pregnancy; (most probably) military and medical inaccuracies; friendship; fluff

Pining for your friend leads to a boozy night and a terribly life-changing consequence.

♡ Part 1 ― Tactical Distraction

♡ Part 2 ― Positive

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Yk I'm really starting to miss bugging kiyoomi...

“Do you think if I lived inside your skin I’d be able to move your arms and legs?”

“I wish you’d stop saying things, sometimes.”

Despite his sigh of exhaustion, Kiyoomi smirks at your words, his sleepy eyes closed with his lashes on his cheeks. He’s minutes away from falling asleep in your arms, his head on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, but you’re feeling a little too playful for your own good.

You move a hand to gently cradle the back of his head, fingers gently playing with the rings of his curls, “I’m just saying; I’m always saying how I want to live inside your skin. I’m just figuring out logistics.”

“Do I get to move them when I want to?” He asks.

You ponder for a moment, then hum, “you can, but I feel like you’d trust my judgement enough to let me move you, and you’d never have to move again.”

“No, because then, I’d never go anywhere,” he snickers. “You’d keep me in bed with you all day, and as delightful as that sounds, it’s not sustainable.”

You go quiet, and when he pops an eye open to look at you, you’re pouting. True, genuine pouting, and he clicks his tongue and angles his head to look at you, chin resting on your sternum. "angel. Come on."

You huff and reach over for your phone, seemingly now done with the conversation, "whatever."

"You're going to look me in the eyes and tell me you'd let me get up and go to work and not keep us contained to the bed forever? Since when?"

"It doesn't matter," you grumble. "Just say you hate me and move on."

That does it. Immediately, Kiyoomi pounces up on his hands and knees, hovering over you. You gasp at his sudden burst of energy, barely fighting him as he takes the phone from your hands and moves it to the side. His hair shags around his face, almost like a halo, and you fight the urge to hook the ringlets behind his ear. "First of all- first of all:" he puckers his lips out dramatically for a kiss, which you do give him, "I love you a filthy, disgusting, but not embarrassing amount because I could never be embarrassed by being in love with you." That has you smiling. "Secondly," he reaches to hold your hands, "look me in the eyes and say 'I, as a future Sakusa, swear that if I lived in my husband's skin, I would not keep him in bed all the time.' And then I'll believe you."

You giggle softly at his silliness, but ultimately don't say anything. No answer is his answer. He chuckles, "that's what I thought."

"That's not fair!" You giggle. "You're telling me if you lived in my skin, you wouldn't stay in bed forever?"

"Of course I would, but I'm not supposed to tell you that."

You laugh and angle your head up to kiss him, gently resting your head on your bundle of fingers, "at least we're on the same page."

"Yeah," he grins. "I'm glad."

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

‧₊˚✩ dream a little dream of me ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

Bokuto can remember a lot of things clearly, people give him less credit than he deserves. He remembers the plays from all his most memorable games, he remembers your anniversary, and he remembers your birthday. His mind is less of a library and more like a magic sack you can reach into, yet unsure of what you'll pull out. You wonder what's going on in that head of his as you gaze down at him, stroking his straight hair. It's gotten a little more grey with age, not any less charming. He's trying to doze away the summer heat, wrapped around your midsection, using your tummy as a pillow, arms wrapped around you like a teddy bear. You make a face when you start to feel his drool seeping through the material of your shirt, it's thick and warm, not yet having the time to dry.

You try to be subtle, truly, cupping his jaw, feeling the scraggly hair of his goatee against your palm as you to try and push his mouth closed. He makes a noise in his sleep that makes you tense, halting your movements in favor of watching him turn his head, nuzzling your stomach some more. You feel him take a big inhale, and feel him almost get heavier when he exhales. "Kō?" You tentatively whisper, checking to see if he's awake. You receive a grunt in return, he goes stiff, stretching out his weary limbs. "Hmm don't make me get up." He whines like the thought of rolling off you physically pains him. You roll your eyes patting his back soothingly. His back feels slightly clammy, even with the ac on it never helps his body regulate the summer torridity. The heat of your body against his does absolutely nothing to help with this factoid. "'m not gonna make you get up, I wanna get up though, you're heavy." you croon brushing his hair back behind his ear. He opposes, you can tell when he gives you a squeeze, preventing you from wiggling away. "Kōtarō" You chide trying to pry him away almost giggling when you hear his indignant whine. "Why're you trying to leave me?" he mewls into your midsection, you can feel his nose poking around, recoiling when he feels his own cool puddle of drool, eagerly retreating to the other side of your shirt. "I'm not trying to leave! You're hot, i'm burning up here." It's a good argument, he can't exactly fault you for not wanting to be stuck under 200 pounds of athlete sweat. "Okay..." He sniffles like a kicked puppy, rolling over onto his side, effectively letting you go.

You return with two glasses of ice water. You got him sort of addicted to online shopping, now you have ice cube trays in the shape of little kitten paws. "Kōtarō, my love, I brought you water, it'll help you cool off." you croon very sweetly like the water itself won't be enough of an encouragement. He sits up pouting accepting the glass and basically chugging the water down, it runs down his chin into his goatee, down his adams apple and soaks up into his tank top. "You're like a toddler." You sigh affectionately, getting back into bed with him, not fighting when he drags you next to him, holding you under his arm. "You were in my dream y'know." He murmurs ignoring your affectionate dig. "Really? What was I doing?" You hum internally sighing when he lays his head on your chest, you remind yourself to thank his mother for being able to push out his heavy ass head. "I dunno, you were just happy, I was kissing you--here" He leans up kissing your cheek, letting his lips linger there for a moment "and here." He says slotting his mouth against yours. He leans away for a moment, then dips back down to steal a handful of lazy saccharine kisses. "Dream me is very lucky." You laugh airily feeling nothing but warmth for him, "Yeah." He hums laying his head back down on your chest. With the help of your gentle pats on his head and back he's lulled back to sleep, eager to met you again in his dreams, and when he wakes up, Bokuto will be sure to give you a play by play on every little thing.

dividers by @strangergraphics

a/n: based on this fanart, i am procrastinating an essay teehee

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

The first thing Hajime noticed when he opened his eyes was the sound.

Not birds chirping. Not a peaceful breeze. No, it was the clatter of something suspiciously metallic hitting the kitchen floor, followed by a tiny voice yelling,

"I GOT IT, MAMA! I GOT IT! THE SPOON IS SAFE!"

Hajime groaned, dragging a hand over his face. He squinted at the alarm clock beside the bed. 6:17 AM.

There were at least three things wrong with that.

One: he was supposed to sleep in.

Two: he had told you to please not let the kid do anything dangerous before sunrise.

And three: today was his birthday — and he was being ambushed by silverware before coffee.

Still, there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The smell of something vaguely sweet drifted down the hall, carried by the familiar hum of your voice. That part? That made it worth it.

He padded out of the room barefoot, yawning as he turned the corner into the kitchen.

And paused.

The sight before him was a masterpiece of chaos.

You were standing over the stove in one of his old college volleyball t-shirts, hair messy and cheeks smudged with flour. A bowl with a suspicious amount of batter on the outside of it sat on the counter. Next to it, your daughter stood on a stool, waving a rubber spatula around like a sword.

“Back, ye batter beast!” she declared heroically, as she slapped it against the inside of the bowl.

You turned at the sound of Hajime’s quiet laugh. “Ah—! Babe, go back to bed! We were supposed to surprise you.”

Hajime walked over and kissed the top of your head. “You did surprise me. Pretty sure the spoon your kid launched across the room was a warning shot.”

“I saved it!” your daughter added proudly, holding it up like a trophy. “We’re making Daddy Happy Birthday pancakes!”

“Happy Birthday pancakes?” he asked, crouching down beside her.

“Yup. They look kind of like pancakes, and kind of like… volcanoes.”

“Volcanoes, huh?”

She nodded solemnly. “But it’s okay. Mama says they’re ‘abstract.’”

You groaned into the dish towel as Hajime laughed, deep and warm.

“Well,” he said, ruffling his daughter’s hair, “I’ve always wanted to eat edible volcanoes for my birthday.”

---------------------------------------------------

By 7:15 AM, the three of you were sitting on the floor of the living room, plates balanced in laps, cartoons playing softly in the background.

The pancakes were, as advertised, both chaotic and charming — some lopsided, some overly crispy, one shaped like a heart (almost), and one that somehow looked like Oikawa’s hair. You didn’t point that out. Hajime noticed anyway.

“D’you remember what I said I wanted for my birthday last year?” Hajime asked, sipping his coffee.

“Hmm?” you hummed, still chewing.

“I said, ‘All I want is to sleep in. Just one morning.’”

You winced. “Right. So sorry about—”

“Don’t be,” he said, interrupting gently. “I didn’t know what I really wanted until now.”

You looked at him curiously.

He glanced at the couch, where your daughter was curled up under a blanket, syrup on her chin and already dozing off from the sugar rush. Then he looked back at you — at the soft sleep still in your eyes, the way you’d gone to all this trouble just to make this morning feel special, even in its imperfect mess.

“This,” he said. “You, her, this house. Chaos and all. This is it. This is my favorite place in the whole world.”

You didn’t say anything at first, just reached for his hand and laced your fingers with his.

“…Even the pancake volcanoes?” you asked.

He kissed the side of your head.

“Especially the pancake volcanoes.”

m.list

© 𝑺𝑿𝑵𝑵𝑬𝑬, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 ᯓ★

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Brazil Oikawa🇧🇷

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

missing them

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

“what’s in that pretty head of yours?” tooru oikawa asks.

the room glows with the morning light, peeking through the curtains. tooru’s fingers lightly brush some of your hair.

“dunno… just spacing out, i guess,” you reply.

tangled in the sheets, clothes pooled somewhere on the floor, your breathing syncs with his. your head lays on his arm, left hand resting on his bare chest and drawing little shapes.

“still can’t believe we did that,” you mumbled, raising your hand to admire the band on your ring finger, shining brightly as it caught the sun’s rays.

“yeah, me neither…” he replies, kissing your forehead sweetly. “you’re my wife now,” he smiles, taking your fingers and kissing it.

“and you’re my husband,” you giggle, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. his fingers graze up and down your spine, tickling you, yet you never wanted to pull away.

“can’t believe you could make such pretty noises either— hey!” he teased, interrupted by a sharp slap to his peck. you sat up to give him a dirty stare, hair falling onto your shoulders. he only stared back, smug as ever as he chuckled deeply.

“whaaatt? come onnn, don’t be like thattt,” he whined, trying to pull you back into his arms. as soon as you fall back onto the bed, he’s facing you head on, scooching close enough to nudge your nose with his.

“i hate you,” you grumble with a small pout. he takes your chin in his fingers, leaning you up to share a kiss with him.

“yeah? how ‘bout now?” he asked in a softer voice.

“dunno, try it again,” you whispered back. he only smiles and meets your lips once more. quick pecks turn into a long, deep kiss, fingers tangling in his messy hair as his return to your back.

tooru’s tongue licks across your lips, gently asking to be let in. out of breath, you push him away by his chin.

“tooru, we have to get up,” you reminded him. he rolls his eyes and dips his head to kiss along your collarbone.

“five more minutes,” he protests.

“you said that earlier and now we’re naked. come on, i’m hungry,” you groaned. he only whines and traps you in his arms.

“tooru, get offff!” you giggled, his hair tickling your neck as he started giving loud smooches to your chest, lips smacking with each muah! “you’re such a little freak!”

“yeah and you married this little freak,” he giggled back, hands unwilling to let go.

“then i’m filing a divorce,” you say, but only tangle your legs further with his.

“go ahead,” he says, climbing up to meet your face, forehead pressed against yours.

“anything to marry you all over again.”

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies

john price x fem!reader | cowboy/outlaw x preachers daughter | masterlist

Chapter Fourteen: dissonance

tw: minor gore, angst, nudity

“My necklace.” 

It’s the first thing you’ve been able to get yourself to utter since the commotion downstairs ensued. Fingers tenderly prod at your clavicles where your mother’s cross is supposed to be sitting, bright and proud among your pristine Sunday best. There is nothing but empty space. A gap where gold should be but only flesh remains.

“What’s that, darlin?” Lottie asks. She’s still got an arm around you as she leads you down the hallway, your bath looming ever closer. Despite her proximity, the silage of her perfume isn’t enough to drown out the cruor cooling behind you. 

“My necklace. It’s gone,” you mutter. 

She hums, but makes no effort to stop or turn around. Lottie’s been given her task, and she seems intent on not straying from it. “I’m sure it got lost durin’ the fight. We’ll look for it after things get cleaned up, okay?” 

A response attempts to bubble up in your throat but it doesn’t quite roll off your tongue. It dies. Crumbles into a powder that leaves you parched. 

The bath is a stark contrast to the last time you were in there. There are no candles to illuminate the room in a buttery glow, nor is there steaming water in the tub with swirling rose petals. Lottie has to flick the electric lights on in order to see anything in the otherwise tenebrous room and when she brings you inside you can only note the long sour stench of lilac rotting into the wallpaper. 

Lottie delicately helps you peel off your overdress once the door is closed before carefully laying it out on the floor. You stare down at the disembodied cloth and your stomach turns at the blood that soaks into the gossamer lace of your bodice. It’s fresh. Bright red and oxygenated. The body it came from is still warm. 

“Come on now,” Lottie redirects when she notices you’re staring for too long. “Have a seat.” 

There is not enough room in your chest for shame to plague your heart when you shed your chemise and let it crumble to the floor. Lottie helps you into the tub where she turns on the spout but doesn’t plug the drain. Algid water splashes onto your bare skin, prompting gooseflesh to ripple along your muscles, but you ignore it as she begins to rinse the gore from the side of your face.

It’s near impossible to get your hair clean. Sticky blood, thick flesh, bone shrapnel—an ended life, the brain of a human stuck to you; all memories, feelings, and desires snuffed out in an instant. It was John’s bullet that did this. He saved you. Again. He’s always saving you, and you’re always bearing the scars from it. 

Once you’re deemed free of the remnants of a silenced life, Lottie helps you dry off with a towel before wrapping it around you and having you sit by the vanity. She sheds her own clothing before rinsing the blood off of her hands and hopping into the tub herself. A shrill giggle cuts through the air as she splashes her chest, breasts aglow with droplets of water. You’re not sure how she can laugh after such violence, or how she can muster a smile at all, but you’re too exhausted to question her on it. 

The sabbath is soaked in blood—white cotton turned red. 

Neither of you put on your soiled overdresses when Lottie’s finished cleaning herself up. You drag your chemise up your body with numb fingers as you stare at yourself in the vanity. Dewy skin from your sponge bath. Chapped lips. Sunken eyes. You’re not sure what to make of this life away from your father. It was supposed to be better, yet so much blood has been spilt you’re not sure it’s worth the endeavor. 

Lottie helps lead you to your room once everything is squared away, leaving behind your bloody Sunday best to rot on the floor. She promises to find you a replacement dress once things have calmed down, but you catalogue this pledge as one given only to tame the rapid beating of your heart and nothing more. 

Your room is silent. No, this whole building is. The lively bar below you has turned into a morgue, and even the concerned patrons speak only in hushed tones. Even drunkards know to respect the dead; to not disturb their final resting places. Lottie keeps up with this ideology as she softly suggests you slip into bed while drawing the covers back. You know full well you will not be able to rest after what you’ve just seen, but you’re too exhausted to argue, so you crawl upon the plush mattress and allow her to draw the blankets over your body as if you’re a child again.

“There, that’s better,” Lottie hums once you’ve settled in. “Alright darlin’ I’m headed back downstairs. I’ll have Katie or John come check on you later, okay?” 

Too enervated to respond, you simply nod as your cheek presses further into the pillow. She stands at the side of your bed for a long while, her presence oozing pity all over you. Then, she leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. 

“Try and get some rest,” she says sweetly before exiting. 

For Lottie’s sake, you try but fail miserably. Stuck on your side, back turned to the door, eyes staring at the rosy wallpaper before you—there is a dissonance inside your brain that refuses to halt. A saturnine cloud suffocates you, forcing back the memory of a gun against your ribs, a bullet whizzing past your face, the high impact splatter of blood across your skin. 

It’s worse than any slap on your jaw, stick against your knuckles, or verse quoted with seething rancor.

Time doesn’t seem to exist as you lay in bed, so you have no gauge to tell what time it is when a knock sounds at your door. It’s well past lunch. Long enough for your stomach to be growling yet there are no such pains plaguing your stomach. The afternoon sun beats against the windows, but they’re smothered by the curtains, plunging the room into scarlet. Faded red. Like you’re stuck on the inside of a womb. 

“Lamb?” 

The door opens when you don’t respond. It creaks behind you, slow and careful, as John’s voice washes over you. The tone of his voice is strange. As his booted feet clomp towards the bed, you try to pin the feeling. It isn’t until his body sinks into the mattress behind you that you realize he’s here to expiate. 

