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luvuchihaa · 8 months

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THE CARD GAME BOKUTO KŌ

• Genre: smut (wee bit of fluff too?)

• Warnings: alcohol, public display, party environment, female reader, praise, raw fuckin, creampie, birth control, prn w plot! (moderately proofread)

• Synopsis: Simple. Pull a card, drink or do. If you do—make sure the players to your right or left are willing to risk it ;)

NO GUIDANCE- CHRIS BROWN & DRAKE at party

LIQUOR- CHRIS BROWN after bathroom

3K SPECIAL !!!

As the night falls of a big win, the team takes their pictures and sends their supportive families off to their hotels or long drives. You remain present a little later, as manager, with matters to tend to. Your family could come if they wished since you’re provided extra tickets; though you obviously aren’t playing, so unless they are just in the mood to watch than it was no point.

Coach strolls off joyfully. With his face flushed and breathless from the yelling, overwhelming audience, it all ended in a second when all sneakers stopped squeaking against the court. You signed for clean up duty even though it wasn’t your gym, but technically the event was hosted by MSBY.

The clipboard became light on your fingers as you swiftly walk to the closet of the facility. The high-pitched sound of the carts rolling multiples in the gym echo and you leave them on the court, under the (now dark) roof, the only lights being illuminated over play area.

This part was irritating some days, but others it was therapeutic. Your skin crawls at the mere thought of being alone, in the darkness, of an empty building— but the quicker you do it, the quicker you may leave.

You begin the easiest portion first, shagging any stray balls played with by kids or used for photos after play, but a large sum of the time is spent walking back and forth within the large gymnasium.

You will say though: even with repetition, the fear never completely dissolves because hearing the push door open while you’re standing in the dead center of the light gave you a heart attack. Weight shifted to your toes with building keys in hand, you only relax when you see a head of mixed hair.

“Hey,” his voice carries in a soft tone from afar, like it’s forbidden to be loud in a dark, vacant gym.

“Hey,” you parrot, leaning down to pick up the last ball. Once you walk it to the cart and scan again, you fully acknowledge him. “What are you doing back?”

He’s gotten closer now, with his water bottle still swinging in hand from earlier, but he is no longer in his jersey. “I don’t like to feel dirty with sweat longer than I have to,” he said a few years ago.

“Came to help you out,” he grins. The thin shirt he wore fell loose over his tight frame as he stuffs his own keys in his sweats. His hair was still slightly damp too, now fallen. Not because he washed the gel out, but because it is it’s “bedtime.”

You shake your head politely as you proceed to roll the carts back into the closet.

The corners of your mouth lift, “It’s alright, just part of the job,” you reply.

“I’m helping anyway, so you can try to shove me out if you want to.”

He does that famous grin of his, except a more tired version. He was calm and quiet. Extremely different from how you saw him around 35 minutes ago, but he was only like this when he was tired, upset, or something else you don’t know about. The exhaustion of play was probably just kicking in.

Clearly there was no pushing him out, no matter what sentiment about rest you could give him, so if he was here, he was going to help take down that almost-eight-foot net.

Once he gets both sides down, you come in to help roll/fold it, then use the bottom rope to tie it off. In the end, it took less than half the time it would’ve taken to do it alone, and that includes the endless giggles about nothing in particular throughout the whole thing. He carries the net and pads away over his bicep.

“So how long do you usually stay after?”

2 hours. You don’t tell him that, so instead you yell something along the lines of “Not too long!”

“I waited up for you because I noticed you’ve been the last to leave almost every time. Alone. Once you never came out, that’s when I realized you were in here working.”

He explains the situation from a different point of view. You had found yourself bending to pick up trash from the long rows of seats, skimming through to lay some work off the janitors. He finally appears out of the closet, so you walk back to the chairs that you were instructed to leave out.

The door closes loudly. He then outstretches one hand for the keys, with his opposite hand still located on the knob.

You toss them poorly, he easily catches them with a hearty chuckle.

Once you grab your things, you walk and talk side by side down the soundless hallways. You hadn’t known him long, and to be completely fair— you weren’t necessarily acquainted with everyone on the team— but he was very caring for the people around him. He was attentive, but forgetful. You’re not sure how it works, but if he forgets something, then does it really matter if he notices it each time?

“I don’t like that everyone gets to leave but you. I’ll start staying back.”

“That’s not necessary; I’m a big girl,” you entertain.

“It just feels wrong. Leaving you here by yourself too? No,” he declares. He shakes his head tenaciously, and despite his large steps, his shoulder remains brushing against yours in sync.

“…You do realize how bad this looks right? A player staying back with the staff?”

A boisterous laugh erupts from him, “Only if you word it like that. We’re the same age, both students, and you’re the manager—not the coach. What can they say? I’m fucking you for a better looking jersey?”

Oh okay. woah.

You almost physically recoil in shock, but it just renders you speechless for a moment; moreso the images that just flashed into your head.

It seems he picked up on it, because he rushes to apologize.

“Shit- sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“No, no, it’s okay—I really don’t mind,” you console. It just caught you off guard, and it was obvious what he meant, so none of this was his fault. Also holy shit? Bokuto saying “fucking” in that way? You’re slightly tempted to ask him to repeat it. This proves the image of him in your head is a lot more innocent and less vulgar than the real one.

There’s a light flush to his skin and his shoulders are tensed, but it doesn’t stop him from teasing you.

“You say you really don’t mind?” He leans down to repeat the words in your ear, except when he says it, it’s significantly dirtier than when you did. He’s trying to imply you wouldn’t mind him…doing that to you.

Would you?

He contemplates his next words in your silence.

“It almost sounds like you’d like it,” he breathes out, but the devious grin lurks behind it.

“Stooop,” you roll your eyes and wrap your fingers around his face. He giggles even as you shove him away jokingly.

Once calm from his own fit of laughter, he tells you the team is supposed to celebrate tonight at home and he wants you to come. You oblige after making him beg a few times for forgiveness.

He did warn it would technically be as if they were out, but you don’t mind. They deserve it. Drinking at home is also better than drinking elsewhere anyway: no risking an image, no chance at driving, and since everyone knows each other, it automatically becomes somewhat safer.

Passing the concessions on the way out, you make sure to list the stock of what’s left while you leave him to count the money collected.

The roles were supposed to be reversed, but you don’t complain as you get to watch him handle the money like second nature. A small muscle in his arm flexes as the bills fly past his fingers and he whispers the numbers aloud to himself.

“You’re really good at that.” You say in awe. You weren’t aware how close you were leaning over his shoulder until the slight turn of his head has his nose about an inch from yours.

“Learned a little something from a business friend of mine,” he sighs in a hushed tone. He took the compliment shyly as if there weren’t fans screaming his name about an hour prior.

You clear your throat and provide him space before he relays the number to you. Thank god it’s dark.

He wishes you didn’t—he enjoyed the feeling of your small hands over his broad shoulders.

. .

The time nears 10 o’clock when you head to Bokuto’s. There wasn’t much to do at home other than shower, and because it was a casual event, you arrived in a cute pair of jeans and a tank.

The door opens to a familiar face. Soon you’re being led to the living room where music and low lights set the mood, some players of the team surround you, drinks are being passed around, and the atmosphere is far more calming than any club you’ve ever attended.

Atsumu is the first to greet you. He rises to his feet for a hug, expressing how much he didn’t think you would come to something like this.

As you look around, others are genuinely surprised by your presence as well, but it’s expected. For some, it’s the first time they’ve seen you outside of practice. Bokuto watches you begin to become uncomfortable under curious eyes.

The large hand that loops around your waist sends a warm wave through your body. He towers over you, all muscle and height, so when you look up to see his smile, you can’t help but return it. He leans down, fanning cool breath against your skin like earlier.

“Can I get you a drink? You okay?” A fulfilling scent floods your nose. God, what cologne was he wearing?

“I’m okay, thank you.”

He twists you to his seat on the sectional couch, to which he picks the spot on the floor right next to you. The feeling of his hand lingers.

You speak to Sakusa. The liquor in his hand is almost to the bottom, but he still seems more than present.

The TV plays in the background and you slowly ease into the party by conversation. Bokuto’s voice is so distinctive you can hear it whether you’re listening or not. His conversations with Hinata are pure amusement, especially as they talk about moments from the game. Sakusa asks about your family, what you study, things of that nature—it was very refreshing actually.

The team celebration was more team bonding and getting to know the players for you. A lot of how they act reflects on the court.

Some old friends of his along with other girls were there, presumably some their partners, but essentially it was a equal group. It didn’t stop the fun, because in the end, Meian had won every Uno game held and everyone had a justified animosity towards Sakusa for all his plus 4s. He’s fully aware of it, and as you all glare, he tips his head back, laughing incessantly.

You were slightly scared of him at first because he was so reserved.

At the height of the night, in the midst of tipsy attendees, someone pulls out a box from under the coffee table. You’re not even sure if it was Bokuto’s.

“Drink or Do,” A dark haired woman reads aloud. She glances around the crowded couch knowingly, silently asking if we were down. Hell, half of you were already drunk. The game was just “Do” by this point.

Of course, Atsumu is the first to audibly agree as if the slight slur of his words wasn’t enough signification he shouldn’t be playing.

She pushes her glasses further up her nose before displaying the contents of the game. She impressively shuffles the cards, clearly showcasing her sobriety. Bokuto suddenly grunts underneath you.

He raises himself just enough to slip up onto the couch beside you. You watch quietly.

He must’ve seen your shameless, big eyes admiring him too.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you return. His lips stretch into a show-stopping smile and he turns his attention to the table. You follow his gaze to the game neatly assembled.

“Thanks Kiyoko. Who goes first?”

She shrugs and it was concluded you all would follow in a circle. Kuroo takes one for the team, first getting up and retrieving an extra bottle of liquor. His fingers connect around a card from the middle, all eyes falling on him in anticipation. It was explained on the pack that you could either get a physical card or a card about truth.

You only know the court versions of these men even though they knew each other, so your back hits the support of the couch in underlying excitement.

Kuroo reads it first to himself, then aloud.

“Name two other people you would have a threesome with or take a shot.”

A truth card. However, it seemed to take him no time to think about it.

“Alisa and Bo.” He slides the card unabashedly to a random spot on the coffee table, creating a potential pile for the rest of the used ones. The man beside you just crosses his arms and chuckles. His shirt stops about halfway down his deltoid and hugs him perfectly at the top, almost like it was altered just for you to look—it’s painful to look away, catching sight of Alisa giggling and pulling a card next.

“‘Take a shot from a player’s chest. The last player picks who.’ So regardless, I have to drink. How is this fair?”

All eyes land to Kuroo, conversing with Meian. He catches the memo, but doesn’t seem to care about his pick. He says Kiyoko.

Kiyoko wastes no time filling a shot to the brim. She places it snugly between her breasts, then awaits Alisa impatiently. She eventually places both hands to the gray-haired girl’s face, leading her face directly to her boobs. They laugh genuinely through the whole thing.

The fact that those two were playing this game implied they were single, and all you can think is holy hell, how is that possible? She wraps her plump lips around the glass rim, tilts her head up, and allows the liquid trail down her throat once free. A flood of groans and comedic applause fill the air.

“Is there something you would like to tell us Alisa?” Aran insinuates.

She then manually removes the glass from her mouth, dropping it to the table and brushing her bottom lip off flirtatiously at Kiyoko. “Your turn!”

. .

Kiyoko ends up admitting to the three riskiest places she’s ever fucked, stoking a heated discussion about the best and worst places to do it within the table. Everyone had clear opinions.

“At a school though? Really? I’m no saint, but that’s foul.”

Next, as told by the card, Sakusa must give a hickey to the random player on his left.

It was you.

He sucks on the surface of his teeth with a smile after reading the card, his gaze slowly turning to meet yours. You only stare at each other curiously.

He’s the first to speak up: “Are you…?” His brows furrow.

“I’m cool about it.” You aren’t sure if it’s the liquor swimming through your bloodstream providing you confidence but you lean your chest forward, unintentionally displaying your breasts in the low tank, and tilt your head up just enough. It was so fast, though once he concluded you were sure it all happened naturally.

One hand of his comes up to cup your jaw. In contrast, the other softly slides up your collarbone, wrapping back around until the strap of your cami is being nudged off your shoulder. He gravitates closer until all you see is a full head of dark hair.

“I’ll spare you,” he hums, leaving only you to hear him. Your brain is too occupied by his overwhelming presence to understand he meant putting it in a spot that wouldn’t have people questioning you left and right.

Then finally, his pink lips attach, sucking hard enough for the surface cells to break, effectively creating a hickey that darkens by the second.

You have to remind yourself to keep breathing.

He leaves a few open mouthed kisses on the spot to soothe the pain, but if you didn’t know any better you’d say he got carried away. The back and forth drag of his thumb on your jaw and the fluttering kisses leading up to your under ear tell you so. Others seem to see it too. Is it wrong to thread your fingers through his hair?

The moment ends almost as quickly as it came, and the game moves on. You reach for the top of the deck and flip it around.

“Act out your favorite sexual position with the player to your left for fifteen seconds.”

Dammit, all these left cards will be the death of you.

You survey Bokuto, in all his hair-down glory, just as Sakusa had you. “Uhh…” a downturned smile carves onto your features.

Alisa giddily reassures, “C’mon girl, don’t get all shy on us now!”

Surprisingly, it gives you enough courage to at least look Bokuto in his golden eyes. They were low with alcohol, anger, or something else.

“I don’t know— I don’t really have a favorite,” you admit. “Missionary, I guess?”

Maybe you should’ve picked a different one; you could easily swing your leg over him to cowgirl and be done. Leisurely, his arms uncross as he twists to face you, then he places his large hands around your ribcage to effortlessly lift you up and forward. You lean backwards with the newfound space, but once you’re down, he grips your hips and roughly pulls you close to him.

At the same time he slots himself between your legs, his fingers swiftly curl under your knees and lift them until they’re pressed to the side of your breasts.

All broad and firm that he is, he completely crowded your area. His fingers creep to your nape, trekking through the hair there, the heart of his thumbs resting upon your cheeks. Your hands subconsciously roll up his arms.

You attempt to scan him above you and search for any ounce of discomfort—or any emotion for that matter—but instead, you find him hyper-focused on the bruising spot Sakusa initiated. Like it personally offends him, he won’t look away. You’re so close you can see his jaw tense.

“Bokuto,” you whisper. He finally catches your eye.

His back rises with a deep breath through his nose. He still struggles to look at your eyes since he was now fixed on your lips, despite being a few centimeters away. “Hm?”

You drift your fingers to wrap around the base of his neck loosely. “It feels like you’re frustrated.”

The chance to ease the tension worked, because his forehead drops to yours as his shoulders shake the slightest bit. After a long time of waiting, those glowing eyes of his locate you skittishly.

“Fuck, you’re killing me over here.”

A blare over the music sounds. “Times up,” someone’s voice calls.

. .

Eventually, you’d sobered up a bit by doing all your cards. You applaud yourself for it; some of those truth ones were harsh.

“Hey, where’s the restroom? I need to go, like, now.“

“The guest bathroom is over there, but I think someone’s in it and Bo’s bathroom is closer.” Kuroo points. “Through that door to the right.” You nod and journey your way past a few people.

The door to Bokuto’s room unlocks, causing him to look up from his position in the beside. You wish you could stay to look longer but you sprint past him and into the bathroom, only having enough time to close both doors out of respect.

. .

Correcting yourself one last time, you walk out with a now-dry hand closing the door behind you. To your surprise, Bokuto is still there.

“Sorry, yours was closer.”

He glances up from his phone. “It’s fine. Did you snoop?”

“A little.” You shrug facetiously. “Are you coming back out? To the party?”

He narrows his eyes accusingly, searching between you and the bathroom, then shakes his head as if to remove the previous ides from his brain. He casts another smile with a small laugh.

Is he ever not happy? You knew the answer, it surfaced just fine when he realized you worked alone while everyone else went home.

“Oh, uhh— maybe. Might be a while.”

You step closer, “Why, what’s up?”

He sighs deeply and huffs, “I’m just not…decent. Probably won’t be for a while.” In opposition to the smile on his face, his brows are furrowed. And they’ll tell you if you really want to know what he’s thinking.

“You aren’t…decent?” Your own eyebrows twist in confusion.

“Forget it, I should be out soon.”

“No, you just said you wouldn’t be. You can try to shove me out if you want to, but I’m staying until you tell me.” The deliberate use of his words has him contemplating whether he should lie or give in. You’re bent with both hands on your knees before him now, trying to look under his hair due to his hunch. It doesn’t take long until he concludes you’re too stubborn.

“Alright then.” He raises his head completely and uses his palms as support when he leans back. “You’ve got me hard as a fucking rock. If I left now, I’d be throwing myself into the lion’s den.”

Unintentionally, you shoot a glance to his sweats, only to find out he was as serious as you were. Somehow, only one question came to mind.

“I did it? Me?”

“Yes, you,” he mocks.

You stand in front of him, still bent over, blinking. He’d been tucked away in here because of the game? You just thought he left to do something and he’d return at some point; it was his house after all.

“How?”

He watches with disbelief plastered on his face. “How? You’ve been doing it all day. Touching me, looking up at me how you do—and God those eyes turn me into a horrible person. You might not have even realized it, but when I was on top of you, you connected your ankles like you didn’t want me to go. I was done the second I felt it.”

He kept going, “I didn’t want to scare you off, especially considering you work with us everyday.”

“I’m not scared,” you quickly respond, realizing you’d have to take initiative when his eyebrows raise and you spot a faint blush overtaking his skin. In fact, he makes you feel safer, like there’s an exaggerated sense of invincibility because he’ll always make sure you’re okay. There’s no way your heart has been beating this hard this whole time. He could probably hear it.

One step at a time, you saunter until you’re close enough for his arms to connect around your body.

His eyes are wide and glistening as if he couldn’t believe the scene in front of him.

He goes to stand, but you lightly press his shoulders down, advising him to slowly sink back to the duvet. His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow once your finger tilts his chin up even further, the prospect getting the best of him when you lean this slightest bit into his lips. They connect without a sliver of space. It feels so surreal, so soft, and you begin to wholeheartedly believe the soft buzz from one of these would raise your mood any time. It was slow, innocent, and sweet to get used to each other, but when your leg rose at his side to crawl onto him, he knew he was fucked.

Of course, he welcomes you with open arms, hands moving nonstop along your back once you’re sat comfortably. Following the grab at his hair, there’s a deep rumble in his chest. Desire surges through you at the sound. You turn your head and bite on his bottom lip, a soft sound of your own flowing out when it plops back into place.

His tongue molds into the kiss as his hands travel lower, down your thighs and gliding back up to your ass. Soft touches morph into gropes. With the pressure already there, a small grind against him is imminent. Connecting both arms around his neck, you decide to tell him what you want and breathe a bit.

“Off,” you whisper, “I want it off.”

In no time, with one more kiss to the nose, he stands with his hands hooked under your thighs, turning completely around and laying you on his bed.

He only pulls away momentarily to turn the lock on his door, pinch at the end of the thin shirt that does him more than justice and tug it over his head. Now bare from the waist up, he comes to hover over you in the same position from about 30 minutes prior.

If only you could see his back, but the view from the front does not disappoint. Sculpted to perfection, strong and demanding attention. He kisses you again, this time farther to your neck and sliding his hands down your body, leaving your back to arch upwards from the bed in hopes he’ll go lower.

Then in a split second, you’re back to square one. He gazes at the mark of his teammate on your collarbone.

“Bo-“

Before you can even finish his name, he redirects back up to your neck, wrapping the opposite hand around it to force your chin up, then begins sucking a fresh new hickey. Hard. And clearly more visible than the lower one already there.

It almost makes you hiss because it was already a bright red, but you don’t mind. He removes himself to stand as if it never happened and tugs at your jeans with his fingers.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure.”

He slides them down and off, dropping them on the floor uselessly. Groaning, his eyes travel down your body.

“Are you real?” It falls from his mouth before he can stop it.

“I think so.”

He massages your legs, easily removing every knot in your calves. “Feel like I’m dreaming. Had to make sure.” He places a light kisses everywhere from your belly-button to your toes, drifting towards your center, worshiping your thighs and humming.

He surveys you through his light eyelashes.

“If I had to take a guess, I would say you’re wet right now.” He shrugs. “Could be wrong.”

As if to accentuate his words, the light touch over the line of your panties makes you shiver. Defiantly, you shake your head no as if your body hadn’t already betrayed you. He feigns innocence, his brows turning upward in the process.

“That’s, of course, just a guess though.”

He pulls gently from your hips and slowly slides the fabric down your legs. He watches hungrily as he reveals every part of you. Unlike earlier, he wastes no time to shallowly dip a thumb between your folds, causing a deep, held breath from you both to mix with the air at the same time. The pad of his finger reaches your clit and begins circling.

You attempt to sit up when your hips begin to fidget but you’re caged by his own chest. He’s risen above you again. He can’t resist the chance to kiss you when he’s so close, so it’s eager but still sensual.

“Seems like it wasn’t just a guess, hm?” He grins against your lips.

“I hate you,” you whisper in return.

“Really? I don’t think you do.”

Simultaneously, a finger plunges into your wetness while his thumb remains circling, immediately being coated by the liquids you swore weren’t there. The gravel yet softness of his voice breezing through your ears is not helping your situation. In fact, your hands come to comb through the hair on his head when your mouth drops and your breasts reach his chest, only divided by the fabric of your shirt you wish was gone.

His finger is much bigger than your own so your eyes flutter shut as he moves it inside and kisses your neck. He feels around, watching what moves your hips where, and once he finds a specific spot, he ignores it.

Adding another finger, he pulls them apart inside to stretch you out. Your breaths below him quicken as he increases speed, your body trying to refill everything he is taking out of you. He, on the other hand, is greatly enjoying himself; so much so that he adjusts his position lower down your body, giving his supporting elbow and hand enough freedom to tug your tank and bra down the side closest to him. It’s bundled under your breast now, practically asking him to suck on it. He was going to anyway.

He kneads first, then attaches his plush lips to the nub there. All while toying with you below.

It’s not long before it’s too much, the sight itself and what it’s doing to the little spot below your stomach. He adds one more finger when sensing that you’re close. Soft moans and whimpers cover the sounds he makes beneath you.

With a pop and one last stretch of his fingers, he pulls out before you can release, leaving you angry and empty.

“Oh my god, you cannot be fucking serio-“ He forces the fingers coated in your own slick past your lips and down your throat. The other hand pushes his waistband down to show his black boxer briefs as he somehow kicks the sweats off.

While you were mad at him, you didn’t fight it, and it didn’t take him long at all to notice that you don’t have a gag reflex. He pulls them out shiny and clean sometime later.

“I should kill you,” you assert breathlessly. It held no weight considering you aren’t even looking at him, but at the ceiling.

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.” He ignores. His large arms scoop under you, having you being carried bridal style momentarily, then the bed creaks when your back hits and you bounce from the impact. This time, your head hits fluffy pillows bound with silk coverings. The man was obsessed with his hair.

You take this time to pull the rest of your shirt off and throw it away where you assume your pants are. He leaves to open a drawer in his bedside table before finishing with a packet in his hand. “I can talk dirty to you.”

“Please, make more threats on my life baby.” The sheets cave as he crawls back over, kissing your abdomen with the plastic still in hand. To be fair, you could say anything to him right now and it wouldn’t make him any less hard. You take both your breasts in your hands.

“You can fuck me without it, I’m on birth control,” you coo.

His movements pause instantly. His shoulders tense, like he stops breathing, and a rush of embarrassment waves over you. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable? He could just forget you said it.

Checking on him, you look down, only to find a head of black and white hair looking back at you instead of him.

“Are you sober?” It comes out as a complete switch in tone. A demand to tell him accompanied by the multiplied grip on your waist.

“Yes.”

Bokuto likes to believe he’s a good man. A good man with a lot of self-restraint, especially compared to his friends. And to anyone else, his immediate thought is no, but who is he to deny something like that from you? From you? Truth be told, the thought of ruining you bare is enough for him to accept the offer.

“Flip over, ass up.” He tosses the plastic to land perfectly on his nightstand. His seriousness prompts you to move faster than usual, obeying him despite how bad you want to piss him off to hear more. A few more soft creaks in the background help you conclude he’s shuffling around, but then it goes quiet.

“Bokuto?”

When you struggle to twist around, it doesn’t matter in the end because he’s slowly pushing himself inside. Your eyes blow wide and close. You mutter, “Holy shit.”

Your face contorts into one of mixed emotions; his expression showcases pain behind you. It’s like you can feel your walls enclose his tip, spread open to traverse up the head and stay there.

“It shouldn’t hurt, but if it does, tell me,” he advises. You nod in response.

He leans his hips further. Inhaling deep breaths, you feel comfort the second he curls his body over yours and waits in the crook of your neck. It’s silence aside from the bass reverberating lowly in his living room. “Give me an update.”

“You’re big,” is all you plan to say. Bokuto is not the most humble person you know and he would take something like that to the grave.

“You’re halfway.”

Fucking halfway? There’s no way.

He groans as he grinds all the way in until he’s balls deep, caressing the skin on your back as if it accounts for his actions. It didn’t hurt just like he’d said, but it felt like there was something foreign stuffing you up like a goddamn turkey. He might have been a little impatient, he admits.

“Your word is red.” There was sweat dripping down your face and it couldn’t have been flattering. “Do you trust me?”

“I do.”

Retracting to palm the dimples of your back, his cock slides against your walls until just the tip is peeking in, then he curls his hips forward back into your heat. You wish you could say it felt amazing, but it was actually quite uncomfortable.

It just felt like exactly what he was doing—rubbing along the rubber of your walls.

On his side, he was about to faint. You were gripping him so hard it was suffocating. It felt so good since he was fully bare, feeling every contraction and pulse of your pussy, but there was nothing he could do to ease you up other than keep going.

An idea popped into his head at the thought, sending his hand down to your jaw, twisting it enough to him where he could bend and lock your lips. The sultry sigh that leaves your mouth travels through his.

He continues the slow thrusts as your lips move with eachother. The angle of your neck proved burdensome, but you would do anything to have him as close as possible so you have no choice but to smell that cologne you like so much.

Your soft sounds increased in volume and became more frequent like he foresaw; therefore, he knew the moans were less from his tongue down your throat and more from his unstopping movements before you did. He pulls away and you follow him, but he goes too far.

He rises again, rubbing his hands in a circular motion around the curve of your ass. He brings one down harshly and grips like he’s feeling you up.

“Harder,” you mumble. He barely hears it, but when he’s sure he did, he follows orders. You don’t even flinch, but now there’s a reddening print of his large hand as evidence to what you asked of him.

Amused, he switches his attention to the bounce of your ass when it hits his body. The momentum now carries you smoothly.

“How’s it feel?” He calls. From below, your cheek is pressed comfortably to the silk.

“Feels good.”

That’s all he was waiting on. Just good. It didn’t hurt and you weren’t uncomfortable, it was just good. As long as it felt okay for you, he’s sure he can make it better later.

Later is now.

He lifts one leg to a lunge and corrects his hand positioning snugly to your hips, then tugs you down forcefully. So hard it feels like a jolt shoots from your core. If the headboard wasn’t bolted to the damn wall, it would’ve broken.

Back and forth, he fucks you onto himself. A long, seductive whine is muffled by the pillow at your lips, turning uneven with every snap of his hips. Now that the uneasiness was gone, he can do what has been the star thought of the day: the slapping of skin, the creak of the bed, and the grunts from the man causing it all are music to his ears, and soon, the feeling under your tummy runs back up.

“Bokuto.”

He laughs deeply at this. The pillow sinks when you dig your face as far as possible into your arms as your cheeks flush over, able to somehow still find a way to be embarrassed, but he notices and goes to explain himself.

“You’re the only person I know that won’t call me Kōtarō even if I’m buried to the hilt inside of you.”

What you were going to tell him is how the feeling is coming barreling back, the same feeling he previously revoked from you last second. The man slips past your entrance with ease now, no friction to stop him, leaving his fat tip to spread the clear essence dripping down your folds, his shaft, and now coating your thighs in a sheen of gloss. Your ass slams against his front continuously, reddening with every ricochet.

The heat of your connecting bodies already fills the room to make the atmosphere stuffy but neither of you seem to mind. His fingers dig into your skin, creating little indents. You whimper, “Kōtarō?”

“Hm?” You can’t see him, but you can imagine the little held tilt he does. You wish you could think about it longer. The image disappears as fast as it came, not standing a chance to your nerves on edge from of his length plowing through you.

“I’m close- don’t stop. Please.”

“It wasn’t part of the plan, baby.”

To him it probably wasn’t even that bad. He was moving his hips at high energy, just as he does everyday— but for someone who’s not a professional athlete, it was pretty discouraging to think about his stamina versus yours.

There’s a tug on your arm, silently informing you he’s going to pull it. He does, bringing the other one along too, and gathers both your wrists in one hand to raise your chest with the support of his open palm across your stomach.

Your back is to his front and your impressive arch can’t be covered by the hair trickling off your shoulders. He shifts his weight back to stabilize you both, then positions you so you won’t fall over: a hand cupping your breast while the other bases your jaw up. The coolness of his breath nears once he begins to nip at your ear. Just as you requested, he never stopped.

“You’re so beautiful,” he admires.

In an attempt to push back the little bubble in your heart, you focus the attention on the little bubble in your tummy. You don’t respond but whimper in acknowledgement.

Unfortunately for you, the man can snuff out anything he doesn’t feel is right. You ask him how; he calls it a hunch.

“I mean it.” His lips attach to your neck once more, sucking and kissing until there’s another spot to match the one given earlier. The music in the house is faint now, though it could be clouded by the euphoria of the new angle considering you can’t seem to hear anything else but him.

With that he punctuates each thrust like he has something to prove. To prove he does truly believe it— and if the info wouldn’t go through your brain, then maybe it would go somewhere else. He admires the effort to force your ass down and meet him halfway after you hang your head loosely off his big shoulder.

“Kōtarō,” you cry out his name, and it is by far the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. It even puts when you told him he could “fuck you without it” to shame.

“I’m here, relax.” He reassures, and it truly felt like he was. You two were too close to be called two separate beings, and with only a slight turn, you’d be staring directly into his eyes. You claw your fingers around his wrist at your neck, hoping, praying to God that he wouldn’t whimsically disappear the second you’re done with this whole thing.

If the recoil from how precise his thrusts were didn’t throw you around he would be a second away from kissing your forehead. Finally, your eyebrows synch in the middle and your lips form a pout.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck!”

It was silent for the moment of your release for the same reason. Because it felt like you were fucking floating. Your heavy breaths were short, and it took all the stamina he had left in the day not to paint your insides white. In fact, a line of faded white heterogeneously mixed with clear dripped freely to his balls, but it was yours. Every time you gasp for air, your cavern stretches and retracts around his tip.

Huffing with fatigue, you regain the ability to think. He steals your breath the second you regain it. It feels so good to kiss him again, to have him close, but he carefully lifts your head, pulls out, and lies you down. On your back.

He takes this time to sulk in your attention and allow your high to dissolve. Plus, multitasking is great, though he loves feeling your hands on him singularly.

“Think you can go another?” He grins. You think about your answer. Not for long, because whether you could or not, you wanted it to happen even if it meant fighting to keep your eyes open.

“Yeah. Will it be as good as the first?”

“Of course. If not, money back guaranteed.” A gust of air blows from his small laugh, and it adds to the desire to kiss him. “Let me see you slip it in yourself.”

Instead of answering, you reach down between the two of you, delicately wrap your fingers around his head that is now wet and throbbing an angry-red, lift it up to your clit where you swirl it around for extra measure, then position it just right to shuffle down on it yourself. Everything was swollen and sticky.

You look up to his eyes during the satisfied sigh that leaves both of you, the fullness returning. It felt like a part of you was missing the second he pulled out.

“Good girl,” he praises, pressing a short-lived kiss to your lips. He had spent the little time ensuring your ankles dangled over his shoulders, beside his ears, leaving your knees pressed to your breasts, imprisoned by his large frame. He’s far from it if you know him in person, but even just his stature makes you feel dominated. Almost comedically, everything to this point has been completely in your control and you knew it.

He was slower with you the second time, rebuilding the heat in your stomach strategically. Every thrust was ten times longer than the next until he completely slowed down to a speed he found fit.

Unfortunately for him, it didn’t take long to build at all, especially with the squelching noise from each time he enters you, opens you up, closes when he pulls back, and leaves your insides to match the outline of his cock. He was propped on his elbows, but still close enough for your arms to span the entirety of his back. His skin had tanned the slightest bit with the summer so the scratch marks you leave may be a slightly darker red than usual.