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asks. 

“I’m fine.” Short, piercing, and to the point. Your frustration is nameless, and yet it rears its ugly head within your throat all the same. 

John does not allow silence to linger. “I know that can’t have been easy for you.” 

“But I’m sure it was for you.” There’s a snap to your words that doesn’t quite land over the dullness of your tone. A maw without teeth, jaw clenching taut flesh between wet gums, unable to break skin. “After Blackpeak, this must’ve been a walk in the park for you, John Price.” 

He audibly inhales, his frustration nearly devouring him, but you feel the way he prevents himself from snapping the way wolves so often do. A held breath, bitten words—his weight shifts on the mattress. 

“Lamb, I would never hurt the people of Blackpeak,” John says, nearly pleading. 

“I don’t believe you,” you quip. 

“I wouldn’t.” 

“Is that why there’s that nice little poster of you plastered all over the city?” you snap. Your fingers curl into the blanket as you keep your eyes pinned to the wall, desperate to not look at him lest you begin to crumble. “Every town you’ve brought me to, you’ve ended up hurting someone. First that rancher, then those men in Little Wood, and now here. You are a violent man, John Price, and sometimes I worry that you use that gun—that tool—of yours too much.”

For once, you’ve managed to stun him. At least, you think you have. His breathing is so quiet you can’t hear it, and you can’t note a single bit of movement. 

“Upon him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with his wounds we are healed,” John quotes. “Please, love. Just let me explain. Lamb... Darling, look at me.” 

For all your father’s anger—the brutal acidity that has tainted you since the first time he struck you—your mother’s benevolence always shines through. Carefully, you begin to roll until you’re flat on your back, head and shoulders propped up by the provided pillow so that you’ve got a perfect view of John. He’s sitting on the edge of your bed in nothing but plain trousers. His vest has been removed, leaving him with the half buttoned mess that’s become of his white half-collared shirt. Without his hat, his hair runs free—trimmed inky locks mussed with sweat. 

“The moment you say anything heinous, I’m kicking you out of this room,” you promise. 

John’s chuckle comes tense as his head lowers. “I’ll hold you to that, darling.” 

He leans forward, almost getting too close for comfort, but you don’t say anything when he takes your hand into his. His touch is warm—near clammy. You try not to think too hardly about how much blood has soaked them. 

“The boys and I used to be deputies back in Blackpeak,” he shares. The look on your face must betray your emotions because John’s tittering again. “I know. Doesn’t seem like we’re the type, does it? Most of the locals weren’t too happy with us either, since we’re English. But we were given badges and we took oaths, and we did our jobs well.” 

Images flood your mind of John Price working for the law. Somehow, it seems to fit. A shiny deputy star pinned to his vest, clothes neat and tongue just as sharp, ready to wrangle up outlaws as if he’s wrestling cattle. It’s a stark difference to who he is now—a cynistic man who sees the world in a terribly dark shade of grey. 

“I didn’t hurt those people in the coal mine, Lamb. None of us did,” John continues, squeezing your hand with assurance. “I remember that day well. The explosion could be heard all the way from the office. Kyle and I rode out as fast as we could towards the smoke and screaming. We pulled as many people from the wreckage as we could manage, but it wasn’t enough. So many people died that day, and there isn’t a single moment that goes by that I don’t think of them. 

“At first, everyone thought it was an accident. A misuse of dynamite, or some sort of gas that had been ignited. Then the survivors started talking about masked men who entered the mines with explosives. As soon as that rumor got out, the sheriff tried to shut it down. He didn’t want unrest in the town. That didn’t sit right with me.” 

Finally gathering the courage to partake in the conversation, you swallow. “You went out looking for them?” 

John nods. “I did. And I found them, too. They’d been right under our noses the entire time. Sheriff Shepherd had hidden correspondence with a man named Vladimir Makarov. He’s a very wealthy man from Russia who owns a few coal plants here in The States. A very wealthy, greedy man. Made an offer with Shepherd saying that if they got the old company out of Blackpeak, there’d be something in it for him. So that’s exactly what he did.” 

A wretched dissonance strikes through the base of your skull as you attempt to keep all the pieces of John’s story straight. When it comes to anything outside of Penmosa, you know remarkably little. Each word he speaks sounds like a different language, yet as everything begins to fall into place you find the pit in your stomach unbearably heavy. 

“You’re saying the sheriff did it?” you ask in disbelief. 

“I’m not saying he did it, he did it. Found the letters myself,” John corrects. “I put the papers in the bank where I knew they’d be safe, and I made a plan to meet with the judge in order to bring Shepherd to justice. But I guess word got out somehow, and next thing I knew, my name was plastered all over town with the blame for the explosion and the boys and I were being hunted. We hardly got out of there alive. 

“Those men downstairs? They’re part of Shepherd’s Shadow Company. Led by his protege Philip Graves. They’ve been tracking us halfway across the country just to kill us so that word doesn’t get out about Shepherd’s crimes. We won’t be free men until we get back to Blackpeak and set this straight, and neither will anyone else in town, either.” 

A part of you doesn’t want to believe John. You don’t want to believe that there could ever be so much evil in the world. That so many lives could be slaughtered for such vainglory. But you know he does not take lives so flippantly—at least, not in his mind. When he killed that rancher, it was to protect you, and same with the man downstairs. He is violent to an end, but you’ve seen the tenderness that lurks beneath his exterior. 

John Price does anything for his people, and you think that ideology extends to the citizens of Blackpeak, too. Besides, you always wondered why the papers switched up so suddenly between the explosion being an accident, to it being caused with malicious intent. 

“Earlier, before that gunfight broke out, you were trying to ask me to help you in Blackpeak. What were you going to have me do?” you ask, taking a small detour in conversation. 

John’s eyes soften at your question, and you feel his grip on your hand tighten as he leans forward. “Lamb, you’ve had a rough day, we don’t have to talk about that right now.” 

“I want to know,” you insist.

Here she is—your mother’s daughter—seeing something broken and yearning so desperately to fix it as if your hands were the one that caused the damage in the first place. John’s head lowers for a moment as he looks at your hand. Somehow, this feels natural. The way he holds you and caresses your scarred knuckles with his thumb. 

“The correspondence between Shepherd and Makarov is still in my safebox at the bank. It’s the only thing that will convince a judge of our innocence and bring justice to those workers. I still have the key, but I’d get shot if I went in to retrieve it myself. Same goes for the others, too. But you’re a new face. You wouldn’t have any trouble.” There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. He looks up at you. “You don’t have to do it.” 

“What other choice would you have if I say no?” you question. 

The wide muscles of John’s shoulders tense with a shrug. “Robbery. Sneak in at night. Incapacitate the guards. Apologize to the judge when morning comes and present the papers to him in person.”

“You’d really resort to such a thing?” 

“I’d rather be hung for something I did than something I didn’t.” 

There’s too much adrenaline coursing through your body for you to be laying down as you are now, yet John’s hand has ensnared you, keeping you still. A lamb on wobbly legs, staring up at a butcher. 

“When would you leave?” You’re not sure why the questions continue to pour out of you—the thought of sincerely debating assisting him in such a thing makes you woozy; almost more woozy than the idea of staying behind and doing nothing. 

“If things had gone our way, we would’ve left at the end of the week, but since we’ve been paid such a bloody visit, we won’t be able to linger any longer than we already have. We’ll hit the tracks tomorrow.” He speaks cautiously. Low and slow. Azure eyes study your face, reading the lines in your skin, each divot, every curve. He shakes his head. “I don’t want you to make a decision about this right now.” 

You’re not even sure if you could. Head crammed with new information, the truth coming to light and nearly blinding you in the process; you can hardly see the full picture. Ever since you left Penmosa, you’ve been preparing yourself for John’s departure. For your lives to separate. Yet, this entire time, it’s as if you’ve been practicing for a wound. To mar yourself. The thought of splitting yourself open terrifies you more than you’d like to admit. 

“I was so furious with you,” you carefully confess, words nearly toppling off the tip of your tongue. “I thought I knew why I was so mad. I thought you were a killer; a real killer. But more than that, I think I was so upset because I know you’re better than that. Better than what I thought you were.” 

John’s scoffing titter is poorly hidden, and his fingers loosen against you. “Oh darling, I’m not a good person. You know that. And I’m not much better than any other bastard who comes wandering along.” 

“I think you are. A good person, I mean. I think you just love differently than most; in a way that scares people.” 

For once, John does not have a quip. There is no joke at the expense of your intellect, or anything said to degrade himself; there is only you, him, and the way he holds your hand, delicate, as if it were a petal. Then, the connection breaks. Fingertips leaving you, his hand diving into his pocket instead. You nearly reach for him the way you snatched up your mother’s necklace from her body when you were a child with the word mine tearing at your throat. 

His hand isn’t hidden for long. Pulling free from his pocket, fingers curled into a fist, he presents it to you and carefully unravels them until the remnants of your mother’s necklace is revealed. Your eyes widen. The tenuous golden chain lies in several pieces, swinging freely as if they’re strings caught in the wind. A rock settles in your stomach at the state of it—fractured beyond repair—but the cross sits just as proud as ever in the palm of his hand. 

“I caught the chain trying to drag you over the bar,” John admits as if he had broken it intentionally. “I think I got all the pieces. There should be a jeweler who can fix it up, or at least get you a new chain. I know how much this means to you.” 

Tender fingertips extend towards the charm where you trace each arm of the cross. The grooves are still correct. Your mother still lurks beneath the gold. It’s just as you remember it, and for some reason it makes your bottom lip tremble. 

“Thank you,” you whisper. 

John only nods before he sets the pieces in a neat pile on the nightstand next to the bed. Then, he mutters something about trying to get some rest, and shares his hotel room number in case you need anything from him. 

Suddenly, there’s nothing but blue. A cloudless sky piercing through you. Deep lake water swimming with life. John leans forward, and for a terrifying moment, you think he might kiss you—for a terrifying moment, you think you might let him. His body curls forward, shoulders stooping, hands leaning against your pillow, creating soft divots until his lips are on your forehead. His trimmed facial hair scratches against your skin, yet you almost can’t feel it over the delicateness of his embrace. 

It is the last thing he leaves you with before departing and shutting the door tight behind him. His footsteps hardly fade down the hall before you’re crying. Knees curling up to your chest, the side of your face buried into the pillow, the spittle of John’s kiss soaking into the sheets—grief overwhelms you in an unspeakable way. In the way only trees who have seen forest fires know. It lingers in the whisper of the wind that still carries the songs your dead mother used to sing, and in the lilies that still miss her caring hands. 

You come undone the way you always have—quietly and palatable. 

Some stretch of time later, you manage to sleep your pain away. You dream of Mr. Beckett’s verdant field with overgrown, lush grass and the sun high above you. Your mother is out to play, dwelling in the full moon that manages to glisten brighter than the rest of the sky, beaming down at you as your giggles drown out the cicadas. 

The ewe and her lamb from Grand Hollow play with you—or rather, around you. Chasing one another, feet kicking up pits of dirt, bleating at one another as their wool darkens with each step. When the lamb trips, falling forward on its face as its knees buckle beneath the impact, you lean down to help the poor thing up before it’s bounding off once more. 

Someone calls your name. When you look up to Mr. Beckett’s porch, you don’t find the town’s sweet bartender, but rather the unruly preacher—your father. He stands with one hand on the railing and the other gripping his undone belt. Tanned leather bends like a loop, fingers gripping the buckle as if it’s his lifeline. He does not speak any further, but you know why he beckons. Pious girl turned miscreant. You need to be set back in your true ways like a doctor would set a fractured leg. 

Instead of following his commands, you look back down at the ewe and lamb. They stare at you with their teeth bared. Instead of flat, herbivore teeth, they bear razors like wolves. 

When you wake up, the sun is still up. There is food in the air, but hunger does not pull at your stomach. There is only sweat. 

Sitting up in bed, you glance over at the nightstand where you find your mother’s necklace still sitting quietly on the corner, awaiting to be put back together again. You reach for it, caressing the design once more, and for the first time since your mother was nearly buried with it, it’s frigid to the touch. 

Swallowing down the tart aftertaste of your dream, you toss the covers off of your body before slamming your bare feet against the floor. You’re not quite sure what happened to your shoes, but you pay no attention to it as you dart towards the door. Rug cushioning your steps, you march down the hallway until you reach the end where a small cubby sports an evening chair and a bible lazily perched on the armrest. 

You knock on John’s door harder than you intend to. The sound it makes is horisont, and leaves your knuckles aching as if they’ve split after another gnarly lesson. He answers the door quickly, but his eyelids are heavy when he swings it open, and you note the multiple cowlicks on the side of his head, sticking up as if he’s been skewered with locks of hair. 

His greeting doesn’t even make it halfway out of his mouth before you’re interrupting him. 

“I’ll help.” 

Lethargy pulling at his features, he tilts his head to the side as his eyes narrow. “Help?” 

You nod. “I’ll come with you to Blackpeak.”

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

can we get a quick drabble of the tf141 going on a super long deployment and finding out their kid snuck their favorite plushie or toy car etc into one of the duffle bags as a good luck charm

Ah! Anon! I love this idea! It's so cute. Dad!141 is a fav. I adore picturing them as fathers so this had me in a chokehold. I hope you enjoy these little double drabbles I put together!!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Content & Warnings: fluff, dad!141, minor language

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Sweaty and jetlagged, John walks off the military plane with a weary step. Simon, Johnny, and Kyle follow behind, the three men talking softly to each other as John walks ahead of them. It’s a quick stop for a meal before he finally finds his cot in their private tent.

Dropping his duffle on the cot beside him, he unzips the bag, and freezes. On top, resting on his uniform, is his daughter’s teddy bear. It’s light brown in color, missing an arm and an eye, the red bow around its neck is frayed from years of love.

John smiles, a great warmth blooming in his heart. He brings the stuffed bear to his face, inhaling. It smells of home—of you, and of his daughter. The kid must have snuck it in when he wasn’t looking. She’d never part with it otherwise. The bear always stays by her side—a source of comfort.

Now it’s a good luck charm. And a reminder of a promise. The inclusion of the bear in his duffle is a silent command from his daughter.

Come home. Return it to me.

With great care and gentleness, John rests the teddy bear against his pillow.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What’s this?” murmurs Johnny, opening his duffle bag wider.

With a curious curve to his brow, he removes the top item where he glimpsed a bright burst of color. Tumbling out of the folds of a black shirt is a bright red toy racing car. It’s small, the kind you put on a track or push around with your hand. A black stripe across the top cuts the red in half.

It’s his son’s favorite. It’s always in a pocket or clutched in his hand. You’re always finding it in the laundry or wedged between the sofa cushions. He’d never willingly part with it, but then Johnny remembers tucking him into bed one last time before leaving.

“Take my car, Da. It’ll keep you safe.”

Johnny smiles, holding the little red car in the palm of his hand. With a chuckle, he places it on the nearby table, fingers resting on the top. He moves it back and forth, making shroom sounds like he’s in a race.

“What are you doing, Johnny?” sighs Simon, appearing like a ghost from the dark.

“Driving,” he answers, lifting it off the table, moving it through the air in front of Simon’s unamused expression.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

It’s late, and all Simon wants to do is sleep. He’s been traveling the last couple days for the mission Task Force 141 was just assigned. Price says it’ll be a long one, that they might be gone for a few months. It’s not what he wanted to hear, especially since it takes him away from his family.

Simon drops his duffle bag on the ground next to him. He sits on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose as a headache starts to form. From tomorrow on, it’ll be bedrolls and the hard ground. He should enjoy it while it’s still possible.

Simon opens the duffle bag for a fresh shirt he can sleep in. Finding one, he retrieves it, but something comes with it. A white blanket with pastel ducks on it. Small. For a child. Simon knows it. It’s his son’s baby blanket. He still sleeps with it even though it doesn’t cover his feet.

“Must of snuck it in,” he murmurs, smiling down at it.

Gently folding it, Simon places it on the bed beside him, resting his hand atop it knowing he needs to make every effort to bring it home.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Johnny peers over Kyle’s shoulder. “Have any of those sweets?”

He’s acting coy, pretending that he’s not eager for the caramels you always make whenever Kyle leaves for a mission. Johnny has a notorious sweet tooth, so you make a few extra just for him.

With a wicked, knowing grin, Kyle unzips the duffle bag.

“Let’s see here,” says Kyle, feigning ignorance about whether the caramels will be in there.

They are. He’s already eaten three.

Reaching in, Kyle withdraws the contraband. Johnny groans, snatching the bag from him. Kyle watches with amusement as Johnny pops one into his mouth.

“Piss off, MacTavish,” laughs Kyle as the Scots heads for the door.

With a smile that’s starting to hurt, Kyle reaches back into his duffle bag, and brushes against something made of a smooth material with angled, indented lines. Hand shifting, he finds that it’s round.