“Fuck, you feel incredible. There’s no way I can prepare myself each time.”

“So good,” you moan half-mindedly. If you weren’t so satiated, but in the right state of mind, you definitely still would have said it. It’s directly in his ear to genuinely test his patience, and giving him the primal urge to mark your neck until the entire thing turns purple. He knows it’s a stretch in his head yet it’s still only barely enough to convince him not to do it.

“Yeah? You like to take it slow?”

You nod but clarify, “Both.”

Taking the hint clear as day, he increases speed by getting off his elbows and holding under your knees, effectively switching the weight to his biceps to keep balance. Consequently, your lower back rises from the covers even more as you tilt backward. Thank god for your flexibility.

The back of your thighs redden and start to itch from purely how hard he was coming down on you, slamming you into the bed relentlessly. His vision is narrowed by the position of your legs in front of his face, but with them so close together, you could feel every part of him— every vein, drop, and movement into your heat.

“Bo!”

Once you realize it wasn’t you calling his name, but someone else who was rapping at the door on the other side, adrenaline shoots through you, tensing your body, successfully closing up your entrance and emitting a throaty groan from the man currently on top of you. “Man, you in there?”

He notices how uncomfortable you become just by your body language. Dropping your legs to the side of his hips, he regains access to your face so he may relieve your nerves with a comfort forehead rub. There was sweat gathered at your hairline, no doubt. His brows dip down at the thought of anyone ruining the moment when he turns to look at the door.

“Bokuto,” you whisper aggressively, an angry crease forming between your own brows. He snaps his head back to you, softening his gaze.

“Kōtarō,” he rectifies.

This only widens your eyes more. He cannot be serious. “That’s not important right no-”

His hand comes up to cover your mouth, only avoiding your nostrils. You even consider licking him but you rule it out as the childish option.

“It’s Kuroo,” he declares from outside the room, “I sent someone in here earlier. Is she good?” Kōtarō’s head twists back to the door.

“You sent someone in here?” Bokuto replies loudly, not missing a beat. Instead of dismissing him, he asks a question back. Classic Bokuto.

“Yeah, did she not come in?”

“No.” You wait impatiently and silently, still flustered by the whole thing. Bokuto seemed cool as a cucumber; the glare he possessed dissolved quickly. “Who was it?”

“Uhh, I’m not completely sure. I don’t know her name.”

You two had spent an entire game together, drinking and bonding, and he still didn’t know your name. What else could you expect though?

At least he came to check up on you, so you give him the benefit of the doubt.

On another note, Bokuto seems to be prolonging the conversation for his own amusement. If only he would look back at you to see the scowl in your eyes.

“Oh well. I didn’t see anyone.”

His attention reverts to your face and he temporarily removes his hand, but when you begin speaking again, he covers it back up and draws his body in close. Closer than he already was.

“You okay? You’ve been in there forever,” Kuroo adds. Why won’t he just leave?

“Yeah, just had to take a call. Did you want something?”

Bokuto ends his sentence with the trail of his thumb over your forehead. You feel his cock pulse inside of you, then to your surprise, begin to push even deeper. He pulls out, and repeats the action.

The faint hum and gust of air he feels on his finger from your nostril signifies your pleasure. If Kuroo knew he was fueling Bokuto’s risky fantasies, he would pester him all day about it. It felt too good to be mad at him.

“I’ve been over all this time and don’t know where your lighters are,” Kuroo goes on, “I checked the kitchen drawer next to the sink.”

Truthfully, the player above you couldn’t care less about whatever the fuck he was talking about. The idea of filling you up just right as you desperately try not to make a sound that will notify the man on the other side of this very door where you actually are is too good to pass up. Underneath one of your teammates— as a reminder.

“No weed,” he tells his friend, “we randomly get tested throughout the season.”

While Kuroo tries to prove that’s not what it’s for, all of Bo’s focus is on you just as it had been due to your wriggling beneath him. These thrusts were back to slow but meaningful, and too deep to be labeled natural. He whispers profanities to you whenever he doesn’t have to answer his best friend, and this time, he warns, “You’re gonna get us caught, beautiful.” Little did you know, it was all up to his master plan.

“Check the bottom left drawer of guest bathroom.”

He readjusts his positioning, attempting to pinpoint the spot he discovered sometime earlier. A few quiet mattress creaks and experimental thrusts later, his palm is still covering your lips in an attempt to reduce any sound about to give you away in case he hadn’t left, his other hand is brushing hair away from your face gently, and his hips are curling into an area that has an unbelievable amount of control over your legs. They shudder when he repeatedly hits it spot on.

A loud whine and the occasional groan he couldn’t conceal leaves your mouth, just barely going undetected. Or so you think. Your waist wiggles as your hands roam around his chest frantically. He was so smooth with it, like he had no plan of stopping anytime soon and he was programmed to continuously grind in your prostate. It was like it was just you two in a competition to see who would give in first.

Not even an inch apart, watching your soul and gauging your reactions through your orbs, his eyes all pretty and gold scan yours. Similarly enough, the resemblance to an owl is definitely there.

There was a tremble in your legs at the filling pool in your stomach. He grabs your moving hand by the wrist and flattens it over your lower tummy, then rests his on yours, applying pressure. On top of emphasizing the heat, you can barely feel the head of his cock rough in and out.

“You think I don’t know exactly what turns you on? What gets you wet like this?” He places a chaste kiss on the side of your jaw. He was staring so intently it felt like an unforgivable crime to look away.

Intending to say something along the lines of “You do, Kōtarō,” it fails miserably, coming out a line of muffled speech, but he hears you all the same. Reading your droopy eyelids like a book, he recognizes your inability to pick between the top half of his face and lips as you were right on the edge. Tears almost begin to swell.

“Need to see you cum on my dick the right way.”

He removes his hand from your mouth, immediately having you spill everything that was bottled up tenfold in a mix of deep breaths. So much so, you don’t even know what you’re saying anymore.

“Talk to me, baby.”

You do just that, and if you were in the position to crack jokes, you’d say your dripping pussy was doing it too.

“Kōtarō I’m- oh fuck-please please please.”

The scene is wet, sticky, and everywhere in the place where you’re connected and everywhere in the place that you’re not. You look every bit of exhausted and reflecting in a sheen of sweat.

“Where do you want me?” He grunts.

“I-inside. Cum inside.” Your ankles link and dig into the descent of his back, sending him over the edge just as it did during the game. He doesn’t remove himself, keeping his movements so perfect it feels robotic; however, the thumb of the hand pressing into you circles where you need it to most. Depleting the stamina of a professional athlete isn’t easy and the only thing ensuring his continuation is the drive to make you feel better than he does.

“I’m back. I can take one of the candles, right?” Kuroo’s voice bounces off the room walls. Bokuto knows you’re at the summit, so to prevent your uncomfortable response at the pure thought of shouting his name with an audience (that he doesn’t mind at all), he relieves you and takes into your mouth as fast as possible.

His tongue mixes with yours before you know what’s going on, and it allows for the best orgasm of your life. It maybe made you a bit light headed, and might have taken away oxygen, but you’ll take it any day. The force of how tight you clenched down on him almost pushed him out. He resists, an animalistic groan vibrating about his throat as he leaks the contents of his balls into you.

Bokuto absorbed anything you would have cried that Kuroo could hear. He thought about allowing you to scream as you please, heightening his ego, but he then considered how many laps he’d have to run next practice; your clit was red and puffy under his finger, begging for relief, and the opportunity will come another time. Adding to the irritated scratches along his back, your free hand drags down the skin.

“Shit,” he curses. He stills inside, throbbing as spurts of silky white cum rest idly, clogged by his tip, and when he removes the flat hand to match the one at your hip, your arms meet around his neck tenderly and your fingers dig through his hair. Soft sounds and whimpers as you fall from your high accelerates his. Yours ended a little faster with a larger impact since it was your second, but it was his first. He couldn’t even find the will to pull out.

A little more present, you push his head to kiss you. Kuroo’s somewhere floating in the back of his mind. Maybe.

Naturally, you shiver at his movement.

He kisses you with need, throwing your hair aside and holding your face.

“Are you okay?” He asks, despite still barely being off his climax. He was still breathing heavily and twitching every now and then.

“Better than ever.” You smile wearily. “Are you?”

He nods happily.

At some point, you watched him pull away together. Low sounds from the both of you occupy the air as his shaft comes out sleek, and when his tip finally reveals itself, a line of cum slips after, finally being released and dribbling down your hole. He googles at the sight. It’s almost enough to make him completely hard again.

With a much needed bath, a change of clothes, and painkillers from the kitchen, most of everyone had already left but his closest friends. He ushers them out since the ones that were drunk had rides.

He places the water on his nightstand, slipping in bed beside your completely relaxed body, rubbing up right against you. His presence alone makes you turn around to his face. He kisses your forehead and holds you close when you hook a leg around him, snuggling your head near his neck.

“Does this mean I get a cool jersey?” His voice is alone and serious in the night air.

You don’t even respond, just unhook your leg and turn over. He giggles when your shoulders rise from a deep sigh.

©️hxltic

738 notes · View notes

luvuchihaa · 1 year

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Matsukawa has the nastiest deepstroke and nobody can tell me otherwise. Especially front. He curls his hips just right to make that fat tip hit the perfect bundle of nerves inside you. He whispers to you in missionary, one large hand hooked under your leg and the other rubbing your forehead and holding his weight. He makes you look at him, which would be so funny with how lovey dovey he gets when the squelch of your pussy echos in the background, and you’d laugh if all your energy wasn’t clenching your toes. It’s a slow pace, speeding up to about a medium every now and then, but it’s so constant it feels like it’ll never stop, though you are in heaven and the only thing you can see is the blur of his face.

When you can’t look at him, if holding your head up is too much, he’ll grab your hair and tilt your chin up to him, then mimic it to you. He may let closing your eyes for a bit slide.

The moment is still in all the world—just you and his words as you let him drag you through your orgasm. Faint yes’s and head nods tell him you can still somewhat function.

“That feel good?”

“Yeah? I know how to take care of this pretty pussy.”

“Fuuuck. You just gonna clamp down on me like that?”

“Pussy’s a mess. So fucking wet.”

He doesn’t even need to roll your clit like he usually does. Him hitting the spot repeatedly is enough to get you to squirt. Proven the last time you came.

Mattsun says he has to take care of his girls.

5K notes · View notes

luvuchihaa · 1 year

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PAIRING: Yamada Asaemon Shion x Reader

SYNOPSIS: Your arranged marriage is something you are unable to fight. Accepting your fate, you are surprised when your new husband just wants to treat you kindly.

A collection of moments following your marriage with Yamada Asaemon Shion.

CONTENT: Minors DO NOT interact! Female reader, arranged/forced marriage, physical and emotional abuse are mentioned/hinted at within reader's family, falling in love, two idiots in love, pining, food, alcohol (reader gets tipsy), poetry, blood, canon-typical violence, some angst, miscommunications, masturbation (male), kissing, smut, hand job, fingering, penetration, first time together, domesticity, humor, some banter, there are some notes at the end of this regarding the poems/stories used, as well as some translations!

WORD COUNT: ~ 16.8 k

NOTES: Thank you so much for your patience! This is not my best work writing-wise but it is definitely one that I will be coming back to. I hope you can find some joy in reading this fanfic! This works as a prequel for the couple from this fanfic!

Your name is something you should not give to a stranger. There is a distance to be kept when it comes to men. Suspicious people should be avoided at all costs.

As much as the boy in front of you fits the description of someone you should not interact with, you don’t turn away. His clothes are dirty and worn, he looks a little sickly and the scars that marr his face are prominent. He’s probably around your age, maybe a little older. You’ve just turned seven a few weeks ago.

“Do they hurt?”

He turns his head towards you, wary now. You wonder how he turned so accurately, facing you despite his eyes being closed. His hearing must be very good.

It’s dark outside already and you really should not be out here, sitting in front of the door like this but you felt caged in. You needed some fresh air and some sort of distraction. The gods seem to be kind to you tonight.

“Your scars, I mean,” trying again, you don’t feel upset over his obvious lack of desire to talk to you. No one really talks to the daimyō’s daughter, unless they mean trouble.

“No,” he murmurs, as he turns his head towards the trash you found him digging through just now when you decided to sit down in front of the house. Tentatively he turns his attention back to you. Is he embarrassed? Or perhaps is he asking for permission?

“Here,” you offer, stretching out a hand. The boy tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. His cheeks are a little sunken in and he looks exhausted but there is some sort of pull you feel towards him. A sort of quiet resilience that has found its home in the downturn of his pouty lips and carved its existence into the lines of his face.

A sigh of frustration leaves you and you tell him to come closer. When he obliges, you pull on his arm. He flinches and instinctively tries to free himself from your grasp but you’re stubborn as you put the small fruit in his hand.

“Eat some. I brought enough here with me since I had to sneak through the garden. There is nothing in the trash and it’s dirty,” you explain as you pat the space next to you on the little stone wall.

The boy holds the small fruit in his hand as he examines it with his fingers. “What is this?”

“A plum,” you tell him simply. “I pulled the stone out for you. You can just eat it.”

Hesitation cannot win over the feeling of his stomach twisting with hunger and he quickly puts it in his mouth to eat it. He squeezes his eyes shut even more than they’re already closed and there’s a frown on his face now.

“That’s sour!”

For a moment, you’re stunned. With just two words, he suddenly seemed his age and you can’t help but laugh at his reaction. “I like it when they’re still a bit sour. If you come back after some weeks have passed, then they’ll be a lot sweeter,” you explain, plopping half a plum into your mouth.

It’s not often that you get to talk to someone your age and maybe it’s not the most clever thing to invite a beggar back to your home but that doesn’t deter you the slightest bit. “What’s your name?” you ask the boy while you eat another plum, offering your name before waiting for his answer.

He takes a moment to think before he replies, “My name is Shion and you should be more careful out here alone.” There is almost a tinge of worry to his tone and the frown on his face makes you grin. Saying something like that makes him sound like a nagging old man.

With a kind of bitter sarcasm that is utterly unbefitting of someone so young, lacing your voice, you tell him, “It’s probably more dangerous for you, right here in front of my house, you know? You never know when-”

And as if you’d summoned trouble, you hear shuffling inside the house and the voice of your father echoes inside, the door not doing much to hide his anger. Quickly, you hand the small basket filled with plums to the boy and forcibly turn him around.

“You have to go - Hurry! I need to go inside before my father gets even more mad at me. Take these with you, boy! I will see you around!”

With that, you turn around and hurry off to the other side of the house. The boy is left on the street, looking dumbfounded.

There’s a tinge of sweetness within the aftertaste of the plum you had given to him just now.

It is a warm summer day when your father whispers harshly, telling you to keep your back straight. The past few days have passed by like a whirlwind. Talks of marriage have never been unfamiliar business to you - the only daughter of a prestigious daimyō. Your father, a friend of the shogun, as close as friendship within such a hierarchy gets, has always received his favor.

So it was only a matter of time until you’d get wed off to someone the shogun trusts, in hopes of strengthening this friendship.

It’s more of a business relationship, really, but you are not in a position to criticize this bond of theirs.

When the sliding door opens, your forehead is already pressed against the tatami flooring. The servants lead the Yamada Asaemon into the room and your father moves to stand up but the rustling next to you settles as soon as it begins and he bows as he kneels next to you. Not quite as deep as you do and not for as long either.

He is a man after all.

You don’t doubt that even if your father was the poorest farmer in this country, his pride would still stiffen his back so that he could bow no lower than 45°. Respect only goes one to that man, unless the shogun is involved.

The Yamada Asaemon must have signaled for him to stay seated, or else your father would have at least had the courtesy to get up and puff out his chest as he does. The soft thumping on the other side of the table lets you know that he has taken a seat himself.

Raising your head, you make sure to keep your gaze cast to the floor, your vision barely reaching toward the white fabric of his pants. His work attire - how official. A show of respect? Or perhaps an intimidation tactic?

“Had I been informed of your acceptance of my offer, I would have brought the lady a present from my travels. I apologize,” the man speaks up and the deep tone of his voice sends shivers down your spine and it makes your fingers feel numb.

The chance to answer is taken from you, as your father laughs, “It is forthcoming enough of you to come by so quickly right after your mission even after we took so much time to answer. I apologize. I hope the shogun was not offended by my leisure.”

When his hand settles on your shoulder, you feel as if someone put a heavy boulder on top of it. Its warmth feels uncomfortable through the already too-warm layers of your expensive kimono.

“We wanted to make sure that my daughter understands just how much of an honor this truly is,” he explains and it takes every ounce of patience you have to not grimace when he sends you a disapproving look.

They had ridiculed you. Made fun of you for being wed off to a man with a permanent ailment and your father had nearly beaten you senseless, as if it was your fault the shogun had set up the blind executioner with you. In your father’s eyes, this was a failure that was indeed caused by your lacking persona. He’d told you how this reflected poorly upon his relationship with the shogun.

“Do you know what this means? What this says about how much he values me? My daughter is worth nothing more than a crippled man!”

A crippled man who could cut you down this instant - is what you think to yourself. While you have never met the man face to face, he was the Yamada Asaemon who was assigned to your part of the town, protecting it from criminals. Daimyōs like your father would claim themselves to be the peacekeepers, while all they did was send their men to a certain death while filling their own stomachs with more food than the pigs they feed on could eat.

Thankfully, the voice inside your head is loud and clear. You can yell and scream and insult the man who had taken part in your birth as eloquently as you wished to. It is the only comfort you have. The only humor you can possibly find in such a predicament.

They exchange pleasantries, one man clearly far more genuine than the other, until your father nudges your side. “Go take a walk with your husband and then lead him back for some tea. We will have some things to discuss, which I shall prepare for this instant.”

Monetary things, surely. It seems your life as an entertainer continues from here on out, but your crowd seems to slowly shift. How miserable.

Getting up, you’re proud of how you manage not to stumble over the layers of fabric that seem to be draped endlessly over your body. “Let me lead you through the garden,” you speak demurely, still keeping your gaze low out of respect.

It is when you’re outside, the door shut behind you, and a few steps into the garden, that he speaks up. This time, it’s directed at you. For the first time today.

“Are you alright?”

It’s a simple question and the answer lays heavy on your tongue but you swallow it down. “Of course.”

“Would you look at me then?”

You stop walking, keeping your gaze no higher than his chest, “I am not sure if that is alright, my Lord.”

His tone now is much more mild and something in his tone tells you he is smiling. “You can drop the odd honorifics and titles. I am going to be your husband soon, am I not?” The rough pads of his fingers are gentle as he tugs you closer by the sleeve of your kimono, ever so slightly. Like a child asking for an adult’s attention.

“Or do you wish to annul the marriage? Perhaps, you have taken me into the garden so you could reject me dramatically, with a more illustrious scenery to fit the moment? Although I must admit, the visual aspects of such endeavors are usually lost on me,” the man tells you and when a soft gasp leaves your lips, you tilt your head up only to be met with a smile that makes your cheeks burn.

“Such jokes seem a little…of ill taste.” “Even if I am the one making them? It is my ailment after all. Am I not allowed to make light of it?”

There is nothing clever you can quip back but your desire to do so anyway surprises you. Usually, you do well on holding back any snide comments but he makes it easy to let go of that control.

A defeated breath leaves your lips as you look at him. Carefully, his fingers travel along the end of your sleeve, grabbing your hand gently. His hand is warm, a little rough - from his sword, you assume - but the way it holds yours is very gentle.

“I hope you can forgive me for being this casual but I need you to know that I mean well with you. I know this arrangement isn’t ideal for you-”

You wonder if it is ideal for him.

“-and while I don’t know the exact circumstances of your life here…,” he tilts his head towards the main house, where your father must still be sitting inside, “I can at least promise that I will treat you as my equal. That is also all I wish for in return.”

He seems to know a lot about your family, even the parts that aren’t privy to the general public. Narrowing your eyes at him, you step a little closer, inquiring, “Why would you offer me this so selfishly? What do you gain from this arrangement?”

The man in front of you crosses his arms and a thoughtful expression crosses his face. He frowns slightly as he collects his thoughts and you think to yourself that he is quite handsome. On top of that, he seems to be as well-behaved as the ladies your mother would bring over would whisper to each other.

How ironic that you’d roll your eyes at their daydreams about the man and yet here you are, about to be married off to him.

“I think,” his voice snaps you out of your thoughts, “You are someone who I wish to treat well.”

The wind blows softly, moving the fabric of your kimono ever so slightly and conducting a symphony of leaves as it slips through the bushes and trees of the garden. Taken aback, you blink up at him for a few moments. You take a deep breath, lick your lips, and then open your mouth slightly.

Only to close it again.

Shion suppresses a laugh and you gape up at him, heat licking its way up your spine as he squeezes your hands gently. “I did step forward when the shogun offered this arrangement. Just as you have inevitably heard a lot about me, I have also heard a lot about the lady in return.”

He lets go of your hands but the warmth of his touch lingers on your skin and you almost feel saddened by the loss of physical contact. “I know the members of your family are the ones who are responsible for the uniforms of the Yamada Asaemon, as well as the clothing for the shogun, no?” he asks with a tilt of his head and you notice that he does this a lot. It’s cute and makes him seem a lot more approachable, coupled with that soft smile.

“The previous shogun took a liking to the work of my grandmother and appointed her as his personal seamstress. My mother takes care of the current shogun’s robes and I take care of the ones that all of the Yamada Asaemon wear,” you explain, despite your feeling that he might already know that.

Shion nods and smiles, “You were the one who sent me my uniform without the bell attached. I took the liberty to ask who was considerate enough to do such a thing.” “So you decided to marry me because I didn’t attach a bell to your uniform?” you ask him, still lost on his motives. What a strange man.

It is then, that the peaceful conversation and the prospect of a proper reply is shattered by the voice of your father. It is almost impressive how the man manages to sound as if he had woven five layers of suppressed anger into his voice. You flinch and Shion’s expression falls slightly as he notices your change in posture.

With a soft sigh, he puts a guiding hand on your upper back for a short moment, redirecting you back towards the house as the both of you walk back. It’s quiet for a moment, the air thick with tension before he dispells it easily once more.

“I accepted the offer because I was curious if I could be a considerate husband towards such a kind person. Perhaps I also simply feel like I have a favor to return.”

A husband in return for a change in uniform design might be the oddest deal you have struck thus far.

You’re sitting across from your husband for the first time since your wedding. Right after the small ceremony, work had pulled him from your now shared home and you did not get the chance to spend any time with him.

Perhaps it was for the better. His absence had given you the chance to make yourself familiar with this house you’d be calling your home from now on. You’d wandered the corridors, made your feet familiar with the grass of the garden until it got too cold to do so, and listened to the way the empty branches danced with the wind as they parted from a few of their leaves. You wondered if they’ve held fruit this year. The trees seem familiar but you cannot put a name to them.

In those moments you had to yourself, it had been peaceful. This house feels more like a home than the grand estate of the daimyō - your father - ever did. Now you share this home with the man sitting across from you.

Your hands lay on top of the small table, your tea untouched.

Shion clears his throat and your head snaps up so you can face him, ready to listen to whatever he’s going to say.

“I am sorry for how uncomfortable this must be for you,” he says, sounding a little resigned. In turn, it makes you feel a little sorry.

“It’s not your fault!” you hurry to speak, your hand instinctively reaching out to offer some comfort but you’re unsure if he’d be okay with you touching his hand, so you drop it softly, letting it rest on the table again. “I am just not too sure what to say. This is my first time being married.” Your words cause him to hold back a laugh and you feel heat climb into your cheeks. That was a dumb thing to say.

“What a coincidence,” he tells you and the lines at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced when he smiles, “It’s my first time being married as well.”

His joke eases the tension you’re feeling and you feel your shoulders loosen up a little. There is something very comforting about his smile and the lines of his face almost carry a sense of familiarity but you struggle to put your finger on the reason for it.

“How was your work today?” you ask, grabbing a hold of your cup and drinking your tea. Finally. It’s only lukewarm now but that doesn’t matter too much.

Shion looks amused. “Do you really wish to know? My work isn’t the best topic for a lighthearted conversation between newlyweds… Unless you are harboring a sadistic side I was not made aware of?”

You grimace. “Never mind then. Apologies for asking, you’re right.” A low chuckle leaves his lips as he brings his cup to his lips. Your gaze is drawn to the lines of his throat as he drinks and your ears feel a little warm.

After he puts it down again, he speaks once more, “I have a student who is going to be appointed as one of the Yamada Asaemon soon. Today, I spent most of the day training with him. No violent business.”

A strange sense of relief settles in your chest and you nod. “That sounds nice… Is it difficult to be a teacher to somebody else? I tried teaching one of the other daimyōs’ daughters how to sew once but I fear I lack the patience to offer guidance of any sort.”

“So you’re the impatient type?”

“It depends,” you defend yourself quickly, “I can be patient if I want to be. Are you going to answer my question?”

“There it is - your patience,” Shion retorts and you feel irked, breathing in deeply, causing him to laugh.

“Anyway, it’s not so much that it is difficult, it just requires a willingness to understand the other. When teaching, you cannot apply the same words and actions to every pupil you teach. Not everybody is receptive to my ways of teaching.”

Humming in reply, you think out loud, “Are you a strict teacher?”

“I can be.” “I cannot imagine that. Put on a frown for me, please. To stimulate my fantasy,” you plead, a little too excitedly before you cough and clear your throat, reining it in again.

His eyebrows pull together and yeah - he does look a little intimidating but soon enough a smile tugs on his lips and the muscles of his face fail him. He breaks the strict facial expression in favor of a charming, slightly awkward smile.

“Did that stimulate your fantasy?” he asks with raised brows and your teeth sink into your lower lip, as you’re trying to hold back your grin.

“Plenty. Thank you,” you reply, drinking the rest of your tea before getting up and grabbing a hold of his empty cup, carrying both of them to the kitchen before returning once more.

Instead of sitting down, you decide to walk towards the shelf that covers the entire wall on one side of the living room, standing in front of it as you have done plenty of times during the first few days here.

“Perhaps I can get someone to do the household chores soon-” Shion begins but you cut him off.

“There is no need. I enjoy playing house. My cooking may not be up to par but I fear you will just have to show me some of that patience of yours in that regard,” you smile. “We may have had servants at home but to be honest, that kind of lifestyle has never suited me much.” “What kind of lifestyle suits you then?” Genuine curiosity resounds in his question and you hum softly in response. “Perhaps we will just have to find out together,” you offer, reaching out to run a hand over the back of a little booklet. A scroll lays on top of it so you carefully pull it out.

“I apologize if this is an improper question to ask but why do you collect so much poetry and so many stories when you cannot read them by yourself?”

After offering up this question, you turn towards him again, slowly unraveling the scroll as you wait for his reply. Unsure, your eyes flit towards his form again before settling back on the calligraphy displayed on the scroll.

“Whenever I go out to the market, I stop by the place where they sell poetry. The vendors read it to me and I buy it if it appeals to me. It’s a simple explanation, really,” Shion explains. “Surely, you buy things you’re fond of a lot too, right? Even if they aren’t necessarily something you’re able to use a lot.”

"Even if it were something of the past, With each day the white snow falls, My love for you grows stronger, Surpassing all that came before."

Your eyes wander over the words on the scroll carefully while you answer him absentmindedly, “I wasn’t allowed to buy what I desired. However, sometimes I would receive fabrics as a present, from a dear aunt of mine. That would be my personal little luxury.” Shion frowns, “The daimyō is quite the strict man, isn’t he?”

“Imagine dealing with the shogun and then multiply that by twenty. Perhaps then you’ll get close to just how difficult he is to deal with.” Your eyes flit towards his face and you wonder, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you,” he refutes and you stay quiet for a moment.

“You are quite fond of these kinds of jokes, aren’t you?” “I find them incredibly amusing,” he replies, smiling in a terribly boyish manner. Adorable, is what you think it is but you would not dare to say that out loud.

Clearing your throat, you read the poem on the scroll out loud in the way you were taught to do it - with an elegant tone and yet, carrying a tempo that commands attention. Your literary criticism is immediate, “This is a little sad, is it not? Why would one yearn for something that’s in the past… Wouldn’t that just break your heart?” Shion thinks about your words for a moment before smiling softly. “Something from the past might just return to become a part of your present, no? Also, I do think it’s important to cherish beloved memories.”

His words hang in the room between the both of you and for a faint moment you get the feeling that he is waiting for something else but then he gets up before you can ask any further questions.

“Come on. Let’s go out and get some fresh air. We can continue our talks about the depths of feelings of the past outside,” Shion invites you and you huff, before following him.

“Don’t pour him sake,” Shion tells you and you sigh, switching over to pour sake into your own cup. It’s clear that you have had too much to drink tonight and Tenza is finding great humor in it.

He whisper-shouts your name, pulling on your kimono sleeve excitedly. “And then? What did Sensei say?”

Right. You were in the middle of your retelling of an uncomfortable encounter with a man on the street before you decided to be nice and pour Tenza some of the sake as well. It’s the first time you've had a drink like this. Before, you were not allowed to drink any alcohol but tonight, Shion brought out some sake for you two to share. Tenza decided to join, in search of some entertainment.

“He said ‘I suggest you keep your hands off my wife’ and looked at the guy all scary. Like this,” you giggle, leaning onto your hand, your elbow propped up onto the table as you try to imitate Shion’s expression from back then. It doesn’t look anything like any of his expressions at all and the grimace you’re pulling is so ridiculous, that Tenza snorts loudly.

The tips of Shion’s ears are a little flushed and he shifts awkwardly. His voice is gentle yet firm. “I could not let someone harass you,” he mumbles, drinking from his cup.

“I knew sensei was a protective person but love really does change-oof!” Tenza groans and reaches down to rub his shin, right where Shion just kicked him under the small desk.

“Training tomorrow will begin an hour earlier than usual. Go get some sleep,” Shion urges the young man with a voice so kind that his words almost seem harmless. Tenza’s mouth is caught in a permanent gasp now, at the consequences of his nosy actions. While his mentor can be a little strict, he was not used to him practically throwing him out of his home.

Grumbling, he gets up and bows to you, foregoing his bow towards his mentor. “Good night. Please prepare more stories of sensei’s gallant acts for the next time I come over,” he tells you, a grin pulling on his lips.

With a grin of your own, you reach out and ruffle his hair, breaking into a fit of giggles when he groans about you ruining it.

The world spins and you decide to rest your head on the table. You don’t know how much time passes as Shion leads Tenza back to the entrance to bid him goodbye. Their voices are far away and you close your eyes, feeling a little dizzy.

Cool fingers touch your forehead. “You had too much to drink,” your husband tells you gently, sounding a little amused. Still, there is a hint of worried care underlying his words.

“No such thing happened…,” you mumble and Shion huffs softly, sitting down next to you. Slowly, he traces his fingertips over your face, running them over the apples of your cheeks, along your brow bone before following the lines of your lips.

“Don’t touch my face,” comes your complaint, slurred and hard to understand with your cheek pressed against the table.

Your husband merely smiles but you don’t see it, your eyes still closed. “I am looking at you,” he says in a tone that is so tender that it causes you to take a peek at him. The smile on his lips is a sweet one, so gentle that it pulls on your heartstrings. His brows are drawn together as his fingers draw shapes over your face and it makes him look painfully emotional.

The thought of him not knowing what you look like twists something inside your chest and your throat feels as if you’ve tried to swallow a small rock.

“I am looking at you as well,” you tell him and it would have made for an intimate moment, were it not for how jumbled your words sound due to the alcohol. He laughs softly and cups your cheeks with his hands to turn your face towards him better. His hands are warm, the skin a little rough from the regular use of his sword but they offer a comfort and now something you dare to call familiarity, that you wish to hold onto.

“You look at me a lot.”

“Because you’re handsome,” you shoot back and he looks a little taken aback, the tips of his ears flushing red. With newfound bravery, generously sponsored by the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream, you reach out and cup his face in return. Running your thumb over his ear, you giggle.

“You’re pretty drunk. Let me help you get to bed,” with that he gently tugs your hand away from his face and you pout as he helps you up. Shion wraps his arm around you, helping you to get to your room.

Your hands hold onto the fabric of his kimono. There is something about the way he looked at you when you told him he’s handsome. You decide that you don’t like it. “I really think you are handsome. It’s not the sake,” you promise, tugging on the fabric of his robes.

He pulls you along gently, opening the door to your bedroom before entering with you. Shion helps you get ready for bed, as much as is appropriate. When you change into your clothes for the night, he even turns to face away from you. Watching his broad back, you snort.

“It’s not like you can see me, even if I were to be entirely naked,” you tell him. The tips of his ears are red again and he huffs, shuffling in place.

“It feels inappropriate,” he mumbles, keeping his back turned towards you. “Did you get dressed already?” It’s quiet for a moment and he clears his throat, “If it’s alright, I will turn around-”

Your fingers find the back of his robes, tugging him closer gently… Or are you the one moving closer to him? Shion isn’t sure and his feet feel heavy, yet oddly light, as if he doesn’t have any in the first place. Your arms are warm as they wrap around his middle. As far as he can tell, they’re bare.

“Now, this is inappropriate.”

“We are married,” you tell him, leaning against his back, your cheek rubbing against the spot between his shoulder blades fondly. He’d compare you to a cat if your proximity didn’t toss his thoughts into a big, disorganized pile inside his mind.

“It’s cold. You should get dressed,” he tells you, his hands clenched into fists by his sides. His breath is heavy and his tongue feels restless inside his mouth. It’s too hot and his body is yelling at him to simply take a step forward and a way from your body against his back.

He doesn’t.

You remove yourself from his back and he hears the rustling of fabric, coupled with your clumsy steps. “Don’t trip. Be careful,” he tells you and you simply hum, pulling on your robes to sleep in.

“I was wearing my kosode,” you tell him when he turns around and he nods, guiding you to your futon and helping you lay down as he sits by your side. “I wouldn’t hug you if I was indecent. Not even if it was because of the alcohol.”

With a sigh, he nods again and when he tries to stand up after having made sure you’re safe and sound in bed, you grab onto his clothes again. As he regards you with a raised brow, you feel odd. You don’t know if it’s the alcohol or this strange tension that hangs in the air between you. Maybe that is due to the alcohol too. Perhaps, this is why your parents never let you drink before.

“Stay. I can read to you if you stay with me for a while longer,” you whisper and Shion faces you for a moment, quietly. It’s a little cheeky to offer such a thing this late at night - to ask someone to stay a while longer already has its implications but something like that, to him at least-

A smile tugs on his lips and he reaches forward, gently rubbing his thumb between your brows, chasing away the frown that he finds with such accuracy, that you truly wonder as to how easy he finds it to understand you without needing to see.

“What if the letters start dancing across the scroll?” he teases you for your tipsy state as he gets up to grab one of his poem collections for you to read out loud to him.

“Then we’ll just have to dance with them,” is all you offer and he huffs before leaving the room for a moment.

You hear him chuckling on his way down the hall to the living room.

“The old pond. A frog leaps in - The sound of the water.”

“So…the frog jumps into the pond?”

“You’re quite quick with your deductions, aren’t you?” Shion teases, and you raise your brow at him, pursing your lips in a dissatisfied pout.

“And you have bad taste in poetry. Why did you buy this? If you are in search of obvious retellings of natural happenings, I can be your source for that kind of information for the rest of your days,” you mumble, looking back at the scroll again as you lay on your tummy.

One of you visiting the other’s room with poetry or stories in hand has become a habit. You’ve been spending the past weeks reading to him - faithfully, every single evening. Both of you seem to regard this as an essential part of your days despite not talking about it. Just like how you avoid putting a name to the feelings that have blossomed in your chest.

Shion feels his chest tighten at your casual promise of a life together. The teasing lilt of his voice turns into a warm and comforting one as his hand reaches out to gently cup your cheek. His thumb strokes over your protruding lower lip until you stop pouting. “But can you be as picturesque with your words?” he asks and you grumble.

“How would you even rate that?”

It slips out before you can do anything about it, hours of frustration from trying to work your way around clever plays on kanji, as well as the haikus of Basho taking a toll on you.

“I am so sorry,” you say, trying to get up but your husband tugs on your yukata, urging you to stay on the comfortable futon.

“The old pond has always been peaceful. Quiet and undisturbed,” he speaks, undeterred by your antics and your little joke at his expense but you can tell that he is fighting off a smile. You being comfortable enough to join in on his neverending jokes about his ailment is causing him to feel a warmth that makes him feel unsure whether he wants to share it with you or lock it away inside himself for colder times.

“And then, a little frog comes along. It’s cheeky and doesn’t care about the current ways of the pond. So, mischievous as it is, it jumps into the calm little pond, causing a commotion. A big splash, a loud noise,” Shion murmurs softly, his fingers moving down your arm as he reaches for your hand.

Almost naturally, he laces his fingers between yours and concludes, “Ripples move all over the place as the frog breaks the surface of the water. The calm pond is no more.”

Shion’s attention is entirely on you now and you look up at him as he sits next to you on the futon. You take a moment to process his words, wiggling your fingers between his while you are deep in your thoughts.

“Is that kind of disturbance really that bad? Surely, for a pond that has never experienced anything, aside from its boring quiet life, something like that must be quite exciting, no?”

Amused, Shion lifts your hand to his lips, pressing gentle kisses against the tips of your fingers, one by one before he replies, “It’s quite exhilarating.”

A grin tugs on your lips. “So you’re the pond now?”

“Indeed, and you’re the cheeky little thing that decided to shake my life up a little.”

Pricks of warmth climb their way up to your neck and you suppress a shiver. “Is that so…,” you mumble quietly, feeling a little flustered at how happy he sounds about your presence in his life. It grows quiet once more as you return to the poem. Your husband keeps your hand in his and runs his thumb over the side of your finger.

A soft yawn escapes your lips and you blink tiredly, finally noticing how heavy your eyelids feel.

“The kanji for ‘frog’ can be read as ‘to return’,” Shion tells you and you look up at him for a moment, mulling over his words. His attention is fully on you and when he notices that you are lacking a reply, he almost seems a little…disappointed?

“Which also means, the little frog needs to return to her room for tonight,” he concludes and you sigh. With a nod, you get up and as per usual, he accompanies you to your bedroom. Despite how it is almost right next to his own; only a few steps away.

Leaning down, he kisses your forehead ever so gently before bidding you good night and returning to his room.

Your forehead feels warm throughout the entire night as your hand rests on top of it in an attempt to preserve the feeling of his lips against your skin for a moment longer.

Crimson stains your vision on a cold winter day, breaking the abundance of pure white that your eyes have gotten used to.

The smell of iron stings deep inside your nose and your ears feel as if they have been filled with cotton. When you part your lips to speak, nothing escapes your dry throat and you force yourself to swallow before trying anew, “W-What-” “Just help me get him inside. Quick!” Tenza all but shouts and you comply, your movements almost mechanical as you open the door fully, closing it behind him and leading him to the bedroom.

“Shouldn’t we call a doctor?” you ask, your hands anxiously grabbing onto the fabric of your kimono. You want to reach out and help but you are afraid of hurting your husband even more. You’re not even sure where he is hurting. All you see is how his clothes are stained a deep red.

Nausea climbs its way up your throat but you force it down. Carefully, you help Tenza sit him down. The young man seems unsure what to do himself, sweat beading on his forehead. He’s in distress but he is trying to keep it together.

You feel pathetic.

The wound is on his back and once you know this, it seems clear as day. The back of his clothes is dripping blood and you wince. “I sent for the medic, he should be-”

“Go wait for him outside. Someone needs to guide him here. I will take care of Shion until then.”

Tenza hesitates, shuffling a little before he springs up and into action, leaving the room. Carefully, you brace Shion against your body, unsure of how to lay him down, so this seems like the best option.

“I wanted to see you,” he rasps and you think you misheard. Shifting, you hold him in your embrace, his chest pressed against yours as you grab the thick blanket by your side. Pushing his uniform off his shoulders, you try not to react to the cut on his back. Using the blanket, you apply pressure on his wound. It doesn’t work too well.

“It’ll be okay…” you mumble, not sure whether you are trying to comfort him or reassure yourself. His head is resting on top of your shoulder, his fingers twisting into the fabric of your kimono. You had put on the purple one with the intricate patterns that could be felt by his curious hands. The fondness he expressed over this kimono did not escape you.

You had put it on for when you’d welcome him back. If you had hugged him, would he have been surprised? Would he have hugged you back, delighted by your affection? How long would it have taken him to realize what you’re wearing? Your husband has a sharp mind - you doubt it would have taken long.

Now the soft purple is ruined, stained murky red. Like an overripe plum thrown to the ground and stepped on until there was only a puddle of mush and juice left.

A wave of nausea hits you again, your hands pressing against his back with firmness, ignoring the wetness against your fingertips.

Tenza’s voice cuts through the deafening, high-pitched sound that has crawled its way into your ears as it chases away any and all thoughts, and relief floods you as your eyes lock onto the doctor he brings in tow. The older man seems calm enough at the sight of the wound, once you remove the bedsheet, that you feel a bit of it seeping into you as well.

It would be okay.

The doctor redirects your attention to the task of making sure that Shion stays awake as he works on cleaning the wound and stitching it up. Tenza scurries about the place, grabbing water and supplies from all over the place and he seems glad not to have to sit there in silence.

You hold onto Shion, asking him questions about his trip - What did he eat? How was the weather? Did he find something exciting and new? His replies are sluggish, his head heavy on your shoulder but he answers, despite how strained he sounds. You try your best to not look at the stitches.

Once it’s done and finished, Tenza helps you change Shion into a comfortable kimono and your eyes find no joy in roaming over his body. All those little scars littering his body cause your thoughts to spiral. How much has he endured in the past? How much would he have to endure in the future? Pushing those thoughts away, you carefully lay him down on his front, not daring to put any strain on his back. The doctor informs you about the things you should be aware of, instructing you on how to clean the wound and how to aid in his recovery. Tenza gets up to guide him out and when he sends a questioning look filled with worry your way, you simply shake your head and wave your hand to shoo him away.

The young man has had enough of a strenuous day as is.

“You can go home for today. I can handle the rest,” you tell him, still holding your husband in your arms. The look he gives you is not one that screams that he believes you much but his fatigue wins over his desire to help you and a mere nod ends up being his reply to your words.

“I will return after I finish reporting this to the others,” he tells you before he leaves and the moment he closes the door, it’s as if he’s sealed you inside a vacuum. You don’t know how you maneuver Shion onto the futon on his stomach but by the time you’ve snapped back into reality, he’s situated comfortably on it, pillows cushioning the parts of him that need it.

—

It takes a few days for him to get back into a condition where you don’t fear that his fever might turn his brain into charcoal. The snow has settled outside but the cold that seeps into your body every night as you lay next to him, waiting for him to wake up, is not due to the cold weather outside.

Your relief is endless when you enter his room in the morning to see him sitting up on his futon. He looks a little tired and a touch more pale than he usually does but he seems to not be waiting in front of death’s door anymore.

Quickly, you hurry to his side, kneeling next to him. Your hands hover over his body, unsure where to hold onto, the desire to help him in any way you can thrumming within your limbs. “How are you feeling?” you ask carefully, your hands moving to busy themselves by smoothing out the sleeves of his robe.

Your fingertips burn with a desire to touch him, to make sure this is real.

Shifting a little, he carefully rolls his shoulders back, hissing at the hot flash of pain. Immediately, one of your hands lands on his back, gently resting below the injury and offering support. “Don’t move too much. The injury is still not fully closed up.”

A raspy sigh leaves his lips. “I am sorry for causing you trouble,” he mutters, his voice strained from days of not talking. His brows are furrowed and his breathing is still a little heavy. A frown that mirrors his own makes its home on your expression.

“You are my husband. There is no such thing as causing me trouble,” you utter, gently flicking your finger against his forehead. He could easily move out of the way but he takes it in stride, the frown on his face giving way to a softer expression.

“Then allow me to rephrase that: Thank you for taking care of me,” he tells you and you smile gently. Your hand stays on his lower back, your thumb rubbing back and forth over his skin.

“I was a little afraid that you wouldn’t wake up again. It’s silly and I know that but…,” Withdrawing your hands from his body, you fix the blanket over his legs. “That day I thought you’d bleed out in my arms, Shion. I am not a doctor, so coming to me first - in that kind of state…”

The only thing that hangs in the air between the both of you is silence before his hand moves to take one of your own, gently untangling the blanket from your fingers. You didn’t notice that you had been grasping onto the fabric way too tightly. His hand holds yours firmly enough to reassure you of his presence.

“I wouldn’t leave you alone like that,” he tells you quietly, squeezing gently. When you look back up at him again, he smiles warmly, His fingers move to tease your palm softly, tickling you, as he asks, “Who else would explain all of those poems to you?”

Slowly, your frown slowly melts into an amused expression and you shake your head. “They don’t make sense. Trust me, I have spent enough time complaining about them while you were resting.”

Shion’s eyebrows quirk up at that. “Did you read to me while I was asleep?”

For a moment, there is no reply from you. He’s left in the dark and the only thing that reminds him of your presence is the weight of your hand in his.

You clear your throat, “I thought it would be rude to just stop reading to you.” Anxiously, your fingers press into his hand ever so slightly. “I wanted you to know that you’re not alone.”

You don’t notice that he has gotten closer to you until his forehead bumps against your temple softly, and his hand finds the back of your neck. “Thank you. I don’t deserve you, my lovely wife,” he whispers tenderly.

Turning your face towards him a little more, you sigh softly, your forehead pressed against his as your breaths intermingle. “You need to be more careful from now on. This house is too big for me to live in by myself,” you complain and he laughs softly. His lips are so close to yours that you feel your cheeks heat up beyond a level you consider comfortable.

You shift and move away slightly. He seems reluctant about letting you go but does so regardless. Cleaning up the supplies that you have kept around his futon, you watch how he shifts in discomfort. “Are you alright?” “I need a bath,” he mutters, scrunching up his nose. These past few days you’d wipe him down but for someone who is as clean and as thorough about his hygiene as he is, this must be a nightmare. There is no way he can go by himself though. Not with how hurt he is.

“I will help you wash up,” you announce and the grimace he pulls makes you laugh. Firmly, you grab onto his upper arm where he is not hurt, carefully helping him up onto his feet. On the way to the bath, you support his weight, thankful for the fact that the houses of the Yamada Asaemon all have their own private baths. Helping him wash up in a public bath would have proven to be very complicated.

Steam envelops you merely a few minutes later. Your husband is sitting on a wooden stool in front of you, only covered by a simple tenugui. Carefully, you remove the bandages on top of his injury. With bated breath, Shion waits for a reaction but it never comes. Tentatively he asks, “Is it bad?” “It’s healing up nicely,” you answer calmly, feeling a little emotionally detached whenever you look at it. The nausea that would take over whenever you’d look at it, left after the fourth day of taking care of him. There were more important things to deal with and it had faded into the background.

The thought of you getting used to violence like that in any way deeply aggravates Shion. He feels a little helpless and it seems to show. Your wet fingers meet his face when you tilt his head back so gently that it fills him with the desire to reward every single one of your fingertips that have bestowed such a tender touch upon him.

“Are you alright?” you ask, your fingers moving to gently trace over his eyebrows, fixing them in place before following along the lines of his scars. There is something about them that makes you feel weirdly nostalgic in a way that causes something to stir in your chest but you pour water on that warmth, preventing the spark that might offset something.

The way you are right now is alright.

“It just feels a little unfamiliar to be this exposed in front of you,” he tells you, his breath warm against your face and it is only then that you realize that you have been leaning down to be closer to his face.

The way his lashes brush against the top of his cheeks makes you want to lean even closer but you clear your throat, straightening your back again before allowing him to tilt his head forward once more.

“You’re covered up. I wouldn’t mind either way. We are married and eventually, we’d come into contact with each other like this,” stating this firmly, you move on to wash his hair. His ears are flushed a soft red but the bath is warm so you pay it no mind.

Surprised at his hair’s softness, you find yourself taking much more time than necessary to run your fingers through the tufts of silvery white, separating the strands before pushing them back together again. Your fingertips push into his scalp in a gentle massage.

When your nails join in on the fun and you tug on his hair a little, a sharp intake of breath echoes through the little room and your fingers leave his scalp.

Turning away, you grab a hold of the little bucket and scoop water into it. Once you turn back, your husband’s ears are still decorated with that healthy flush that now spreads to his shoulders.

“I would like to let you soak in the tub for a bit but it seems your fever is coming back,” you mumble, washing his body clean with water before helping him dry himself off with a soft towel.

Handing him his robe, you turn away to let him get dressed once more, albeit you tell him to not pull the upper part of the robe up. Instead, Shion leaves it down, the garment tied around his waist securely as the both of you walk back to his room. It’s cold and the way he shivers ever so slightly pushes you to walk a bit quicker.

Once you arrive, he settles on his futon and you get to work. With practiced movements, you put the ointment on his wound before dressing it carefully to ensure that nothing would be able to mess with the healing process.

It’s an action you don’t think about at all when you lean forward to press a kiss on top of the bandage. Shion startles slightly, turning his head towards you. You realize and freeze. “Don’t look at me,” you mumble, feeling a sudden sense of embarrassment flood your body.

He turns around to face you, your embarrassment no hindrance to him as he pulls you into a hug. “I am not looking at you,” he mumbles back cheekily, his hands pressing you closer against his body. His upper body is warm against you and very naked but the need for comfort outweighs your bashfulness and you carefully wrap your arms around him, mindful of his injury.

Something as simple as a hug shouldn’t cause you to feel a feeling as bittersweet as the one that pulses within your chest right now but you don’t remember the last time someone had held you like this.

You don’t think anyone ever has.

If Shion can feel the way your shoulders tremble and how your wet lashes brush against his skin, he does a good job not commenting on it. All he does is hold you tightly as he whispers, mere inches away from your ear, “I am really happy that I got to return to you. While I was gone, I was really anxious about how you were doing back home.” He sighs. “I am sorry for being reckless.”

Pressing his lips against the top of your head, he sighs softly, confessing, “I missed you.”

Your breath is warm against his shoulder as you stay like this for a while. He holds you until the trembling subsides and you part with a shaky exhale. With care, you reach out to pull up his yukata, helping him get his arms inside the sleeves before draping it over his shoulders.

It’s late. The darkness slowly settles outside as stars creep out of their homes and show themselves in the night sky. Shion gets comfortable on his futon, laying on his stomach as per your orders while you go ahead and grab something to read to him.

You return with a new story for him - no poetry this time - wanting to have an excuse to spend more time with him. Rationally, you know you don’t need an excuse to spend time with your husband who is more than generous enough to let you waste all of his free time but still, this is the method of your choosing, your very own way of circling around your feelings.

It’s easier to push them aside if you don’t verbalize them - if they don’t hang in the air between you and make it difficult to breathe. Suddenly those silly poems make a little more sense and the longing described feels more palpable.

The cold doesn’t seem to be a problem to you anymore. You feel too warm.

You discard the haori that you had worn over your kimono all day long to shield you from the cold. Instead of putting it away, you carefully cover Shion’s back and shoulders with it, mantling his body with it like a blanket.

Bemusedly, he pulls it closer around himself. “It smells like lavender, just like you do,” he breathes out, sounding a little exhausted as he settles, laying his head atop his pillow. Snickering at how docile he looks, you settle on his futon as well, right next to him on your tummy.

Your fingers move to comb back a particularly messy patch of hair right at the top of his forehead, your eyes surrounded by tiny folds as deep as your affection for the sweet man as you smile fondly. Absent-mindedly, your fingers make their way through his hair, over the nape of his neck, and down his arm until they find his fingers, and then they travel back up to his shoulder.

Today, it’s difficult to keep your hands to yourself but he seems to be alright with that. So you don’t, and simply continue touching him, while you begin to read.

“The days and months are travelers of eternity, just like the years that come and go. For those who pass their lives afloat on boats, or face old age leading horses tight by the bridle, their journeying is life, their journeying is home.”

Shion listens to you, letting out a soft hum of acknowledgement here and there. His face twitches in reaction to the words every now and then when he scrunches up his nose at some of the details, or when he smiles at how you dramatize certain passages.

By the time you reach the end of the book, your voice is lower than usual, much more intimate and quiet. The way your fingers casually trace over the nape of his neck, right where his hair meets his skin, has his skin burning. Flipping his pillow over, he buries one side of his face against the cool material in hopes of bringing comfort to the heat that wells up inside him.

Intrigued by his antics, you turn your head towards him once you finish the book, putting it away. Leaning closer, you pout as your fingers rub at his neck gently. “You must be tired, hm? Let me head off for tonight.” Swiftly, you move in to press a lingering kiss against the top of his head, before whispering a quick “Good night”. With that, you’re off and once the door is closed, a soft sigh leaves Shion.

As he shifts to get more comfortable, he notices that you’ve left your haori with him. Brows furrowed, he presses the soft fabric closer to his nose, breathing in deeply. It doesn’t just smell of lavender but it smells of you.

It makes him feel an intense sense of yearning and his tongue presses against the roof of his mouth. His hips feel restless as the minutes pass by and his fingers tighten their hold on the haori while his other hand moves a little lower along the front of his body as he leans more onto his side.

The sting of his injury causes him to take in a sharp breath - or rather, it’s the feeling of his hand pressing against the mortifying hardness that is slowly arising underneath his yukata as he hastily pushes the fabric aside. He wishes the pain were more severe. It might have prevented such a shameful situation.

Perhaps the mix of pain and desperation can wash away the shame that threatens to burn his ears as your voice still seems to echo within them, contorting in ways his mind conjures up. You have never made the kind of sounds that plague him at this very moment, that urge him to move his hand and his hips in an attempt to ease this ache. Shion is troubled by this sudden revelation of his mind's creativity.

He wonders what you’d sound like if he worshiped at your feet. If he showed proof of his gratitude, right between your legs. Over and over again, until your cries die out and turn into soft murmurs, until your skin is warmed by his reverence.

Shion returns your haori a few days later in a hurried manner, his face turned away from yours as he hands it to you rather passively before leaving. It’s freshly cleaned and the smell of lavender is nowhere to be found.

It smells like nothing.

It is when the leaves start turning green again and you get to describe the various shades of the flowers blooming in your garden to your husband, that you feel the desire for there to be more within this. How much closer can one really get when they’re married?

Shion treats you well. Not once has he gone back on his promises and you have more than you could wish for. Not only are you well-fed and warm, but you are also free to do what you want and he treats you kindly.

Yet, every kind word of his leaves you with a deep ache.

It is also during that same spring that Shion starts to avoid you.

At first, it’s just the small things. He flinches away from your casual touches. You chalk it up to a miscalculation on your side. Perhaps he is not that comfortable with it after all.

Within your presence, he starts to look increasingly uncomfortable. He is in deep thought most of the time around you, and he doesn’t realize you’ve been calling his name many times in a row, trying to grab his attention.

And then, he blatantly begins to avoid you. The hours you’d spend reading his beloved poetry and long-winded stories to him dwindle down to the smallest fraction of an hour until he tells you that he’s too tired for your shared reading time.

Long pages remain unread, the new stories you’d bought stay hidden within the beautiful fabric you had wrapped them up in to surprise him with, and your nights feel a little colder now, despite the weather warming up.

It is on a warm spring day, that Tenza refuses to leave until you promise him to visit the sakura matsuri later that week. It feels like only yesterday when the plum blossoms in your garden had started to bloom and yet, it was already cherry blossom season. “Bring Shion-sensei with you!” is the last thing he tells you.

It’s not that easy.

Frustration sinks its claws deep into your heart. It’s not as if he doesn’t talk to you anymore or as if he is unkind. He shares with you the same kindness as he did when you got married but that is precisely what irks you.

Back then, you barely knew each other. Back then, you were just happy to have gotten out of that household, away from your father. Back then, you did not harbor this many difficult feelings for this man and it is only when your eyes sting and your lower lip begins to tremble, that you get up.

Distance is not a wall, it can be minimized, one step at a time. Even if it were a wall - you didn’t climb over the manor walls when you were younger for nothing. You’d climb over any wall he would build.

Your feet carry you to his room, a route you’re awfully familiar with by now. Softly, you knock as you take a deep breath. Once your husband bids you inside, you enter.

“Tenza asked for us to go watch the cherry blossoms with him.” “Did he phrase it like that when asking for our presence? How cheeky,” Shion mumbles, his hands working to polish his sword with an uchiko ball. There is no humor in his tone like there used to be and the straight, confident posture you put up falters ever so slightly.

“I want to go,” you tell him and he nods, still not stopping his work, not turning towards you either.

“You are free to do so. You know you needn’t ask me for permission, as long as there is someone to keep you safe.” “Together,” you add and he stops, carefully putting down his katana as he finally turns towards you. You continue, “Please, come along. It will be fun. I have been working on a kimono recently and it would be a good opportunity to wear it.”

Shion looks like he might deny you, his brows furrowed, his expression stuck in that internal conflict that has nestled somewhere inside his mind. You wish you had the courage to talk about it, to pester him more whenever he tells you that it’s nothing.

The shuffling of your feet as your toes grow restless against the tatami mats is loud enough for him to relent. A night out might also distract you a little and lift your spirits. Recently, you have been rather quiet and it makes him feel guilty.

He wouldn’t dare pinpoint himself as the cause of the shift in your behavior but he is aware that his recent changes have made you… Uncomfortable, perhaps. Shion doesn’t know what exactly you are feeling but he doesn’t dare to ask. He doesn’t have the right to do so.

With a nod, he complies, “Alright. We can head out together then. It’s at the end of the week, right?”

You didn’t notice that you had been holding your breath, so the first breath you take after his reply feels exhilarating. “Yes! I will ask Tenza where he wants to meet up that day and I will also take care of the rest. Thank you!”

As you hurry out of his room, Shion smiles gently, the pitter-patter of your feet against the floor accompanying him as he picks his tools back up.

—

When the day arrives and he is washing his face as you wander about, getting ready, he is reminded of a poem the old lady at the market has read to him once.

"Even though we may be apart, if I am to hear that you pine for me as the Inaba mountain pines, I shall return to you."

Reaching up, he ruffles up his hair, frustrated by the resurgence of this memory. It is ridiculous to think that you have seemed so excited for him to join because it is him in particular.

The more, the merrier - that is what you’d say whenever you’d invite the other Yamada Asaemon over for dinner, or whenever you’d tell Tenza to tag along for your walks together. Futile, is what it is, to hope and pray and spend his day interpreting your awkward shifting when he’d sent you away that first night, telling you that he was too tired to have you read to him.

Futile, to search for meaning in the way your tone has changed around him. It is especially futile to think about how you’d react if he were to reach out and claim your lips.

His face feels warm.

Your hand is cold as it touches the nape of his neck and he flinches. Dumbstruck, you stand there for a moment. He’s never been one to be surprised by your presence. He had chalked it up to his heightened senses, due to his lack of vision and you’d thought it a good enough explanation. On top of that, he was a seasoned fighter.

“You’re warm… And you seem a little out of it,” you mumble gently, the awkwardness of the past few weeks forgotten in light of the possibility of him being sick. “Are you coming down with a fever?”

“I am alright,” he tells you, sounding a little flustered. Ever so softly, you reach out to lay the back of your hand against his forehead. It doesn’t seem to be a fever but his skin is a little warmer than you’re used to.

With a soft sigh, you let him know, “If you are feeling unwell, we can stay at home, you know?” You take your hand off his forehead but he grabs a hold of it mid-air, tugging it towards his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss against where you had just touched his skin, he breathes deeply.

“I want to go together.”

A tingling sensation spreads over your skin and you smile. “Alright. Let me go grab your kimono.”

“I can get it myself. My closet is right there,” Shion points towards the closet in his room but you huff in reply, pulling your hand out of his hold.

“Now, don’t tell me I spent all week hurrying to finish your kimono, just for you to want to wear one of your old ones. How terribly unkind.” You’re pouting and it weaves itself into your manner of speech in a way that Shion finds so charming that it tugs on the corners of his lips.

“The kimono you were referring to a few days ago when you told me about this…was mine?”

“I have plenty of my own that I have made over the years. Since we have gotten married I have made even more. On top of that, you make sure to gift me fancy fabrics every time we go out, so I wanted to repay that favor,” you tell him, the end of it sounding a little flustered, and he smiles warmly.

“I will gladly wear it then,” he tells you and you smile, content now as you go to retrieve it. You leave most of the work to him, your back turned to him as a way of giving him privacy. It is only the details that you busy yourself with, helping him fix up the obi in a nice way, as well as smoothing out the odd wrinkle or two.

A happy smile tugs on your lips. “Is it comfortable?”

Shion runs his hand over the sleeves, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. “This is incredibly soft,” he mumbles softly, almost in awe. You smile triumphantly.

“I found this fabric the other day when I was out with Tenza. I wanted to make sure you get to enjoy the clothes you wear. Just for your knowledge, the color is really pretty too. A dark blue. It reminded me of the night sky so I just had to take it with me,” you explain proudly and he smiles.

“Thank you,” is all he replies but it’s filled with enough tenderness to make up for the lack of colorful words.

You feel at ease, for the first time in weeks, as the both of you walk towards the designated spot for your meeting with Tenza. Once you meet up with him and some of the other Yamada Asaemon, you feel the rest of your awkwardness dissipate.

It was fine this way. Shion could spend his evening with his colleagues and you could just stay with Sagiri and Tenza, trying out the different foods Tenza would carry over from the stalls to the blanket you were sitting on.

So that is what you do for the entire duration of the little festival. Your hand rests on Sagiri’s arm as the both of you move from one food stall to the next. She doesn’t ask any questions, seemingly knowing that there is something going on which must be solved between you and your husband.

She offers you a gentle squeeze as she rests her hand on top of yours, trying to comfort you. You smile at her but it looks awkward and wrong. The way Shion seemed more approachable again today worries you. If you return home and he ends up going back to his avoidant behavior, you don’t think you’ll know what to do.

You walk back to where the others are sitting.

It is only when everybody is knocked out from either the alcohol, too much food, or long-winded talks, that your group goes silent. Only soft conversations happen here and there. You’re seated on a soft blanket, the cherry trees blossoming around you, their petals illuminated by the moon as they drift onto the grass.

“The plum blossoms in our garden are this pretty too,” you murmur softly. Shion, who is sitting next to you, hums in reply.

“They are almost the same color, right? Both are popular topics for poetry after all.”

“I think plum blossoms are prettier,” you tell him firmly and he huffs softly. His fingers bump into yours on top of the blanket but neither of you move to change anything about that. Turning your head to look his way, you’re startled by how close his face is to yours. It’s quiet for a moment and you feel awkward.

Behind you, Tenza and Sagiri are eagerly mumbling. You catch a few words such as “kiss” and “romantic”, and heat flares up inside your chest. It feels as if Shion is playing pretend in front of everybody tonight. As if everything is alright.

But it’s not.

Getting up quickly, you dust yourself off. “We should head home. It’s late,” you declare, your tone tinged with a sense of detachment that causes Shion to purse his lips but he nods, following suit regardless. He gets up, grabbing what little you had brought along before bidding everybody goodbye and following you.

Brisk is the pace you set, your geta clacking against the floor rhythmically. Shion follows you, two steps behind you as he keeps his attention on you regardless of any distance between you. It’s noticeable and only upsets you more.

Shion tries to strike up a conversation twice. Once, by bringing up the sweets you had tried with Sagiri and the second time by asking about the view. Both times, your replies are curt and to the point, your desire to not talk to him evident.

He doesn’t say anything else.

You step inside the house first, discarding your geta and getting ready to head to your room for tonight. Your endeavor is cut short when you’re pulled back into your husband’s arms, your back against his chest.

“I am sorry if I upset you.” His words are met with silence from you and his arms tighten their hold around you in response as he whispers, “Talk to me. Please.”

“I don’t want to,” is all you reply, grabbing a firm hold of his arms and freeing yourself from his hold. Never one to get overly physical, he lets go of you easily but is persistent regardless when he follows you through the house.

When you open the door to your room, step inside, and turn around to close it, he’s quick to nudge his foot between the sliding door and the frame. Neither of you anticipates just how much power you put into sliding the door shut.

A gasp leaves you when he hisses and pulls his foot away. Immediately, you open the door and pull him inside. “Sit down and let me take a look,” you mumble, guiding him towards your futon. “I am so sorry, I really didn’t mean to. I just wanted to-”

“To shut your stupid husband out. I know,” Shion replies as he sits down, a gentle smile tugging on his lips. Regarding him with furrowed brows, you sigh softly as you sit down and grab his foot, squeezing gently.

“Does it hurt?”

“Tenza would stomp on my foot with more force than that during training back when he started. I will be fine,” he reassures you, allowing you to drop his foot on the soft futon. “I am sorry for upsetting you. That was not my intention.”

“Then what was your intention?” It’s a fair question and Shion knows this but despite his desire to tell you everything, he keeps quiet.

“I don’t mind if you aren’t by my side at all times,” you continue, “I was content just being your wife in name but when you go ahead and build up my hopes, treat me with so much care, and familiarity, just to turn around and avoid me-”

Shion feels his heart sink when your words are interrupted by a choked sob and his hands move to cup your cheeks. A Yamada Asaemon’s hands never tremble, for it would be detrimental to the techniques they use for their executions. He swings his blade with firmness, confident in the path he has chosen to tread in this life.