“What the—”

Pushing clothes aside reveals a football. It’s a classic white and black, scuffed to shit from being kicked around. This is his daughter’s. He can tell by the one pink hexagon. Turning it, he finds a little message written on the white in black ink.

For good luck. And a game.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Okay this is so specific but I remember my mom telling me about this one time when we were getting our house renovated, and she found out that one of the workers was secretly sleeping in our home without consent. Obviously my mom freaked out and confronted him, and the guy started calling my mom every name in the book. She said my dad whipped around the corner so fast with me as an infant in his arms, talking about some “what the fuck did you just say to my wife?”

It’s SO 141-coded I think 😭 some asshole is rude to the missus or, God forbid, one of his children?! Papa Bear comes out. Has no problem bitch-slapping someone with his littlest baby cradled in his other arm.

All of this to say I think it’d be cool if you wrote something similar 🫶 Angry and protective 141 is so so so delicious to me

Oh hello mutual. Firstly, that's fucking crazy. But also, the transition into asking for protective dad!141 is perfection. They're defending their wife all while holding their infant child? Say less @frudoo! SAY LESS!

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (mdni): swearing, dad!141, protective!141

Word Count: 800

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

Like a dark beacon, John appears from around the corner. In his arm is a snoozing infant. She sleeps soundly; face pressed into his chest as he cradles her close to him.

“You’re supposed to be putting her down for her nap,” you say quickly as he starts walking toward you.

“I was,” he replies. John’s gaze slowly slides to the handyman in front of you. “Then I heard a raised voice.” As John approaches, his gaze narrows, a deadly bite in his eye that you’ve only ever seen when he’s truly upset.

“Just a minor disagreement,” you reassure.

“A minor disagreement?” he questions. John isn’t looking at you. He’s staring down the man in front of him. He shifts forward, partially blocking your view of the guy. “Why did you raise your voice at my wife?”

There is coldness in each word. A silent threat.

The man coughs. “I—I want—"

“Here’s the deal, mate.” John places his fingertips on the man’s chest, staring him in the face. “You apologize to my wife. And then you leave, yeah?”

The man opens his mouth and then thinks better of it.

John doesn’t smile. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

John "Soap" MacTavish

“What’s this?”

Johnny appears from around the corner, striding into the living room from the kitchen. In one arm, he cradles your infant daughter. She slumbers, mouth open, head turned into his chest. He has a smile plastered on his face, but you can tell it’s forced. There is no pleasantness in that grin. He’s out for blood.

It takes Johnny all but a few strides before he’s standing between you and the handyman. The plumbing is shot, and the worker that was sent is grumpy and rude. He’s been gruff and overbearing.

“We were—”

Johnny cuts him off. “I know what you were doing. Wanna repeat what you said to my wife?” He’s still smiling, skin stretching as it widens. You step up to him, grasping his upper arm.

“Johnny,” you hiss. He ignores you.

The handyman does, and Johnny shakes his head. “Tone, too.”

The handyman remains silent, all the color from his face draining as he realizes his mistake.

Johnny nods in understanding. “Think it’s time to leave. Walk you to the door.” He clasps the man’s shoulder, fingers digging in as he escorts him out. The front door shuts. “I’m calling for a new plumber.”

Simon "Ghost" Riley

A large shadow descends, blanketing the red-faced man before you. His narrowed, angry eyes turn toward the interloper and promptly widen. Whatever he intends to say next melts away in the presence of your husband. Simon is a looming figure. Imposing, even with your newborn infant daughter cradled in his big arm, sleeping softly as if nothing is the matter, and this pathetic excuse of a man didn’t just call you a slur.

“What the fuck did you say to my wife?” murmurs Simon, his voice cold and low.

There are only a few instances when you’ve heard Simon use this tone. You can count them on one hand.

“I—” he stammers, face growing redder. “She—”

“Careful,” growls Simon. “One wrong word and I’ll shove my fist so far up your arse it’ll come out your bloody throat.”

“With your kid in your arms?” the man splutters, spittle flying.

Simon leans in like he’s about to divulge a secret. “Won’t even wake her.”

It’s all bluster, and he quickly departs, removing himself promptly from the situation before anything escalates.

“Would you really?” you ask Simon once the man disappears.

“No,” replies Simon slowly. “But he didn’t know that.”

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

It’s a familiar hand on your shoulder that stills your next retort. Warm and comforting and soothing in its pressure and reassurance. A signal to surrender, to allow your husband to take charge in this situation. You’ll happily allow it. With your blood pressure rising rapidly, you’re close to snapping and saying something you don’t mean. The man in front of you might be an asshole, but you’re not looking to make things worse.

Kyle gently guides you back, to stand behind him as he takes control. There are few instances where you’ve seen Kyle truly upset, but from the glint in his eye, you can tell he’s furious. For now, it’s suppressed, but one wrong move might send him swinging.

With your infant daughter cradled in one arm, Kyle addresses the man before him. “What did you say to my wife?”

The man visibly swallows. “Nothing.” He coughs. “Sir.”

Kyle inclines his head. “Thought so, mate.” His gaze narrows. “If you need anything you speak to me. Got it?”

The man nods. Kyle turns to you, softness returning to his features. Shifting the infant, Kyle presents her to you. “How bout you put her down? I’ll handle this prick.”

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

impossible - where she finds out she isn't impossible to love. // wc: 20k // pairing: kita x fem reader // content: panic attacks, angst, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, fighting, throwing things, atsumu is an asshole ex, healing, executive dysfunction, slow burn, self-worth issues, past toxic relationship, some lines can read as suggestive

She didn’t think she would end up here, on a sunny day holding a box with the words ‘his’ drawn on in a dying marker. Her hand tentatively reaches up and raps against the door with quick but loud knocks. Her teeth pull her lip between them and bite gently as they roll the flesh around. She can feel her heartbeat the closer the footsteps behind the door get to where she is. How did it get like this? When was she scared to visit this house? 

One that used to be her home. The door is the same, same peeling paint around the doorknob and the hinges. Same tilted window with the stickers on it to make it appear like stained glass on the inside. The door opens and a quick breath of air comes into her lungs, “oh, are we doing that today?” is all he says as he leans against the doorframe. 

“Yes,” the words escape her mouth and for some reason her eyes begin to sting. “Yes, we are doing this today, I don’t want to see these things anymore.” She hears the scoff before her eyes register the look on his face. Hurt. He doesn’t get to feel hurt. Not when this was all because of him anyway. 

“Didn’t realize my stuff was clouding up your apartment anyway. It is small though so I guess you needed space.” The jab doesn’t go unmissed. Yes, it’s a small apartment but it’s more than enough for herself and a guest. Not everyone has the salary of a pro-athlete and can afford their own home before the age of 22.  

“I did. I’m moving and didn’t want to take it with me.” She doesn’t miss the way his eyebrows furrow slightly and his body leans back as if jolted by electricity; within a moment all is back to his normal expression. 

“Moving?” He can’t seem to help himself once he starts, he knows he should bite his tongue to make sure he doesn’t regret anything more. “Too expensive to live in the city?” He prods with a laugh knowing it will hurt, but part of him wants it to. Wants it to hurt the way that he is.

“I don’t need reminders of you.” Her voice holds anger as she gets louder than before. The box gets shoved towards him. “Here-” her voice breaks slightly and she wants to hide herself away but tries to keep her brave face.

“What’s so bad about remembering me?” He scoffs and pushes the box back towards her as he takes a step away.

“Everything,” she sighs and sets the box down. “Look I’ll just leave-”

“No. You don’t get to just leave again.” There’s an anger in his voice that sounds more serious than before.

“I’m tired, Atsumu. I want to go home, I want to finish packing and I want to go to my new home.” She remarks as the energy is zapped from her voice.

“Please. Just so I can gather your things if you’re really going to leave.” He steps aside and despite herself and every voice in her head telling her how bad of an idea this is, she steps over the threshold and into the house that once felt like home. She sits on the couch riddled with lint and the throw pillow she remembers gifting him for Christmas their first year together. “Do you want a water or anything?” He sets his box down on the kitchen island. Her eyes lock onto the small divot in the wall from their last fight.

“No, I’m okay.” He walks away and being in the house is too much. Her memories assault her, good and bad. Her hands find solace in playing with the strings on the throw pillow. 

“You got me a pillow?” There’s an obvious hint of confusion in his voice as he looks at the brown pillow.

“I got us a pillow. Since I’m over here a lot more and your couch is…lackluster in the pillow department.” A laugh tumbles from her lips and then her head gets hit softly with a pillow. “Oh it is so on.” She rushes to get up from the couch but arms wrap around her and pull her back to his lap. 

“Where are you going sweetcheeks?” He smiles as his head nuzzles into her neck and he leaves a kiss there. 

“Well, you obviously declared a pillow fight.”

“Did I? I don’t remember doing such a thing.” He hits her on the head again with the pillow and she turns her face to look at him. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?” 

“You just did it again!” 

Not everything about the relationship was awful. It’s just hard to look onto the past without getting sad. A barely there smile is on her face as Atsumu comes back. The box in hand. It’s messy and looks thrown together last minute, it feels like the pinnacle of their relationship. She can see that the clothes in the box were haphazardly thrown into it and the book is getting all bent from its position. The box doesn’t have a label and isn’t big enough to hold everything as the top remains open. “You’re crying.”

Since when did you care when I cry? The words almost slip past her lips but she composes herself. Her hand goes up to where she can feel the tear rolling over the hills of her face. Her eyes sting and her throat begins to close up, she clears it and stands up wiping imaginary dust from her pants. She wants to tell him vile things. Wants to yell at him again. But she knows that won’t do any good, so she takes the box from his arms and thanks him for his time before she makes her way toward the door. 

“Will you tell me why you were crying?” He almost pleads with her. “I don’t want you to leave my house crying again-” she almost complies, can feel words bubbling beneath the surface. “Don’t want the paparazzi to see and get the wrong message.” And there it is. What makes Atsumu, well, Atsumu. He will always push away feelings with poorly timed jokes and attitude. 

“If only– nope. I’m better than that.” She shuts her eyes and her face scrunches up as she takes a deep breath to attempt to calm herself down. “It’s always the same with you isn’t it. Too insecure to let everyone know that you can feel things.”

“Better than spewing my feelings everywhere like a bad sickness.” The walls feel as though they’re closing in on her. She can feel the hate in them and realizes why this house no longer felt like home. It’s too filled with hate, filled with words that never passed his lips in her company. Words only the wallpaper heard and held on to.

“You keep talking to the walls, Atsumu. I hope they keep better company than you.”

“Wait- that’s not what I–” He lifts his hand and for a brief moment she can feel herself flinch. Can feel her bones move and shrink in on themselves to make her smaller, to hide her away. “Gods, I wasn’t going to hit you. I’ve never hit you, why would I start now.”

“Your words have stung sharper than any hits I’ve taken,” her filter has disappeared. She can’t hold back the words anymore now that she doesn’t have the energy to keep them hidden in her mind. “You can’t do this Atsumu, you can’t say things you decide you don’t mean when you realize they hurt people and then apologize and act like everything is perfectly fine. Hell, you don’t even properly apologize Atsumu, you brush the problem off with gifts and hope I forget about it.”

“I tried my best, I tried my best for you. It’s not my fault I wasn’t good enough,” he shakes his head and furrows his brows. 

“It wasn’t that you weren’t good enough. Are you listening to the words I’m saying Atsumu?”

“I hate when you treat me like a child,” he mumbles under his breath but makes sure she can hear it.

“Well then don’t act like one.” She can feel the anger growing as her voice teeters on the edge of a shout.

“Maybe I wouldn’t act like a child if you didn’t treat me like one,” it’s a weak argument and he knows it as soon as it passes his lips but his mind is blinded with rage. He’s focused on proving himself right, everyone else be damned. 

“This is why we didn’t work out. You’re too hot headed and I’m too–”

“Our relationship didn’t work out because you asked too much of me without giving me anything in return Y/N.” 

“That’s not true and you know it.” She points her finger at him and they grow closer to each other. 

“Oh really.” He takes another step forward and crosses his arms as he looks down at her. 

“Tell me when this happened Atsumu,” she challenges and doesn’t back down as she steps closer to him. They are now pressed against each other; the thing keeping them apart is the box of her belongings; the room feels much smaller than it had moments prior.

“You were constantly nagging at me to talk to you but whenever you felt hurt you refused to talk to me. You went to your little friends to tell them what was happening instead of talking to me about it. Always wanting to feel like you’re right even when you’re not and instead of admitting it you gaslight people into thinking you were right.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have had to go to my friends to tell them what was wrong if you listened when I told you what was wrong.” She spits the words out like venom.

“Maybe I would have listened if you weren’t always going on about random nonsense. No one cares. No one cares about you or your feelings. You’ve always been impossible. I don’t know how I ever fell in love with you.”

“I’m not sure you did, Atsumu.” The statement brings a somberness that the words moments before didn’t hold. 

“No, you…” he sucks in air through his teeth. “You don’t get to tell me how I felt Y/N. You don’t get to come to my home and insult me. I loved you. I loved you so much I felt like I was burning inside, you were burning me. You with your fake promises and words, you were the one who pulled away from me. I could feel it in every sigh you took, in every step we walked when the distance was too far for my hand to brush against yours. I loved you.”

“I can tell you my perceptions of your feelings. I can tell you how it felt to not be loved by you. Burning you? That’s rich. Considering everything you touch seems to turn to cinder and ash. You are the fire Atsumu, you can keep people warm but you destroy them. I left because of you. You–”

“I loved you. I lov–”

“Stop this game. Stop it Atsumu, I can’t do this today.” Her eyes begin to sting again and her throat feels much tighter than before. The moths in her stomach fly around and she feels like she could throw up. 

“You’re the one who came here,” he mentions bitterly.

“I might be the one who came here but you left long before I did.”

“I was here. In what was going to be our home, I was here waiting for you.” She picks her head up as the hot tears roll over her cheeks and she can feel the salty taste in her mouth as she opens it.

“Waiting for me? Waiting for me?” She repeats the words twice before a wet laugh comes out of her and she throws her head back. “Atsumu, you have never waited for anyone in your life.”

“I waited for you. I slept in the same bed as you for months tossing and turning as the space between us grew bigger and before I knew it you were gone.”

“And how did that happen?” 

“Because you pulled away.”

“Because you pushed me away. I only left because I was pushed. I always loved you more than you loved me. You were too keen to hurt people and say it was love.” He’s silent now, can feel his words die on his tongue. The rage is still boiling under the surface, not hidden but not as active as it was before. He feels like he was doused with water, he feels like he should be drowning. Like he is drowning. The anger doesn’t fizzle out merely makes bubbles under the water. 

“I did love you.” It’s the same words he’s repeated over and over again tonight. 

“As I remember, that's not what you said when I left.” He can hardly remember what he said when she had packed up her things and left his home. He remembers that one moment she was here and the next she was gone. 

“I loved you,” he stays with his conviction. “You were the one who left for no good reason.”

“That’s not how I remember it.” 

There wasn’t a good reason for the fight, not a big one at least. An inciting incident, Atsumu had forgotten a date. “Are you almost…” her smile falls and the words fall from her mouth as she witnesses him sit in his chair with a soda in hand and a game on the TV. The answer to her question was no. He was not almost ready. 

He turns his head and looks at her outfit before he hears a whistle on the TV and his attention is promptly brought back to it. “You look nice, going somewhere?”

“Apparently not.” 

“What do you– oh come on ref. That was a terrible call! It was inside the lines and you know it.” He scoffs and takes a sip of his soda before remembering that he was talking to her. “What do you mean ‘not anymore’?” 

“You don’t remember?” She taps her jacket in her hand and draws her lips into a thin line. 

“Remember what?” She moves to stand in front of the TV and asks the question again.

“You don’t remember our plans today?” He rolls his eyes and shuts the TV off as she blocks his view. 

“We didn’t have plans today.”

“Look at your calendar,” she says almost defeated.

“Oh come on, you know I don’t check that stupid thing.”

“You were the one who put it there. Said you didn’t want to forget because you had a busy week.” He reaches over to the table to grab his phone and scrolls to the calendar app. He sighs when he looks at what the appointment was. A date. He had planned a date. And it was already fifteen minutes past the time he was supposed to get ready. He hadn’t heard his reminder go off to tell him to get ready.

He didn’t remember it going off. She had heard it go off though, she had heard it ring from the bedroom as she was doing her makeup. Her hopes were crushed when she heard the TV continue to play and he didn’t come into the room and kiss her, smudging her lipstick on his face in the process. 

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“This isn’t how I want to be loved Atsumu.” That gets him to stand up, he makes his way over to her. Anger evident in every step he takes, he puts his hand on her shoulder in an attempt of a calm motion but she swipes it off. “Please, don’t touch me right now.”

“You’re being overdramatic,” he scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Am I or do you just not care about me anymore.”

“I care about you, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t feel like you care about me Atsumu, you’re never home,” she crosses her arms.