All of his confidence is washed away by the teardrops that run down your cheeks, his thumbs trembling as they wipe them away. Apologies are all that he manages to utter before he pulls you in for a hug.

He breathes in deeply as he holds you. “I was unaware that keeping my distance would affect you so,” leaning down, he buries his face against the side of your neck. “I suffer whenever you aren’t close but when you are close to me I suffer twice as bad. I love you deeply and I have loved you since I can remember.”

Pursing your lips, you sniffle, finding comfort in rubbing your damp cheek against the soft material of his kimono. Allowing for his words to sink in for a moment, you ask, “Is that why you were avoiding me?”

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he murmurs softly and your breath hitches when you feel his lips against your throat. Shion takes a deep breath, “I was enduring.”

A wry smile tugs on his lips, hidden away from your sight. He huffs, finding humor in his suffering and you tremble when his warm breath washes over your skin. “The self-control I take such pride in seems to crumble so easily when you’re around me.”

His hands find your waist and his fingertips press into the fabric of your kimono with such desperation and yet, he holds back. As always. “That night…when you read to me and forgot your haori…,” he continues, going lower until his lips are just shy of touching the bit of collarbone that presents itself to him.

“It smelled so much like you that I felt intoxicated by it. Your voice kept ringing in my ears and I was aching to touch you but I couldn’t.” His voice gives way to a shuddering breath when your hands cup his cheeks.

“But you can,” you tell him, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. If this was a man’s desire - no, your husband’s desire for you, then you wish for it to swallow you whole and mold you anew.

“I’ve yearned for you to touch me,” you whisper and your breath hitches when you feel attention fully on you as he leans back from your embrace.

“You should have told me.” “I know,” comes your reply. He doesn’t fault you and neither do you blame him in any way.

“I will make up for the lost time,” Shion promises, leaving a gentle kiss on your forehead, “I will leave no inch of you untouched. You won’t ever have to ache for me the way I do for you.”

When you lean forward to press your lips against his - not in that tentative and careful way you used to, whenever you’d kiss his cheek but ardently, with a need that shakes him to his core - only then do you feel his hesitance disappear.

His hands find your waist with a firmness that you have grown familiar with and you smile against his lips, your breathing still stilted by your earlier tears. Shion notices and leans back to kiss your cheeks, right where your tears are drying.

“I love you,” he tells you again, “I love how your voice sounds in the late hours of the night whenever you read to me. The way you smell makes me feel weak, especially when the smell of your favorite sweet treats lingers on you. Whenever I am away from you, I find myself thinking about you endlessly until I come back home.”

Grabbing a gentle hold of your hand, he pulls it up to his lips, leaving a kiss on each fingertip. “I adore these hands that cause my skin to burn beneath their touch.”

“I wouldn’t want to burn you,” you whisper bemused. A smile tugs on his lips and he lets go of your hand in favor of pulling you close.

“I wish you’d burn me terribly. The pain might distract me from my longing,” Shion whispers, his breath warm against your lips. His voice is quiet and you don’t dare to breathe in fear of sending it away with the wind. “May I kiss you?”

With a soft laugh, you pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a passionate kiss. Gently exploring the other, your lips move together, falling into a comfortable, warm rhythm. You’re both a little clumsy, inexperienced, and hurried by your need but it’s sweet nonetheless and it fills the empty cup in your heart ever so slightly.

But a sip like that would not quell your thirst. Not anymore.

Your hands find the obi that they had neatly tied to hold his kimono earlier. Shion lets out a soft breath at the feeling of it untying and your hands diving beneath the fabric of his kimono. “We don’t have to-”

“I want to touch you,” you urge, firmly and in a way that won’t allow for him to question if you are doing this out of your own desire. “Don’t you think you’ve denied me your affections long enough?” “I can share my affections with you but this is a bit…,” he mumbles, his cheeks red and you cup his cheeks.

Leaning forward, you press a gentle kiss against his lips before telling him, “If this is too hasty for you, I am willing to wait. I love you.”

The expression on his face is barely visible to you through the little moonlight that shines into your room. It’s one you haven’t seen on him before and you don’t get to decipher it for long before he moves forward to kiss you once more.

This time, he dives in to taste you, his tongue exploring yours as you engage in a heated kiss. His body presses into yours and you don’t know when it is that your back meets the futon underneath you but you don’t care enough to spend another second wondering about it.

Traveling lower, his lips find your jaw, then your throat, and your collarbone right after. The trail of kisses he leaves is hot against your skin and you find yourself feeling entirely too warm in your intricate kimono. Relief floods you when you feel his hands settle on your obi and your own hands move to help him out with the complicated bow.

Once the bow is untied and the belt is discarded, his hands move to glide over your shoulders, parting the fabric from your skin.

To his chagrin, his palms slide over another layer of fabric. A frustrated sound leaves him and you huff, amused by his antics. “Please tell me there aren’t any more layers to this. I wasn’t aware that my wife’s real identity was that of an onion.”

“Your wife likes to stay atop the latest fashion trends. There is no way I’d compromise my comfort and wear a kosode on top of my hadajuban. I’d be sweating way too much,” you explain, slipping your arms out of the fabric of your kimono and letting it fall down around you.

You could clean it later.

“Unfortunately, I think you’ll be working up a sweat regardless,” Shion teases as his hands work to untie your inner robes with such dexterity that it almost makes you feel impressed.

Your hands move to rid him of his robes and once the both of you are entirely bare, with no fabric between you to separate your bodies, you feel shyness creep up inside you. Hesitantly, your hand reaches out to brush over his chest and the way he shudders causes your touch to be firmer - more explorative and sure in its approach.

Your other hand moves to settle on his shoulder as he kneels between your legs and he allows you to acquaint yourself with his body. His own hands are resting on your thighs, balled into fists.

“You can touch me too,” you whisper, leaning forward to kiss him for a short moment, feeling as if your chest would burst if you didn’t release all of this pent-up affection. Moving your hands to his, your fingers gently uncurl his fingers from their firsts, leading them to your waist. They settle on your naked skin and he shudders visibly. A soft laugh leaves you.

An embarrassed smile finds its place on his lips and he leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. “I am sorry but now that I get to touch you, it feels a little overwhelming,” comes his soft explanation and you smile.

Your breath gets caught in your throat when his hands slide over the curves of your waist, tracing your skin up to your chest. Carefully, his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling the sensitive nubs until they perk up under his attention. The rise of his chest speaks for his delightment and he leans lower, still hovering over you but moving lower to take your nipple into his mouth.

It’s an unfamiliar sensation, different compared to your touch. His mouth is hot, his tongue wet and soft when it licks over and around your nipple before there’s a slight sucking sensation. It sends a hot tingle down your stomach and you gasp softly, your hand finding purchase on his shoulder while the other settles on the back of his head.

Strands of silver slip between your fingers and you tug gently while his lips leave your chest, the cool air of the room brushing against your wet nipple and sending a shudder through your body. You think you can feel him smiling against your tummy as he works his way lower, down to your pelvis.

His hands are gentle as they explore your curves. Sliding along your hips before grabbing a hold of your thighs, squeezing to feel your flesh between his fingers. You wonder how all of this feels for him.

Settling on his knees between your legs, he leans back over you. Meeting him halfway, you lean up to kiss him again. The initial eagerness has died out and what you are left with is a warm simmer between your legs. One of his hands slides between your thighs, his fingers exploring eagerly. A soft gasp tears itself free from your lips and Shion asks, in a whisper, if you are alright with what he is doing.

You nod and pull him a little closer until his lips rest against your collarbone once more. His breath is heavy as he slides his fingers over your folds, cupping your mound before dipping between your lips. There’s a stutter in his breathing once he gathers some of your wetness.

A smile tugs on your lips. “What? Surprised?” you tease, moving your hips a little so that his fingers glide back and forth between your folds. He follows your motions, thankful for the bit of guidance you seem to be offering.

“Just new to this,” he murmurs, playfully nipping at your throat. “It’s a little difficult to really get a feeling for it unless you indulge in the real thing. The few drunken words of others can only provide so much information.”

Your soft laugh reaches his ears and he moves upwards until his lips meet yours once more. “So you’ve been receiving private lessons, hm?” you tease and he chuckles, his thumb finding your clit and circling the swollen nub slowly, applying gentle pressure. Meanwhile, two of his fingers dip between your folds, finding you unbearably warm and wet for him as he slides them in and then out again steadily.

The soft gasp that leaves you sends a tingling sensation up Shion’s spine and he gulps.

“They were rather unpleasant lessons, although the knowledge I have gained seems to be proving useful,” your husband shoots back with more wit than you wish he’d have right now.

A little impatient, despite your desire to take your time, your hand moves to wander across his chest, tracing the defined lines of his abs. The muscles move under your fingertips, taut and firm as you continue lower until you reach his cock.

The way your husband bucks his hips into your touch and the way his breath hitches in his throat when your fingers wrap around him diffuses your anxieties. He has half the heart to tell you that you don’t have to touch him, that this is about you but you manage to chase all of those thoughts out of his mind once you begin to stroke him.

A little too slow for his liking and a little too gentle. Even so, he doesn’t stop you or complain. His hand wraps around yours and he squeezes it gently. “A little more firmly,” he tells you and his words are so airy that it knocks the wind out of you. All you manage is a slow nod as you follow his instructions, picking up on how he seems to like it. His hands rest on your hips, one of them still wet with your desire.

You wonder if he’d touch himself like this when thinking of you - if his breath felt as hot against his pillow as it does on your skin, and if his thighs trembled ever so slightly, just as they do now.

Tugging on your wrists, he coaxes you to let go of him. Reluctantly, you follow along, immediately missing the weight of him in your hands. Was it that unpleasant for him?

As if he’s read your mind, he presses a kiss against your temple and explains, “I want you to feel good too.” Breathing out softly, you shake your head. You were ready to protest but how could you, when he says something like that?

Shifting on top of you, he moves his lips lower along your body but you stop him in this endeavor, cupping his cheeks as you pull him back up to kiss you once more. “Please,” his voice comes in such a deep, parched tone that seems to rumble inside his chest; you find it hard to focus on what he is saying. “Let me have a taste.”

And as much as you want to give in - the fantasy of his lips caressing places you wouldn’t dare ask him to kiss making you feel a heat unlike anything else - you simply wrap your legs around his hips, keeping him right where he is.

“There will be time for that later,” you tell him, and the way he swallows at that, the movement of his adam’s apple faintly visible under the light that the moon provides, tugs on the corners of your lips and makes you pull him a little closer.

“You’re terrible,” Shion mumbles, his lips finding their home on your face, over and over again, wandering from your cheek to your temple, and then up to your forehead, “Have I not waited long enough?”

Pushing his hips right up against yours, you shudder at the warm weight of his cock that settles on top of your tummy. “I think there are more pressing matters,” you argue, shifting to change the angle of your hips. A soft sigh falls from your lips when he pulls back a little before sliding back, the underside of his cock rubbing back and forth over your clit as he slides it through your folds.

His chest is pressed against yours, the weight on top of you comfortable as it presses you deeper into the sheets. Warm lips find yours once more and you have lost count of how many kisses you have shared tonight. It doesn’t matter since there will be too many to count soon anyway. You’d make sure of that.

When he finally sinks into you, it’s not as violent of a sensation as you expected it to be. Not as harsh and unrelenting as the women in your life would whisper when the men were gone.

It’s warm, almost unendurably so and yet, you wish to cling onto this warmth. The stretch isn’t painful - a bit uncomfortable at most. You’re more focused on how he feels inside you and how you find it difficult to tell which heartbeat belongs to you, his heart thrumming in his chest that is right up against yours.

Bottoming out inside you, Shion lets out a soft groan. His forehead meets yours and your breaths intermingle. “I love you,” he sighs, relieved to finally be able to say it freely and you smile up at him fondly, cupping his cheeks.

“I love you,” comes your echo to his confession before your back arches and you push up against him more when he finally moves. The drag of his length inside you burns in a way which your fingers could never hope to replicate and your toes flex, your heels arching off the futon.

A choked sound of Shion’s has your head tipping back, your eyes fluttering shut at how good and right he feels buried inside you. Your eyes burn behind your eyelids and you’re only aware of the tears that escape the corners of your eyes when Shion kisses them away.

“Are you hurting? Should we stop?” he asks, his tone ever so gentle but it’s a little strained and you think you see his cheeks flushed with such a beautiful color that you make a mental note to explore this particular hue in the morning hours, accompanied by the light of the morning sun.

The shake of your head is immediate and you whisper a soft “No”. Putting your hand on top of his that is cupping your cheek, you turn your head to press a kiss to his palm and you get to watch as the firm, upright man on top of you melts, his expression twisting into one that you finally understand.

A suppressed chuckle leaves you in the form of a shaky breath and it’s wobbly as your lips tremble. “Feels good,” is all you manage to speak and he smiles down at you fondly, prompting you to return his smile. Your cheeks hurt.

The need for conversation subsides as he begins to rock his hips into yours again, pushing himself deeper with each thrust. Your thighs begin to tremble when one of his hands slips between your bodies to find your clit, circling it once more with his thumb to help push you over the edge.

Moans, heavy breathing, and the sounds of his skin meeting yours over and over again fill the room, echoing inside your four walls in a way that would usually make your ears burn with shame. Right now, you’re freed from any sort of feeling of that sort.

Your nails dig into his back, pulling him closer as his hips move insistently and his lips lavish your throat with soft bites that he caresses with his tongue to soothe the pain. All it takes is a particular grind of his hips and his name leaves you as a choked sound, your vision turning white as you close your eyes.

It feels like all the air leaves your lungs and you feel dizzy, your walls pulsing around his shaft as your body trembles in his hold, the soft tremors continuing until he removes his thumb from you and stops the onslaught of his mouth on your body. Shaky breaths are all that leave your lips for a few moments as you finally fill your lungs greedily.

Forehead bumping against his shoulder, you keep Shion close, the quick rhythmic up and down of his chest soothing your quivering body. The man above you is breathing heavily, way more out of breath than he’d be after one of those training sessions you were allowed to watch.

A breathless chuckle leaves him as he presses a little closer and it is only then, when you feel the wet sensation between your thighs that drips down your folds and onto the sheets, accompanied by a squelching sound that shoots heat into your cheeks, that you realize he has spilled himself inside you.

“You are beautiful,” he whispers, cupping your cheeks with a tenderness that has never before been yours to claim from anyone. The way the folds around his eyes join in on his expression of joy as his cheeks push up against them while he smiles has you feeling a warmth that you wish to never miss again.

Blurry is your vision as you watch him pull out of you, making do by wiping the excess of your combined essence with the corner of his futon’s cover, before he lays down next to you. Your sniffling reaches his ears and he laughs joyfully, pulling you closer. “Cry as much as you wish to. I will be right here to wipe your tears,” he promises, chasing your tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “Although I do prefer you smiling and laughing.”

Wrapping your arms around him, you move as close as possible, resting your head against his chest. It’s quiet for a while; comfortable. Your breath evens out and you relax against him as his fingers trace shapes into the skin of your back. You’re too tired to decipher what kind of shapes they are.

After a while, you speak up and laugh softly at the way Shion startles ever so slightly. He must have thought you were already asleep.

“Does this mean I can come to your room and read to you again?” you ask mischievously, looking up at him with an unbearably cheesy smile pulling on your lips. You’re glad he can’t see it.

Shion smiles down at you warmly before pressing his lips against your forehead. Lingering there, he whispers,

“You may read to me in our room. Every single evening, for as long as you wish to stay with me. Every poem or story that piques your interest.”

“For as long as I wish to stay?” you ask teasingly, shifting to press your lips against his jaw. “That is going to be a long time.” “It could never be long enough.”

A few months later it’s still warm, despite the late hour.

Too warm to stay inside, which is why you are sitting outside on the engawa, humming softly as you try not to spill the juicy goodness of your fruits onto your yukata.

“Don’t eat too quickly or you might not be able to sleep.”

Tilting your head back, you look up to see your husband hovering over you as he stands right behind you. There’s a teasing smile on his lips and the light of the setting sun illuminates his skin nicely. He looks warm.

“Oh, come on now. I am not eating that quickly,” you shoot back, opening up another plum to remove its stone, just to throw it into one of the bushes. A product of nature returning to nature. No harm done.

He chuckles, sitting down next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “Couldn’t find any shut-eye inside? I could give you a few tips.”

You snort inelegantly.

“It’s too stuffy and warm inside the house,” you explain, munching away on your plums. Resting one hand on the wood of the engawa, you lean back onto it. Autumn is around the corner but it’s still very warm. The ongoing heat rewards you with sweet plums so it’s a little easier to forgive the weather for now. “You know, when I was a child I used to steal plums from my father’s trees.”

Shion tilts his head at you in a way that compels you to reach out and pinch his cheek but you hold back. “I know,” and the smile he gives you with that reply tugs your expression into one of cautious confusion.

“Did I tell you about that before?” comes your question, which your husband denies with a shake of his head. He holds a hand out to you, palm facing up. Removing the stone from a plum, you hand it to him.

“I got to eat them as well,” he explains and you look at him for a few moments, your gaze tracing the scars on his face and the way he eats the plum. Brows furrowing, he sticks out his tongue and mumbles that it’s sour and it is only then that you finally realize.

Putting your head in your hands you laugh, dumbstruck. Shion raises a brow at you, feeling a little anxious about how you’re feeling. While he did poke fun at you just now, he’s not sure if it’s all that funny to you. Maybe you’d feel differently about him now, or perhaps you’d-

“It’s not sour,” you tell him and he laughs at how you sound as if he knocked the wind out of you with one simple statement. Your shoulder bumps into his as you lean closer, grabbing a hold of his hand that rests on his lap. He intertwines his fingers with yours, bringing your hands up to his lips to press a soft kiss against your fingertips.

“You’re right. It’s sweet.”

NOTES:

Tenugui - a type of traditional Japanese towel

Hadajuban - traditional sort of underwearn, worn underneath kimono

Kosode - the direct predecessor of the kimono, short sleeved and worn underneath intricate kimono in some places when the switch from kosode to kimono happened

Engawa - A wooden terrace

—

The first poem is by Ariwara no Narihira, taken out of the KOKINSHŪ.

Frog poem is by Matsuo Bashō

“蛙 (kawazu) - Frog can also be read as (kaeru) which can be translated as “to return”, meaning that Shion was joking here about himself being the pond and the reader being the frog. She returned to him after their initial meeting

The story the reader reads to Shion is “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” written by Matsuo Bashō.

The poem where Shion is getting ready for the festival is by Ariwara no Yukihira from Hyakunin Isshu: Poem 16.

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luvuchihaa · 1 year

Text

“Didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Your head pops up as the unexpected voice makes itself known, twisting your face towards the sound only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley. He’s silhouetted where he stands—a shape more than a person. You can tell he’s tall, broad, and has a knot of hair tied up loosely at his crown.

Geto Suguru steps into the light where you can see him better, though it makes his sudden appearance no less surprising.

“Did you drink too much?” he asks, treading a few steps closer as he eyes you worriedly. You pull yourself up from where you’d been crouching on the ground.

“No, no. Just getting some air,” you reply with a stiff smile, dipping in a bow and quickly adjusting your pencil skirt once you’re back upright.

He has his tie loosened over his shirt with the top button undone, and his suit jacket is nowhere to be seen. He considers you for a moment, and his attention makes you want to fidget but you fight the urge.

You watch as he pulls packet of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his shirt and offers it out to you. “Do you smoke?”

“No, thank you,” you say with a quick shake of your head, smoothing your hands along the front of your skirt and then moving to step past him back towards the entrance of the restaurant. “I should go.”

He angles his body in your way before you can.

“No need to leave on my account,” he says, peering down at you. His face is partially in shadow because of how he’s standing, angled between you and the mouth of the alleyway that leads back to the busy street, caught in a small dark patch between the streetlights and the light affixed to the grungy brick wall. He tips his face up and the light touches his features once more, catching in his brown eyes as he waits in anticipation of your response.

“I should get back inside.” It’s strangely difficult to meet his gaze, so instead you look past him towards the street as an unwelcome heat surges up your throat to flood your face. A car passes quickly by the alley, and you watch as the headlights come and go in a flash.

“Why?” the man before you asks, placing the cigarette he’d fished out of the pack to his lips. He uses his teeth to keep it there while he fumbles through his pockets for a lighter. “You’re clearly having a terrible time in there.”

Your eyes snap up to meet his in shock.

“No I’m not,” your reply is notably indignant, even though his accusation is valid.

How would he know anyway?

“The smiley, nice-girl bit’s gotta be getting old, isn’t it? Pouring everyones drinks. Cleaning up everyones messes.” He laughs, though it’s only to himself, before clicking his lighter to life and holding it to the tip of his cigarette until it catches. The cherry burns red and bright on an inhale, and smoke slips from his lips as he adds, “You don’t have to lie to me, I’m not your boss.”

“I’m not lying,” you insist, but your performance isn’t particularly convincing.

Truthfully, the very last thing you wanted to do after a ten-hour work day—capping off a fifty-hour work week—was come out drinking with your colleagues. You’ve never really liked these kinds of gatherings, even if the company is the one footing the bill. They always get a bit too rowdy for your liking. Always drag on a bit too long. And you know that you’ll inevitably be the one stuck forcing your plastered boss into a taxi in the wee hours of the morning, while the rest of your equally-sloshed coworkers find their own ways home.

But the department chair, the very same one you’re sure will be singing karaoke with his tie around his forehead in only a few short hours, had been adamant that everyone in marketing attend the gathering since the sales section was joining in too.

Hence the sales employee standing toe-to-toe with you, blocking your path.

You know Geto Suguru, but only indirectly. The sales and marketing departments are separated by a single floor in your company’s office building, and often work on projects together. Geto is a section lead in sales, with a long, illustrious history behind him before he worked his way up to that role. He’s made a lot of money for the company, and a lot of friends along the way—what with his easy charm, silver tongue, and undeniable good looks. His reputation precedes him—in both good ways and bad.

The fact that he’s here talking to you—a fresh-faced, relatively new-to-role nobody in comparison to his lengthy history with the business—is what you have a hard time wrapping your head around.

“Sure, sure.” Geto waves his hand dismissively, ash fluttering off in tiny specks from the end of his lit cigarette. “I’m sure you just love making all those copies, remembering coffee orders, and running that section lead of yours’s errands too. Oh, and don’t forget when he takes credit for your ideas.”

Your stomach drops.

He keeps going.

“This upcoming brand collaboration is exciting,”—he takes a puff of his cigarette, his eyes sparkling as he looks at you—“too bad no one knows it was you who came up with it, huh?”

Your fists clench tightly at your sides, your lips pressing together in a thin line.

Geto blows the last of the smoke in his lungs from the corner of his pursed lips, away from you.

“That’s the first honest expression I’ve seen on your face all night,” he says with a sly smile tugging at his lips.

Your hands are shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask him weakly.

He tilts his head to the side, like your question confounds him.

“I’m not doing anything,” he says, and he sounds like he genuinely means it. “Have I said anything that isn’t true?”

You bite your lip, staring down at your pretty, professional pumps as you stand on the craggy pavement of the alley.

“You’re allowed to be angry, but don’t direct it at me for pointing out the people who keep screwing you over,” Geto says, and the way his voice sounds a bit nearer and the smell of his cigarette gets stronger tells you that he’s dipped down closer to you even though you don’t watch him do it. “No one’s gonna hand anything to you if you don’t fight for it.”

You glance up at him, your expression and your tone equally flat. “And what if I’m not a fighter?”

“Oh, I don’t believe that,” he says, chuckling a bit as he backs away from you.

You watch him as he watches you—contemplates you, like he’s sizing you up. He drops cigarette suddenly to the ground, still only half-burned, and crushes it with the toe of his shoe. You hold your breath as he takes another step towards you.

He leans forward.

“Hit me.”

“Pardon me?” The bewildered question rushes out of you all in one gasping breath, and you take a loping step back in shock.

“Come on, just one,” the man goads you further, rapping against his jaw with the knuckle of his index finger as a smile twists his lips up at the corners.

“You’re drunk,” you spit out incredulously, shaking your head and quickly moving to step past him.

“I’m not.” He sidles smoothly into your path once more before you get the chance to flee, like he’s half-a-step ahead of you at all times.

It’s infuriating.

“Alright, then you’re just insane,” you offer instead.

You knew the sales department had a reputation for being a bit wild, but this is beyond all your expectations. This is nothing like the charming, easy going Geto that you’ve heard all your female colleague gossiping about in the break room.

His smile falls, and he crosses his arms over his chest. You try not to pay too much attention to the way his forearms look with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’m still your senior, y’know,” he says, and his voice is a little bit colder now. More admonishing.

You’re very acutely aware of that fact without him saying it.

You huff out a frustrated little breath through your nose, crossing your own arms over your chest in a mirror of his stance.

“I’m not hitting you.”

Geto’s brow quirks curiously.

“Why not?”

You can’t believe you’re having this conversation.

“Because that’s assault,” you counter his question shortly.

“It’s only assault if I press charges—which I won’t.” You know he’s telling the truth but it doesn’t make it any more convincing. He tilts his head to the side again, and a silky strand of his dark hair slips into his eyes. “Haven’t you ever hit anyone before? It’s cathartic.”

Your lips part in an expression of astonishment. “Of course I haven’t.”

The man in front of you looks mildly surprised at your answer.

“Do I look like someone who goes around fighting people?” you ask him incredulously.

“You look like you’ve got some repressed rage in you,” he says with a smirk, and the expression only worsens when he sees the way you react to it.

He taps his cheek again before tucking both his hands behind his back and leaning in close to you, like a man offering himself up to the executioner’s block. He shuts his eyes.

“C’mon, just a little one.”

“I won’t.”

“You should.”

“I won’t.”

“How come?”

You take his face in your hands suddenly, tilting it up to meet your gaze.

“Geto-san,” you say quietly, your tone bordering on desperate. “I’m not going to hit you, so please stop asking.”

He opens his eyes slowly, his dark lashes fluttering as he blinks up at you. After a moment he smiles, and his eyes curve into narrow crescents as he leans subtly into your touch.

It’s quiet in the alley, but your heartbeat is quick underneath your skin.

“Can you blame a guy for trying?” he asks you coyly.

You’re still cupping his cheeks in your hands.

They’re warm.

“You really are crazy,” you reply softly to his question, though it’s not much of a reply at all.

He hums, turning his face so his nose drags across your wrist. His lips brush against your palm as he speaks once more. “I’ve been called worse.”

You don’t doubt he’s telling the truth.

Slowly, the dark haired man picks himself up to his usual height. He’s closer to you now than he’s ever been—and thanks to the little cat and mouse game that the two of you have been playing, you’re very nearly pressed against the alley wall. You can’t even see the street anymore beyond the expanse of his wide shoulders.

Everywhere you look, you only see him.

The realization sits hot and heavy in the pit of your stomach.

“I know you’re a good girl, but what are we gonna do about all that stuff you’ve got pent up in there?” Geto lifts his hand and presses a featherlight touch to your sternum over your diaphragm, his fingertips trailing delicately against the smooth plane where the arch of your ribs ends. Your breath hitches painfully as you stare up at him, a sticky knot at the back of your throat preventing you from forming any response—not that you can think of anything to say.

Geto smiles down at you, his expression soft.

You see the faintest flash of sharp teeth behind his pink lips.

“Don’t you want me to help you let it out?”

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luvuchihaa · 1 year

Note

I know this is like so random but do you have any geto, gojo, nanami, or megumi ao3 recs because the only good fics I’ve read of jjk are ones you’ve written 😭

you have come to the right place :,) i post more recs than fics at this point haha most of these are copy pasted off previous rec lists but have been added onto! the ones with green + marks are NEW RECS

here's a post on how to use ao3 to find fics by yourself for those who dont know <3

gojo + ao3:

+ intrinsic warmth: my favourite fic of all time. like genuinely. insane writing, fucking amazing in every sense of the term. 2nd time recommending this! reader's character is so sick BUT updates real slow (which isnt a bad thing!! good things take time!!) so i wouldn't read if you aren't patient // 122k words, 15 chapters, incomplete

+ ripverse: not really a series, more like a compilation of fics! it's got a lot of angst and the one titled 'interlude' contains smut i think so beware, and it's also a lovetriangle/poly-but-geto-goes-crazy-so-not-poly moment // 55k words, 8 pieces

+ the witches' brew: super cute fluff! reader owns a cafe, gojo is a regular, it's all around adorable // 2 chapters, 11k words, completed

+ all that is solid melts into air: arranged marriage trope! i haven't read but @/aanobrain loves this one // 7k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ cake batter: established relationship w/ dad!gojo & megumi <33 not much to say, just short n sweet, i am such a sucker for dad gojo so its no surprise there's one of these on the list.. // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ best of luck: initial concept is really unique!! confessions, slight angst, takes place at the beginning/middle-ish of s1 i think? so cute loved this <;3 // 5k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ afternoon tea(se): gojo torturing megumi. classic !! so so cute love the banter // 1.7k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ my apologies, gordon ramsay: god i hate this man. jk. reader is a teacher and a functional human being; gojo is not. loved! // 8k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ a name known only to paper: platonic, angst- beautifully written, such a unique idea. reader is gojo's older sibling. // 3k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ heart beats: another collection! i looove gojo in this so so cute i also adore bff nanami in the last one haha // 11k words, 3 pieces

+ exposure therapy: this is 1/2 of a 2 piece collection. when i read this for the first time i was floored- i love the creative take, and the reader's character (it was a 'she's so me' moment). this author writes with such a subtle but unadulterated take on love and i adore it // 5k words

+ how to be a human being: 2/2 of the previous rec and the perfect continuation in every sense of the term. oh my gosh, is this masterful- from the relationships & writing of megumi and tsumiki to gojo (i almost forgot this was a rec for him) it's all around amazing // 20k words

+ the sanctity of a name: SO SENTIMENTAL !! what an adorable work that rly goes into the psychology and significance of his technique + upbringing. so real and raw and very him // 2k words, complete, 1 chapter

+ assumptions: omf jealous gojo...... he's so cute in this!! you guys are married and it's almost his birthday, but while you're planning his surprise party he suspects something else.. // 6k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ even with the lights off: RAHHHH another fic that has me floored and pushing the #saveijichi agenda at the same time // 8k words, 2 chapters, complete

nanami + ao3:

+ math help: dad!nanami w son!yuuji.... yeah that's all i really need to say i think! // 1 chapter, 2k words, complete

+ photo albums: nanami shares abt his childhood! // 1k wc, 1 chapter, complete

+ i don't really read for nanami but i would check out @aanobrain and maybe shoot them an ask bc she's a big fan :)

geto + ao3:

+ lessons in love: DAD!GETO.................. im such a sucker for a good family dynamic in fics and this is adorable !! no curse au if i remember right! // 4k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ forever is in your eyes: angsty but ends in fluff :,) touches on his mental state, riko's death, all that! so sweet, i adore how this author writes him <;3 // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ ripverse: not really a series, more like a compilation of fics! it's got a lot of angst and the one titled 'interlude' contains smut i think so beware, and it's also a lovetriangle/poly w gojo-but-geto-goes-crazy-so-not-poly moment // 55k words, 8 pieces

+ dog days are over: a series!! by the same author who wrote ripverse which is how you know it's going to be brilliant !! marriage, parenthood, some nsfw moments // 30k words, 5 chapters, incomplete

+ curious cat: cat gojo and neighbor geto.. i love this one! it's so so cute and sweet, if you're looking for some light fluff this is definetely for you // 8k words, 5 chapters, complete

megumi + ao3:

+ complicit: college!au !! i remember reading this and loving it omg, the unique concept kept me hooked and interested, especially paired w the lovely writing! one of my fav series ive read. be warned, last chapter is nsfw // 18k words, 5 chapters, complete

+ a very special december 22nd: cute bday fic :,) forgive me for reccing all this author's megumi fics... theyre just too good !! i love the dynamics, all of it! // 5k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ kisses and cough syrup: THE BANTER!! THE FLUFF!!!!! i love this fic sm, so cute! // 1k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ nocturnal: establishING relationship fics are one of my fav genres and this hits the nail on the head.. he's so stupid silly in this and i know you'll love it like i do // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ lover boy: 2nd year reader, annoying meddling gojo, placed at the beginning-ish where megumi gets beat tf up- what more could you ask for! // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ difficult to not overthink: todo strikes again! you ponder megumi's type // 1k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ ten confessions: megumi: ten dif confessions in dif tropes each time, so they can all be read as stand-alone pieces! so so cute and beautifully written.. we all know i love a good confession // 19k words, 7 chapters, incomplete

+ therefore, i am: reader gets mixed up in the world of sorcery.. megumi's there, too! // 3k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ takes one to know one: flowershop au..... convulsing on the ground. my fav trope, ever, and so so cute oh my GOSH // 2k words, 1 chapter, complete

+ i really (x6) like you: fluff!! this is the one i linked in my og ask but it deserves a place here too <3 // 4k words, 1 chapter, complete

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luvuchihaa · 1 year

Text

SUNDERED

Pairing: Gojo x reader

Genre: Angst

tags/cw: angst, mean!gojo(kinda), babydaddy!gojo, babymomma!reader, motherhood, insecurities, arguments

word count: 3.2k

One woman’s life lesson is another woman’s better man.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo intentionally runs into you when you’re buying groceries just to show you his girlfriend. The woman was your classmate from high school. At the first meeting, she was shy and tried avoiding your gaze but Satoru just had to call you and ask something about your daughter. Completely unnecessary but he’s just that much of a jerk. Once was considered an accident. But when it happened two, then three times, you already know that you have to change your shopping schedule.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo picks up his daughter from your house an hour late, rubbing on your face that he overslept because he spent “some time” with his girlfriend last night. Distasteful and disrespectful, but you let it slide cause he seems happy. You don’t want to be a killjoy, right? You were never his girlfriend, to begin with. Just someone he got pregnant from a one-night stand.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo posts pictures of his day out with his daughter online. His girlfriend carrying your kid as the three of them wear matching Mickey and Minnie Mouse headbands. You could only scroll past and continue your work to busy yourself. Maybe you should stop lurking around social media and just use your phone for important messages. Maybe you should also lose feelings for someone who never harbored genuine ones for you in the first place.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo always lets his girlfriend open the door for you when you’re picking up your daughter from his house on weekends. He leans back on the couch, watching you grab your daughter’s things, opening his arms to cuddle with his girlfriend before you even get to walk out the door. It made you feel pathetic and small but what can you do? There’s simply no place for you in that house.

❧ babydaddy!Gojo insists that you spend more time together for the sake of your daughter. You agreed to it and now, you had to sit in the back of the car with your daughter as he drives his girlfriend to work. It made you feel sick and nauseous that you were only able to spend half a day with them before you decided to go home and sleep the day away. Maybe when you wake up, you’ll find it in you to hate him.

“Mommy? Call her, love.” Gojo used a higher voice to encourage his daughter to call you. He knows that he was foul for what happened earlier. But what is he gonna do? He can’t reject his girlfriend’s request, plus it was only a ride. It’s not like she was with you for the whole day. Still, he doesn’t think it’s the reason why you left early. You might be feeling…tired. Even if it was Saturday yesterday and you have no work. You might still feel fatigued on Sunday, right?

“Mama!” The little girl mimicked pointing upstairs. Satoru sighed placing her little bag on a nearby chair as he made his way upstairs. He figured that if you’re still asleep, he could just wait for you to wake up and just look after his daughter here. You’re a single mother for 4 days a week, and on top of that, you also have work. You literally don’t have time to rest. He told himself that he needs to stop messing around just to get a reaction from you.

Reaching your room, Satoru knocked on the door three times, calling out your name when you didn’t answer. “Wait a second.” You voiced out from the other side, “I’m just gonna call my mom, can you wait for her?” You suppressed a cough at the end of the sentence but it didn’t go unnoticed by Satoru. “Are you sick? I could take her back to my house, we’ll look after her until you feel better. ” The suggestion made your stomach churn. They get to play house with your kid and here you are, being miserable.

You shook your head, realizing how bitter you sounded. She wasn’t unkind in any way to your baby but something in you hurts when you think of them giving your daughter the family experience that you cannot provide. You and Satoru tried to work things out but you just can’t get on the same page. Instead of trying to be better for you and your daughter, he decided to fuck around and date someone else instead.

You wouldn’t say that your name was clean. What with a couple of threats such as finding someone who could act right. You just didn’t think that he’d really leave. It hurt but now you’re getting yourself used to the feeling. Maybe he just couldn’t act right with you. Because why is he so good with his girlfriend now? She tamed him, as he once boasted to you during a fight.

“I’m stuck with a child that I have with you, but not with you.” He pointed out, leaving a searing pain in your chest. “There’s no way I’m letting that happen.” Tears were starting to form in your eyes as the words come out of his mouth. How could he say something too cruel to you, the mother of his child? All you did was tell him that his girlfriend was getting kind of too much after she told you what to do with your child. And now he’s making you the villain.

“I just told her that—” You tried to explain, voice starting to shake. “If that’s all you did, she wouldn’t come to me crying, Y/N.” You just can’t believe that you’re fighting over this. You already have so much to think about and now this, you also have to be cautious about his girl. “She told you herself, I just didn’t want her telling me how to raise my child!”

“Of course, she wouldn’t tell me that you’re being harsh to her. Unlike you, she’s actually kind and considerate of other people’s feelings.” You looked down, letting out a strangled sob escape your throat before quickly wiping away the forming tears in your eyes as you turn away from him. Why was he never this defensive of you? He didn’t even try to fight for you when his girlfriend convinced him to take your daughter with them on a trip. Without your permission.

And now he’s talking as if you’ve been nothing but a disturbance in his relationship with her. Everything's just unfair. Yet, you just let it slide because you wanted nothing but peace for your baby. “I don’t want to have this conversation with you anymore, Satoru. You’ve said enough.” You sniffed, walking to your daughter’s room to check if the noises woke her up. Satoru was left standing there, processing all the things that he said.

He watched you disappear into the dark hallway of your apartment, shoulders shaking with your head hung low. Even if he can’t see your face, he can tell that you’re crying and it made him feel like shit. He went overboard, didn’t he? “Fuck.” He threw his keys on the couch, running his fingers through his hair. He wanted to apologize but at the same time, he wanted to prove his point. His girlfriend was only trying to help and you took it the wrong way.

At that time, Satoru thought that maybe she was right. You’re just getting kinda jealous that she could spend time with your daughter and Satoru more and now you’re being too sensitive, letting out your irritation on her. She said that it was a natural feeling for a mother to feel that way but Satoru can’t let you treat his girlfriend like shit just because of your pettiness and jealousy. You have to learn to adjust and accept that some things are gonna be the way they are because of your setup.

As for you, you felt hurt. Neglected even when you know that you’re not supposed to receive as much attention, much less protection from him. His priority is your child, but not you. You have no choice but to talk and work everything out with them for the sake of your daughter. You know that you could start dating someone of your choice but you wished that it would be that easy. You just want to focus on your daughter and if you’re gonna find someone, you want them to love her as much as you do.

You wonder what you lacked that couldn’t soften him the way he did to her. You started to think that you’re the problem and that is why you couldn’t fix him as easily as she did.

You stood up, opening the door for him seeing your two-year-old, reach out to you. “Mama’s sick, love, sorry.” You covered your mouth, blinking away the heaviness in your eyes. Satoru watched you pack your daughter’s things. “If you’re gonna be busy, just tell me. I’ll just contact Mom. She can be with you for a few days, just until my cold is gone.” You murmured, counting the diapers to put in her baby bag.

You don’t want to be away from her, but letting her stay with you when you’re like this puts her at risk and that’s the last thing you want. You can’t stand seeing your daughter through pain and you’re pretty sure it’s the same for his dad. Begrudgingly, you placed the bag in front of Satoru before reaching over for her favorite toy. You smiled at how she squealed when she saw it.

“You know we’re never too busy to take care of her. Just rest, so you’ll get better soon.” You swallowed, nodding your head slowly as you thought of what else they should take. “Yeah, I’ll be picking her up.” You kept your distance from her, sitting down as you felt your head spinning a bit. “Do you...do you have medicine, though? I could get some if you want,” Satoru can tell that you’re really sick and despite his situation with you, he can’t just let you be when you’re like this. You’re still the mother of his child.

“No, it’s fine. I have some here. Just take care of her.” Your voice was hoarse and your daughter was starting to reach out for you again as if sensing that something was wrong so you urged Satoru to get going. “Be good, okay?” You waved as she watched you with her curious eyes but waved back, nonetheless. You wouldn’t admit it but you feel envious that they could be happy together with her. You’re afraid that one day she’ll prefer being with them over you.

As for your feelings for Satoru, you hated thinking or talking about it. You’re obviously in love with him, but you wouldn’t acknowledge that yourself, either. You fought too much, you hurt each other too much. Other than that, there’s no point for your feelings now that he has someone he really loves and truly cares about.

You never experienced the boyfriend-girlfriend stage with Satoru. It’s like one day, you just woke up and you’re already parents. You can’t blame him for not having real feelings for you. You do your best to be as civil to them as you can be but sometimes his girlfriend’s just out of bounds. And after a couple of painful fights with Satoru regarding her, it just became too much for you.

You’re just tired of feeling like a wedge to someone’s healthy relationship. That’s how Satoru makes you feel and you just can’t take any ache from that.

Another thing that you deny to yourself is the hope that you might fix this all. There are always what-ifs in your mind, and you would never tell Satoru about them. He’ll probably laugh at you and your threats that you’re gonna be with someone who truly makes you happy. You would never destroy his relationship just because yours didn’t work. If you have to cover your eyes, look away and pretend to be deaf every time they’re around you, you would.

You often think about what it would be like if he settled down with his girl; if they decided to get married and have a family of their own. You don’t want your daughter to feel left out. You don’t want her to feel like she doesn’t have her own family in the middle of them. You also wondered if you’d have moved on by then. You hope so. You don’t want to be this pitiful and heartbroken forever.

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

After a couple of days, you’re finally feeling well. You got up early and sent Satoru a text that you’ll be picking up your baby in a few hours. You missed her and her giggles so much. The house was clean during the past days but you very much prefer it to be messy, as long a she’s there. You’ll never mind getting up in the middle of the night or waking up extra early for her.

Arriving at Satoru’s residence, you rang the doorbell as you waited patiently for someone to open the gate for you. You were hoping that it would be your baby girl, extending her short, chubby arms to you but instead, it was Satoru’s girlfriend. “Come in, she’s still playing inside.” She smiled at you, opening the metal door wider. “Thanks, I messaged Satoru that I was coming to pick her up. Is she ready?” You asked her as you walked to their front door.

“She is, but she’s kinda fussy about it. Satoru bought her a huge playpen and she just wouldn’t get out of it. She’s enjoying a lot.” She tucked a hair behind her ear and you can’t help but feel conscious of how you look. Opening the door, you were welcomed by the sight of Satoru lying down with his daughter in the said enclosure. She was fiddling with a toy as they watched on the big screen.

Her favorite toy was at the corner, and for some reason, it left a pang in your chest.

“Sweetie, someone’s here for you.” You hated the way she phrased it but you know that she doesn’t mean for it to be offensive or rude to you. The little girl looked up with her binky in her mouth, blinking before smiling at you. “Oh, you’re already here. She wouldn’t let me out of the playpen.” Satoru explained, probably thinking that you didn’t appreciate that it had to be his girlfriend opening the door for you.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” This place always made you feel like you’re an outsider. Probably because you are and it didn’t help that they’re making you feel like it. “Mama!” She waved at you, pointing at the screen as she sat down. “That’s a nice show, love. Maybe we could just continue watching it at home?” You know that she doesn’t have a big playpen there. The screen isn’t that big, either. She suddenly lied back down, whimpering as she kicked her tiny feet. You felt like telling her that you’d work hard to buy her that too.

She doesn’t want to go home yet and that’s what you feared.

“Baby, mom’s here. She missed you.” Satoru called out but to no avail. He came to lift her up, trying to see if she was just being too lazy to get up. Her eyes were glued to the television as she sucked on her pacifier. She was too into it, pointing the show to everyone before smiling at you. Oh, how you missed that smile. “Let’s go, now.” You cooed at her, softly clapping your hands.

When you tried to reach for her as Satoru leans her close to you, she started wiggling around. “Down, Mama! Wait.” Her cute language never ceases to make your heart swell with joy despite the fact that she’s trying to get away from you. She runs away, stopping to look around before going to Satoru’s girlfriend and hugging her leg. She was in awe when she picked up your daughter.

So… she’s who your daughter’s referring to by…Mama. You could almost hear your heart shatter at the realization. Since when did she start calling her Mama?

“You don’t wanna go home yet? But Mom’s here.” She talked in her baby voice and you don’t know if you’re gonna be happy that she treats your daughter really well or jealous that she came running to her when she don’t want to do something. Satoru went up to them, leaving you standing a few meters away. You don’t like what you’re seeing aside from your daughter.

“It’s not good to ignore Mama.” Satoru tapped her nose with his finger which she cutely swatted away, eliciting a chuckle from him. “Y/N, I was thinking… maybe I could just, uh, take her home later in the day. This playpen just arrived yesterday and you know how kids are…” He laughed nervously, struggling to find a nice way to say that your daughter won’t be coming home yet.

“Yesterday, I was joking about giving her playmates and she was so excited, she was running around.” His girlfriend giggled as she shared. It was a simple story yet it was a thorn to your heart. Why does it seem like your every nightmare is coming to life? You just smiled at her, understanding that she was talking about giving your daughter siblings. Satoru was silent, but you didn’t dare look at his face. You know that it’s in their future plans and you don’t have to see him smiling about it too.

“That’s adorable..” You don’t know what else to say, so you just nodded your head slowly, blinking quickly so as to bring yourself back to reality. His place was huge compared to your apartment. The playpen looks so much more comfortable than the crib she has at your place. She has new toys and a mom and dad by her side. So, now she doesn’t want to leave. Suddenly, you can feel the weakness in your knees from when you were sick starting to come back. You cleared your throat as you straightened yourself.

“J-just take her home later. I, uh, bought something for her.” You lied, knowing that you still have to go looking for something you can buy for your lovely child. You wanted to snatch her away from Satoru’s girlfriend, her other mom, but the giggle flowing out of her lips are too precious for you to ruin; the smile on her face as she tickled her tummy was too priceless. Look at them, you told yourself as you started to feel farther and farther away from their little world. They’re a picture of a happy family.

“I’ll see you later, honey…” You whispered, giving her head a pat as she looked up at you with her big, cerulean eyes. You didn’t wait for any of them to walk you out, you just let your feet take you out of their home, not daring to look back for the fear of breaking down. Your fingers tremble along with your lips and the tiny droplets of rain felt like acid on your skin. Maybe what they say was true. We experience people differently.

One woman’s life lesson is another woman’s better man.

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luvuchihaa · 1 year

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↳ a very yakuza christmas

summary. injured after an ambush from a rival gang, Mikey finds himself stranded on a local farm with a girl who shows him the true meaning of this holiday season and what it means to finally let all his walls down.

pairings. bonten!mikey x farmer!reader + all of bonten makes an appearance

genre. hallmark christmas feel good romance, kinda a reversed crash landing on you

overall warnings. fluff, angst, explicit sex, language, mentions of weapons, mild crack, injuries, mention of strippers, Bonten works on a farm, suggestive content, canon typical violence, off screen death, male objectification, romance, christmas themes

a/n. I wanted to end this year with something fluffy and sweet as a big thanks to all of you for sticking around with my little writing blog <3 ALSO! a huge wet kith to my irl sibling @neetro for helping me give life to this idea bc mikey deserves his happily ever. merry christmas, everyone 💓 (psst feedback and reblogs are very much appreciated!)

wc. ~ 27,000+

listen to. i need you christmas- jonas brothers • luxurious - gwen stefani • here i am again - yerin baek

Bastards.

A false lead. That was what found the stoic, powerful and indomitable Sano Manjiro in the middle of a 30 men free-for-all; blows, punches and kicks delivered swiftly but not swift enough that their faces blended in a mash of jeers and leers. His limbs weighed tiredly by his side, and despite how much he tried to reign in his exhaustion, the Bonten leader was fatigued from the stream of violence that just would not stop.

They had cornered him at his weakest, and he could tell how the fight would turn out—most likely with a mortal wound on his end and these bastards going scot-free, bragging about how the mythical unstoppable Bonten leader had folded to a bunch of small town hillbillies.

“He puts up one hell of a fight, huh,” one of the country hicks chortled, swiping some blood from his broken nose where Mikey had managed to land a debilitating blow. “Let’s sweep him up, boys.”

Attacking him all at once, Mikey felt for the first time in his life a powerlessness that pervaded every pore in his body; not even being surrounded by a hundred men with only Draken at his side during his delinquent days could match to the bleakness he was currently experiencing.

The last thing he felt before white-hot pain lanced through his head was a glob of spittle hacked onto his face, dripping down his swollen eyes that slipped shut on their own as the world around him started to fade into black.

Let’s finish him.

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luvuchihaa · 1 year

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𝐎𝐇 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘, 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 — bachira. m

𓆩ᥫ᭡𓆪 after his triumphant return to tokyo following the exhilarating world cup season, bachira stumbles upon a startling revelation involving his ex-fwb that would change his life forever.

tw. fwb!reader, fem!reader, pro-player!bachira, baby d(a)ddy!bachira is 21 here, unprotected s(e)x, pregnancy, language, dacryphilia, size kink, angst, misunderstandings, mentions of alcohol, mentions of food, petnames (mama, princess, baby, etc), daddy kink, bachira being bachira, MDNI ⋆ ★ for the lovely @j1ngyuans who provided me such wonderful insight to bachi’s character and helped motivate this fic along <33

Rain glimmered off the window pane, highlighting his golden-hued eyes. The circles etched onto them were nothing compared to the purple bruising his collarbones from your teeth.

Those same eyes roamed over your bare spine, curling within the cave of his arms. Despite the late hour and the reality of an early morning flight, Bachira couldn’t find it in himself to walk away.

Your warmth intoxicated him to stay for a few more seconds, caught in the trap of your vanilla-scented hair and sleep-heavy features.

Meguru had promised himself he would stop this last week. Then, he found himself in front of your apartment door, and the next day, in between your sheets. He let it happen three more times before his brain caught up and he remembered the event circled on his calendar.

The flight he had to take which would place 3,000 miles of distance between you two.

But, that was last week. Now, he was a man riddled with splitting emotions. Leave or stay; fight or fly?

Meguru sighed, and the minute movement caught your attention.

“Megu-chan?”

“Hmm?”

You looked down at your laced fingers with his, and Bachira had to sneak a kiss onto your forehead. You were too adorable for your own good.

“How long will you be in Germany?”

Bachira liked to believe he had a hold on this situation; that he wouldn’t quote unquote catch feelings. He had nearly tackled Rachi for teasing him when the dumb blonde saw your name flashing across his phone screen. Isagi smiled, but didn’t say much when his affairs came to light. The rest of the team thought it was funny he had found someone who could tolerate him, much less sleep with him three times in a week.

But, the young striker was coming to terms that you weren’t a normal woman.

No one else could stand his endless rantings about football, his tendency to forget why he stepped into a room in the first place or his strange sleeping habits.

No one else but you.

Meguru traces his thumb across your knuckles, contemplating how soft they felt under his touch.

“Just for three months, princess.” A grin tugged on his lips. “Why? Miss me already?”

You give him a look and roll your eyes. “No.”

“Doesn’t sound convincing.”

He felt your smaller fingers tangling in his long locks, tugging on the bleached strands. “Not convincing? That’s not true, either.”

You were an enigma he couldn’t wrap his mind around.

Smart and independent, you held your own in a fast-paced job and rented a pretty sweet apartment in the heart of Azabu. Bachira thought you must’ve been fucked in the head to let some random soccer player onto your radar, much less your home. But, one look at him from across the bar must’ve caught your attention.

You offered to buy him a drink, and within a few hours, he had you pressed into your own silk sheets, crying out his name.

It didn’t stop there. He secretly added your number into his phone, and texted you the next day, offering to buy you dinner. Part of him thought you would be weirded out by his forwardness. You weren’t.

The next night, he took you to Nobu for a ridiculously priced omakase dinner and fucked you in the back of his Mercedes till the windows shook and you squirted all over him.

As quirky and outlandish as he was, Bachira Meguru was a gentleman.

His mother always told him to be nice to girls, even if they weren’t his girlfriend. Bachira took her lessons to heart and offered to pay for everything; your Ubers to his place, the midnight takeout you both would order after every session, and the condoms he would forget in his back pocket the moment he saw you standing by his front door in a short skirt.

Meguru didn’t need his teammates to tell him that he was crazy. Every time he found himself sprawled in your bed, the taste of you heavy on his tongue, your touch searing through his skin, he thought about the next few months.

Why the fuck would you start a relationship if you knew you were going to be drafted for a season in fucking Germany?

Bachira had argued that it wasn’t a relationship.

When Isagi pressed him on what type of connection you both had, he clammed up.

A first for the usually outspoken, carefree young man.

Kunigami had blinked. Raichi guffawed loudly, almost making the windows shake with his laughter.

“Fuck. Our Bachira has a little piece of ass on the side!”

Friends with benefits. Meguru had never heard of that term before. Granted, he didn’t have many friends, much less any of them that came with benefits.

But, he found that he liked your company. Liked when you snorted too hard at one of his jokes or whined for him to help take out the trash. He grew fond of your fingers scratching his scalp lightly or how you always wore his shirts when you went to collect the delivered food from your front door.

It was why his tongue suddenly felt too heavy when he had to reply to your question. His eyes darted to the mark he left on your shoulder, and he touched it absentmindedly.

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Oh.”

You blinked. Bachira drank you in; really took his time to absorb you in your entirety.

There was a smudge of your mascara underneath your left eye, and your lipstick was stained with him. The dress you wore was shoved somewhere underneath the bed, probably kicked to the side in a rush of passion, and you were clad in only your bra. He tugged at the strap, fighting back the urge to see you completely bare.

He had to get his last hit of you, even if it couldn’t fill that strange, you-shaped hole underneath his ribcage.

Gently unclasping the last article of clothing, he threw it to the floor. You squeaked, drawing your bare hands to your breasts to cover them. But, he clicked his tongue, batting them aside.

Years of training to be a pro-player and a diet rich in protein and soccer fanaticism helped him shoot up past the six foot mark and he could’ve almost rivalled Nagi in the height department. His shoulders had broadened, pecs firming up and back becoming defined from endless days of training.

On top of him, you felt as light as a feather. A doll that was tinier compared to his larger build.

And Bachira loved it.

He loved pinning you down onto the mattress, licking your tears and cooing at you to take him. He loved it when had a slight limp the next day, or when you winced and squeezed your thighs a little from the chaffing. It made the monster in him prickle with pride.

Your glossy eyes met his, and you hiccuped at the feeling of him breaching past your fluttering hole. After three rounds, you were still as tight as when the evening started. Bachira grinned, palming your breasts and slapping them a little, watching the fat jiggle.

“Pretty, pretty baby is so warm and wet f’me.” You shivered at his words, bracing your hands on his shoulders as he guided your hips downward. Trying to get you to bottom out. “Good girl,” he drawled, kissing your wet cheeks. “Lookie, I’m almost in! You can finally fit me. Heh, took you—what? Two rounds? But, I’m only halfway through. Am I still too big for you?”

You gritted your teeth, turning your face away. He felt your walls clamping down on him in humiliation, and his sick grin grew.

“S-Shut up.”

Bachira tsked and tried to help you relax by gently rubbing his thumb on your tender clit. The shot of arousal helped to lubricate his cock more, your juices trickling down his stiff length. “Mouthy. And Meguru is trying to help you, too. So ungrateful.”

Hot, fire pain exploded across your left ass cheek, and you cried out, clenching down harder on him.

“Mhmph—Meguru!”

“Yeah,” his breathing got heavier, golden eyes hooded. “Mhm, that’s right. Say my name, baby.”

His thumb circled your nub frantically, desperate to get you unravelling. Your mewls touched his hot ears, and he felt you shudder on top of him. In a short second, you clamped down, choking his dick and Bachira groaned.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered while you were in the throes of your orgasm. “Cumming like a perfect slut for Meguru.”

He flipped you onto your back, taking both of your hands in his and breaching past your halfway stretched hole. Still sensitive from his previous treatment, you shuddered and wailed, back arched till only the crown of your head was touching the mattress.

“Megu—“

He sank into the hilt. Bachira set a pace that had you moaning his name. Your tits jiggled lewdly in his face, nipples hard and circling to graze the hard planes of his chest. You closed your eyes and he growled. “Open them. Look at me.”

You drank in the darkness seeping through his golden orbs with shameless need. Bachira’s clipped thrusts and sturdy hips slapping into yours filled the air with wet squelches and your airy moans. You were close again; he felt your thighs clench around his waist.

Unable to stop himself, Bachira gathered your ass cheeks in his bigger palms, gripping and spreading them so his cock could pound deeper and harder inside of you. The change in angle made your toes curl, and your breathing became both heavier and airier at the same time.

You curled your fingers with his, tightening your grip on his hands. Bachira brought one wrist to his lips, kissing the soft skin there.

“Cum for me, baby.”

Meguru watched the line of your throat constrict, your shoulders twitch and thighs tremble. He felt you sucking him in, unable to let him go; desperate to cling onto him with a vengeance. You shattered with such pleasurable desperation it was like a work of erotic art coming to life.

His own orgasm hit him like a truck to the face; Bachira dug his heels into the bed, lifting his hips up so his cock could breach you deeper. The hot flow of his seed stained your insides, lodging deep past your cervix. His head was spinning, and the smell of you burned his nose. Sweet vanilla and skin filled his open mouth, your weight pressing sweetly into every nook and crevice of his body.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “So good.”

You mumbled his name, and the garish green light of your digital clock highlighted the dip in your brow; the fluttering sleepiness of your eyes closing shut. Bachira waited until your breathing evened out.

He picked himself from your embrace and kissed your hair. Intermittently, he would glance up at you as he slid his pants on and buttoned his shirt up. But, you remained asleep, curled into a small ball with your head on his designated pillow. Bachira doesn’t want to let sentimentality linger for too long on his already conflicted soul, so he gave you one last kiss on your forehead before departing out your door.

Speeding out of your life for the last time.

As you dwelled in dreamland, he arrived at the airport, half an hour late and with his hair sticking out in odd ends. His teammates snickered when they saw him, but they didn't ask where he was or who he spent his last moments in Japan with.

Bachira told himself that it was part of the charm of being in a mutually beneficial situationship. You got him off and he got you off in equal reward.

But, as the plane took off and Raichi’s grumbles for good food service rattled in his ear, he couldn’t help himself from turning his neck slightly to the right.

Trying to catch a glimpse of your red-tiled apartment roof from 5,000 feet in the air before the clouds and frost swirled over his window, blocking his sights.

Returning back to Japan after three months shouldn’t scare him, but it did.

Bachira doesn’t know what to expect when he comes back to his homeland. He barely had the time to dwell on it when the doors opened and Ego was ushering them out into the gateway, the European Cup tucked comfortably under his arm; safely wrapped and whose silhouette was an unmistakable win for Japan.

Hoards of screaming fans welcome them back with flashing cameras and banners. Local paparazzi flocked to them with questions about the next season. He stood there as reporter after reporter interviewed Isagi, and occasionally trailed the mic on his media-trained coach who promised the nation of more wins to come.

His mother greeted him at the airport arrival, and Bachira pretended not to feel a smidgen of disappointment when squealing girls would run towards their boyfriends, engulfing them in large hugs and sweet smiles. It truly was funny how he hadn’t thought of you much throughout the long, gruelling weeks in Germany’s winter, but the very second he arrived back home, you were at the forefront of his mind.

Yuu was sweet and patient when her son returned her questions with sluggish exhaustion. She didn’t comment when he staggered into his bedroom, and fell asleep in his crumpled clothes; her poor, sleepy soccer star.

The next morning, his mother left him a note, telling him that she was out for the day to meet with an art curator. Lonely, restless and bored, he decided to help his mom with the groceries and take her car down to the closest mart in their neighbourhood.

Bachira didn’t expect anyone to recognise him from his newfound fame, not when he reached the car park and all he could see were milling mothers and elderly people scrutinising their potential purchases in hand. The cold air stung his bare hands when he reached for a trolley, pushing it down dreary aisles while flickering his attention to the list his mother had set down on the dining table the night before.

Ka-san would be happy I crossed this off the list for her. Buoyed with the thought of his mother’s grateful smile, Bachira almost missed a familiar face walking down the bread aisle. It was when he almost crashed his trolley into a stranger’s cart that he glanced up, about to open his mouth and apologise when he saw you.

Except, you’re not exactly how he remembered you.

For one, your coat was much too large, and your dark circles were way too pronounced to be considered normal.

And secondly, your palm was protectively pressed onto your belly. A belly that was swollen and protruding. Unmistakably pregnant.

Bachira inhaled sharply. Before he could call out a greeting, you mumbled a hasty apology and swung your cart from his path, hurrying down the aisle.

Bewildered, Bachira craned his neck around, wondering if you had forgotten who he was. But, you didn’t. You surely couldn’t. Because you were rushing to pay for your things, and in the split second it sank in that you were fumbling for your coins, did it hit him that he was supposed to say something to you.

Why are you pregnant?

Whose child is that?

Do you not recognise me?

Did you not miss me?

“Hey, wait!” His desperate voice punctuated the frosty air of the car park.

You hurried off faster when you heard him, trying to evade his presence. But, Bachira was faster and taller and you were physically at a disadvantage from your heavy belly. He caught up with you in no time, and reached for your elbow. You squeaked, almost dropping your bag of groceries when you felt his long fingers encircling your arm.

“Meguru—“

“Why were you running away from me?”

This close, he noticed the snowflakes hanging off the ends of your lashes; how your skin glowed softly away from the harshness of the grocery store’s fluorescent lights.

You stuttered and flushed like you were caught in a lie. “I-I wasn’t!” Curling one hand on your stomach, you missed how his eyes flickered towards that minute movement. In his fit of panic, Bachira had chased after you without completing his groceries, cheeks ruddy and hot from the sharp cold. A part of him couldn’t believe you were standing here; physically right in front of him.

Was he still dreaming? What were the odds of bumping into the very same person you were just thinking of the night before?

A miracle. That’s what it was.

But, you looked like the sight of him was nothing short of a nightmare.

Unable to hold his gaze, you shifted from one foot to another. Bachira grabbed the heavy bag you were gripping tight to your chest and encouraged you to let him carry it with a gentle tug. You unknowingly release your grip on the paper bag, shifting your eyes to your feet.

He had to break the silence. He had to get some answers.

“Congratulations on the pregnancy,” he muttered flatly, dull-eyed. “I suppose you got married and started a family when I was away, huh?”

To his surprise, your eyes started to well up. You dashed at them, and in the faint morning sun, your ring finger was as bare as the winter-struck trees above. Bachira had to take a step back.

“Wait… how long are you?”

Your pretty face was twisted into a frown, and you were resolutely not looking into his eyes. “It’s none of your business.”

You tried to walk away from him, but Meguru was still stubborn.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” he snarled, surprising the both of you by his fire. “Tell me the truth. Did you fuck someone else while I was away?”

His question ignited a flame of defiance from you.

“What the fuck, Meguru? How dare you ask me something like this?”

Your teary eyes dissipated, leaving behind a glow of anger that threatened to sear him whole. “First of all, I don’t owe you an explanation. Second of all, please give me back my groceries and third—” you shifted uncomfortably, scowling at your own two feet. Bachira hated to admit how adorable you were when you glared at the ground. “—I’m really, really hungry. Can you stop squishing my bread? It’s supposed to be for breakfast.”

He blinked. Slowly, he handed you back your paper bag of groceries. You snatched them with a flurry of indignation, turning on your heel.

“Is it mine?”

You stopped dead in your tracks.

Meguru hadn’t realised how empty the carpark became until he noticed the small of your back threatening to be swallowed by the vastness. It felt like eons since he last saw you. He wished you would just give him a hug.

Your shoulders hunched forward, hugging the crumpled bag tightly to your chest.

Without your denial or confirmation, Bachira could make an educated guess.

“Three months, huh? You found out about the little critter while I was away, right?”

“Don’t call him a critter.”

Bachira’s heart soared straight to his throat, lodging right there. “It’s a boy?”

You didn’t run away or try to brush him off this time. From the slope of your shoulders to the tremble in your hands, Meguru sensed your defences falling to leave you open and vulnerable. He rushed forward to patch you up again.

Guiding you into his embrace, Bachira didn’t care if you both were in public or someone would whisper at the indecency. He pressed a kiss to your hair.

“You should’ve told me,” he mumbled, not sure if he was saying the right thing. “I would’ve returned back in a heartbeat.”

“You had a dream to fulfil,” your sad sigh reached back to him. “I didn’t want to be a hassle.”