“I have to travel because of volleyball, you know this.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it. You never listen to me.”

“Then what am I doing right now?”

“Yelling. You’re not listening to me and you never have. You never talk about your feelings, you make me feel so small and unloved.”

“Well it’s not my fault you’re impossible to love.” It’s the final straw, they both know it. His hands are clenched in his hair and there’s a nasty sneer on his face as he spits the words at her. 

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try,” her voice trembles over the words but it’s clear that she tries to cover it with a cough. Her head finally moves away from him, no longer able to look into his honeyed eyes. The ones she loved so dearly, what drew her to him in the first place. He felt so warm, instead he burned too hot and now all she feels is cold.

“Y/N, that’s not what I–”

“Just stop while you’re ahead, Atsumu.” He feels frozen in place as he watches tears pour from her eyes as she heads towards the bedroom. He’s not sure what he should do, if he should stop her or help her or, or, or, he feels stuck. In a loop of ‘or’ a multiple choice quiz without a correct answer. When he blinks again she has a bag packed and is leaving the room.

“Don’t leave,” he pleads and reaches out for her. She can’t bring herself to look at him. She knows if she takes one look at those eyes that her walls will crumble and she might be convinced to stay. 

“I’m tired of staying for someone who is never here.”

“I’m here, I’m here now. I’ll listen. I’ll give you anything you want, I’ll take you to that restaurant that you’ve been dying to go to.”

“You’re not here Atsumu, and there you go again…if you had listened to me in the first place maybe things wouldn’t have gotten as twisted as they did. You can’t just throw money at all of your problems and hope they go away, you can’t treat me like a scandal that’s going to show up in the news tomorrow.” She opens the door and doesn't give him a second thought when she closes it behind her. 

It’s like a weight is lifted off of her shoulders, a cold chill that is thawing. She can’t look back because it hurts too much. Can’t look back because he’s there and she needs to move forward.

“You still don’t listen, you’re just the same boy you were when I left four months ago.”

“You’re still the same coward that ran away instead of fixing our problems.”

“If I’m a coward I shiver to think what that makes you.” She picks up the box, unsure of when she dropped it in the first place and opens the door. “For the next girl that you decide you need, try listening to her instead of hoping everything is fine because you bought her something.” In an all too familiar way she closes the door and lets her back rest against it for a moment. She has no reason to come back to this house, it feels more empty than it does cold. She’ll think of the throw pillow and the crooked window and of the man inside that she once loved. She’ll remember the good times along with the bad, but she won’t be coming back here again. 

She puts the box in her car along with her other ones and with one last look at the house as she pulls out she leaves. A breath escapes her as the house grows smaller the farther away she gets from it. It’s her last day in the city, she won’t have to think of it ever again. She’ll have her head in the clouds where he won’t be able to reach her anymore, where every uneven window doesn’t remind her of him and where she doesn’t have to see his face in every magazine, billboard, and fruit stand. She can be free of him.

She doesn’t turn the navigation on until she passes the town limit. She knows all of the curves and roads of the city. Remembers the corner street where she kissed him for the first time. 

Standing on the corner of the street she waited for the light to turn to red so she could walk. Only a few blocks and she could get home to him. Over her headphones she couldn’t hear the calls of her name, when arms wrapped around her shoulder and pulled her headphone out she jumped before the voice reached her. “Hi sweetcheeks,” she relaxes into the arms and turns to face him.

“And what are you doing here? Don’t you have practice?” She can’t hide the palpable excitement in her voice.

“Not today, I thought I would spend the day with you.” She doesn’t fully believe the sentence but hums. “Don’t believe me?” 

“No, you’re a serial liar.” 

“You wound me,” he puts his hand on his chest and makes a faux hurt expression. 

“Oh shut up,” the light turns red and allows for pedestrians to cross and she takes a step forward. He holds her hand to stop her from stepping forward more. “Atsumu, wha—“ 

“One second.” He leans down and places a swift kiss on her lips before he pulls her along. “Move your legs, let’s go home.” 

She remembers the magazines the next day had it plastered all over the front cover. Her lips quirk up slightly at the thought as she remembers his reaction. She covers her mouth as a small laugh escapes her lips. He had sounded so worried. So worried about her safety from the girls who took it too far, he had worried himself sick. 

All of the streets are filled with memories. They’re practically the foundation of the roads, paving the sidewalks, the bricks and glass of the buildings. He’s in everything this city has touched. Her shoulders finally fall from the tensed position they had found themselves in when her car passes the sign that says where the town limit is. 

She eagerly looks around at the scenery as she drives further into the countryside. Nothing reminds her of him. Everything is fresh and new. The air feels different. Feels lighter, freer. No more billboards with his face on them, or tilted windows, or felt ridden couches. She rolls down the window and lets the air hit her face. The wind stings as it hits her face, much colder out than it should be for her to roll down the window. But she feels as though she can breathe for the first time in four months. Hell, maybe the first time in the past year. The stinging reminds her that she’s still alive.

It takes her an hour to get to the location. It’s nothing too crazy, a simple townhouse. None of the windows are tilted or hold glass stickers to make it look like stained glass. The door is freshly painted, the paint holding firm against the hinges and doorknob. She turns the key into the lock and a bright smile creeps onto her face at the click it makes. She can’t help the sound of delight that escapes her mouth as she pushes the door open, it opens easily and doesn’t catch on the floor. 

“Home sweet home. My home.” She spins in a circle with a laugh coming from her mouth. After a few rotations she feels her head pound and stops before going to the car to gather the boxes. Anything that reminded her of him too much was thrown out. The only box that stays in the car is the only non-labeled box. 

The cupboards are new. Everything is new. The walls don’t hold anger or fear. Her pillows don’t hold tears of many nights of crying herself to sleep, the kitchen island doesn’t have a divot from a thrown plate. Her couch isn’t covered in lint, her throw pillows have designs and her posters are hanging around everywhere. She feels like a kid again. She doesn’t feel the weight of anxiety over the other shoe dropping. Doesn’t think about what could go wrong. For the first time in a long time, her brain is quiet. She focuses on unpacking and breaking down boxes and she does so with a wide smile on her face. 

— —- —- — —- —

The beeping of her alarm stirs her from her peaceful slumber, she turns over and picks the device up with a groan. Her eyes open and she remembers that she’s in her house and not her little apartment. She stops the alarm and rolls over onto her back. “It wasn’t a dream. This is really mine.” There’s a content smile on her face as she stares at the ceiling, her feet kick and she sits up. 

There’s an ache in her back and she recoils a little bit and puts her hands where it hurts to stretch. “Same back pain though.” She shakes her head and moves from the bed over to her closet before realizing that most of her interview clothes are still packed up. She doesn’t need to dress too fancy, it’s a position as a farm hand. They must really need help if she was considered for an interview. 

“It will be good for you, maybe it will help with your anger issues.” She tucks her button up into her slacks and after packing her lunch walks out the door. It’s not a long car ride only five minutes down the road. There’s a quaint house sitting at the top of the hill, it's painted blue with a white roof and shutters. The path is gravel and she’s a little worried about a rock flying up and hitting her windshield. 

As she gets closer she can see a man standing outside. He has a set of overalls on, they have splotches of dirt and mud caked around the hems of the legs. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up past his elbows and his arms are crossed over his chest. His face holds a calm, neutral expression. She steps out of the car and he gives her a small nod, she gives him a smile in return as she draws closer to him. 

“Are you Kita?” He nods and holds out his hand after taking his dirty work glove off. She reaches her own hand out, she notices that there are many calluses on his hands and that they’re rough from work.

“You must be L/N Y/N.” She nods with a smile and clasps her hands in front of her. “Will you tell me what position you’re here for, just so we’re both on the same page.”

“The ad said farm hand, I’m not entirely sure what that all entails but I’m eager to help.” 

“Okay, why don’t we find some gloves and overalls for you.”

“Did I get the job…?” She furrows her brows and tilts her head a little to the side.

“This is your interview.” She doesn’t know whether she enjoys how blunt and point blank he is or if it will be a nuisance. She supposes for this it was a good thing. He turns and starts walking a little past the blue house where a rickety looking shed lies. The wood on the sides are chipped and the door is ragged at the bottom. He opens the shed and hands her a pair of gloves. “These should fit,” he says as he hands over a pair of overalls. She nods and quickly puts them on over her other clothes. 

“So, what are—“

“We’ll st— sorry. Please, ask questions.” Kita quickly apologizes for cutting her off and motions for her to go on.

“Oh, thank you.” She clears her throat and takes a moment to think. “What exactly are the responsibilities of this position?” 

“It depends on the day. Nothing I wouldn’t do myself, so don’t be worried about having to do a job just because I don’t want to do it.” 

“Okay, well, where are we starting today?” 

“We need to check if the strawberries are done, then we wash and package them after we pick them. Some of the batches will be turned into jam. Have you ever made jam before?” He leads her towards the strawberry patch. “The only real way to tell is the taste.”

Just as she’s beginning to look around for what looks like a ripe strawberry he’s pointing one out and plucking it. “This one looks ready, see if it tastes ready.” He holds the berry out and when she turns her head her brows furrow and she gives him a look of confusion. “For you to taste.” Oh. It feels like her body shuts down, Kita pushes the berry against her lips, it tinges the skin a light shade of red and makes the surface shiny. Hesitantly she opens her mouth and takes a small bite. He tosses the rest of the berry into his own mouth with a hum. “Does it seem ripe to you?” 

Her skin feels too warm and her brain feels like it should have some sort of thought in it but the words get caught on the way out. She opens her mouth and closes it a few times, when he looks at her with confusion she just nods her head. “Yeah, yeah–” she clears her throat– “seems ripe to me.” 

“This row should be good to start picking then, sorry it’s a bit of a walk back to the house.” 

“It’s fine, it’s…nice out here.”

“Better than the hustle and bustle of the city?” The two of them fall into quiet conversation as they fill their baskets. She’s surprised as to how…comfortable it is– talking with him. The silence doesn’t cause her skin to crawl, doesn’t make her want words to tumble out of her mouth to fill the gaps. The silence is peaceful, a gentle breeze pushing pinwheels to spin. The walk back to the house isn’t as bad as he had said it would be, they don’t rush or take too long. It’s a comfortable stride, two baskets in their hands and content smiles on their faces.

The sorting takes them an hour as she has to stop and check with Kita when she’s not entirely sure whether to put a berry in the jam pile or the boxed pile. “I’m assuming we’re washing them first?” He nods and hands her the bowl they designated for ‘jam berries’ and starts to leave the kitchen.

“I’m getting the canning jars, just wash them off and I’ll be back with the ingredients.” He points down a hall and once he gets an approving nod from her that she doesn’t need help leaves the kitchen. When he returns the strawberries are on the island counter and he has a bag of sugar and a bowl of lemons in one arm and four canning jars in the other. “What we’re gonna do is mash those strawberries up, you can use a wooden spoon just fine.” He motions his head behind her and places the ingredients and jars on the counter.

She opens a few drawers before she finds the spoon and hands it to Kita but he shakes his head and pushes it back towards her. “Wash our hands and then we can mash them, why don’t you mash them and I’ll find a saucepan that’s big enough.” He walks behind her to open the oven, after deliberating for a few moments he finally decides on one he deems fit and sets it on top of the stove. She washes her hands and then starts mashing the berries with a spoon. “I sell these every two weeks during strawberry season at the local farmer’s market we have.”

“There’s a farmer’s market?”

“Yeah, it’s really nice, it’s happening this Friday if you want to go. It’s Friday, Saturday, Sunday so I’ll be gathering strawberries and making jam a majority of the week. Sorry it isn’t too exciting.”

“I’ll take it, I got the job,” she jokes and bumps him with her hip. He rolls his eyes and begins measuring out the sugar. “I would love to go, do you have your booth open the whole weekend?”

“Only Saturdays,” he answers and pulls a knife off of the holder on the wall to cut the lemons. “I like to look at the other stalls on Friday and then Sunday is making up for the work I missed Friday and Saturday. Shouldn’t be that bad now that I have some help.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she stirs the mixture around in the bowl. “Are these mashed enough?”

“Yeah, good timing. I just finished measuring everything. All we do now is put all of these into the pot and stir until the sugar is dissolved. Then, we wait for it to boil and put it in jars after a quick test. You just take a small spoonful and put it on a frozen plate, if it starts to gel after a few minutes then it’s ready.”

“This isn’t so bad, I thought this would be a lot worse.”

“Harvesting isn’t the best, it’s definitely tedious but I have good company.”

 “It seems I have good company too.”

When they finish canning the row of strawberries and bagging the rest the sun is setting past the horizon. Kita walks her to her car, a hand hovering over the small of her back as he walks beside her. For a brief moment the hand touches her back when she stops walking. He turns his own head to see what she’s looking at, “the sun,” she says. “I’m not used to being able to see it set, don’t usually get off work early enough to see it.” 

“Do you live around here?” She nods and points down the road.

“Just about five minutes that way.”

“Go to your backyard tonight. Put out a blanket and have a snack, I’ll take it you’ve never seen the stars without light pollution.” She shakes her head, still lost in thought as the sun disappears and the sky slowly turns to a gradient of blue. “It’s surreal to see for the first time. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

“I’ll let you know, see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, more canning and making products for the farmers market. We should be good on jam, well for the market, we can make more afterwards. So I just need to make some pies, put rice in bags, and then check to see if the peach trees are doing well.”

“That seems like a packed day.”

“It’s just routine, see you around six?”

“I thought farm work started earlier…”

“It does, I don’t need you here until six though. I should be gathering the rice or close to finished by the time you get here.”

“I can get here earlier you know.”

“It’s your first real day, sleep in a little bit. We’ll start regular hours next week.” She hums but gets in her car, he holds the door open for her and leans down. His hands resting on top for support as he bends down. “You moved from the city, it’ll take you a bit to get used to all this.”

“Okay, see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow.” He stands up and closes her car door, she doesn’t see him start back inside until she gets out of the driveway and back down the hill. In the short ride back to her own home she can’t get the white haired farmer out of her mind. How warm his hand has felt on her back— a level of comfort she has not felt in years. 

 She’s hit with the fact that she left everything behind when she clicks open the lock of her home. This is real, she forgot all about her friends, all of the people she loved. Her hands hesitate as she touches the cold doorknob. Should she care more…? Those people were once her whole life, the happiness she felt in the world. An argument could be had for him as well if that was the case, he was once her happiness. He had taken it and tied it around her like a noose, making her choke on the love she once cherished. 

All thoughts disappear when her foot goes over the threshold, like fanning away at bits of dust and watching them dissipate. She shouldn’t think like that, Atsumu was no longer a part of her life. Hadn’t been for almost a year, they may have only been broken up for four months ago but he had left the relationship far earlier. 

She needs to unpack her boxes, she can feel them collecting dust even as they haven’t sat for very long. Her heart beats faster as her feet won’t move from the doorway, like they’re glued to the wooden panels, she slides down the door and sits on the ground. Her lungs feel like they’re closing in and her throat grows scratchy as her eyes sting. There must be something wrong with her, she went from happy to thinking about her boxes. She can’t seriously be crying over boxes can she? “That’s pathetic, even for you.”

There’s a buzz from her phone at that moment that stirs her from her thoughts. She can see the preview, see that it’s from Kita but she can’t find the energy to respond. She focuses on the words he says, anything to make her forget about the boxes that sit in the hall. Anything to stop her train of thought from continuing down the path it was starting to. 

– You did well today, thank you for being such a big help with the jam and harvesting. For Friday – If you are still wanting to go with me – I will need your address so I can pick you up. I like to arrive around 12, I would like to pick you up around 11 as it takes a little longer to get to the market and find parking. See you tomorrow at 6, thank you again for helping. - Kita

The words soothe her in a way she can’t explain. She wipes the tears away from her eyes and takes a deep breath. The boxes can wait, it’s not a life or death situation that needs to be resolved right away. It’s a task that she can wait to do. She’s probably just hungry, she tries to reason with herself. That’s the only reason for her outburst, just hunger and anxiety about being so far from what was once her home. One of the first things her eyes go to when she opens her fridge is a pink-y red fruit. A pomegranate.

She reaches for the fruit, not one she usually eats, and sets out a towel on a cutting board as she pulls a knife from the rack and sets the fruit down on the towel. With a decisive cut she splits the fruit in half and watches as it leaks red, sticky juice onto the fabric of her towel. With another cut she hears the small cracks of protest from the fruit before it’s split into fourths on her cutting board. In some sick twisted way this is helping her feel better but causing new trains of thought to fester in her mind. People think pomegranates are beautiful and love them despite the mess they make. How their nails get stained with red after getting to the seeds inside, how the juice sticks to them and stains their lips a deeper hue. Despite the mess, pomegranates are loved. 