Bachira turned you around, lifting your chin to tip your head up to meet his serious gaze. “Y/N, you are not a hassle to me. You’re my friend. And friends help friends, amirite?”

You had to muster a smile at his innocence. “Yes, Meguru. You’re right.” Looking into those golden eyes you missed after the longest, loneliest three months of your life, you teared up again. “I-I’m sorry—”

He shushed you with a finger on your lips and a grin. “Don’t cry anymore, Y/N. Meguru’s here, yeah? Come on. You said you’re hungry? Let me make you breakfast.” Without giving you a chance to refuse, Bachira took your groceries from you and your hand. “The little guy is gonna have the best breakfast of his life!”

“Meguru, wait—”

“And I’ll make him my special pancakes.”

“Megu-chan—”

“And he can meet his grandma, too!”

“Bachira!”

He stopped in his tracks and looked down to find you flushed and glaring. Cocking his head to the side, Bachira widened his eyes, innocently scanning your angry expression.

“Yes, Y/N?”

You raised an exasperated brow, chagrined that he couldn’t connect the dots.

How exactly did he think you arrived at the store? On a magic carpet?

“Um, are you forgetting about my car? I can’t just leave it here for the whole day, genius.”

You had no idea how you ended up living with the Bachiras.

It started with Yuu taking one look at you, your swollen belly and her son’s sheepish smile to put everything together.

Since your own parents were in a precinct far from Tokyo, she took you in as her own, nevermind the fact that it was her son who got you knocked up in the first place. Despite the social stigma attached to a pregnancy out of wedlock, she never shamed you or made you feel less than perfect for your condition. Instead, you noticed how she would eye Meguru past the rim of her mug, a look of deep disappointment on her pretty features.

She heard about how you and her son met; how the both of you were strictly engaged in a physical affair and nearly bit her tongue off before she could nag Meguru. Though his mother was less than thrilled at the idea of being a grandmother in her late forties, Yuu Bachira was nothing but kind and sweet to the woman carrying her grandson. She made sure you were properly fed, had a soft enough bed in her guest room and even instructed Meguru to pick you up from the train station after work.

It was everything you didn’t deserve and more.

While his mother was trying her best to be accommodating to this staggering new change in her life, Bachira himself was struggling to coincide with the idea that you were carrying his baby.

It started with an ultrasound appointment. Since he was locked in Germany for those three months you had to wade through this pregnancy on your own, he was more than eager to make up for lost time by sticking to your side. The first time he saw his baby boy on screen, he had teared up, cupping your sticky stomach and leaving kisses on your belly’s crown, your skin tacky from the ultrasound gel. Then, he complained on the entire ride home that his lips felt funky and tingly.

You had almost forgotten how eccentric your baby daddy was.

Where other men would give their women space to grow and nurture a human being, Meguru was always an inch away when you needed him. It didn’t matter if he was out the whole day training. The second you called and told him that you were waiting at the train station, you would be greeted not even five minutes later by a panting Meguru behind the wheel. Your feet were hurting? Meguru would stop and sit you down on a bench, removing your sandals to squeeze your swollen ankles, much to your flushed and embarrassed exasperation at passersby’s stopping to stare.

And not to mention how neurotic he was with your food intake.

“I heard protein is good for the baby! Y’know… to help grow their limbs and muscles and stuff.”

In all honesty, his eager cluelessness was adorable. But, the mountain of fresh sausages on a single plate was worrying.

“Megu-chan, this is too much food for me,” you whined, sliding your perplexed gaze to his. “I can’t possibly eat this much!”

“Silly, I’ll help you,” he sang, sitting opposite of your huge plate of wieners before jumping back to his feet like this chair was made of hot coals. “Oops, forgot the mustard!”

Life with Bachira Meguru was interesting, to say the least.

Sometimes, you would catch him staring at your belly in wistful happiness. Other times, you would find yourself back in your bedroom after passing out on the couch, a blanket tucked underneath your chin and your favourite small extra pillow supporting your lower back.

However, similar to every event in life, it would amount to nothing without conflict.

The first (and only) crease in your relationship with the eccentric striker unfurled through an unexpected visit.

The air in the tiny apartment was charged with the presence of four burly men in the living room. When you came back home from your short walk around the neighbourhood, you hadn’t expected the extra pair of shoes by the doorway, or the boisterous laughs booming from behind the corner.

“... heard your piece of ass is living with you now—ow!”

“That is no way to talk about a pregnant woman.”

An ungraceful snort resounded through the small space that reminded you of a bull huffing. “I meant to say that Bachira’s little friend is a little too comfortable, here, no?”

“For real, man. I think I saw a breast pump catalogue somewhere on the table.”

“Shut the fuck up, Raichi.” Meguru never showed his annoyance to anyone’s face. Whoever this Raichi guy was, he must be a piece of work to get your baby daddy this riled up.

“Aw. C’mon, don’t tell me you’re in love with her.”

Something about the words ‘love’ and ‘Bachira’ in one sentence had you pausing by the doorway to hone in on his unfiltered confession. Maybe you were a lovesick fool, and maybe you were naive to the core—but you had weakly hoped his feelings for you were more than friendly. Call it a delusion, but it was too late to separate logic from the illusion his kind and considerate gestures gave you.

“Nah,” the voice you were starting to love touched your ringing ears. “I’m not in love with her. Just being nice, that’s all. I feel bad for getting her knocked up before leaving Japan. We’re just friends.”

Someone laughed. Your shoulders slumped forward, heart shattering into pieces.

A hollow, dying tree has more life compared to your stiff joints. You gingerly took one step back, conflicted by the sudden onset of nausea and anger. It soon gave way to a profound disappointment which corroded through your lungs like acid fumes.

You choked back on a cry, spinning around and slipping your shoes back on. Barely fazed that someone could hear you rushing down the hall, your pattering footsteps faded in the distance, and the tiny apartment you were beginning to call home continued to stand in ignorance, oblivious to the inner earthquake rocking you apart.

Your pain barely touched the real world, its ripples muted.

The same way your presence made no difference in Bachira Meguru’s life.

It was close to evening time and you still weren’t home.

Those idiots he had the pleasure of calling teammates had fucked off for dinner, leaving him anxious and worried for your safety when you hadn’t responded to his text of Where are you?

Bachira was halfway contemplating if he should start putting up posters of you, when the front door clicked open. His mother entered, bearing a frosty glare and sharp eyes, dashing his hopes and igniting his anxiety in one enraged glance.

“Ka-san, have you seen—”

“What did you say to her?”

Meguru blinked. “Say to who?”

“Y/N,” Yuu replied angrily, as if her son’s obliviousness personally insulted her. “I found her crying by the staircase, refusing to come back up here. Said she overstayed her welcome and if I could send her back to her own apartment.” The frown lines on his mother’s forehead deepened. “What did you say to her, Meguru?”

His golden eyes widened. “Nothing! I swear. W-what did she tell you?”

Yuu set her art bag on the table, sighing. “She didn’t make any sense.” Narrowing her eyes, she glared at her son again. “But, I sent her back to her apartment. She was almost hysterical and I didn’t want to stress her out even more. I’ll be packing her things.”

Helpless to stop his mom from arranging your small suitcase filled with your belongings, Meguru shifted from foot to foot, wondering if he had done something wrong and how he could make it right.

“Should I talk to her?” He wondered out loud.

Yuu wrinkled her nose. “Give her some time to gather herself. You can talk to her when she’s calmer.”

Continuing to pack up your things, his mother barely paid him any attention. Meguru was reminded of those times when he was younger. How guilty he felt when he took in Yuu’s exhausted, but determined expression from raising a child all on her own.

“Ka-san, I want to speak to her,” he murmured. “It’s not right that she’s alone. She’s pregnant.”

Unlike his mother who had to work hard to provide for him, Meguru would never put you through the same thing. He was here as your friend and support; you could count on him to share the burdens with you.

Yuu paused from picking up your night clothes, tilting her head to the side. “If you want to talk to her, I’m not able to stop you. But, just remember to not stress her out. Like you said—she’s pregnant.”

He nodded, despite how she couldn’t see him doing so with her back turned.

Gathering his car keys and courage, Bachira dragged himself out of the apartment and to his car, determined to reach out to you.

The journey to your place was calm for a Saturday night, and once he reached your front gates, he was reminded of the nights he snuck here, blonde-brown hair tucked under his hoodie and hands in his pockets. Trying to seem cool enough to earn your approval.

Bachira internally cringed at the memory and set forward towards your unit. He knocked on the door, peeling his eyes and ears for a sign of you. Eventually, his relentless knocks and calls of your name attracted the sound of your footfalls walking towards the door. Worried, flaxen eyes swept down your figure wrapped in a loose t-shirt the second the door opened, guilt consuming him when he noticed your red-rimmed eyes and wet nose.

“Meguru,” you mumbled, straightening. “Why’re you here?”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out. Bachira had never had to apologised for something he didn’t do. But, he wanted to try for you. “Whatever I did, Y/N… I’m sorry, okay? Come back and stay with us. It’s not good to be alone in your state.”

Staring up at his hulking figure, your expression crumbled into one of misery. Bachira found himself gripping your cheeks before his mind could play catch-up. He tipped your head back with two fingers, forcing you to confront his panic.

“What is it, sweetheart? Tell me how I can make you feel better. What do you want from Meguru to help you?”

The fact that he would sometimes refer to himself in third-person never failed to make you giggle, a watery, pathetic laugh breaking free past your clenched teeth.

“It’s stupid.”

“Not a valid reason, princess. Try me.”

“Don’t hate me.”

“I won’t,” he promised, brushing a loose lock of hair from your face. “You can tell me anything.”

You flickered your gaze to your laced fingers, fiddling with your hands. “I… I heard what you told your friends. That you don’t—” you cringed back, but his fingers around your cheeks held you firm, coaxing you to give him the full picture of your distress. Inhaling deeply, you forced yourself to continue.

“That you don’t love me.”

His brows were knitted together, mouth set in a frown. He opened his mouth to speak, but you beat him to the punch.

“I know we’re just friends. That you don’t see me as a partner and we’re just co-parenting our baby. But… but I want more, Meguru. Do you understand where I’m coming from?”

It took legions of courage to admit to someone that you wanted love. As clueless and eccentric as the world saw him, loneliness was a common emotion that he understood very well. And right before him, Bachira could see that you were so incredibly lonely.

He never thought about the effects of his treatment on you. How his polite and friendly gestures could be interpreted as disinterest. The truth was, Bachira was crazy about you. He never wanted to stay friends, but the timing was never right. His career would take him to another country for another season and you were in a delicate state with your pregnancy. Despite his overwhelming emotions, the young striker could not deny how you brightened his every waking moment.

Whether it was watching you devour an entire tub of ice-cream and moan about it later, or tucking you into bed after finding you dozing off on the couch, you held a special part in his heart which he rarely ever gave to people who were not Isagi or his mom.

You were his special friend.

And he was in love with you.

“Silly, silly girl,” Bachira cooed, catching you by surprise. He leaned forward, pecking your forehead first, then your damp cheeks. “For such a smart woman, you can be so stupid sometimes.”

Indignation rushed through your face, and you opened your mouth, that hot temper he found incredibly sexy fighting to put him in his place. Rather than letting it spill out, Bachira claimed your lips with his, silencing your anger. Replacing it with your soft moans and parted lips that silently screamed for more.

He nudged you back into your apartment, closing the door behind him. Luckily, your shirt and shorts were easy to yank off and your couch was three feet away from the entrance. He sat down on the sturdy cushion, parting his knees and tugging you to sit on top of his bulge. Touching you in a way he hadn’t done since the moment he put his baby in you.

And what a sight it was. He traced your bulging belly with lust-imbued eyes, biting on his lower lip to stifle an embarrassing, animalistic groan.

“You’re so sexy, mama,” he whispered, reaching out to knead your tits. “So fucking round and glowy. I should put more babies in you.”

You tossed your head back with a soft mewl. “Mhm—Meguru…”

“Yeah, say my name, baby,” he taunted, using the tips of his thumbs to flick your hardening nubs. They were much more sensitive than he remembered, all hard and perky just for him. “Gonna make you fucking combust. Give your sweet, hot, mom-bod all the loving she deserves—”

Twining your fingers in his long hair, you tugged him closer, smashing your mouth onto his. An attempt to stop his teasing. Bachira gave you your way with him, allowing you to grind down on his bulge, slip your tongue in his mouth. He would be putty just for you; let you exert your pent-up hormonal frustrations on his willing body.

You impatiently yanked his belt off, nearly ripping his jeans button off in an effort to get his cock. He leaned back, arms spreading across the back of your sofa as he took in the heavenly sight of your dainty hands pumping his cock. You barely had to arouse yourself; your soaked pussy drooling all over his knee and rock hard nipples were rearing to go.

Bachira pinned his half-lidded eyes on you as you lowered yourself on his dick, craning your head forward to watch your pussy suck him in. He watched your expression spread with joyous lust, your brows scrunched in pleasure. You used him thoroughly as he expected. All he had to do was rock his hips upwards while you gripped his shoulders, fucking yourself up and down his cream-slickened length.

Once in a while, you would lean forward and claim his lips in a desperate kiss, your hips frantically rocking back and forth over his swelling dick. Meguru let his head loll back, his biceps and thighs tensing against your couch. When you pitched forward to wrap your arms around his shoulders, he let his patience snap, strong arms vining around you and taking over your weak grinding to thrust up heavily into your welcoming pussy.

“Let Meguru take care of you, honey,” he mumbled into your neck. “You’re my fucking gorgeous Queen, yeah? Shouldn’t be lifting a damn finger to fuck yourself if I can help it.”

His low grunts and masculine groans reverberated against your throat, driving you deeper into your insanity.

“M-Meguru—!”

“Close?” he panted, brushing his nose against your pulse point. “Cum for me, mama. Make your Daddy proud, yeah?”

Something about that simple term—’Daddy’—had you seeing stars behind your eyes.

“Yes, Daddy!” you cried out, thighs tensing and pussy choking down on his dick. “Yes, yes, yes! I’m so close!”

The band around your belly snapped, careening you off the edge. Bachira was not far behind, and he pulses inside of you, filling you with his hot seed within three searing seconds.

Exhausted and dazed, the both of you slump into each other’s arms, satisfied beyond a shade of doubt.

Bachira squeezed your hips, a ghost of his chuckle brushing your jaw.

“Mama? You okay?”

“Mhm,” you responded back weakly. “M’okay.”

“Marry me.”

The dizzy curtains of an afterglow retreated back slightly, and your eyes widened. You peeled your sweaty cheek from the crook of his neck, staring at him with a trapped breath.

“W-What?”

Completely serious now, Bachira’s gaze could’ve penetrated your soul. “You heard me, mama. I want you to be mine forever. So, marry me.”

“B-but,” you sputtered, tripping over your words. “W-we haven’t even been on a date. You don’t know me that well. I—”

“Didn’t you want me to be in love with you? What better way to show you that than tying the knot?” He quirked one brow up, looking so ridiculous and handsome at the same time, you had to bury your face back into his neck.

“I didn’t mean marriage just yet!” you whisper-yelled.

“So you don’t want to marry me?”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I—I do!”

“Then, I do, too. That settles it. Boom. We’re married.”

Despite how ridiculous this conversation was, you burst out into laughter, and then, your peals of giggles morphed into sobs.

“Hey, hey,” Meguru cooed in panic, rushing to brush the wetness from your cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry.”

You stared at him in his entirety with pure love in your watery gaze. How infuriating, silly and beautiful he absolutely was. Irrational as it was, you reached forward to cup his face, squishing his cheeks together and squeezing them. Your beloved, annoying, sweet, eccentric Bachira.

“You are so adorable.”

He blinked. “So are we getting married or not?”

Another watery giggle slipped past your lips, and you released his cheeks, preferring to press your forehead to his.

“Yes,” you finally admitted after a beat of silence, marvelling at how easy it was for him to change your mind without putting much effort into it. “Let’s do it. Let’s get married, Meguru.”

— feedbacks and reblogs are very much appreciated <;33

©️ all works belong to lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or claim as your own.

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luvuchihaa · 1 year

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✦ PAIRING: Yamada Asaemon Shion x Reader

✦ SYNOPSIS: You get to share one last night with your husband, before his work will steal him from the warmth of your embrace with the first rays of the sun in the morning.

✦ CONTENT: Female reader, established relationship, domestic fluff, softness, a few jokes about blindness, a dash of humor, smut, kissing, praise, fingering, hand job, penetration, leglock, creampie, not proofread

✦ WORD COUNT: 3.3k

You don’t make any noise to announce your presence. Shion doesn’t need you to.

Keep reading

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luvuchihaa · 2 years

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The Burden of Being

Summary: There was an Osamu who loved you once. Who loved Onigiri Miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of Hyogo Ward. A fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we don’t need the memories. Now they’re gone and memories are all you have. So as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.

Pairings: miya osamu x reader (romantic); miya atsumu x reader (familial); akaashi keiji x reader (platonic)

Content: angst; fluff; inaccurate portrayal of how amnesia works; there is a hospital scene; fem reader; reader eats meat; reader has depressive symptoms that are, for the most part, amateurly addressed; reader attends therapy; alcohol as a coping method; undiagnosed alcoholism; unhealthy coping mechanisms; cigarette smoker Akaashi; cigarette smoker Osamu; amnesiac Osamu; pro volleyball player Osamu; the characters are all in their mid to late twenties bc this fic covers the time span of 2+ years; long passages written within parentheses are memories; there is a mentionable size difference between Osamu and reader where reader can wear his clothes and it be too big for them

Word count: 22k+

A/n: the premise for this fic was born after binging The Bear; she's gone through 4 drafts, 2 of which were completely scrapped and rewritten, and strayed much further from the initial plot than I imagined, but she's here! Thank you The 1975 for writing About You which I binged just as hard and would rec listening to it while you read! Sets the vibe, you know? Anyways, I've talked too much (obviously) but if you read, know that I love you!

The day was Tuesday, the most unforgettably forgettable Tuesday to exist.

Your downstairs neighbor was doing laundry. Or upstairs. Someone was doing laundry that day because you remember the scent of down. It lifted into your bedroom, pressed into your sheets, and made it harder for you to wake up despite your phone’s incessant vibration.

A shounen ending song, the season finale. A matcha roll. A nurse who spoke with her fingers and head tilts. A walker with tennis balls at the bottom, an annoyed cab driver, and a tourist who smelled too strong of American deodorant.

They were all there. You remember.

The hospital was the same as ever. It had ample seating, not too busy, which you recall eased the burden on your heart (only slightly) if it weren’t for the reason you were in the hospital to begin with.

An elderly woman sat at the end in one of the chairs pushed against the wall, sucking on a candy that smelled like guava when you passed. Her walker was parked right next to the seat and someone, probably her daughter because she was younger but they looked alike –they shared the same nose– sat beside her on her phone.

There was a man in an obscenely large overcoat sitting in one of the middle aisle seats. You remember because you couldn’t help but be quietly jealous of his wear considering how cold it was in the lobby. And finally, a teenager who was crying on her phone, holding her stomach as she did. Her tears gave you courage, allowed you to slip them quietly down your cheeks and soaked them up with your sleeves when you got your moment alone, away from the rest of the family.

You weren’t there when Osamu got hurt. He was by himself in the restaurant, opening it up and getting it ready before everyone else arrived just like how he always insisted.

You weren’t there. But you do remember.

Ma held you in her arms the moment you turned the hallways. She was on her way to the cafeteria, grabbing something for Atsumu to eat. Her head was downturned, a doleful cadence in her steps, and it was obvious that she’d spent ample time shedding tears, but there was a quiet peacefulness to her. Acceptance.

Her phone call had been quick like a debrief. She mentioned an accident. A fire, a gas leak, and despite your gasp, quickly told you not to worry because the doctors said Osamu would be fine. She said to come when you could, because she was there and Atsumu was on his way and he was going to be okay.

Then when you arrived, she immediately started crying. She had pulled you into a hug, devoured your body into hers as she pressed her head into your chest to weep.

She cried before she even got to say hello. And you didn’t know then, but there was a hierarchy for the pain.

Atsumu bore Osamu’s, Mama Miya, her sons’. And with you on the outside, with you being the last arrival, you held all of theirs.

And gods, do you remember the pain.

Ma had warned you that Atsumu was attached to his brother’s bedside. He was hunched over in a chair pushed back so he could burrow his head into the crooks of his elbows. The steady rise of his back meant he was asleep, probably cried himself to it. It had been a long journey from Osaka to Hyogo, and just the news of his brother’s incident, the weeping he must have done in public and bedside, you didn’t even question his exhaustion.

With your eyes on Osamu’s still figure, you moved to rub your hand soothingly along the length of Atsumu’s back. Comfort him was your thought process. Comfort your brother because Osamu would have wanted you to.

Was it bad to say that, inside, burrowed deep in your selfishness, you felt relief? There was a certain calmness that Osamu had been lacking lately, like a Tuesday morning where he finally, begrudgingly, gave himself an extra day off.

It wasn’t until you felt liquid dip down your neck that you realized you were crying.

Dark hair sweetly tussled to the side, one hand held in Atsumu’s and the other loosely laid over his chest. The scene was a rewind to the past, a replica of a childhood stored in the photo albums you’ve perused more than once in the Miya family home, when sharing beds and staying up until dawn led them to sleeping in until noon. When was the last time you’d seen him so… calm?

If only there weren’t any bandages on his head. If only it didn’t take these kinds of circumstances to finally close his eyes, to allow himself an unlabored breath.

You pulled up a chair and situated yourself amongst them. Atsumu at Osamu’s right, and you at Atsumu’s. Rolling a hand over Osamu’s thigh, you tucked the blankets in, pressed it into the crevices, his soft body heavy under your ministrations. Neither of them noticed you. Osamu only shuffled slightly, tilted his knee to the side and then clenched Atsumu harder. Atsumu responded immediately and scooted in. You stayed beside them, observed from the side.

There was no bitterness to your actions. What they have is something different and sincerely, for them to even love you so much that their bond bent, that they made themselves flexible to fit you in, it had always been enough.

Atsumu was who you called when you couldn’t talk sense into Osamu. And Osamu was who you turned to when Atsumu’s pride refused to allow him to fully run to his brother.

Ma came later. She brought a matcha swiss roll for the both of you to share and Atsumu a complete bento. It roused both of her boys up. Atsumu woke up first.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, the one still joined with Osamu’s and though he woke with his nose in the air, his freehand started reaching for you the moment he recognized you were there.

Your tears brought on his. His yours. Yours Ma’s. You held each other close and you whispered, because Atsumu could not bring himself to speak, words of consolation.

“He looks okay,” you muttered, eyes closed because you couldn’t chance a glance to look at him, to really, really look at him. “He’s going to be fine. He’s so stubborn. He’s going to be okay.”

Whether the words were salt or sugar on wounds, it was hard to tell because all that emptied from anyone’s eyes were tears.

No one expected to be here. Who did? Even when you watched Osamu sign the insurance policy and signed your name next to his just in case something happened. Something could never happen to you or Atsumu or Ma or Osamu. These were precautions to ease the heart, not the premise of a tragedy.

But even then, it would be dishonest for you to admit that Osamu’s accident was the most devastating part. You’re only being truthful because true pain began when Osamu woke up.

Atsumu noticed first. Even with his back to his brother, it was instinct that forced him to turn around. His groggy eyes were barely open. You could only see a slit of gray, drowsy and clouded like an overcast morning as his hand patted the edges of his bed as if in search of something. Of Atsumu.

The dutiful brother forewent everything. You, his ma, his bento, and immediately bent down to reach for his brother with both hands. He was at his side immediately, a cup of water brought to Osamu’s parched lips without a word before you could even recognize that Osamu was awake and against all disbelief, that he looked okay.

You took the napkin that was neatly folded atop of Atsumu’s bento, the one that had somehow been passed onto you and quickly made your way to Osamu’s side. To Atsumu’s side. And when Atsumu’s hand pulled back and Osamu resigned himself to a weary groan, eyes shut to take a physical break from all the hurt you were sure he was feeling, you handed Atsumu the napkin. He wiped the corner of his brother’s mouth with a gentleness you had never seen him bear.

An eerie silence persisted in the room as everyone held their breath. Osamu did so because of the aches and everyone else as a life vest because one wrong exhale felt like this reality could slip away.

It did. Frighteningly quick. Relief dissolved from your chest like cotton candy in water and all was left was this cloying and overbearing feeling of inconsolable despondence and disbelief because how? How did you end up here?

Osamu flinched when you pressed your hand against his thigh, a quick jerk that you surmised had to do with the fact that he had his eyes closed. You twisted your palm and stroked up, a move that you had done many, many times before, a premise to sex, a plea for comfort, and instead of him falling prey to your touch, he jerked out of your reach. There wasn’t even enough time for you to react because Atsumu had gripped your hand away between clammy fingers.

You looked between the two boys with a heart going brittle.

“What’s wrong, Samu?”

Said man took one quick glance at you before settling his gaze on his brother and a foreign expression passed him. Insecurity. He pressed himself deeper into his pillows and it forced Atsumu forward and you back as Osamu passed a glance to his mother.

He looked like a boy. And between exchanging glances at his mother and brother, Osamu couldn’t seem to find it in himself to return his gaze back to you.

Atsumu gripped his brother’s shoulder, “Samu, Samu. It’s okay. I’m here. We’re here.”

Osamu responded silently with a glazed stare that made Atsumu sputter. “Samu? Ya feel okay? Can ya tell me how ya feeling right now?”

The question seemed far too much to handle because all that was received was silence. Atsumu was hardly holding himself together with the tears that spilled from his eyes onto blotted, pink cheeks but you couldn’t bring yourself to move forward. You wanted to help carry this burden, hold Osamu like you’d done many times before, but the world felt skewed. Instead of being at his bedside, you felt like you were standing outside a window, watching the scene from a distance.

“Do ya… do ya know who I am?”

Ma broke first. You remember reaching backwards and gripping a wet hand full of used tissues, the fibers sticking to your skin.

“Samu. Samu.” Atsumu repeated his name over and over again like prayer, an incantation meant for miracles. “Samu. Say my name.”

“Tsumu.” The small croak was accompanied by the mildest glare, a small fire of insult always and specifically reserved for his brother and Atsumu choked.

“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s me. Ya remember our birthday?”

“October.”

“What day?”

His face pinched momentarily.

“What day, Samu?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Atsumu tried to deflect, “just try to think about it. What day is our birthday, Samu?”

“Atsumu…” Ma finally gained the strength to speak, a tiny chide that she was too exhausted to actually give any weight.

“Fifth,” Osamu pushed himself to sound out, like the word was a foreign tongue.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Atsumu brushed his brother’s hair with his fingers and the sight was disconcerting because despite how close they were, how they were one part of a whole, they had never been so careful. A childhood of roughhousing and testing limits proved invincibility.

Bruises and beatings and cuts that they wrought on eachother and yet there Atsumu was, tending to his brother as if he’d been his caretaker all his life.

“Ya recognize anyone else in the room?”

“Course I recognize Ma, ya idiot.” He coughed in between, stutters forming one worded sentences, but the attitude brought on the brightest smile on Atsumu’s face.

“Yeah, and who else?”

You remember moving to lift your hand, the one pressed against your lips to keep them from trembling, the one that wasn’t holding Ma’s, to provide a shy wave but thank the gods it stayed. Because when Osamu finally urged himself to look at you, instead of the ardor and the sweet groggy expression right before early morning kisses, he winced in pain. You muffled the sound of shock, but no one noticed with Atsumu’s screeching chair as he rushed to hover over Osamu’s anguished figure.

He writhed for an achingly long moment, though it must have been just seconds. You would have ran off if Ma didn’t force her grip on you tighter but once Osamu could melt back into his hospital bed, Atsumu turned his head.

His expression was tight and so desperately trying to be controlled despite himself. But you weren’t an idiot because beyond the glassy edge of hurt and worry and fear, if you dove deeper beneath the well of tears that pooled in his eyes, was blame.

Atsumu turned his back to you and pressed his brother’s head into his chest as he rubbed large strikes across his back. “It’s okay, Samu. Sorry I pushed ya. Ya did well. Ya did good. Ya gonna be okay.”

And before Ma could stop you, you ran out the door with the excuse that you were going to find a doctor. You turned down the hallways, heedless of direction, where you were able to find what you thought was a secluded cove. The torment was gushing, a pain that you’d never felt or could even begin to understand. No matter how you expelled the misery, in tears or heaves or wracked out sobs, the hurt never abated. It was limitless.

Because for some ridiculous reason, this felt like all your fault.

You were only able to spend minutes crouched in the privacy of your corner until a nurse found you. It must have been a usual sight because she hovered over you, a quiet calm in her voice, as she led you away with a bottle of juice in one hand and into a room where no one else was. She said nothing, only passed napkins your way and didn’t blame you when you couldn’t find it in yourself to express gratitude. Afterward, she pointed down a long hallway and told you that when you were ready, that’s where the waiting room was.

Ma came by maybe an hour later. The pain at that point had swelled into your marrow, aching at every movement you made, but the bubbling river of tears had turned shallow. Now they were silent streams. You had spent the last half hour in solidarity with the teen who cried to her mom over the phone, catching glances every time a sniffle turned wet, and seated in the spot with a lingering guava and menthol scent.

Ma sat where the grandmother had, you beside her. Without glancing up, she placed the matcha roll in your hands, half eaten but notably uneven because you had the larger half.

Her touch lingered. It stayed. When it prompted more crying, the reality that you were a pitiable sight, that this wasn’t just shared between you and the girl with her arm around her stomach and the wordless nurse, the swollen bones in your body bursted.

Ma’s cold hands easily maneuvered you into her bosom. She held like you’d seen her hold Osamu in pictures when he was sick, like how she held Aran when he cried after coming back home after being away for so long.

“We’ll get through this.”

It sounded like an empty sentiment but if anyone were able to make the impossibles come true, it was Ma and Ma alone. You barely believed her, but maybe. Most likely not, but maybe, she was right.

So you nodded into her chest but she only clicked her tongue behind her teeth.

“Together,” she told you sternly, “as a family. I don’t want to hear none of that.” Ma held you tighter when she felt you pull away. “Ya’ve been my daughter for a long time now. Even if the two of ya never got married.”

You’d been trying to be so strong. For Osamu because it was obvious. He was your partner for life, and though the vows were never spoken, you had lived them. For all the good, the bad, the happy, and the sick.

But Atsumu, his pain was tenfold and you had to do something, even if it was to tread the thorny footpath to be by his side, even if it was just your hands cupped open so you could help carry his misery.

Then Ma held you like she was strong enough to piece you together again and you trusted her. Your wails were muffled into her cardigan and she rocked you back and forth despite the arms of the uncomfortable chairs in the way.

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t–” your breath ceased, words lingering in the air because living it is already unbearable enough.

“He does.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Ya think a love like the two of ya had is that easy to forget?”

It wasn’t. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to. But the way Osamu had winced in pain at the sight of you, and Atsumu’s imperceptible glare, maybe it was best to be forgotten.

Ma took your silence as agreement because the circle of her arms loosened. She pulled back so that she could wipe your tears with a bent index finger.

It was jarring seeing the puffy rise below her eyes. She had always been beautiful in your opinion. A simple charm for life and the zest derived from raising two wildly vivacious boys kept her young. In a single day, she aged a decade and you wondered how you compared.

“The doctor is on their way. Come on,” she tapped you the same way she did whenever Atsumu started an unnecessary argument, “let’s go see what they have to say.”

Atsumu’s expression flashed in your mind, hesitation clenched her cardigan tighter, “but Atsumu…”

“Don’t be mad at Atsumu,” your throat had lurched when she looked away from you, head tilted to the side as if you had just slapped her across the face. “He’s going through a lot. He doesn’t know what to do.”

And you remember how your grip relaxed, how your arms had fallen into your lap, diminutive and so, very exhausted. Never did it cross your mind to be angry at the way any of them ached. Not Ma, not Atsumu, and especially not Osamu. If there was anyone you hated, it was yourself for even being there.

Ma said you were family. But Atsumu and Osamu, of course, they would always be her boys.

Osamu was asleep when you reentered the room and Atsumu held your hand as if nothing had ever happened. He stood up immediately when the doctor stopped by, eyes forward. Something had changed that day. Atsumu was a different man.

He’d have neverending stories of when he was captain at Inarizaki, and he liked to pass time by retelling another instance where he had to wrangle control of Bokuto, or Sakusa, or Hinata. Atsumu’s passion and sense of righteousness were great qualities for a leader, but his clumsy delivery always made him the butt of Osamu’s (among others) jokes.

That day had changed him. His footfall was sure despite his blemished expression as he listened faithfully to the doctor, only ascertaining everything you had already deduced.

It all made sense, logically, scientifically, situationally.

The fire was still being investigated but from the report, it had loosened the foundation of Onigiri Miya and it caused a beam from the ceiling to strike him flat against the head. He’d been knocked unconscious before the flames could even consume the restaurant and if it hadn’t been for the regulars and the community that had memorized their favorite restauranteur’s habits, no one would have even known he was inside.

As you all waited for Osamu to come to again, you’d rationalized the incident repeatedly in your mind. Reality though, was never as kind.

Because even in the tepid fluorescent light, you couldn't convince yourself. This could not be real.

It’s not. You knew this, but Osamu spoke with such vindication, honesty in every breath that even he had you fooled.

“Ya traded out Kageyama when we were six points down in the second set.” Osamu recited to his brother at his bedside, in the same spot, in the same clothes, in the same battered expression. “And I remember cheering ya on from the bench when ya set the winning point to Aran against Russia.”

The silence that followed was cold. A shiver started at the dip of your shoulder blades, and wrung you out like a towel squeezed dry.

The doctors had said something like this would happen. Memories could return a little misplaced, as if you had just moved everything two inches to the left because it exactly was as Osamu said.

In the 2020 Olympics, Japan faced Russia in the first round. They won the first set, but struggled hard in the second. To prevent risking their lead, Kageyama was subbed out for Atsumu. The tides had turned and they won with Aran scoring the last point.

Yes, Osamu was there. But rather than on the bench, he was outside the arena. You were manning the register and he’d stepped outside the final moments of the match, standing there with his arms crossed like a dad, cap in one hand, and head tilted at the enormous screen that streamed the ongoing match inside.

Atsumu was the one who made the first sound. It was strangled and faded when his brother gave him a peculiar look. Then he glanced at his mother, urging answers out with his eyes, staring at everything before landing at you. His face contorted in pain, but Atsumu saved him. He grabbed his brother’s cheeks, hair glued to his skin, and he pressed his forehead against his brothers, and nodded.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.”

That was the extent of what you could take and you ran out of the room, droplets of your tears mingling with the tile’s speckled pattern, and when the door clicked again, you didn't have to look up to know who it was.

“I’m sorry.”

Through your blurry vision, the world graying, darkness descending right before your eyes, it was like you were speaking to Osamu himself.

“He looks happy for the first time and I’m so sorry.” The Atsumu-Osamu amalgamation held your hands desperately.

Their individualism had always been easy to parse, especially with you being devotedly in love with one and having developed a brotherly affection for the other, but you allowed yourself this. If your heart must break, let Osamu herald this pain. No one else.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He pulled you in by the shoulders and hugged you. He sniveled wet breaths into your neck just as you darkened the cloth on his back. “It’s the first time I feel whole.”

The sting reappeared between your nose and you found it harder to breathe so you clutched him tighter in a feeble attempt to expel all the excess tension that had ballooned in your chest.

“I know.”

Though the fact did little to ease you, you'd never been able to compare. What is Osamu’s had always been Atsumu’s and vice versa, too. Joint custody in all things: pride, success, pain.

Memory.

“And I don’t want to break that yet. Not for him.” Not for me he said silently. “And I love ya and I know ya love him. Ya love him so much and he loves ya too but–”

But I love him more. I love him in a way you could never.

“I know.”

Osamu would pinch your lips shut if he were really here. He’d never stand for your way of thinking because comparing yourself to his brother was a thought he never entertained.

That’s like apples to oranges or whatever that saying is. I chose ya. I choose ya for the rest of my life and I just happen to be stuck with that guy for life.

You took Atsumu’s face in your hands. Wet cheeks stuck to your fingers as you collected tears along your lash line until the world blurred just enough that blonde turned dark brown and golden rays faded to gray.

“- but I don’t want to take this away from him yet. Ya heard the doctor. He said we could try some exposure therapy so that his memory can unwonk itself out again, but ya saw that didn’t ya?”

Tears burned down your chin when you gave a somber nod, “I did.”

“When he was talking about being in the Olympics, I… I just–” he bit his lip, the memory painful, “ –and he got all those details correct, I just couldn’t tell him no.”

“I know.”

You couldn’t either.

“We’ll start the therapy when everything settles down. Maybe he’ll start remembering things on his own but it’s been a lot for him to deal with. The injuries, his memory, the shop–”

You shook your head and the man before you paused. He looked surprised with his mouth open for breath, but the foremost expression did not hide how he felt yesterday.

Your thumb started at the plump of his face and swiped up to the ridges of his cheekbones. A clean slate.

“It’s okay. Osamu will be okay.”

Your love was Osamu’s choice. Atsumu’s will always be shared.

After that day, you kept your presence minimal. Only occasionally stopping by, slowly relinquishing the things that the old Osamu, the one that knew you, valued. Each time, he’d hold the item like it was foreign. You watched from the corner of the room, like a diminutive decoration, maybe even a broom, and spectated as Atsumu helped him pull item after item.

The black hoodie, stained at the cuffs, and chewed strings at the ends, the one he had first shared with you.

(The night descended softly, like the flutter of silk sheets, and before you knew it, you’d been in Osamu’s front seat talking nonsense and sharing an assortment of leftovers he’d brought from Onigiri Miya. You’d only been talking for a couple of weeks, slowly getting to know each other outside of customer and cook, but it’s been months of patronage. When Osamu texted you after his shift and found you still awake despite your early start the next morning, he invited you out for a drive.

You’d heard him before he arrived, the worn out truck of his announcing his presence. He had the audacity to apologize for the poor state his vehicle was in, as if it wasn’t endearing, as if he didn’t make you feel like a princess when he held his hand across the console for leverage.

And here you are now, at a hilltop overlooking a beautiful city you’d moved to in a drowsy silence. His presence is calming, a knitted blanket that softens the bite of the night air. It doesn’t stop you from shivering though.

Osamu notices immediately, head snapping to you when you do.

“Ya cold?” he asks, but regardless of your answer, he’s taking action. The man braces a hand around your bare thigh since you’d only come out in sleep shorts and shirt (though you still made sure to check yourself in the mirror before heading out) and just the warmth beneath his touch makes you ache. You lean closer, just a slight movement over the console for any residual heat he has to offer, the seats of his vehicle a sharp contrast.

“Still working on fixing her,” Osamu explains, “she’s a little off in some spots. Her heater don’t work and she leaks some fluid every hundred kilometers but she’s still a beaut.”

Your smile makes Osamu pause. His body is turned as he tries to reach for something in the back, but just the sight of your expression makes him stop and fully face you so he can take it in.

You think it’s cute how he talks about his car, how despite all her flaws, he can see her value. The world has been hard on you, but he gives you hope. From the moment you met eyes on him at your office and when you walked into his shop months later, greeting you with a fond welcome because he remembered you, he makes you think that he can see your true value too.

And with the way he leans in, his eyes glancing between yours and your lips, his hand unknowingly dragging up and down for the feel of more skin, you think he does.

The kiss is chaste, so innocent like the first drop of sunlight in the winter. It warms you from the inside out with a crisp feeling that makes you feel renewed.

Barely a second, but Osamu has you wishing for more. You’ve noticed he has a tendency to do that, to have you eager and hungry for all that he has to offer. How from just one bite of his catered food to your office, you couldn’t help but visit his shop as well.

Though your lips have parted, your faces have not. Osamu’s lashes are long from this point of view, and his skin looks lovely in the moonlight. You’re so close that you can see the small veins, blue and greens below his eyes. The colors are so distracting, his breath so warm across your cheeks, you can’t help but stare, memorize everything before the chance to do so again is taken from you.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

His husky words create a vortex of desire, consuming you wholly. You can’t help but squirm in your seat.

“Like what?” You’re doing your best to keep it cool, but you can hear the fray in your voice, reedy and needy and wanting. It’s scary to even think of the power he has over you.

“Like,” his pause forces you to glance at him and you see it too, a mirrored expression of yearning. It’s so intense the way your barriers break. It’s scary. You want to pull away, escape the emotions that are hardly within your control but he tilts your chin with an index finger and thumb. The motion is so gentle, the slightest touch with the heaviest of meanings, and he continues to stare. Maybe even admire. “Yeah, like that. Ya gonna make me go insane.”

“Me too,” you whine. It’s unfair, so unfair what he can do just with his eyes.

His expression hardens. The corners of his eyes crinkles as he glares his sight down on you, “don’t. If I kiss ya again, I don’t know if I can control myself. Ya don’t know how bad I want ya.”

“I’m right here.”

Your reply induces a vexed response. He has to breathe heavily through his nose as he fully moves his fingers to cup your cheeks. You watch as his chest rises, the breadth of it expanding as the tendons in his neck protrude at the action. Then he looks down on you from a head that’s tilted back and you see it, the subdued hunger that you’re sure he’s trying to persuade back inside. It’s frighteningly beautiful. The attraction beckons you forward despite his grip on your face keeping you still in your spot.

“Why?” You have to ask. What is all this discipline for when clearly, it’s reciprocated.

“Because,” Osamu grits. His hand travels to the back of your head and you can feel the strength of his grip, the promise of more beneath his fingertips. “If I’m gonna wreck ya, I’m gonna wreck ya right. So quit being the devil’s little thing, and let me take ya out on a real date so I can have ya properly.”

You pout but his thumb moves to push the plump of your lips back in, “no, ya hear me? Ya keep those pretty lips in. Be good and I’ll promise I’ll treat ya even better. Ya okay with that?”

His dominance, the assuredness in his words but the ragged pitch in his voice, as if he’s hardly holding himself together, as if he wants this just as bad, or maybe even more than you do has you finally agreeing despite the fact that you’d give it all. Forget the shame or the ladylike propriety of saving yourself for when you’re sure. Lust is a persuasive speaker, but Osamu, he is a promise you want to ensure you’ll have.

“Good,” Osamu is pleased with your ascent.

His attention returns to his back seat and he pulls out a black hoodie for you to put on. When you pop your head through the collar, you don’t expect the confident man to suddenly be so bewildered, mouth agape and wrist hanging dumbly from the 12 o’clock position of his steering wheel.

“What?” you ask though you know the answer. It’s a giddy feeling to know there is a power balance between the two of you.

“Ya, uhm, ya,” Osamu coughs into his hand, turning his head away before looking back at you. “That shit’s old. All stained up and ragged but. Ya make it look good.”

You look down, sleeves well past your hands where you notice blots littering the cuffs. You can’t help but bring the strings up to eye level. There are teeth marks indenting the aglet and you give Osamu a dubious stare.

He shuffles, a nervous chuckle, “like to chew on them sometimes. Keeps my mouth busy.”

Then without a second thought, you bring it to your mouth to chew it on your own. If he won’t kiss you, an indirect kiss has to suffice. His agonized groan is worth it.

Osamu takes you out on an official date the very next day.)

Osamu spared one second for the article of clothing and tossed it to his night stand. You pretended that he didn’t just break your heart.

The next item was Vabo-chan, but not the same one Osamu had brought into your shared apartment. That one faced its demise after a neighbor’s dog ran inside when you accidentally left the door open and used it as a chew toy.

(“What are ya doing on the floor like that?” you hear the door to your bedroom creak but petulantly refuse to acknowledge him. His steps thud, hollow over the cheap wood of your home.

“Hey,” he nudges you with his foot, “ya asleep? Ya gonna hurt ya back if ya stay like that.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Are ya crying?”

“No!” Denying but not hiding, you curl into yourself even further.

Osamu bothers this time to actually hold you with his hands, gentler, more patient. He softens his tone too, “hey, hey. What are we doing?”

He waits for you to react, doesn’t continue pressing further and refuses to leave you alone.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you lift your head up, fresh tears as you admit your failure. You expect Osamu to comfort you, abate the sting of your own proclamation. He stares at you for a moment before he starts laughing in your face.

“You hate me!”

“Hey, now that’s going too far. I don’t hate ya.”

“But you think I’m stupid.”

“Just occasionally. Like when ya make impulse decisions.”

Hearing him makes you scream into your palms. Osamu laughs and urges you into his lap.

“What’d ya do?”

He’s so mean to know you so well, all the good and the bad.

“Tell me. So we can cry together.”

You press your face into his shirt, using it as a napkin to wipe away your tears, ignoring his mild grunt of disgust when you do. “Remember when Vabo-chan got eaten? Well I bought you a new one to replace him because you were sad.”

“Did ya?” His voice sounds so surprised, it makes breaking the bad news feel even worse. “That’s mighty nice of ya. Doesn’t make ya stupid.”

“Okay, but—“ You scramble off him, knee digging into his thigh that he makes a noise of pain, to get a box tucked underneath the bed. Your hand runs across the frayed cardboard where it had ripped open from your excitement. Hesitation stops you but Osamu places his palm on top of yours. Careful and encouraging and though you know he’s going to laugh at you, you finally open it up but stop yourself by placing a hand on top of the item.

“I was so excited! Because they don’t sell him anymore, just the vintage ones that are super expensive.”

“I know.” He’d been talking about it with Atsumu and his Ma, conversations you’d overheard on the phone.

“But I saw it and it was super affordable so I bought it without thinking, but,” you look up at him and he smiles. It makes you hide your face in the box but he’ll eventually admit to you later on how cute you had looked then. How distraught you were on his behalf and that then, in that moment, he’d truly felt loved. “Don’t laugh!”

“I won’t.”

Your constant hesitation brings on Osamu’s impatience and he tries to pry your fingers away, “okay. Seriously. Don’t laugh or I’ll cry.”

“I told ya, I won’t.”

The plush comes out on your own accord and before he has any time to process the sight, you begin overexplaining. “It’s a counterfeit! They gave him a nose and his name is Bavo-kun. I’m so stupid!”

Osamu’s too quiet, expression unreadable as he looks at the stuffed toy. Your heart is teetering on the edge of a cliff, so close to falling off and on the verge of tears once again. Then he bellows out a solid bellow from the gut. Before you can crumble into embarrassment, Osamu pulls you back against him, squishing stupid Bavo-kun between you two and holding you tightly against his chest.

“I love him,” his voice turns wistful. “Bavo-kun.”

“I hate him. He’s so ugly.”

“That ain’t right to say about ya kid.”

“What?”

“Look at him.” His eyes fall to your chests, forcing you to take in the hideous sight of your failings. “He’s got ya nose.”

“That is not funny, Miya Osamu.”

“Oh no, Bavo-kun. She used my full name. What are we gonna do? Ma’s mad.”

You slap his chest. Bavo-kun is collateral damage, “don’t call me that!”

Osamu’s humor is all sorts of fucked up. His laughter is excessive, shaking the both of you that he loses his balance and you guys fall to the floor. A hand of his comes to cup your cheek, acting as a buffer before you thud onto the ground and with your heights at the same level, tears drying out, you can finally see his expression clearly.

He reminds you of gemstones at moonlight, the sparkle of something beautiful. Light cannot replicate it, only refract it. And though it’s close-lipped, his smile pulls you back from the edge, melts you to the ground and anchors you back with him.

“I love this life,” Osamu confesses, “This family. I love ya and our little mishap.”)

The way Osamu’s eyes had lit, you couldn’t help but clasp your mouth to hide the smile that blossomed beneath. It was devastating how despite it all, his joy elicited yours.

“Vabo-chan!” Osamu looked to his brother in an eager excitement. “Remember how we begged Ma to buy us this when we were little?”

“Yeah. Then we had a sleepover every night with the four of us. Tucked them in with their own pillow too”

Osamu lifted up the plush’s hands, fondness tight in his expression. His eyes roamed, though they were elsewhere, remembering the memories he never lost.

“Wait a second,” Osamu’s expression hardened. His hands traced over the lines on the Bavo-kun’s face, flipped him over to read the tag, and when it didn't provide the information he wanted, he turned the toy over again to face it directly. “This ain’t Vabo-chan. The hell is this fake shit?”’

Atsumu was quick to return to damage control the way he had been these past couple of days. He plucked the toy and tossed it to a chair on the side and told Osamu not to worry, that Vabo-chan was back in Osaka in Atsumu’s home because Osamu was kind enough to lend him his when Atsumu left the one he owned on an airplane.

New memories. Fake memories.

Lies.

You were out before anyone could stop you. Not that either of the boys would have since in the midst of this whole facade, all you were was a burdensome truth.

You laid in bed accompanied with misery. The emotion made for a poor cuddle partner but it kept you company as you shivered and wailed into pillows that hardly smelled like the Osamu who knew you anymore.

Ma called. The image of her worried eyes made you answer, but when she’d update you about Osamu, how she’d first tell you he was getting better and then, as if an afterthought, urged you to visit him, you didn’t have the heart to tell her that you didn’t want to hear it.

So you started ignoring her calls. She was persistent, as expected of a woman who raised a set of rowdy boys all on her own. She knocked on your door between two minute intervals, called and texted in the gaps between and you made excuses like you were busy working over time to catch up on the job you’d left behind.

All untrue because you’d emailed your supervisor that you’d be on an indefinite leave of absence with no explanation. There was no part of you ready to meld back into the real world again. Your world had ended, your existence ceased and now it was your duty to find your place again.

Ma’s final message was an update that Osamu was getting discharged from the hospital. She mentioned that the family would be moving to Osaka at Atsumu’s insistence. She wanted you to come by before they left.

You didn’t.

With the money you’d gotten from selling Osamu’s food truck, a phone with a dying battery lost beneath your bed, you traveled in the opposite direction to Okinawa.

It was supposed to be healing. You were supposed to recreate a new identity here, find yourself in the beaches, among the company of strangers, smoothened into fine stone and drawn back to shore after getting caught in the riptide.

But here you are, with misery steeped so deep within your bones that it’s turned you bitter.

You leave your budget lodging only because your stomach tells you to and the measly mini fridge of your studio had nothing but flat soda. There’s no reason to look in the mirror, a quick scrub across your face is enough to remove the crust from your eyes and dried drool from the corner of your lips.

The convenience store is just around the corner from your temporary home. You’ve been trying to maintain your elusive nature, hoping you can leave the island as folklore, by limiting your patronage and entering the establishment at various times.

It’s the first time you smell fresh air, and admittedly, it does feel good against your skin. Much more palatable than your room which was already scented by mold when you entered. There’s birds singing and even the scent of smog excites your stale senses.

The world is so effortlessly beautiful.

And that’s what makes it so cruel.

You push your way into the convenience store, the aggressive movement rattling the bell above.

By your last visit, you’d memorized the aisles so you stroll on through with a single basket in hand. The thought process is careless as you pick out which shelf stable meals you’ll have for the week. It’s not until you reach the cold beverage section that this mundane visit turns into something interesting.

You squat to level yourself with the bottom shelf, debating whether or not you had the energy to carry a full twelve pack the half kilometer back. Just the thought of it hits you with a sudden feeling of fatigue that you cannot help but groan and press your forehead against the fridge door.

You’d spent the past two weeks alone so just the quiet call of your name has you jumping up defensively.

Akaashi looks down at you unimpressed.

“What are you doing here?” You look around, fearful that Atsumu or another one of Osamu’s volleyball confidants might be around. “Are you following me?”

Akaashi is an acquaintance at best, an Onigiri Miya fanatic at most. You hardly had a chance to have a conversation with the man when every time you saw him, he spent most of it with a face stuffed full of onigiri.

Your reaction flattens his expression even further.

“No, I did not take a three hour flight all the way to Okinawa only to watch you buy alcohol in your,” Akaashi pauses, “sleepwear.”

He has a point so you settle in the defeat by glaring at him.

“I am on a company retreat,” he finally explains. “You are far from home.”

“Retreat,” quick to use his verbiage, “yeah, I’m on a retreat, too.”

He eyes you then glances to the fridge door. You glance along with him and notice that the oils of your skin transferred onto the glass panel and do your best to hide your embarrassment with anger instead.

“What,” you challenge, feeling awfully prickly today and poor Akaashi is the one you get to take it out on. Who else? Certainly not Ma, or Atsumu, or Osamu or the nice landlord who handed you keys without question. Of course, you’re particularly nasty with yourself as of late, but if you can share the beating with someone like Akaashi whose deadpan nature is persevering, then so be it. Now that Osamu’s erased you from his life, it’s not like your social circles will ever collide again.

“You look…” Akaashi doesn’t spare you any grace. His eyes roam over your figure, disgust especially contorting his features when he witnesses the sight of your shoddy pants that have seen better days. In fairness, so have you. “Maudlin.”

Despite not knowing the definition of the word, you gather context from just the tone of his voice and it immediately makes you frown.

Defensive, you’re quick to retort. Because who is he, baggy eyed Akaashi, hangnail ridden Akaashi, squinty and blind Akaashi, no owning hairbrush Akaashi, to speak of your current condition?

“And you look like your retreat isn’t retreating.”

You get up, discreetly rubbing your self portrait in sebum with a pants leg, and impulsively decide that you deserve the 12 pack thanks to this new inconvenience. The pack slams against the glass door when the suspension forces it back too quickly. Akaashi moves to help but you cast a glare before he can.

“I do not need help,” you supply.

His reply is nonplussed, “you do.”

“I don’t,” and now the corner decides to catch on the gasket. Akaashi ignores your small grunts and your quiet insistence, pulling the door wide open.

You thank him begrudgingly only because it’s the socially acceptable thing to do but the man doesn’t let you stray much further.

“What if I bought another pack?” That catches your attention. More liquor, less lucidity, less opportunity to remember you’re sad. It seems to be a curse these days, the power of memory, and for once, you think it’s quite unrelenting. “And I paid for your items? Will you let me camp out wherever you’re staying?”

“There’s only one bed.”

“The floor is fine.”

“It smells like mold.”

“Let’s buy a candle before we leave.”

There’s a desperation that you recognize, a solidarity between two persons barely hanging on and the least bit put together. It shouldn’t be so exciting to find someone as miserable as you but isn’t that what they say? Misery loves company.

“Holy fuck,” you grin at him, sardonic, “I don’t remember liking you so much, Akaashi.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

It’s a stupid response, a very Akaashi response, so you giggle manically and kick a pack with the toe of your shoe.

“Grab the 24 pack. We’ve got some retreating to do.”

Akaashi is running away from his responsibilities and so are you. He locks himself in your studio without a mention of its disarray and happily sleeps on the flat futon provided by your temporary landlord with a single fitted sheet and your neck pillow. The amenities offered are quite militant, but considering the price point, you cannot complain and neither does Akaashi.

Neither of you mention what sorts of horrors plague your sleep, a respect for each other’s privacy, because despite enjoying his company, life did not bring you two together out of kindness.

There’s a reason why the underneath of his eyes have swelled to a charcoal gray the same way you cannot help but begin your mornings with a beer. The two of you watch reruns of old childhood shows and every so often, Akaashi wordlessly gets up to go outside for a smoke. You thank the heavens there’s no balcony so you wouldn’t have to face the familiar sight of a back lazily bent over a railing and the slow wisp of smoke. He comes back inside with the hint of tobacco on him and you think he’s noticed how it makes you choke because the first thing he does is wash his hands before sitting next to you again.

He chooses to abide by the code of silence until the fifth day. It’s an evening where the bed has been stripped bare, the room emptier than it already is.Your dirty clothes had been piling up but it had been a struggle to clean them when laundry felt like a hug, the firm press of a collar and a lost nape. The two of you lie on the floor and bide time while you wait for the linens and whatever paltry laundry either of you have dry.

Akaashi dons a white undershirt and sleep shorts, you in a shirt that doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t belong to anyone actually, because its owner has abandoned it too.

He holds a half eaten Okinawa style onigiri in his hand and the sight is so familiar you don’t pay him any mind. Your thoughts are gluey from the alcohol so it takes an extra line for the jokes to settle. Laughter is muffled by your forearms where you’ve placed your chin, laying on your belly and big toe tracing a gap between tiles on the floor.

Even the sound of Osamu’s name takes longer to process.

But you still remember. You devotedly will.

“These onigiris taste different from Myaa-sam’s,” Akaashi says beside you.

You lay a cheek on your arm and look up at the cross legged man. He finally got his glasses and other belongings from his previous room yesterday. A smile is already plastered on your face because the liquor makes Akaashi funnier than usual.

The joke never comes.

“Did you ever want to talk about it?”

His question prompts self reflection. Talk about what? What was there to say when the two of you have been so busy running. Immediately, you scramble to get up onto the smooth surface of the stripped mattress to put some distance between you two.

“That’s why you’re here, right?”

Beneath glasses, Akaashi’s eyes have a pointed edge to them.

“What do you know?” It’s suddenly so cold now with the space between you and there’s nothing to cover you up. You can only pull your knees to your chest.

“Nothing.” Akaashi turns to look at the TV. He watches the scene play out until it cuts to a commercial. “Atsumu doesn’t say anything. He’s been uncharacteristically tight lipped.”

Akaashi says uncharacteristically but you’re not surprised at all. This sounds exactly like the Atsumu you know now. It fouls your mood and has you reaching for your emotional support sake from the nightstand.

“He tells everyone to entertain Osamu lest he get a traumatic episode.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“No,” Akaashi watches your face deflate so he tacks on that Bokuto has.

Tension coils the muscles along your bones. It makes you feel frigid so you gulp down the rice wine in hopes that it warms you up from the inside out. Akaashi only watches. He never mentions your drinking habits. You don’t say anything about his smoking tendencies. These were the boundaries you were supposed to respect, but the man keeps on pushing.

“I heard you sold the food truck.”

“How else could I afford all this luxury?” Your hands stretch out to broadcast the shoebox the two of you call home.

He’s used to your defensive sarcasm by now, only taking a singular bite from his onigiri. “So the branch in Tokyo?”

You laugh. “Not happening.”

Then you finish the whole bottle with an aggressive gulp. You flatten yourself against the bare mattress. You ignore him, pretend you’re alone, pretend you’re okay, and you accept the dizzying fall into slumber.

When you wake, the laundry is brought in. It smells exactly like down and a headache. The digital clock on the nightstand tells you it’s midnight so you drink a bottle of water and work on fitting the sheets to the bed. For your efforts, you reward yourself with another can of beer. Then another. It only takes two for you to fall asleep again.

The both of you don’t broach the topic. He reels you back in with a sense of normalcy, the routine of bumming it in front of the TV and the unhealthy eating habits. Even when you blurt out that onigiris are now banned from the house, he only provides a knowing blink.

Slowly, the space between you two skitters away. He coaxes you in like a stray with indifference and eventually, he’s sat cross legged in front of the TV while you lay next to him on your belly.

The duration of your lease is running out as the month dwindles away into repetition. There’s only a couple of days left but you’ve run out of alcohol and food. It’s a weekend night with prime time television over reruns and you’ve gotten particularly attached to this drama that you started halfway through so Akaashi and you head out one evening to prepare for the last couple days of indulgence.

You should have known Akaashi had something planned when he veered to the left with the excuse of wanting to try out a different store.

Once you heard the quiet roar of waves crashing, you had to pause. A rush of trepidation overcame you. Akaashi was already halfway through the crosswalk when he turned around and noticed you weren’t there. He urged you with his eyes, sharp still below the frames of his glasses. People walk around him and you cannot help but notice their peeved expressions. The sound of cars whiz past and the waves do nothing but recede and crash and it’s all so much to take in.

“No,” you shake your head.

You want to run but where do you go? Forward? Away? Where else because there is no going back.

The crosswalk sign starts blinking and there is renewed severity in Akaashi’s expression. He beckons you with an outstretched hand.

It reminds you of Atsumu, the way he had reached for you the first day at the hospital.

It reminds you of Osamu, the days he’d pull you out of bed when you slept in.

“Come with me,” Akaashi says.

That is all you need to go. The dramatics are uninhibited as you make your way to him, blind with your head bent as one wrist wipes away incessant tears and the other is extended to catch his hand. He takes it. It’s a foreign union with his spindly fingers that are long enough to twine around your wrist like a restrictive vine but you relinquish yourself to it.

Because, this whole time, all you’ve wanted is this: promised, unselfish companionship.

Akaashi leaves you on a bench and returns with meat pies bought from a nearby food truck. The smell of it saturates the area in an appetizing scent of fried deliciousness that has your stomach gurgling. You’ve not had a single healthy meal since you arrived in Okinawa but the alcohol you’ve imbibed religiously for the past few weeks welcomes the offering.

“Have you wondered yet what is going on with me?” A bus whips past you two with an uncomfortable gust of warm wind. You want to pretend that you didn’t hear Akaashi over the sound of the engine, but his silence is imploring.

“Always,” you say.

Akaashi entertains you with a small huff, “you could ask.”

“But then that would breach our secret NDA. Which you have breached by the way. You owe me another 24 pack.”

“Considering I no longer have a job, we might have to put that on hold.”

You reply only with a wide eyed surprise.

“I put in my resignation yesterday.” Akaashi admits. His hands glide up his thigh to clear the grease from his fingertips. “Do you want to ask questions now?”

There’s a lot of questions running through your mind. First of all, why? Why quit? What was the reason? Why did it take you in your pajamas buying alcohol before noon on a foreign island for him to do so?

“Yes, but I won’t.”

“You’re aberrant.”

“I’m assuming that means ridiculous.”

“Close.”

“Share whatever you want to share. I won’t…” you almost hand the crust of your meat pie to Akaashi out of habit. You press it into the napkin instead, crushing it with the pressure of your fingers. “I don’t want to force anything out of you if you’re not ready.”

Akaashi hums. It’s a sound similar to when the understanding of a concept finally dawns on someone. He kicks his long legs out. The Oxfords provide a bouncy noise and it’s only now that you see how aberrant Akaashi is. Near the ocean shore, he wears business casual dress with slacks and though unpressed, he still dons a button down with elbow pads. Freaking elbow pads. You must look ridiculous next to him in your novelty shirt and pajama shorts. It’s been difficult wearing anything that doesn’t have elastic lately and jeans leave for no room to breathe.

He pulls out his cigarettes from his breast pocket and when he remembers, he turns with a silent tilt of his head, asking permission to smoke. You only nod but turn your head away quickly. The gradual exposure to the smell is one thing, but the sight of him smoking might be another step you’re still not ready to take.

The cigarette crackles twice in two long inhales and he makes a point to blow in your opposite direction.

“I’m told that literary composition is not my forte.” You remain quiet, respecting the beginning of Akaashi’s soliloquy. “People tell me that I’m not meant to be an author. The world, actually. My short stories weren’t selling so I tried my hand at writing fanfiction for Meteo Attack, the manga I edit and hardly anyone read it. I even got hostile responses for my characterization.”

He needs another two inhales from the admittance. You don’t blame him.

“My boss and I had been working on a training plan the last two quarters so I could move to the literary department and the night before I met you, we were announced our placements for the next quarter. Mine didn’t change, still editor, still in manga. And when I asked, my boss said he’d be an idiot if he let me leave. I was too good at my job to change positions now. I went on a manic binge, slept through my alarms for the scheduled office activities, saw you, and figured you’d be the best excuse I could have to avoid my boss and coworkers for the rest of the trip.”

The sound of the lighter flicks once more. You listen to the quick initial inhale and the lengthy one that follows.

“My intention was never to quit. It was just like you said, retreat. I wanted to abscond myself of responsibilities for a moment but then I ate the onigiri I bought and I remembered. I remembered lots of late nights in Hyogo with you and Myaa-sam and Bokuto. And it made me think of you.”

“If it’s pity you’re offering, I don’t need it, Akaashi.”

“It’s not. I’m offering another contract. A business one.”

You turn to him and find that the smoker had finished his cigarette already. He gathered saliva in his mouth and discretely spit it on the floor before turning back to you.

“Let’s open Onigiri Miya up again.”

The idea sickens you because just the name of the restaurant brings back an onslaught of memories you’ve been trying to avoid. Osamu in his tight arm sleeves and black apron. His musk after a long night. His weary smile that would worry you only for a second until you realized it was satisfaction that compelled it more than anything. The sweet and salty scent of sticky rice and the starchy feeling on your hands whenever you would swirl your fingers in the buckets of dried grains that Kita would present to you. Long days, long nights, and Osamu, Osamu, Osamu.

“There’s no way. I have no clue how to even begin starting a business.”

“You say that but do you even know if your job will be there when you get back home?”

That was also another pertinent issue you were still planning to avoid.

“There is an Osamu out there right now who doesn’t even know that Onigiri Miya exists. The world is telling you you’re forgotten and there are people out there willing to accept it. But did you? Did you forget?”

His intensity brings on a delicate quality to your voice, “of course not.”

Osamu could forget you, but you? Forget him? The erasure of his existence was something so foreign of a thought that even just the mention of it strained your heart raw.

“I didn’t either. Do you want anyone else to?”