“You’re impossible to love,” she thinks of that moment again. It feels like it should be tattooed on her. She’s impossible to love. She asks for too much and gives too little. Is her mess one people can’t clean up?  She wants to stain somebody's lips with her love, wants it to be in their skin like it’s in hers. And maybe that’s the problem. Her love is messy, impossible, people don’t want love that stains them. That lingers on their lips and hands. She wants someone to love her despite the mess she makes and still think of her as beautiful. 

As she takes the fruit out of the shell she wonders if anyone will treat her this carefully, if they’ll peel back the layers of her defenses to see what’s inside. Get to the root of her, if they would peel away the seeds of doubt. Gently let their fingers trace her skin and stain her as much as she stains them. Pick out the parts of her that hurt, see the bruises of her character and kiss over them with love and understanding. Take care in taking apart the things that cause others to give up, to love her despite the bruises or imperfections of her outer shell. 

As she eats the fruit she welcomes how it stains her skin, how it colors her lips and mouth. She welcomes the mess it creates and enjoys it still with her being. Someone will love her and the mess she makes, will take care in cleaning up the cuts and wounds that have appeared on her heart. Will wash away the stains of pain that have colored her skin. She washes the cutting board, and is careful to get as much of the stain out of the wood as possible. The knife is much easier to clean, as it usually is. The tool to break things is much easier to clean than the stains of the act, the tool is a simple swipe clean and is back to normal. She knows the rag and cutting board will never be the same, no matter how much she scrubs and washes them. They will be forever stained with the juice of her snack. The peel winds up in her compost bin, and the bowl housing the rest of the seeds is covered and placed back in the fridge.

Her nails will be stained for the next few days, a rose color, and she’ll feel the remnants on her teeth for weeks. Her body will remember what her words will not. What her eyes and mind will forget as new information washes over them. As she slips into bed for the night she thinks of a blonde who broke her heart and of a farmer who despite not knowing her was as gentle with her as a piece of glass. He didn’t treat her as breakable but in the little acts he did for her in the one day they had, he showed more care than she had grown accustomed to. Had dodged past her thorns and held the stem to guide and prune. He had been kind, in a world where so very few people were anymore.

She followed his instructions and took a blanket outside, a time when she really should not have been awake, and laid down on the grass of her backyard and gazed at the stars. She had heard some people didn’t like how insignificant they felt looking at stars but they comforted her in ways she’s not sure she will ever be able to explain with words. The thought that there are other people out there going through what she is going through made her feel less…less angry. The anger had continued to fester under the surface from the days prior, she’s not sure how the stars managed to soothe her, get rid of the boiling deep in her soul and replace it with gentle waves. She should thank Kita, she has the thought as she drinks water from her cup and she lays back down to look at the stars. Maybe she was a star in someone else’s universe, or maybe she could become the star of her own universe. That didn’t sound half bad. Live for herself, not others.

The remainder of the week was peaceful, no more nonsensical meltdowns, or thoughts that spun like a top out of control. She arrived half an hour earlier than Kita told her to each day; every day they ate breakfast together. She would see him about to walk out the door before hearing her car roll over the gravel of the driveway and watch as he stood in the doorway. Despite the shake of his head there was a barely concealed smile on his lips, and she would feel a matching one grow on her own face. “I told you to come at six,” was his reply every morning.

“If I came at six we wouldn’t be able to have breakfast like we are now.” She would say as she sat down in the wooden chairs of his dining room. She was beginning to grow accustomed to the way the home felt. It felt warm, comfortable. There wasn’t hate in the walls that made the house grow small, there was love and you could tell in everything inside the home. Pictures lined the muted brown walls of the living room when you entered the home. There was a brick fireplace right in the middle; spot free of leftover ash from cold winter nights. They would talk about everything and nothing while Kita made breakfast for them, insistent as he was that he did all the work. Somehow she would always help with the sides of the day like biscuits or hashbrowns. 

When Friday morning finally comes she sleeps in later than she has all week. She shoots up from her bed with a gasp when she realizes what time it is. As she is about to get out of the warm quilted comfort of her bed she remembers that they’re only going to the farmer’s market today. The day off every two weeks they both take. She sleeps for another two hours and stares at the ceiling for fifteen minutes before she tumbles out of her bed. Her leg gets stuck in the blankets and she falls to her knees on the hardwood flooring of her home. She rubs her knees as she rests her back against the frame of her bed before standing up with a pop as she stretches and picks out an outfit for the day. 

The hot heat of June causes her to choose a pair of shorts and a patterned t-shirt. The fabric is lightweight and comfortable. She opts to skip on makeup, she won’t be inside for the makeup to stop from melting off her face. She does however put on sunscreen, a protection from the harsh UV rays she’ll be in for at least a few hours. She’s grabbing her purse as Kita rings the doorbell. A smile appears on her face as she opens the door. Her eyes scan over him and her mouth drops open a bit at how nice he looks. Although the shirt is supposed to be loose it clings to his arms and chest before growing looser the further down it goes. His jeans look new and are cuffed so you can see the freshly cleaned boots he wears. The threading has faded with age, and dirt has found a permanent residence in the crevices of the footwear but it’s clear an effort was made to clean up if his brushed to the side hair has anything to say about it. 

She can’t help it as her hand reaches up and messes up the parting, roughing it up so it looks more closely to how it typically does. “You look nice today,” there’s a gentle lilt to her voice. It raises towards the end of the sentence and a gentle smile makes a home on her face. 

“You look nice too,” his cheeks are slightly reddened as he hovers his hand over the small of her back on the way to the car. A hand reaches around and opens her door for her and he feels his chest flutter at the smile that takes hold of her face. “It’s a little dusty, sorry I didn’t warn you earlier but considering what we do for work I didn’t think you would mind too much.” His hand rubs at the back of his neck.

“That’s fine, I kind of assumed it might be.” She gives him a thumbs up and he closes the door before walking around to the otherside of his truck. “What kind of CDs do you have in here?” She pops open the glove box and is greeted with various Garth Brooks, Johnny Cash, Dylan Gosset, Noah Kahan CDs, an extra pair of work gloves, and a singular copy of a Cigarettes After Sex album. “Hmm, not what I expected but I’m not disappointed at least,” she says as she lifts up the CD. 

“Well, I’m glad you’re not disappointed,” he chuckles and pulls out of her driveway and down the road towards the market. The ride to the market is filled with small talk. Mostly from Kita’s part, he feels like he wants to know everything about her. It’s a craving, to know her on a deeper level; one not so professional. When they get out of the car a layer of dust covers his boots and he curses mentally at the action. 

“Where to first?” He hates how cute he’s already finding her mannerisms, how she sways side to side when she asks the question. How her hold on her bag tightens slightly and she leans closer to him. His hand finds its normal spot hovering over the small of her back and the next words out of her mouth make him feel like he short circuits. “You can put your hand on my back, you know, I don’t mind.” Her own hand reaches back and moves his hand so it’s pressing against her. 

Her back grows warmer from the weight of his hand that’s now pressed against it, Kita takes an exhale and relaxes.  There wasn’t a need to be worried if she was okay, he was thinking too much into things. It was a simple friendly gesture, there to make sure she didn’t fall. “If we go in here,” he points towards the right of the outlet, “then we’ll be closer to the sweets.” He leans closer as he explains it to her, their faces almost touching. 

Her breath hitches lightly at the proximity before she clears her throat and shifts slightly. “Then we should start at the other end, that way if we get sweets that melt they’ll be in a better state when we get back.” She begins to turn her head but when her cheek brushes against his she jerks away slightly.

“I like the way you think,” she feels as the pressure from his firm hand on her back eases. As it presses just barely against her shirt instead of pressed flat against her back where she can feel the warmth of his hand. The warmth is barely a whisper now. A phantom warmth takes its place as goosebumps rise in a trail on her skin. “Let’s get to it while we still have daylight,” his hand touches her back for a second to urge her forward. Not in a demanding way, it rests against the fabric of her shirt and she almost wishes it was against her skin instead. 

She clears her throat again and steps forward, her teeth worry her lip as she tries not to think about his hand again. They walk side by side into the small marketplace, not one has said a word since they began moving. She’s not sure yet if it’s comfortable silence or the stuffy kind that contorts around you and forces its way into spaces between noise. That plugs your ears and makes you clear your throat more often than necessary, words getting caught before they can make their way out. 

“Do you want a drink?” The bubble pops. The small smile Kita offers her a light making its way through the fog of silence. 

“So forward,” she jokes and looks around at the stalls to see what he could be talking about. He shakes his head and no matter how faint the touch she feels his hand move down her back and his fingertips brush against her arm before linking gently with hers. She can’t help the shiver that races down her spine or the heat that fills her face. 

“Non-alcoholic beverages, they have good iced cider. We can go out on a different weekend for drinks.” He says it so calmly, like a usual occurrence for him. Maybe it is, all she can think about is the weight of his hand in hers and how nice it feels. How warm it is. She’s not sure how she’s able to stand it in the June heat, it crawls up her neck and makes her feel like her blood is boiling just beneath the surface. 

“Iced cider sounds so good right now,” she’s aware of her mess. How it spills around the edges, Kita seems to step around the areas that puddle and sink into the ground. As he gently moves with her to the shop she’s aware of words ringing in her ears but it feels like too much. They don’t quite reach her mind, don’t form sentences. Would he lift under her surface and dissect her mess? Would he place down a towel and not mind scrubbing the red from the fibers. 

Would the secrets leave her as easily as the seeds do when he takes care in unfolding her. In laying her down and making precise decisions on where to hold. Would he hold her gently? Cradle her against his chest, hold her like she’s precious, hold her like she’s lovable. Would he love— “—are you okay?” She feels a squeeze on her arm and feels the cool and rough texture of brick on her back. 

“What?” It’s only now does she realize her breathing is strained and her heart feels like it’s hammering in her chest. 

“Can I put my hand here?” He asks as he hovers a hand over her chest. When she nods she feels the steady pressure and he places one hand on his own chest. “Breathe with me.” She watches his chest rise and fall deeply a few times before following along with him. Slowly they slide to the ground and her head falls towards his shoulder. 

Neither say anything as people pass by, hoping they aren’t seen. Kita adjusts his body, covering her from the view of pedestrians taking a quick glance. She puts her hand over his own on her chest and her head slowly raises from his shoulder. There’s a frown tugging at his lips and despite his efforts to keep his face neutral she can see the concern swirling in his eyes. 

“I’m—“

“Please don’t say you’re sorry. It’s okay to feel things, we can sit here as long as you need to. It’s a nice shade from the sun,” he tries to move his hand away but she holds it tighter against her as her eyes squeeze shut. Read between the lines. Don’t make me say it. “I used to have pretty bad panic attacks when I was in high school.” Him? He seems so collected. 

He turns his hand over and holds hers again. The concrete of the market makes cracks as his shoes scrape against it and their sides lean against the brick. “Routine is what keeps me from falling off, from cracking. It’s not everything though, anxiety still happens. I have days where I feel off: days where no matter how hard I try I just can’t do anything, and the little voice in my brain tells me how dumb it is that I can’t do something I do all the time. You’re allowed to feel things, and don’t feel the need to explain yourself to me. I understand that we can’t always know why we feel a certain way.” 

“It’s my ex.” He nods but doesn’t push or ask for more information, just gently squeezes her hand. “He…he said some things that messed me up.” She watches as his brows furrow slightly before trying to return to a normal position. “Made…made me feel like a mess.” 

He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something before licking his lips and closing his mouth again. Her head tilts as she tries to analyze his face, the hills and crevices, the smile lines by his mouth, the way his nose curves slightly to the left. “You’re not a mess, things can feel like one though. I know my words won’t solve your problems but…if you’d like I can help you with them.” 

“You don’t make me feel like a mess.” Her words feel worth it when she sees the dimple on his right cheek appear as a smile crosses his face. “You don’t have to help me, I can work through this on my own.” 

“But you don’t have to. I won’t push you, but it’s okay to ask for help.” He sees her twitch and start to slowly rise from the ground. He follows suit and when her hands loosen from his he lets go and allows his hands to drop to his sides. The pebbles scatter to the ground as they wipe off their pants. “We can leave if you would rather I drive you home.” It’s a way out, she doesn’t have to be here. Doesn’t have to dress fancy and pose pretty for cameras or important people. She can leave, they will leave when she wants to. 

“Let’s go get some of that cider you were talking about. I think I could use some of it.” She smiles at him and while the weight on her shoulders still forces her to bend down it’s a little lighter than it was moments ago. He accepted her mess and cleaned the red stains from the towel. He didn’t step around the mess or cause her to bleed more, he gently held her and allowed her to peel her own layers away. To open on her own.

 Her hand reaches over, he jolts slightly before offering his palm to her. Their hands link together, little care for the heat of the sun blazing down on them before the relief of cool air hits them inside one of the shops. There are very few words said for the rest of their time spent at the market, only small comments about the products up for sale; neither mention her panic attack from earlier and for that she is grateful. 

“This was nice, thank you Kita.” He nods as he helps her back into the truck and closes the door behind her. He hops in on his own side and starts the car. She opens the glovebox again and puts in a CD, she puts in the first one she grabs as she didn’t bother to look. It closes with a click and she turns back to face Kita.

“You can call me Shinsuke,” the last part is muffled as his hand covers his mouth. She can tell that he is clearly avoiding eye contact. “It’s only fair since I call you Y/N.” Her hand reaches over the console and taps his arm lightly, he glances at her for a moment before dropping his hand, she laces their fingers together again. 

“Okay, Shinsuke.” The name feels foreign on her lips but there’s an ever growing smile creeping onto her face at the sound of it. Shinsuke, she likes it. From the corner of her eye she can see his dimple appear on his cheek. Her chest grows warm and she turns her head to watch the rolling hills as they drive back to the farm. At some point her eyes must have closed because the next time that she opens them her head is rested against Kita’s chest and his arm is under her legs as he carries her to her door. “Hmmm?”

“Is your house key in your pocket?” She takes a few moments to process the words before nodding as she tries to get closer to him. He unlocks the door and carries her through with ease, she can hear him take a breath like he’s about to ask something but the words never come. She hears the small creaks of the floorboards as he passes over them, the clank of her keys falling into the ceramic bowl by the door. She hears the click of a door and the way the hinges squeak as it’s pushed open. Feels the comfort of her blankets and pillows as she’s tucked in. 

“Shinsuke,” she hears how his breath hitches at the sleepy call of his name. 

“Y/N,” the bed dips from the weight of him sitting on the very edge of it, his hand rests next to him and her eyes open slowly. She almost brings her hand out to hold his again but drowsiness takes hold of her and she struggles to keep her eyes open. She’s aware of the breathy chuckle that leaves Kita’s mouth and how he shifts closer to her. She could bask in this warmth the whole night. 

“Thank you for today,” her eyes flutter closed again and a soft breath escapes her lips as she feels a soft warmness on her forehead. She feels the warmth of Kita’s breath on her skin before a small chill takes its place as he sits back up. “I had a lot of fun.” She pulls the blankets closer to her to make up for the chill.

“Thank you for coming with me, I’ll take you anytime.” He rises from the bed and his boots clank lightly against the wooden panels of her bedroom floor. They pause briefly as he takes in a sharp inhale of breath. “And for the record…I don’t think you’re a mess. Good night Y/N,” the words don’t register until she hears the hum of a car and the rocks crunching under the tires as it pulls away and she’s left with the white noise of her room. 

The words are all she can think about for the rest of the week. All she can think about when they’re sticking jams and jellies onto shelves of their stall, when his hand brushes hers when getting cash from the drawer. I don’t think you’re a mess. That one sentence whispered like a prayer when she wasn’t even awake enough to respond. The words feel like they still hang in her room, dangling from her door like lights and casting a glow on her every time she enters. 

A light touch on her back brings her to the present, her head whipping to face Kita whose expression is laced with concern, his brows are furrowed and his teeth are worrying a spot on his lip. “Are you okay?” The words are whispered as he leans closer and she swears she can feel his breath dancing on her ear. She nods but refuses to open her mouth, the words will surely jumble the minute they are released from their confinement. She sticks to her practiced script, one she’s gotten used to over the weeks Kita has taken her to the farmer’s market and allowed her to work the counter on days he opens the shop. 

She’s not sure when the touches stopped hesitating and their gazes started lingering on each other. When whole sentences were paused in favor of tracing the structure of the other’s face. They never speak of it, how they grow closer to each other before snapping back to reality and acting like nothing ever happened. When the older women who visit to buy jams and breads ask if they’re a couple, wonder how long they’ve been together. She always shrugs it off with a laugh and tells them their total, how she’s not ready for a relationship. She sees Kita’s expression falter in these moments but can’t bring herself to think of why. She can’t imagine a world where someone like Kita loves her, where anyone loves her. 

When the September chill hits the air she’s grown used to Kita leaving her to attend the shop once a month, the responsibility reminds her of how far she’s come. Twice a month, he’ll haul bags of rice into the bed of his truck and she’ll watch him clamber inside of the vehicle and hear the crunching of the rocks as he drives away down the hill. Part of her thinks Kita doesn’t take her on these trips into the city because of words spilled over in states of panic. The only other day Kita makes deliveries he gives her the day off. An “appreciation for her hard work” as he called it.  A weird sense of protection to stop her from spilling over again. In a way she appreciates it, it’s been 8 months since her relationship with Atsumu ended, maybe it’s time to try and brave the city. See his face on billboards and magazines, maybe she can do it as long as Kita is there. 

She enjoys her time in her home all the same. It’s come a long way since she first moved in, there’s a new coat of paint on the walls of her home, and new light switch covers. Pictures hanging up from her time in high school, it’s weird to think about. How she never tried to get in contact with those people again, the ones that were so important to her once. Her favorite part however had been her crafts room. Where paintings littered the walls and paper was scattered on the floor, where bins of ribbon sat neatly stacked but messily put away. It was something she never had energy for before she moved, the quiet simplicities of having time on her hands. She almost wants to thank Atsumu for being such an asshole, if he had been perfect she never would have gotten the chance to live how she does now. She shakes her head as the thought passes, there’s no point in thinking of ‘what ifs’ it only hurts more.

When he returns she’s counting the drawer, she pauses when she hears the creak of the door as it opens. She looks up for a moment to give him a smile, he gives her a nod in return. He makes his way around the counter, flipping the wooden flap up and placing it gently on the table as he slides an envelope towards her. She finishes counting the cash from the drawer and places it into the envelope, she adds the total from the drawer below the total already written on the paper. “Hey Shinsuke?” he hums in response and turns to face her. He leans against the back counter and crosses his arms. “Can I go with you next time you go out for deliveries?” There’s silence for a few moments, like he’s carefully calculating his next words. 

“I don’t have a problem with it. Missing the city?” He smiles slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes.

“No,” she shakes her head. “Just the thing with my ex, I think I’m finally ready to go back to where it ended. The next step in healing,” the words feel freeing as she says them. She hasn’t talked about it with anyone except for the few brief moments where Kita had to calm her down.

“Did he mess you up that bad?” He pushes off the counter and rests a hand on her shoulder. 

“Compared to some horror stories I’ve seen it’s nothing, I’m probably just being dramatic.” She sighs and looks away, her shoulders slump and his hand falls off her shoulder. There’s a small frown on his face as he moves his hand to cradle her cheek, his thumb rubs gently against her cheek and he rests his forehead against hers.

“It’s not nothing if it hurts you. Sometimes what we perceive as the smallest things actually affect us the most. The smallest breeze sometimes knocks over the biggest tree.” That gets a small laugh out of her although her hand reaches up quickly to cover her mouth. “There’s that smile,” she makes a point of forcing a frown on her face. Whenever Kita is with her it feels like she’s safe, she grows warm and the walls she carefully built start to crumble. “How about we finally go get that drink?” His voice lilts up towards the end of his question, it’s amazing how a few short months away will completely change a person. He lifts his head from hers, hand still gently holding her face. 

“I think I would like that.” They silently help each other clean up the rest of the shop and Kita closes the door behind them. With a click the door locks and they make their way to his truck. “Should either of us be driving?”

“I said a drink, not drunk.” He lets out a small laugh and turns on the car. She’s grown familiar with the hills and valleys that make up the country side, finds comfort in their gentle rolls. She rolls her eyes and places her chin in the palm of her hand as her elbow rests on the window. She watches as the hills roll, the birds fly, and the sun begins to lower itself over the hills. The day is ending, it’s ending and she finds herself starting to feel okay about it because tomorrow the sun will rise again and the day will start anew. She will still be okay tomorrow. Soon she won’t have to say she’ll be okay, she’ll just be okay. It won’t be much of a challenge with Kita around, the comfort he brings her is already unmatched.

When they make it to the bar it’s not overly packed, there are a few patrons lining the counter and a few sitting at tables spread out across the room. The music is playing a little louder than it maybe should be but it’s not overly annoying. Kita’s hand rests against her back as he leads her to a table, the warmth of his hand is a comfort she’s grown used to over the months that she’s known him. If it weren’t for him she wouldn’t be as happy as she is now, a smile unknowingly creeps onto her face. Kita’s hand holds hers as she sits down in the booth and slides to sit in the middle of the cushioned seat. He chooses to sit across from her, arms folded on the table and fingers lightly tap tap tapping the smooth vinyl surface of the table. 

She reaches for a menu at the end of the table, near the condiments, and starts flipping open the pages. She lays it flat on the table as her eyes scan the words and prices. “Come here often?” It’s meant as a genuine question but sounds more like a bad pick-up line. She cringes lightly at herself when his eyes flicker over to her and a teasing smile appears on his face. 

“Why do you want to know? Hoping to see me more?” He lifts one arm from the table and rests his head in the palm of his hand as he turns his head to look away from her. Before she gets a chance to respond the waiter comes over to their table and takes his book from his apron. He clears his throat before asking about drinks. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.” Both of them turn their heads to Y/N as she lifts her head from looking at the menu. 

“Morgan and sprite please.” He nods his head and goes over to the bar to put their orders in. She turns her head back to Kita. “Whiskey huh?” 

“My drink of choice, this is gonna sound so funny.” He covers his face with his hands as a laugh escapes his lips. “My grandma was a big whiskey drinker so now I guess it rubbed off on me.” He peeks through his fingers at her and she can see the smile sneaking out from where his hands don’t quite meet in the middle. 

“That is funny, but sweet in a way?” Their waiter sets their drinks down and questions them about food. They order skewers, there’s a breath of silence as he walks away. Kita plucks the chery from his drink and she doesn’t think much of it, her gaze traveling down to his lips before jolting back up to his eyes. Not what she should be thinking about, this is just a friendly drink. A drink after work with friends, don’t think about how soft his lips look or how– “So, how was delivering today?” She can only hope he didn’t notice where she was looking, or at least not mention where she was looking out of politeness. 

He chews on the steam lightly as he comes up with an answer, “same old, same old. Nothing too exciting but it is nice to catch up with a few people.” She’s about to respond when she notices the stem disappears into his mouth and she’s thinking about it again. His lips look so soft, what would it be like to kiss them? She blinks herself out of her trance when she notices Kita looking at her. He sticks his tongue out a little bit and she sees the tied cherry stem sitting in the center. She blinks a few more times and turns her head to look out the window of their booth.

“What?” He asks calmly and plucks the stem from his mouth to set it gently on a napkin and take a sip of his drink. “Your drink will get warm if you don’t drink it anytime soon,” he teases as he sets his back down. She tentatively picks up her glass and takes a sip before also setting hers back on the napkin. There’s movement from one of his hands as his fingers run along the edges of the glass. She notices his own eyes shifting down, is he looking at her lips? She can’t do this, it’s too much. No, she’s worked hard for this. She takes a deep breath and tries not to think too hard about how he’s looking at her, like he wants to kiss her. She doesn’t have to think about it for too long as their food gets delivered. The plate is placed in the middle of the table and the two of them share the skewers. His tongue flicks out to lick over the expanse of his lips and she passes it off as being for the food. Their waiter sets the check down on the table and walks away with a nod. 

Quiet conversation passes between them as they eat their food and nurse their drinks. Slow drinks and even slower bites taken to draw their time out together even more. “So..wait,” she manages to squeeze between laughs. “He tried to play even though he was sick, and he hit his head with the ball trying to serve because he sneezed?” She covers her mouth with her hand as she laughs at the story Kita was telling her. 

“Yes, he was very irresponsible, still is if his brother has anything to say about it.” He splits the last skewer with her, it’s not as warm as it was a few moments ago. “I had to force him to go home, oh my. Atsumu was so upset about it. Whined the whole way to the locker room to change.” She can feel her stomach drop at the mention of his name. She really should be more over it than she is. Eight months over and she still recoils at the slightest mention of his name. He has managed to infiltrate even the place she thought of herself as the safest from his influence. Kita…knew him, knows him. What would he say if he knew that Atsumu was her ex, would she lose her newfound home? “Are you okay?” His voice is quiet as he reaches his hand across the table, a silent invitation. She can see his face fall when she shakes her head and refuses his hand. He leaves it there even after her refusal, just in case. 

“I..” She starts but hesitates. The words get stuck in her throat, they cling to the walls and hold on stubbornly. Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to force them to come out. She looks back down at his hand and she closes her eyes as she sets her hand in his. She feels a light squeeze on her hand and she wants to open her eyes to look at him. To memorize his face in case this all goes tumbling down, but she can’t bring herself to muster the strength of opening her eyes. With another squeeze of her hand she manages to open her eyes and lift her head to face Kita. “I don’t know how to explain it without pushing you away.”

“Pushing me away? What do you mean?” He sounds concerned but doesn’t look away from her, eyes scanning her face trying to uncover the secrets. For once, she doesn’t think she wants him to carefully peel back her walls and see what’s happening beyond the surface. She wants to stay blissfully ignorant of what he believes, of what he’ll think of her. 

“This sounds much more dramatic than I wanted it to be,” she sighs and brings hand up to her forehead as she shakes her head. “Are you still friends with…him?”

“Who?”

“Atsumu.” It’s the first time she’s said his name in months but it still burns like acid against her lips. Her mouth curls around the familiar name with disgust as her nose crinkles slightly. She hopes she never has to say Kita’s name in the same regard she says Atsumu’s, never has to have it laced with sadness and doubt. Unsure of herself and the world around her. 

“Yes, is that what this is about? Do you know him?” She can feel her throat tighten a little and she looks down at their hands, he’s not accusing her. His thumb is rubbing gentle circles on the back of her hand, this shouldn’t be as big a deal as she’s making it. So what if he’s friends with her ex? Her ex she broke up with 8 months ago, she should be over it. It shouldn’t– “Hey, Y/N? I don’t care one way or another if you know him or not, I care more about if you’re okay.” His voice is soft but genuine as he speaks, she feels another gentle squeeze of her hand as he continues to hold it. Hold her. Kita does what he has done for the past four months, keep her steady and not let her run away. 

“I do know him.” The start of an admission. She feels guilty, she shouldn’t feel guilty but the thought of him still makes her uneasy. “He was my ex,” she takes a deep breath. She can feel the pause from Kita but doesn’t feel him pull away, instead his hand grips hers tighter and she can hear the sharp intake of breath like he’s about to say something. “You don’t have to say anything, I know he’s your friend. It’s really not that big of a deal, I should really be over it by now. It’s been what, I don’t know eight months, I really should be over it. I mean, I am over it. I am.” 

“It’s okay to not be over it you know? You don’t have to convince anyone, most of all yourself, that you need to be over him. Just take things slowly.”

“But I should be over it. I don’t know why I’m still so caught up over it, I’m the one who left him.” She reaches for her now empty glass in the hopes that maybe it refilled itself between when she first got it and now. It hasn’t. 

“Just because you’re the one who left doesn’t mean it didn’t affect you as much as if he was the one who left.” His thumb is rubbing circles on her hand again. A poor attempt at soothing her because it just makes her think about how he knows Atsumu, he knows him and is friends with him. She might’ve just ruined their friendship. She’s ruining everything again. “You’re allowed to grieve things, even if you never had them. From what you’ve told me you haven’t had time to actually feel the end of the relationship. You immediately tried to fix everything and get as far away from it as you felt you could. Excuse me for being…brash, but we’ve been friends for a little bit and I want to see you finally feel good about yourself again.” 

“How do we do that?” 

“First, let’s get you home. We can go to my house if you want. I can make you a snack and you don’t have to worry about going anywhere.” 

“That actually…sounds kinda nice.” He lets go of her hand and she shivers from how cold her hand feels now. She gets up from the table and relaxes when she feels his hand on her back again. Kita is a relaxing presence she hadn’t expected herself to get used to as quickly as she has. There’s times when she’s in the comfort of her home but it feels slightly off when she walks around and doesn’t feel the pressure of a hand on her back or see tufts of white hair peeking around a corner. She likes the constant that is Kita, he does the same thing day in and day out. He has a set schedule, he doesn’t falter from the image of him that she has in her mind. He’s expected. He helps her into his truck again, the beverage he had having long worn off. 

The drive back to his home feels shorter than the drive to the bar, maybe it’s his hand holding hers or the gentle hum of the truck but she feels more relaxed than she did earlier. She’s grown familiar with the scenery when they get closer to the farm, the gentle hills and the roads becoming a bit harsher the further out they get from the city. “Wait here,” his voice rolls out above the hum of the engine before it’s turned off. Her hands play with the rough material of the seatbelt before she hears the click of the car door opening. His hands reach over and unbuckle her seatbelt and he holds out a hand to her, tentatively she takes it and accepts the help as she gets out of the truck. His arms wrap around her when her feet reach the ground, her arms hesitate for a moment before wrapping around him. “Thank you.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

“For sharing even though you were scared,” she’s not sure why the statement makes tears well in her eyes but he must see them because he hugs her tighter. “I’m so sorry he made you feel like that, I’m glad you still feel comfortable with me.”

“I’m not sure you could make me feel uncomfortable, Shinsuke.” She can feel his shoulders relax and when she starts to pull away so does he. His hand finds her again as they walk inside. She looks around before sitting on his couch, his grey throw pillows fitting nicely with the warm grey of the couch. Her eyes follow him as he makes his way towards the kitchen, there’s a small island that separates the living room and the kitchen, she sees him open the fridge and the red fruit is familiar to her. She watches him grab a knife from the holder. Is he making her pomegranate?

She moves from the couch to sit at the island. Get a closer look at what’s going on, how his hands carefully hold the fruit, cradle it, and how his knife gently cuts the top off and peels it back carefully from the seeds inside. His hands don’t get covered in the juices, how each move is precise as he cuts down the sides and opens it up like a flower. Without a mess the seeds fall out of their casing and into a bowl, with a small smile he looks up at her before washing the seeds off in the sink and pushing the bowl over to her as he throws away the peel and washes his hands. 

“You didn’t make a mess.”

“The pomegranate was ripe. You only get a mess when you force it to open before it's ripe.” He says it so simply as he leans against the counter on the opposite side of her. “Do you like to paint?”

“I’ve only done it a few times.” He nods and she pushes the bowl back over to him, he packages them up and puts it back in the fridge. “Do you paint?”

“Not a lot, if I need to take my mind off something and I’ve already completed the farm work for the day then I will.”

“You can talk to me, I talk to you about my problems enough.”

“I’ll talk to you next time.” He walks around the island and over to her, he gently grabs her hand and they head back over to the couch.  His arm is wrapped around her shoulder and she moves so her head is on his chest. She’s not aware of falling asleep, unsure of if Kita also fell asleep until she feels the gentle breaths underneath her head. She knows it’s early in the morning, can feel the sun just grazing her arm. The prickle of the day hitting her eyes, there’s a blanket over them that wasn’t there before. Her arm reaches up and lightly grazes over Kita’s face, her fingertips barely tapping his skin. There’s a coldness to his face that she wasn’t prepared for as she brings her hand away, she wonders if her face is just as cold. Her hand touches her nose and she shakes her head when she feels the chill from being exposed to the air.

She’s not surprised to see his eyelashes flutter against his cheek a few minutes after she wakes up. She knows it’s later than he usually gets up, knows it’s partly her fault that he’s getting a late start to his day. “Good morning,” his voice is deep and it’s soft as it’s whispered out delicately from his lips. He closes his eyes again for a moment before they open halfway, his arm resting on the top half of the couch and his head is using his hand as a rest. “Did you sleep okay?” His other hand rubs up and down her arm gently, she can’t help but lean closer to him and the warmth he provides. 

“Better than I have in a while,” she says mid yawn and stretches. Her shirt lifts up slightly at the bottom and she notices his eyes flicker for just a moment before returning to lock with hers. She moves her head to rest against the couch, it strains her eyes a little to look at him in the light and figures he can’t be doing much better. “We should get up.”

“We should,” he agrees but doesn’t make a motion to move from the couch. He lifts his head and drops his hand to move a stray piece of hair from her face. “I never get up this late, I must have been out.” He gives her a small smile and she can see his eyes flicker down to her mouth for a moment before returning, she blames it on the movement of her smile drawing his eyes. 

“Must have,” her smile grows into a grin when he cups her cheek and his thumb makes small circles on the surface. The static whir of the ceiling fan fills the quiet moments, doesn’t let the silence really feel silent. She can hear his breath hitching when she leans close to him and swears she can feel his heart beat faster when she turns her head and presses a paper light kiss against his palm. The motions stop and but the world doesn’t feel like it’s come crashing down, she can feel the motions of his chest moving before she hears the laughter fly from his mouth. “What? What’s funny?” Despite herself, the feeling of doubt doesn’t come. She can only feel the warmth of the sun and the warmth of him.

“That tickled.” 

“You’re ticklish?” She smiles and sits up, he can see where it’s going and tries to block her attacks to no avail. He breaks out in a fit of giggles, his back ends up against the cushions of the couch and she straddles his hips and enjoys the laughter that ensues from her onslaught. 

“Please, mercy…” he says breathlessly and she smiles and stops her attack. His chest heaves up and down quickly as he tries to catch his breath, he puts his weight on his elbows to sit up and it’s only then that she realizes how close their faces are.  She can feel his breath on her skin as their smiles slowly drop from their faces. Their noses bump each other but she finds she doesn’t mind the sensation of his skin on hers. His hands rest lightly on her hips and she can almost feel his lips brushing against hers. “…sorry,” he says breathlessly as he pulls away from her and oh how she wishes he would have closed the distance instead of lengthening it. 

Would his lips taste like strawberries, like the chapstick he uses that she got for him as a birthday gift. Would they taste of honey; of a nectar so sweet she couldn’t even comprehend the taste. She moves to tuck a piece of hair that fell from behind her ear but Kita’s hand is already gently brushing the hair away from her face. She can feel goosebumps rise on her body and she wants to grab him by the neck and close the distance herself. She needs to know what his lips taste like, if they’re as soft as they look. If they’ll lock with hers like a puzzle piece. 

She shifts to move off of him but a soft grip of her waist stops her before she can get too far. “We should really work, we’ve spent a lot of time dilly dallying.” 

“Can we stay like this…just a little longer?” And she finds herself agreeing. He looks at her in a way that makes her believe she hung the stars in the sky just for him. Maybe, if she had more power the stars in the sky would be hung for him. 

“Okay.”

The honey slides its way slowly to the bottom of the jar. Only a few more. “So what do you typically do in the winter?”

“I take care of the garden in my greenhouse, sell some of the goods from it,” he smiles at her and puts his hand on her back to move past her; he reaches into the cabinet to grab a few more lids.

“No off season for you?”

“I like my routine.”

“It seems like you’ve been straying further and further from it since you met me,” she smiles at him and he can’t help but let out a small laugh and agree with her first. 

“Get back to pouring the honey, try not to spill anymore on your hand,” he teases and his eyes flicker to her hand before he moves past her again and she looks down. She sets down the container of honey and goes to the sink to wash it off, his soap smells of chamomile and lily, after a quick rinse she grabs a towel and cleans the outside of the jar. 

“It’s not my fault, you distracted me.” She rolls her eyes and kicks his foot lightly with her own. He turns his head to look at her and shakes his head. “What? Don’t you have honey to be pouring?” 

She finishes screwing on the last lid and places the neatly labeled jar with the others in a wooden crate. “It’s a little crazy to me that it’s almost the end of the year,” she quickly glances over at him as he lifts the crate. She can see his arms fighting against the long sleeves of his sweater, he turns to her as he picks it off the table. “I would never have seen myself here in a year. If you asked me last year well, she would’ve thought…” there’s a  moment of pause and they both know who she was going to bring up. “Thank you Kita,” she wipes her hands nervously on her apron; he had gotten her one of her own to have around the house. It’s a light grey and has a small embroidered flower pattern along the bottom, it hangs up next to his apron and she notices how domestic it all seems. 

“Shinsuke.”

“What?”

“You can call me Shinsuke.” 

“Oh, right,” she places a palm on her forehead and takes a deep breath. “Thank you Shinsuke.”

“You can talk about him,” she can hear the sink running as he speaks. “It might help you…I won’t push you of course though,” she hears the faucet squeak as she finally turns around. Her back hits the wall with a sigh and she shakes her head as she looks towards the ground.

“It wasn’t all bad, sometimes it was nice. I just…I didn’t feel loved after a while.” She sees his shoes come into her vision and she lifts her head. “I can’t speak for him, I know I wasn’t perfect either. I broke my fair share of plates,” she laughs quietly. “Our first kiss was nice.” He tilts his head and there’s a somber expression residing in his features. “He had gotten out of practice early, or skipped, something you know. He stopped me at a crosswalk and told me he wanted to kiss me…it was really sweet no matter how annoyed I acted. I wish the next day hadn’t ruined it.”

“What happened?”

“Oh you know how it is, the paparazzi got a photo of us kissing and it was all over the front cover. We didn’t go on many dates after that, to protect me from the really crazy fangirls is what he said at least.”

“The…so. The paparazzi just happened upon you two kissing on a random street corner,” he doesn’t say it like a question. 

“It is weird huh,” she doesn’t want to know where he’s going. “Please don’t tell me the truth. I don’t want the happy memories I do have to be…lost.” Kita nods and closes his lips in a tight laced smile. “It’s getting late,” she clears her throat and pushes herself off of the wall and towards the living room. He follows her to the door and watches as she steps over the threshold, she rubs her arms and he turns to the closet near the door. 

“I don’t want you to get cold,” he says simply as he hands her one of his corduroy jackets; the jacket's fur lining is soft to the touch and despite some darker patches on the elbows it looks in good condition. 

“Thank you Shinsuke.”

“It’s no problem.”

She returns to the familiar house she’s started calling her own home. When she opens the door she’s met with the sight of the curtains pulled back to let light in and easels with blank canvases rested on them. “What’s all this?” She smiles as she points towards the easels. 

“I thought we would take the day off. I didn’t like how things yesterday ended. So, I remembered telling you I like to paint when I’m upset about something…I thought maybe it would help you feel better too.” He finishes wiping off the brushes and puts them on a towel and places the towel on the coffee table in the living room.

“That’s…kinda cute actually.” She follows after him and sits down at one of the easels. “I don’t know where to start.” She picks up one of the brushes before twirling it between her fingers. She rolls it back and forth. She feels his warmth against her back and feels his hand wrapping around hers. He guides her hand to one of the colors spread out on the palette. 

“Just, paint whatever,” he says gently as he guides her hand to make smooth strokes over the canvas. When she starts to get more confident in her movements he gently starts removing his hand from hers. She turns her head to look at him and after a moment of eye contact decides she’ll finally talk.

“Will you keep helping?”

“Whatever you need.” His hand holds hers again but instead of guiding her strokes it’s like she’s guiding him. His other hand is resting gently on her shoulder and if she listens closely she wonders if she could hear his heartbeat…or is that her heartbeat thumping in her ears. When her hand stops moving she’s surprised at what she was able to create. It’s not something that outdoes the Mona Lisa by any means but it’s clear to see what it is. An ocean landscape with bits of coral, some of it bleached and some healthy. It makes her think of herself…maybe this was more healing than she had originally given Kita credit for. He smiles when he takes in the whole picture. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s rudimentary at best, and I had you to help me.”

“It’s not bad, you’re too harsh on yourself. I really like how you did the water, very…flowy? Is that a word?” They both let out a small laugh at that. They start to clean up the mess they (she) made. There’s a small stain of blue paint on the coffee table as it wouldn’t come off. Kita told her he didn’t mind and that it could do with some color. 

“I feel bad, you didn’t get to paint.”

“This wasn’t about me, this was about you. I told you I would try and help you feel better about yourself and the grieving process. I’m sorry it took me this long to get to it.” He puts the supplies back in his room down the hall. When he returns he motions for them to both sit on the sofa so she follows suit.

“In a weird way, it did make me feel better. I can’t explain it but it feels like I’m thinking clearer now?”

“I’m glad I was able to help, or I suppose. I’m happy the pain was able to help.”

“No, I think it was more you than the paint. I think you're helping me.”

“You need to be able to rely on yourself too.”

“I do, but it’s like you told me. Asking for help isn’t a bad thing. So, I asked for help and I actually feel better.” There’s silence for a second as both sit and think of the words they said.

“You listened to me?”

“Yeah? You were helping me, why would I not listen to you Shinsuke?”

“I don’t know…I’m just really glad I was able to help you.”

By the end of the day she’s pulling the corduroy jacket she took last time back over herself and heading for the door. She looks over her shoulder at him as she leaves and calls out to him.

“Shinsuke?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m over him. It’s the love I’m mourning, not the person.” Before he can answer she turns on her heel and towards her car. 

On his next delivery run she tags along, she’s gotten used to the soft leather of the seats of his truck. Of the middle seat being where the console would otherwise be. Little bits of hair fall from their spot behind her ear from the vents of the truck. Kita notices and looks over at her for a moment. “Is your hair bothering you?”

“A little?”

“Glove box.” She looks at him confused for a moment before popping open the compartment and finding a new pack of hair ties and bobby pins sitting neatly. “I…I noticed your hair falls from behind your ears a lot so I figured I should keep some in our car for convenience.”

“Thank you Shinsuke.” 

They pull up past familiar billboards, ads she hadn’t seen since her move. She finds they don’t sting quite like they used to when she was looking out the window of her apartment. She doesn’t miss the apartment; as hard as moving had been. The hand that’s held in her hand confirms that for her. The car rolls to a stop outside of a familiar establishment. Onigiri Miya, she thinks she’s okay with going in there now. She carries a sack of rice over her shoulder and Kita grabs the other two, the clipboard clamped between his hand and the sack of rice. He gives her a look and with a reassuring smile from her the two walk inside the building. It hadn’t changed much since the last time she had seen it, the floor still wooden and the booths still padded. There were a few pictures hanging around and a new award set up on one of the shelves. 

“Y/N,” the voice is familiar and the remembrance of the friendship she lost comes back to her. “What are you doing here?” She turns and Osamu takes the bag of rice from her despite her complaint. 

“I’m working,” she gives him a smile. He’s not sure the last time he saw a smile quite as bright on her face. “I moved out to the countryside, fate has it I found an old friend of yours.” 

“Osamu,” Kita nods and steps a little closer to Y/N. “How’s it going?”

“Good, you two can stay for a quick lunch or dinner if you want. The rush just got over so there are plenty of tables open.” 

“Thank you,” She holds her hands open but Osamu shakes his head and starts heading towards the back. Once the bags are put away and the papers are signed the three of them lean against the counters. Osamu on the expo counter and Y/N and Kita on the counter across from him. “Long time.”

“I thought for sure I would never see you again after my brother…well you know what he did better than I do obviously…” there’s a pause and Osamu looks around awkwardly before scratching the back of his neck. “You look nice. Happy.”

“I am.” And she finds that she’s not lying. She is happy, happy that her life seems to be normal again, happy she found Kita or did he find her? She finds that she’s happy that she found this job to begin with…she feels alive. Kita’s pinkie finger lightly taps hers and she can’t help the smile that appears on her face as she tries to bite it away. Osamu smiles a little as he notices their hands as their pinkies interlock with each other.

“I’m happy for you…stay for a snack at least.”

“If she’s okay with it.” Kita looks towards Y/N and she nods her head. Osamu leads them to an empty table and takes their order himself. 

“I’ll be back soon,” he says and slips away back to the kitchen. He shakes his head with a smile when he notices how in love the two look. It’s not a hard thing to see. They practically yell it out to everyone with the little touches and glances. He hears the squeak of the back door open and his head whips around to see a familiar mop of blonde hair. 

“Hey ‘Sa-” and he’s seen it. Atsumu should’ve gotten out later than this, that’s why he didn’t feel bad about asking them to stay. “Practice got out early.” he hates how small his brother’s voice sounds, despite the falling out and things he’s heard Atsumu is still his brother at the end of the day.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” His eyes are locked on Y/N as she talks excitedly to Kita about something. She radiates pure…joy. His line of sight is broken when Osamu notices and shifts to the side slightly. He swallows and tries to get it to leave his mind. “She never looked at me like that.” He clears his throat and turns around so his back is facing Osamu now. His hands rest on the cool metal of the table and there’s quiet chatter of the few patrons inside the shop talking with each other. 

Osamu sighs and shakes his hand through his hair. He puts the towel from over his shoulder into his apron and leads Atsumu further away from the expo counter. He slips the apron off and closes the door to his office. “She did ‘Tsumu.”

“Did what?”

“She did look at you like that…it was you who wasn’t looking.” Part of him knows Osamu is right but it doesn’t make the pain subside as his chest stings. Osamu opens his arms and he doesn’t hesitate to throw himself at his brother. Tears don’t fall from his eyes in a quick manner, the soothing circles on his back helping to keep him grounded. “I’m sorry ‘Tsumu.”

“It’s okay…” for the first time since she left. It hurts; hurts in a way he didn’t anticipate. More than words the two of them ever shared. “I’m okay.”

“You’re allowed to be upset.”

“I was the reason it ended in the first place ‘Samu.” Osamu finds he doesn’t have a reply, not one that will provide any real comfort at least. “Is it bad that I still might love her? In my own fucked up way.”

“You’re not fucked up,” Osamu pulls away to look his brother in the face. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself dumbass, you’re going to help me finish the orders for the day.” It’s a distraction and they both know it. Who would have thought that his heart would break this much after so long apart. He gives Atsumu an apron and they silently return to the counter to finish off the orders for the day. “You can still love her, just don’t…’Tsumu she’s not yours anymore.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” He shapes the rice slower than usual and can see Atsumu pause his chopping. “I know you mean well…it’s okay to still love someone even after they leave you. She’s happy now, sitting out there with Kita. ‘Tsumu, she’s happier than I've seen her in a long time.”

“She’s not mine,” he mumbles under his breath and closes his eyes again as he sets the knife down. The tears start to slowly fall from his eyes, they’re hot and wet as they roll down his cheeks. “I let her go,” his voice teeters on the edge of breaking. “Man, these onions are really getting to me.”

“It’s okay to move on.” Atsumu sniffles and steps away from the counter to get a paper towel. He dries his eyes and nose and returns with freshly washed hands and a new set of gloves. They prep in silence for the rest of the night; even long after Y/N and Kita leave.

Kita and Y/N take a detour and wind up at a park. She questions the decision until Kita puts both of their hands in his pocket. He helps her balance as she walks along the plastic railing of the playground. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here.” She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. When she opens them she sees the swings; they’re rusted and could do with new mats under them but they’re the same as she remembers. With a small laugh she pulls them over to the swingset.

“Slow down,” he chuckles quietly as she pulls them to the swings, they trip slightly over the mulch in their pursuit.

“Maybe, you should hurry up.” She turns her head to look at him over her shoulder and he swears his heart skips a beat. He’s slightly out of breath when they make it over and sit down. They swing softly so as to not go too high and not hear each other anymore. “I’m glad I came back here with you. I’m glad I met you. I don’t think I could have done all this without you.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short,” he bumps her shoulder lightly. “I was just here to give you a job.”

It’s her turn to bump him. “Now who's selling themselves short? You did so much more than that.” She stops and turns to face him better and he mirrors her. “You make me feel safe.”

“You make me feel safe too,” they find themselves leaning closer to each other. “Your eyes are beautiful when they shine like this..” it’s a whisper almost lost to the wind and she can feel her breath hitch.

“Shine like what?” She tries to keep her composure but fails as her eyes flicker to his lips.

“Like the stars,” his hand moves from holding the cold chain to cupping her cheek. Despite the initial chill she doesn’t mind his cold hand holding her cheek. He closes the distance and she doesn’t have time to process it before he’s pulling away. “Oh my goodness, I’m so-”

“Kita Shinsuke. If you don’t shut up and let me finally kiss you we’re going to have problems,” she says breathlessly and puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls his lips back to hers. When they connect again it’s more than she thought it would be. His lips are soft, and they do taste of strawberry and honey. They taste of comfort and warmth, and something so inexplicable to him that she couldn’t picture a better taste in the world. She feels the wind chill and follows after Kita as he pulls away. “Why did you pull away?”

“It’s snowing,” he whispers against her lips. 

“Is it?”

“Yes, there’s bits stuck in your hair.” His hand goes up and smooths over her hair, taking the snow with it. She smiles and tilts her head back as the powdery snow falls from the clouds and she hopes the superstition is true.

 “Do you think the superstition is true?” She asks, she could picture a lifetime with him. It’s one of the easiest things she thinks she’s ever had to imagine. He’s so wonderful that loving him feels easy and she hopes that feeling doesn’t go away. She doesn’t want there to ever be a day that she stops loving Kita Shinsuke. She wants to still love him when his face grows smile lines and crow's feet, when there are sunspots coating his cheeks and shoulders. She wants him for as long as he will have her and she can only hope it’s for as long as she wants to have him.

“I sure hope so. I would love to spend a lifetime with you.” Her grin grows and she pushes herself back towards him and presses their lips against each other again. She can feel him smile into the kiss and she tangles her hands in his hair before having to pull away to sneeze. “Bless you,” he smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. 

“Thank you.”

“Let’s get you home before you catch a cold.” He helps her up and wraps his arm around her shoulder as they make their way back to his truck. When they arrive at his home he gives her a change of clothes and they sit on the couch watching movies before eventually going to his room and sleeping. His home was beginning to feel a bit more like it was their home, she had a spare key (a courtesy he had given her a few months after she started working for him). His closet space was overtaken by her clothes as her own closet began to dwindle, she knew he kept hair ties in the nightstand on the left side because that’s the side she always chose to sleep on. The layout of the house is as familiar to her as the back of her hand. She’s sure she could navigate it in the dark having been over so often. 

She’s happy there wasn’t a big moment of realization that she had fallen in love with Kita, it was less of a fall and more a gentle downhill stroll. One they took hand in hand every step of the way. The night she had first moved in it had rained and she remembers the day so clearly. It was one of those summer rain storms but on a cool night. She made Kita turn the porch lights on and grabbed his hand as she dragged him outside. He protested but there wasn’t anything to do to hide the pure joy on both of their faces. She taught him a simple box step and laughed whenever he would accidentally step on the toes of her shoes. His favorite part was spinning her, he got to see her laugh and smile as she spun around under the stream of water. Their clothes were well beyond soaked at this point and it was hard to convince her to go back inside. He almost didn’t want to.

She also remembers when they both got sick and had to take care of each other while doing their farmwork. That hadn’t been fun but waking up every morning seeing his face and ending every night safely held in his arms is fun. She doesn’t believe she will ever tire of the sight if she’s honest. Of how his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks before his eyes open. Or the dimple that appears when he smiles after she kisses his cheek. The quiet breaths have almost lulled her back to sleep a few times, Kita was so safe that it was hard to ever find a reason to leave his arms. Luckily for her he was never too far away. 

When the leaves change color they visit a shelter, she had noticed there were a few rodents on the farm (since she had moved into his home. Her little home no longer felt the same if he wasn’t with her). It had come up one day as they were looking over the finances. “We should get a farm cat.”

Kita takes a sip of his coffee before replying, “why?”

“I think we could use one.” 

“Whatever you want darling,” there’s a hint of a smile barely visible behind the rim of his mug as he takes another drink. It had taken them two more weeks to finally make the move, after one too many texts from Y/N with ads for adoptable cats near them he finally gave in. They make the drive out to a shelter and Kita pretends to be unfazed until Y/N puts a Siberian cat in his arms and she immediately starts purring. 

“Look! She likes you!” The cat twists and turns in his arms and makes biscuits in the air and he can’t help but fall in love. “Her name is Emi,” beautiful blessing. While he’s holding the purring cat in his arms he can’ help but think how fitting the name is, her coat is soft and a mixture of lighter and darker tones of brown. Her eyes are a shade of green that reminds him of emeralds. “Please Shin?”

“Alright.” It doesn’t take much convincing and if he’s being honest it was a yes as soon as the cat was put in his arms. She does well in the home and does even better at keeping the farm pest free. Kita can’t help himself when he goes to the pet store and sees a silk collar with a bow on it, he leaves the store with a bag of food (needed) and the brand new collar for Emi (...also needed). 

As the leaves turn into shades of oranges, yellows, and reds as they fall off the trees they find that Emi loves jumping into the leaves and then running back to you for you to rake them again. Although it could get a bit much if it had been a long day it does brighten their mood and they rake the leaves for her to jump in again. As the wind whistles quietly by them Kita and Y/N lay in their newly bought hammock. It sits in the place opposite their bench swing on the back porch. Kita likes laying in the hammock as he reads because he knows it means that a sleepy girlfriend– fiance comes wandering out and joins him by laying her head on his chest. A few minutes later the flap on the door hits against the wood and Emi jumps up to join them, finding her place in a spot between them and purrs loudly. 

“Shin, I love you…thank you.”

“I love you too darling, why are you thanking me?”

“Before you…before you I thought I was impossible to love,” she whispers and hears the soft thump as he closes his book and the shuffle of fabric as he turns to look at her. He leans his head down and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead and without moving too far responds.

“I don’t think anyone has ever actually tried. Loving you is easier than breathing.” She can’t help the flutter in her chest or the smile that always seems to grow on her face around him. “You’re perfect, and I love you. It’s impossible not to love you.”

“I think it’s pretty impossible not to love you too,” She tilts her head up and they share a gentle kiss. He opens his book again and moves it down so she’s able to read along with him.

“Let me know when you’re ready for me to turn the page,” he says gently as he lays his cheek against the top of her head. She realized that someone had finally seen through her mess. He had seen her fall apart and break more than once and he had stayed. He helped her as she opened up to him when she was ready, everything was on her time and if she hadn’t been ready to share anything nothing more was said on the topic until she brought it up. She found herself eating more pomegranate knowing him, there was never a mess and he would kiss her lips after she ate the seeds. She hoped it would stain his lips too, that there would be a reminder that they are stained together. That his nails would turn a pink hue from peeling back the skin to get to what’s inside. 

When the old ladies came into the shop she no longer dodged questions about their relationship and Kita was more than happy to step in and answer. She hit him on the shoulder when he got too sappy but the second he wraps his arms around her and kisses her cheek to apologize she realizes she’s not actually mad. Someone let her open up and reveal the mess inside, he hadn’t said anything, had only grabbed a towel and helped her clean up whatever mess she felt like that day. He was forever stained with the color of her and she hoped he always would be. She finally understood why people thought pomegranates were beautiful. After all Kita Shinsuke was beautiful and she is worth the mess.

a/n: this is a repost from my old account but i hope you guys enjoyed it anyway <3 want to be added to my taglist? you can find the form here

masterlist

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

Pregnancy: Sakusa

You’ve tried the pillows. The pregnancy belt. The heat pad. You’ve leaned forward, leaned back, sat on the edge of the couch with your feet planted just right like the blogs say. You’ve even tried that ridiculous looking yoga ball that Kuroo swore helped his sister. Nothing works. Not really.

Your lower back has become a constant, pulsing drumbeat of dull pain, like your spine itself is growing resentful. The weight of your belly pulls forward like an anchor strapped to your hips, and every time you shift, you swear you can hear your vertebrae protesting. There’s no sweet spot anymore, just a rotation of tolerable positions. You grit your teeth through them, muttering curses under your breath.

You’re laid sideways on the couch now, a pillow stuffed between your knees, one arm tucked under your bump, the other flopped over your eyes like you’re shielding yourself from the end of the world. It’s not even late. The sun’s still up, golden light filtering through the blinds. You just couldn’t take being vertical anymore.

This is the part no one talks about. Not the cute baby kicks, not the weird cravings or the glow everyone swears you have. It’s this—sore, swollen, and tired in a way that sleep can’t fix. Even breathing feels like it takes effort.

And through it all, Sakusa is there.

He’s been steady. Quietly doting. Not the type to coo over baby socks or rub your feet with oil while humming lullabies, but the kind of man who starts carrying hand sanitizer in your favorite scent just in case you need it. The kind who keeps snacks in the car, reminds you to hydrate without making it sound like a chore, who started going to prenatal appointments not because you asked, but because he wanted to understand everything. Who reads parenting books with sticky tabs and highlights and pretends he didn’t.

He’s not loud about it. He doesn’t post bump photos or narrate your journey in grand poetic terms. But he’s shown up every day in ways that matter. Never once flinching when you sobbed over dropped pickles or had a breakdown in the baby aisle because you couldn’t decide between two swaddle patterns. He holds the pieces when you feel like you’re falling apart. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

You hear the front door click open, then the quiet hush of it swinging closed. You don’t move. Just listen to the familiar sound of Sakusa’s footsteps coming in—soft, always measured, always deliberate. No keys clatter. He always puts them in the bowl on the shelf. No shoes squeaking either; he wipes them, every time. You know it’s him without having to look.

He pauses in the entryway, no doubt clocking the mess of your position. Then, his voice—calm and even, with that velvety weight that always makes your heart twitch even when you're annoyed.

“Back again?”

“Mmh,” you hum noncommittally, eyes still covered. “Felt like someone took a crowbar to my spine. So I gave up.”

There’s a beat of silence. You imagine him there, eyes scanning you—your hunched shoulders, the tension in your jaw, the deep set crease between your brows. He’s not the type to hover. Not the type to fuss, at least not where you can see it. But you know him well enough by now. If he could physically fight your discomfort, he would’ve by now. With gloves on.

You feel the couch dip near your legs. Then the rustle of a bag being set down.

“I read about something,” he says slowly.

You lower your arm just enough to peek at him. He’s still in his work clothes—jacket slung over the armrest, sleeves rolled neatly past his elbows, forearms bare. His mask is off, stashed away now that he’s home. You catch the faintest crease of worry between his brows, like he’s weighing the next words carefully.

“Can I try?” he asks.

You blink, too tired to be curious. “Whatever. Go for it.”

He tilts his head. “You have to stand up first.”

You lower your arm further to shoot him a flat look. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

You huff, but he’s already sliding a hand beneath your arm. Gently, steadily, he helps you sit up, then rise to your feet with the kind of efficiency that speaks to practice. He’s been doing this for weeks now—helping you in and out of bed, out of the car, off the floor when you insisted you could pick something up by yourself.

“I swear to god, if this is another stretch video where I end up looking like a tipped cow—”

“It’s not.”

“Because if I fall, I'm taking you down with me.”

“Duly noted.”

Once you’re upright, he steps behind you. You feel the warmth of him, close and focused. One of his hands briefly trails up your spine in a slow, soothing pass—a single stroke meant to coax your muscles into releasing some of their stubborn tension.

"Relax," he murmurs, voice low and steady, his breath brushing the shell of your ear.

Then his hands brush your hips and slide slowly beneath the swell of your belly. One palm anchors, the other adjusts. It’s deliberate, the kind of precise contact that could only come from research and repeat watching. Then—he lifts.

Just an inch. Maybe two. But it’s enough.

The relief is instant.

Your lower back uncoils like a spring released from tension. That hot, grinding ache that’s lived there for weeks just… lessens. Not gone entirely, but dulled. Blurred. Like someone finally turned the pressure dial down from an eleven to a manageable hum.

You let out a sound you weren’t expecting—a breath that shudders out of you with more feeling than you meant to show. Like your whole body’s been waiting for this and didn’t know how to ask.

“Oh,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut. “That’s… holy shit.”

You hear him exhale, and the barest hint of a smile follows in his voice.

“Guess it works.”

You nod, or try to. “What even—how’d you think of that?”

“There’s a forum,” he says. “A bunch of people were talking about it. Said lifting the weight can take pressure off the sacroiliac joint. Sounded reasonable.”

Of course it did. It’s so— him. Reading about biomechanics like it’s no big deal. Quietly researching ways to ease your pain without saying a word. You picture him in bed at night, phone dimmed, scrolling through medical threads while you snored beside him.

You lean back slightly, weight shifting into his hold like you’re trusting it—trusting him—with more than just the curve of your belly. His hands adjust to steady you.

Then you feel him begin to lower your bump back down.

“I didn’t say you could stop yet,” you murmur, voice hushed and wry.

His hands still immediately.

There's a pause, not because he's unsure—but because he’s listening. Because when it comes to you, Sakusa never rushes.

You feel his thumbs move slightly, drawing slow circles near your hips as he steadies the lift again, as if to say, I’ve got you.

"Should’ve tried this ages ago," you mumble.

You’re still basking in the quiet relief of his hold. Your back doesn’t feel like it's screaming anymore, and for the first time in hours, your body feels like it belongs to you again—like maybe you're not just a vessel walking around with sore feet and too many hormones.

He shifts slightly, adjusting the lift with a faint grunt.

"He’s heavy," Sakusa murmurs. There’s no complaint in his voice—just quiet awe.

You smile faintly, placing a hand over his. "That’s your fault."

"My fault?"

"You’re six-three, with legs like telephone poles. What did you think was gonna happen?"

He huffs a soft, amused breath behind you. "Could still be your fault. Maybe you manifested it."

You snort. "Yeah, I manifested a linebacker. Great job, me."

"He’s not even here yet and I already feel outnumbered," he mutters.

You squeeze his hand. "Don’t worry. He’ll probably inherit your poker face. You two can be brooding and beautiful together."

A beat. Then, so quiet it barely makes it to your ears:

"He’s going to be perfect."

You close your eyes, feeling everything swell in your chest all at once.

"He already is."

And there’s something so simple, so steadfast in the way he says it that you have to bite your lip against the warm rush crawling up your chest.

You rest your hand over his where it cups your belly. "Kiyoomi?"

"Mm."

"I love you."

His thumb strokes once, slow and deliberate. You hear the breath he draws, steady as ever.

"I know," he says quietly. "I love you too."

And just like that, in the stillness of your living room, with the soft glow of daylight bleeding through the windows and his arms supporting you from behind, you feel the kind of full-body peace that no prenatal yoga class has ever given you.

You don’t move. Neither does he. Because for now, this is enough.

[dragonslayer-5fanfiction]

We Don't Need Memories

Miya Atsumu x reader - 1k words

I've had a vision of this in my head for a while. I'm not sure it came out like I wanted, but I'm sharing anyway!

Atsumu has been too quiet in the bedroom for a suspiciously long time. He could be folding laundry or finally organizing his dresser drawers, but something tells you that's not the case. You haven't seen him do either in the month and a half you've been living together. With a sigh, you set your laptop aside and get up to investigate.

In the bedroom, Atsumu's sitting cross-legged on the floor. When he hears you creak open the door, his gaze snaps to you, frozen with one hand inside a familiar shoe box - one that you'd tucked in the back corner of the closet. Some of its contents are already spread out on the floor. So - he's discovered your secret.

"Hi," You say in a small voice, feeling a little bit guilty, even though you have no real reason to be.

"This is yours?" He asks, watching you as you sink down next to him. It's a silly non-question. Who else's would it be?

"Yeah," You admit as you reach for a magazine clipping on the floor. The newest pieces had been on top, so this is from only a few weeks ago, when the Black Jackals had been featured in an article. Under that is the newest team profile booklet, and a newspaper cover page from the Olympics last summer.

"You saved all this?" Atsumu asks, paging slowly through the pamphlet you'd picked up at his first ever Black Jackals game.

"I did," You nod, watching him carefully, trying to gauge his reaction. He's never been one for sentimentality, and you're afraid he'll think all of this is stupid. You've been saving things for quite a while now, because unlike him, sometimes you like to look back at where he's been, see how far he's come. Lately, you've even been thinking, maybe, if it comes to it, your future kids might like to see some of it too.

"How far back does this go?" He asks, digging through until he pulls out a cutout from your high school newspaper, featuring the team right before nationals in his second year. "Ya kept this from high school?" He asks in disbelief, looking intently at the faded photo of the old Inarizaki team. Finally, he looks up at you. "Why?"

You remember being 16, picking out your new boyfriend among his teammates on the front page of the school paper, so handsome in his uniform. You're not quite sure, even now, what had compelled you to actually cut it out and save it, but you're glad that you did. It had lived in the front cover of one of your notebooks for a while, until a few new clippings joined it. You'd finally converted to the shoe box after he joined the Jackals, and you'd cut out an article about him joining the team.

Since then, you've added advertisements he's done, glossy pamphlets from special games he's played in, and every article you've come across that so much as mentions his name. There's a whole chunk of Olympics memorabilia that you'd rubber banded together. Suffice to say, the humble box has grown pretty full over the years.

You shrug before answering his question. "Because I'm proud of you." It's the simplest answer, and it also happens to be the truth. You look down at the banner in the old article. "And maybe you don't need memories, but I like having them."

"Course yer proud of me," He says roughly, gingerly setting the old article back in the box. "Look at all this stuff I did." He pats the top of the pile.

"You don't think it's weird?" You finally ask with a quiet laugh.

"Nah," He says nonchalantly. "If ya wanna hang onto all this stuff, I don't care." He looks back down into the shoe box, perhaps blinking a little more quickly than usual.

"Okay then," You say, matching his tone. Something else in the box catches his eye, and he reaches for it. The two of you spend the next half hour paging through everything.

A few days later, after you've cleared the dinner dishes off the table, he hands you a thick envelope. You peek inside, and see that it's mostly photos. You look at him with a frown.

"I found some more stuff. For the box." He clears his throat. "I thought this stuff belonged in there, too."

"Oh," You carefully pull the bundle out of the envelope, surprised. The photos are glossy without a single fingerprint, almost as though he'd just had them printed. The first one is from after nationals in your third year, and features the two of you with matching wide smiles. You remember the feel of his sweat-slicked cheek pressed against yours. You smile looking down at your past selves. You look so young.

Most of the photos are similar. It's you and him, smiling together before or after his biggest matches. There's even one of you, wearing his Jackal's jersey, cheering in the stands. You have no idea when it was even taken.

Along with the photos, you're surprised to see some familiar scraps of paper. They say things like "I'm proud of you" or "I love you", decorated with cartoony hearts. There are even a few with goofy volleyball doodles you'd made. You've been hiding these silly little notes in his suitcase every time he travels, but you never dreamed he'd save them.

"Tsumu," You look up at him, his name the only word you can form. His expression is almost unbearably fond.

"Ya don't have anything like this in there." He shrugs. "Felt like it was missing something important."

"I didn't know you kept any of this," You say softly, spreading it out on the table in front of you.

He scoffs. "Yer not the only one who can save stuff." Abruptly, he pulls in close, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. "I love you," He murmurs into your hair.

You smile into his chest. "I love you too."