Your response is incomprehensible as you blow snot into your grease laden napkin but the point comes across. For all the weeks you and Akaashi have spent together in the apartment room, he touches you a second time ever, hand atop yours once more.

“Then let’s open Onigiri Miya back up.”

It’s minutes later until you can gather yourself up again and even longer for you to seriously entertain the idea. The night is quiet and you’re thankful there are no passersby to witness this embarrassing exchange.

You think of everyone that Osamu had brought into your life when you walked into his. All the customers and friends and neighbors that offered you joy and small gifts worth living for. Atsumu was okay with throwing it all away, abandoning it just like his high school motto had endorsed.

But they were the ones who found Osamu. They were the ones who saved him, who forced the firefighters to break down Onigiri Miya’s door when the fire began to consume. If not for the community he fostered, he would not have had the second chance he has today.

There’s an Osamu out there that does not love you, that you may never learn to love without being hurt, but there was an Osamu that was beloved by all. If you had to do it for anyone, you’d do it for him.

“Fine.” Akaashi does not move, eerily still as if to not startle you to backtrack. “We can give this a try.”

You settle in with your choice and finally, with a bit of courage, you ask “I know what I am getting out of this, but what are you?”

“A flexible schedule so I can write my novel,” the man beside you answers frankly. Then in a softer voice, he adds, “and maybe I can finally open that branch in Tokyo.”

You cannot help but crack an amused snort. Akaashi joins you with his singular chuckle.

“That seems ambitious.”

It is so grossly, overwhelmingly, exceedingly ambitious to run a restaurant and more so, to even consider a second location. Promises are easy to make on tear-stricken nights amongst the salty air of Okinawa, but back in Hyogo, the air is severely stifling.

Even with more than half a decade of partnership with Osamu, it is a steep learning curve managing all its operations. Your ex boyfriend did not make it seem easy. No, not with the long hours he’d pull or the days when he’d lash his frustrations on you. Some days, even seasons, happened to be more difficult than others but to have first hand experience all on your own is novel.

Akaashi moves in the day you guys arrive. The two week unofficial dry run makes the decision easy. He fills in the space that has been left behind, screens all the voicemails that you’d avoided when you were gone, and confirms that you are officially jobless by looking through your emails too.

What is better than one jobless, mid-twenty travesty who is one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown? Two jobless, mid-twenty travesties who are one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown. It’s a support system, hardly structural but functional enough.

It includes a lot of spontaneous frenzies, you and Akaashi both. He teaches you to be quite efficient with your distress. A prolonged yell helps relieve the pressure and it compels the other to join. You teach him the benefits of isolation. Sometimes, it’s simply best to take some space, to cast away the burdens for a night and relearn how to breathe.

It takes a year and a half to open the restaurant with the help of Onigiri Miya’s neighbors. Their support does not come without payment though. They ask questions you’re unprepared for and no response is ever safe. If you say you are fine, you’re scrutinized with a watchful eye, just waiting for proof of a lie. If you admit that you’re struggling, there’s pity. Some are more vocal about it than others, a patronization in their tone that never used to be there before.

The price may be steep, but it’s worth it because Hyogo ward was Osamu’s community. They carry the pieces of Osamu that you know, the ones that made the alleycats fat.

(Osamu frequently gets yelled at by the Shizuku, the florist, three doors down. She blames him for the rising cat population. Osamu laughs it off. He always did and frequently, there is a cheeky quip that follows. He says something about catnip.

Something like, “ya sure ya ain’t the one growing catnip in there?”

It taunts the woman even further, but malice never burns their interactions.

A grudge on Osamu, though easy to promise, is impossible to uphold. Not when he delivers a bouquet of onigiri right to her door the next day. Not when he accidentally tips a pot over while obnoxiously perusing through the abundance of greenery, hoping to find catnip within the collection. Not when he looks at her sheepishly, swiping his hands on his apron as if dusting away any evidence and says, “now how did that happen?”)

Shizuku’s a savior, by the way. If left to your own devices, Akaashi and you would work yourselves to the point of exhaustion but Shizuku comes in during lunch and always provides tea in plastic cups. Eventually those cups turn into a beautiful ceramic set when Kita drops off your first order of rice, a visit in disguise.

His barley eyes that were always warm to you darken at the sight of Akaashi. Their greeting is stiff which you thought just had to do with their taciturn personalities but it wasn’t until Kita pulled you into the alleyway, Akaashi left to finish painting the front, did you realize it was out of protectiveness.

“I was glad to hear from ya.” Kita leans against the waist high wall that separates two lines of shopping streets. “But I didn’t know how to feel when I found out ya were calling me about business.”

“I know,” you say, eyes cast down low. Kita has a way of making you feel guilty with so little words. He’s disappointed, you know despite his level tone, because you never called. What was there to discuss? You figured if Osamu could forget you, if Atsumu can cast you away, then there was nothing to expect out of his friends either.

“I won’t say anything because I know ya already feel bad but Gran and I were worried about ya. It’s good to know that you’re okay.”

You shrug. Okay is hardly what you’d describe yourself when you’re barely hanging on just like the threadbare sheets from the studio in Okinawa.

Kita crosses one muddy boot over the other, “and what ya got going on here, it feels like the right thing.”

It’s hard to make of what you feel, decipher the feelings that manifest inside because the days have not gotten any softer. The pain is ambiguous and persisting. Whenever you feel like you’ve made progress, another strain emerges like a new variant of the same virus. You’re doing this for Osamu. But Osamu…

“Have you talked to him lately?”

Kita’s lips line into a solemn expression. He stares you right in the eye and you hold yourself strong because you know he’s testing whether or not you can handle his answer.

“Not recently. Atsumu’s kept their distance from here. If I do see them, it’s when I stop by Osaka.”

“And…”

“And he’s good. He plans on going pro,” Kita shakes his head, “or Atsumu says, going back to pro. He tells him he took a break.”

You nod slowly. So that’s what you were. A break.

“But it ain’t him.”

The farmer’s voice is barely above a whisper and for some reason, it is gut wrenching. You have to lean against the wall with him in case you topple over. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, the admittance that the Osamu you had was someone real. And maybe that’s why you’ll never be okay because you’re chasing after validation that has already been erased while he chases other things, of dreams unfulfilled.

“This,” Kita points to the restaurant in renovation, “this is him, but…”

He never finishes his sentence. The irony of it makes you laugh.

“Well I’ve got another delivery to drop but don’t be a stranger now. I’m serious. I ain’t letting ya. And visit Gran once in a while, will ya? She needs someone to talk to because I think she’s about had it with me.”

Kita hugs you goodbye and by the end of his visit, you think Akaashi’s gained his approval. When he leaves, he gifts the two of you the tea set. They are black with white and brown intricacies. Two of them have geometric blocking designs and the other two have one lone stalk of rice, bent gracefully by the wind.

Akaashi and you sign up for onigiri making courses where you eat them for every meal. So much so that even Akaashi of all people gets tired of it. The craft does not come easy to either of you despite your business partner’s penchant for it and Osamu’s intermittent lessons over the years. When you did help him out on the days he was short-staffed, Osamu would have you ring up customers up front, smoothly mentioning how your pretty face would help them rack up tips when you knew it was just to keep you out of the kitchen.

(He flusters you with a wink and an encouraging tap on the ass, laughing when you look back. He flings his glove into the trash can and makes his way to the handwashing station, thinking it was worth it just to see your cute pout. You know he’d wasted boxes of gloves since you’d been together just for one quick touch. Your eyes would be enraptured by the graceful jerks of his chest and the curl of his lips and later, at close, when the two of you were finally alone, he teases you about it. He asks you if you were hungry, what with the way you devoured him with your eyes. You bite his arm just to prove how hungry you were.)

“Quit drinking the mirin. That is foul and we need it.” He hides little revulsion in both tone and expression but your time with Akaashi has you immune to his harsh delivery.

You take another swig out of spite even if you didn’t plan on having another sip. It is, in fact, foul.

“This is the only thing that has alcohol in this apartment.”

Akaashi snatches the bottle with starchy hands. The residue imprints the shape of his palm onto the neck of the bottle, furthering his irritation. “Then drink something that does not have alcohol.”

“No,” you slump with your chin on the table, leveling your gaze with the practice oblongs you’ve just made. “I am sad.”

They’re lumpy and if they’re not lumpy, they are mushy. If they are not mushy, then the filling is peeking out. All in all, completely imperfect and not suited for a restaurant succeeding Onigiri Miya. Just the image of his disappointment discourages you because these were not up to his standards and certainly not to yours.

“We just need more practice,” Akaashi tries to console. “Maybe we could buy molds.”

“He didn’t use molds.”

“Unfortunate. We’re not Myaa-sam.”

“Neither is he.”

Akaashi doesn’t respond. You don’t say anything more either. If anyone is tired of your deploring, it is him and he already has to handle you enough. But it’s true, isn’t it? No one is Osamu anymore, not even the one out there who is probably doing practice sets in a gym, who wears a uniform that’s less than five years old, who has no recollection of you.

“Everyone’s going to be disappointed because it tastes nothing like the ones he used to make. They’re going to hate us for even disgracing his name.”

Akaashi’s had enough. He drops his practice roll, the heavy weight of the thud clattering the utensils on the table. You’re about to reprimand him but the man talks over you.

“Do you think that’s why people will come? Because of Osamu?”

The answer seems obvious that you can only gesticulate.

“Are you inane?”

That hasn’t been a word of the day so you haven’t learned that one yet but you can take a guess what the right answer is. “No?”

“People want to come and support you. Everyone knows Osamu’s gone off elsewhere doing whatever he is doing now. You’re the one honoring his memory. You’re the one keeping him alive. You are the reason they’d walk through our door now so get your act up.”

You glower like a child, unsure how exactly you feel. That sort of pressure seems daunting but comforting at the same time. You want to do him right. Is it really better than not even honoring him at all?

“You’re mean,” you settle on saying.

Akaashi clicks his tongue behind his teeth, “do you want to scream about it?”

You smile, “yeah.”

His mood lightens, “me too.”

“Okay, but it’s late already so we should probably scream in some pillows.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

The journey continues like that. Ups and downs. Ebbs and flows. Akaashi handles operations and finances. Your first job at the local government helps you complete the clerical stuff like having the proper documentation and paperworks. Your most recent job in IT helps you develop the website while Akaashi words out the marketing. You set up all the socials, design the uniforms, and the last step is to decide on the name.

The night before the opening, you have a dinner for everyone that helped as a thank you and soft launch. You and Akaashi slide in and out of service with Shizuku, Kita, Gran, and some of Akaashi’s friends like Konoha and Kuroo and Kenma as guests. It’s a small gathering of every single member of the community that never forgot about Osamu sitting around a massive table you’ve made by pushing the smaller ones together.

“Lovely what ya did with the rice, here,” Gran says beside you, a seat she had claimed.

You tilt your head to the side, “that’s all Akaashi.”

“Fine cooking, dear.”

“I followed a good recipe and had a little luck.”

“Ya better hope not,” Kita laughs and it’s comforting to hear the quiet trickle of his humor knowing fully well that Akaashi’s been accepted into the family. “Or else ya gonna have some unhappy customers.”

“Will ya tell us now what the name of the place is? Hard to advertise if I don’t know what it’s called,” Shizuku demands.

Her impatience started when she walked right through the door, but you wanted to wait for the right time when everyone was already gathered together and broken bread, heart happy and stomach satisfied. It’s how Osamu would have wanted it. It’s how you do too.

“Fine,” you say, dragging the word out with little bite in your tone.

You pull out the uniforms you’ll be wearing tomorrow. It looks not much different from what Osamu used to wear, plain black shirts with lettering on the upper left portion of the chest. Everyone lifts up from their seats to witness it.

o.mo.ide

Miya Osamu, Onigiri Miya, memories that you’ll always keep close to your heart.

There’s tears that escape, from you no different. There’s more that follows when you show them the corner right by the entrance dedicated to Onigiri Miya. You want everyone to know whose walls these actually belong to, whose essence and soul brought his dreams and yours to life, that without him, this would have never been possible.

Kita helps you kick everyone out knowing that you and Akaashi have a long day ahead. People promise to visit tomorrow just to show their support as they bid you goodbye. Gran slips an envelope of cash between your hands and quickly loops her arms around Kita’s so you can’t make a scene.

Akaashi is quick to have a foot out the alley back door after cleanup. He nods his head out, “are you ready?”

“Yes.” You run your hands through the crisp fabric once more as you shuffle your bag over your shoulder.

And the two of you leave. The black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door waves as the door slams shut. There’s a black cap above it with the original character snaps against the wall from the wind pressure. They sway in the dark, until finally they lose momentum and settle in the dark.

They stay. They always will.

The support is so overwhelmingly kind. People show up in droves that Kita has to come in later in the day with an emergency delivery because your forecasts had been so off. Compliments come one after the other, of the design of the store, the food, and even yours and Akaashi’s service. Cheery employees were no longer in, it seemed. Everyone loved the stress-ridden ones instead. More relatable, they’d explain.

The novelty slowly wears off, but you maintain a generous rotation of regulars. Of course, Shizuku always arrives. She retains her habit of having afternoon tea with you and Akaashi. She’d bring along Hayashi, the man who owned the ice cream shop behind your store. He’s a grizzly man with a barrel chest with a right bicep so plump from years of scooping ice cream. The two are the neighborhood’s newest gossip. Flowers and ice cream. Looks like they do go together.

And you think that you have finally have this life handled. You and Akaashi settle on this pleasant routine of wake, work, and rest and the mundanity has you fooled. Still, after all this time, it takes so little to disrupt your small ecosystem of peace.

You hear someone compare o.mo.ide as a mockery of what it used to be and it sends you into a spiral. You listen with a crazed expression, hands busy scrubbing tables but ears listening like a hawk.

Osmau never needed consolation like this. He had been a master of quick glances. He was always multitasking, mind on the next task as he was still in the process of finishing the first. And his eyes never missed anything, not when you’d try and sneak into his office unnoticed to surprise him for break or how he’d always know when someone was taking their first bite. He’d watch from the corner of his eyes and he’d wait for that precious moment. It didn’t take much to make Osamu proud. Just a single hum. He’d beam from ear to ear, and as if shy from his sudden display of emotion, he’d tuck his chin into his head and pull the brim of his cap down.

But then again, this was his forte and not yours.

You start sleeping in and waking up late. You lose the habit and Akaashi has to pick up after you. In order to make it up to him, you offer to close the restaurant on your own. His response is a simple scan to check that you’re okay, but he has little energy to say a word, probably expended it screaming in the walk-in freezer when he couldn’t get you out of bed. So he goes.

You don’t even wait a full five minutes after he left to lock the doors and ignore any knocks from customers who know your regular hours.

In the silent kitchen, you situate yourself atop the recently wiped down stainless prep table, a bottle of sake in one hand and Kita’s teacup in another. A shot glass is much too small for your preferences.

“Cheers,” you raise your glass in the air. This might be your sixth one, so just the image of your hand and solo teacup is enough to make you giggle. “This one is to…”

Your gaze is glassy and there’s no one here, but the alcohol reminds you that you’re not lonely. An image of Osamu appears before you like an apparition and the sight brings on a void of yearning. You throw back the shot and quickly pour yourself another.

“To you.” This time you clink the tea cup against the bottle, already hollow in just one sitting. When the burn dies down and settles in the pit of your stomach, you begin to kick your feet.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Haven’t spoken to you in a while. Think about you every day though.”

It’s weird because you thought that with this place being saturated by Osamu’s very essence, you’d find his face everywhere you look. He’s more of an idea now, lately. A feeling you carry, memories that you play before you go to sleep. It’s difficult to accept because it feels like you’re losing him. The old Osamu, the one you knew, the one you loved. The other one in Osaka, Kita’s accidentally slipped that he likes to read as a pastime and that they’d recently visited Panama. Osamu never bought books unless they were cookbooks and that was more for aesthetic than anything. And the one you knew had never been to Panama, more so even mentioned it at all.

What you have left is the remains of his legacy and the bare bones of a former flame. You crack open another bottle. Here’s another shot to that.

“Life sucks by the way. I don’t blame you for it. I just wanted you to know. This wasn’t my dream. Yeah, I can hear you. You know, you know. But I haven’t told you in a while so you’re going to hear me say it again. I just wanted a cushy, IT job. I’d be your sugar mommy and force you on vacations, pay you for any lost wages. Any reason to have you all to myself. That’s what was supposed to happen.”

Another shot to missed opportunities. That one has you feeling woozy that you have to lay on your side but your drunken mind fails to realize how cold the stainless steel would be against your cheeks. It makes you squeal and then you can’t help but giggle, laughing at your own stupidity. That’s what’s nice about inebriation. Instead of being so serious about yourself, you can just laugh.

“And in the middle of it all, I knew that one day, I’d get absorbed into it. That’s just what you do. You say Atsumu is charismatic, but I don’t think you ever realized the power you had in just being. People get caught up in it and that includes me. And I imagined myself working hard so I could leave early from work just so I could help you in the kitchen. And then working part time until eventually, we woke up together and ran it together and did it all. Together. As a family. Ma would help when she has the time but you know her. She’s got clubs and activities and neighborhood responsibilities. And Atsumu would try and hang out but not do any work so we’d just ignore him until he ended up whining his way into the kitchen. I didn’t imagine…”

You look around the backroom. It’s nothing like how Onigiri Miya used to look. There are some items you’ve inherited like the pots and pans with their grease-stricken bellies and the three step ladder with The Little Giant (Akaashi actually wanted to throw this one away but ladders are surprisingly expensive) labeled on the top step. Everything is paltry pickings compared to the care Osamu had when working with his suppliers. It was hard enough with Kita’s endorsement to find something within your budget so you’re left with limp greens and off brand soy. And no Osamu.

Time for another shot. Should you make a game of it? Every time you thought you felt sorry for yourself, should you?

“No,” you giggle as you get up, answering your own question, “then I’d get really drunk and you’d get mad at me for that. Anyways,” you shoot it, neck craning back so swift it makes you dizzy. Your body bends wilted just like the spring onions you were talking about and you have to close your eyes, groaning and giggling, unable to discern discomfort from pleasure.

“Mmmm, what was I saying? I don’t know.” Suddenly, you’re crying. There’s a mess on the prep table that you have no idea how to clean. Over a year now and you’re still not over Osamu and you’re missing the rest of the Miyas especially too.

“This is so hard and fuck, I feel so alone.” It’s heartbreaking to hear how much you pity yourself when there have been so many people in your life that have supported you. Like Akaashi who has dealt with your disaster tendencies and Shizuku and the neighbors and everyone that has made this possible.

But they can’t fill what you’ve secretly been trying to reclaim. Of a family that had loved you, had accepted you with open arms. The ones who held you when you needed them most but… Fuck. You just weren’t enough. You lacked the strength to hold their pain, so much so just by being, by existing, you burdened them.

And maybe this had been a ploy to simply gain approval and find some self-worth again, to show them that the love you have has value. It had been distracting enough while you and Akaashi prepared for the grand opening but only for so long until you fell into this sort of misery again. How long would the next pocket of happiness last? Could you find a stable source of bliss ever again?

Sometimes, as difficult as it is to think, you wish you never…

No, you shake your head adamantly. For all this anguish, for all the ache you’ve accidentally caused the Miyas, you want to selfishly keep all the memories, even if Osamu has to forget, even if you know how it ends. You don’t want to change a thing.

You grab the extra aprons in the back except for the black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door and slump into the office chair in the back nook. It was a simple office with just a desk and a file folder cabinet. You cover yourself with the aprons, your impromptu blankets as you wait for the inebriation to tide over. The open sake bottle stays on the prep table with the finished one and your used tea cup and you make a mental note to hide your drinking from Akaashi who’s been passively limiting your intake lately.

You fall into a light sleep when a meowing out the alley door rouses you. The office chair snaps as you ungracefully rise. There’s remnants of your misery in the form of crusts at the corner of your eyes that you blearily wipe away.

He stares up at you with a single meow as a greeting when you open the door. The cat sits on his paws like a well mannered customer waiting to be let in. A gray puffball like a ball of lint straight from the dryer, his gold eyes blink up at you and maybe it’s the hour or your halfway sober state or just life in general because you think it’s a sign.

Many of the cats had left when Osamu did too, venturing into more fruitful alleyways that can get them the fixings that they. You’re quick to pick him up but you do it a little aggressively that his limber body bends to evade your hands. Instead, he enters o.mo.ide and you’re able to lure him in with a few slices of fish.

Akaashi is not amused when you get home, especially considering the late hour and cat in your hands.

“No,” Akaashi greets, eyes hardened, aimed at the feline creature who has taken to resting his chin into the crook of your elbow.

“But, Akaashi, look at him!” You turn your body to the side so he can witness his complete cuteness.

The man is not impressed, only closing his book, an index finger marking the pages he left off, and crossing his arms. “No. You can hardly take care of yourself.”

“But they’re low maintenance,” you mention the fact you had quickly googled before unlocking the front door, “and he was crying outside our door because he was so hungry.”

Your roommate weighs the cat with his eyes and before he can complete his calculations, you add, “if I wasn’t there, he would have starved. He needed me.”

Akaashi finds something in your expression and you think it’s this new energy, this purpose outside of yourself or Osamu and after a drawn out glare, he finally sighs. It’s a world weary sigh, the kinds only parents of rowdy and impossible children should only make and you take note that you’ll make it up to him somehow.

“Okay, fine,” he extends his hand for your new friend to sniff, “what’s his name?”

You smile, “Mumu.”

An homage to your boys, your favorite twins, and Akaashi cannot help but sigh again.

But Mumu quickly becomes your new best friend, much to his benefit. Even though Mumu never quite opens up to him, he has to worry about you less and you spend more of your time laboring efficiently at work so you can go home and play with silly things like lasers and a little rattle ball he likes to roll around. There’s energy to do your share of household chores now, and despite the slow trickle of business lately, you’re unbothered.

At the end of the day, the success of the business does not define you or your love for Osamu.

The stability lasts only for a few months because you arrive home unannounced, closing the shop early when the pelting monsoon keeps people locked in their homes.

You opted to take responsibility for the day, allowing Akaashi a break. His trust in you has slowly renewed considering it’d been a while since you dipped into the restaurant’s liquor stash. You knew he’d understand the shortened hours considering the weather but he hadn’t been prepared because when he got home, he was watching a livestream MSBY volleyball match. There was this understanding that had been established when he moved in because the both of you knew that you’d be powerless to the demise.

When you see Osamu on TV, that split second the camera had panned to him, you felt gravity warp. Your heart constricted and condensed while it felt like that floor beneath you had slipped away and you were just as helpless as any other leaf victim to the storm.

Akaashi tries to turn off the TV, but you manically topple over him, not wanting to miss what little camera time he might have.

“I don’t think this is good for you,” Akaashi’s eyes doesn’t leave you as you continue to watch the game. You agree, but you can’t strip your eyes away from the stream. You can’t believe what you’re seeing and you have to continuously wipe away your tears just to be sure, to ascertain that what you’re viewing is really true. It’s him. It’s him and this is the closest you’ve seen him, the closest he’s been to this home in basically two years and he looks so different.

“He grew out his hair,” you observe.

All you can do right now is play spot the difference. What parts of him do you still know? What is gone forever? Osamu’s hair is near shoulder length and you think he might have gained Atsumu’s salon habit because it’s curlier and fluffier than you knew. The color in his eyes have lost their luster, making them appear darker like a smoky quartz and he’s bigger. He’d always had a stronger upper body but you can tell he’s far more defined than you’d last seen him. He looks. Good.

You feel so small knowing how well he’s moved on without you. There’s always this small spark of hope that can’t help yourself from holding onto but seeing him on the screen, living a dream that he had once left behind, you figure it must be your turn to be abandoned for something else.

“He looks good,” you nod, trying to be strong. Because that’s all you’ve wanted. You’ve wanted him to be ok, to live out the life he desired, whatever that may be and regardless of how it involved you. “He looks good. I’m so–”

“You don’t–”

“–proud of him.”

The admittance makes you burst, diving head first onto the floor and crying into the rug. Mumu comes to rest between your legs, wary of Akaashi as he does his best to console you which alternates between a hand down your back and simply hovering over your figure.

But then you hear the announcer and how the music stops, and immediately your head lifts up because you know what the sound of those footsteps mean.

Miya Atsumu is on court, serving the ball with just as much assured confidence as you had left him. He passes to his brother where they easily make a point and you watch the two boys celebrate. The camera eats it up, their facial expressions, the way they hold each other in a solidified joy, and you see it. You see the true reason he’s left this all behind. This was the life he was meant to share.

And you were never meant to be a part of it.

It was delusional of you to think that their bond had enough space for you to fit in.

Of course, as much as you tell yourself Osamu’s happiness is the most important thing to witness, it still sends you on a spiral that neither Akaashi or Mumu can bring you out of. Business slows down when you can’t provide proper service and Akaashi struggles to pick up the labor you can’t complete. Days pass in a haze where you burn things by accident and your mindlessness has you putting in two servings of soy instead.

You wallow in your sheets, so worn that the Osamu’s essence has filtered through the gaps and all that’s saturated it is your misery. Mumu leisurely snoozes beside you, happy to keep you company.

Akaashi tries to persuade you out of bed with ice cream.

You shuffle to the side of the bed pressed against the wall and tuck yourself into the crevice, “no thank you.”

He ignores you and opens the door and you whine, noisy and petulant. “This one is from Shizuku and Hayashi. They’ve missed you.”

You instantly sit up, interested because Hayashi’s ice cream had been a favorite of Osamu’s. Whenever he’d have a bad day and their schedules lined up, the two men with their solid stature would gossip in the alleyway, the brick wall separating them. One would be devouring an onigiri while the other relished the fox shaped ice cream he’d always be given as payment.

You’d peek your head out the alley door whenever you could never find Osamu in the kitchen or in his office. The alley was the only other place he’d be and Hayashi would prompt you to come out, sit and gossip with them. He’d leave so he could serve you an ice cream of your own, but you suspect he’d take longer on purpose so that you two could spend some time alone.

(“Have you heard about Shizuku and Hayashi?” Osamu asks once the confectioner steps back into his building. Your response comes for the back of your throat, a soft hum while busy licking the dessert your boyfriend offered. He laughs when he sees you nibble off the candy eye of the animal, leaving him a little lopsided but far more endearing. “Damn, I said ya could give it a try, not eat all of it.”

“I was hungry and you weren’t inside.”

“Ya could have made yaself some food. I’ve taught you enough to be self-sufficient.”

You shake your head immediately, “doesn’t taste the same. Stop changing the subject. What’s going on with Hayashi and Shizuku?”

Despite all the time you’ve spent with him, all the different faces and expressions you’ve been gifted to witness, his smile still disarms you. It’s the right combination of conniving and whimsy that has your heart traipsing the edge of a cliff.

“I was talking to the Grandma that’s got the okonomiyaki shop right there, ya know?” He points with his ice cream whose lifespan is slowly disappearing, “and she told me how she went into Hayashi’s shop and he had a full bouquet of flowers.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I wonder who got it for him.”

Osamu snorts, “Shizuku obviously. Who else would have?”

“Osamu,” you give him a discriminatory look, “are you starting rumors.”

“No, hear me out. Shizuku came by yesterday and was asking me for some cooking tips.”

“You?”

“Yeah, we have a truce right now. The onigiri won her over.” You giggle, snatching another bite from Osamu’s hand. He’s too busy telling his story to even admonish you. “And she was telling me she planned on making grilled mackerel and guess what Hayashi had for dinner last night apparently.”

You hum forcibly, drawing it out and giggle when Osamu gets irritated with you. “Mackerel?” He nods and the image of those two makes you laugh.

Hayashi’s just like the ice cream he serves, a man who longs for the richer things in life. He has women swooning out of his restaurant with his velvet words and Shizuku is a woman who knows what she wants, spritely and tough. She’d be perfect to keep him in line.

“Now that I think about it, they’re surprisingly good for each other.”

Osamu agrees, “Grandma says Hayashi needs to lock it in and get married.”

“Shizuku’s a catch! He’d be wrong not to.”

Your statement dulls the mood because Osamu turns quiet. He hands you his ice cream for you to finish, Hayashi forgotten, and his hands clasp together, right pad of his thumb running over the back of his left. His side profile is soft, round cheeks over a strong jaw.

“Ya know that I–”

“We don’t have to get married for me to know that you love me,” you say quickly. You don’t want him to finish the thought because he gets caught up in the guilt a lot. You’re not certain what it exactly is aside from the fact that he doesn’t want your future to be tied down to one as unstable as his, as if marriage would be the only thing that could permanently hold the two of you together. As far as you know, he’s all you want for the rest of your life and Osamu makes you feel like he thinks the same.

Your admittance relieves the weight on his back. He straightens up, a thankful expression on his gaze when he rolls an arm out to wrap around you. You fit right into the crook of his body, pleasantly warm with your ice cream.

“I love ya, I really do.” You nod. “One day, when I get my shit together, I promise I’ll make ya mine for real.”

He says it like you’re not his already. He says it like this relationship is less than the ones acknowledged by law or the gods or whoever presides over the validity of unity.

He says it like he really does love you.)

Thinking about it makes you cry despite Hayashi’s ice cream. He artfully crafted the gift in a pint that he must have bought from the store because you’ve never seen him sell take-home products. A frog decorates the surface complete with blush, large, round eyes, and the brightest of smiles. Usually the confectionery is an immediate remedy but it looks like your sorrows have fallen so deep that its effects are hardly uplifting. Akaashi hands you a letter made of cardstock in a saturated red and shaped like a heart.

“What’s this?”

“Open it,” is all he replies.

You do as he says and find a poorly drawn replication of what you assume is you, serving a triangular item to a smaller stick figure human.

“That’s from Asako. She missed you when you left early today.”

Asako is the little girl who orders a plain onigiri with extra sesame seeds. Exxxxtrraaaa she likes to say and you entertain her, seeing who can lengthen the word the longest. It’s an effortless game that comes with a high reward of giggles. She comes in on Fridays when her grandparents pick her up from school. They didn’t know of Onigiri Miya then so you never thought much of them, but clearly, she had thought of you.

“I understand that we opened up o.mo.ide in order to commemorate Myaa-sam and everything he’d done for this community, but have you ever stopped and thought that in the process, you’ve integrated into it yourself?”

You hadn’t. You’d been so deeply absorbed by your own troubles that you had never bothered to even look outside of yourself or Osamu.

“We’re operating at a loss right now, but there are people like Asako that rely on us to stay open. And so help me, I need you too. We promised to do this together and I refuse to let you abandon me.”

“Oh… oh, Akaashi, I’m so–” you’re forced speechless by your own guilt.

“Don’t apologize. Just.” Akaashi searches through his vocabulary, “just get better. Have you ever thought about therapy?”

Akaashi introduces you to his therapist but after two sessions, you find that the way he gels his hair back and the nasal hums he provides every time you confide in him is unsettling. The journey through therapy is not so much a journey but more like an illegal obstacle course formed with bottomless pits and thorny vines and a portable bed.

It’s physically draining and mentally exhausting that you need a nap most days. Akaashi hardly yells at you anymore when you fall asleep in the office chair while on break as long as he knows you have an appointment scheduled at the end of the week.

You go through three more therapists. This fourth one, she’s on thin ice, but you’re five months in and she’s managed to get you to stay. She encourages you to reach out to the people you love on your own and to make time for them every week.

Now you spend time teaching Mumu new tricks. He’s mastered the command ‘sit’ and is also very good at laying down. You’ve yet to teach him much else though. Monday mornings are for mahjong with Granny. Sweet as she is, that woman is a good liar and to this day, you still haven’t won a game. According to Kita, no one has yet to beat her. You’ve extended tea dates with Shizuku into dinners after you and Akaashi close. Most of the time Hayashi is there and despite Akaashi’s indifference to their relationship, every night you gossip about the way his hands would linger around her waist or how he’d whisper something in her ear while they washed dishes. When Asako visits, you untie your apron and give her grandparents a break. Only when she is done with her meal, you walk her into the back where you tell her to mind her step and you and lift her over the wall so she can knock on Hayashi’s back door for an ice cream.

People gradually enter your lives, ones that you didn’t have courage to see. With a warning text sent like an afterthought, it’s a welcome surprise to find Bokuto seated on top of your kitchen table, towering height even more pronounced, while Akaashi showcased his skill in a new apron.

“Oh?” you say and at the sight of Akaashi’s expression, all you do is smile and wish them a good time. If there is a time that Akaashi shouldn’t be burdened by you, it would be now. You are in the process of healing after all.

Suna and Aran eventually visit, dragged along by Kita. His small build compared to the two athletes make an awkward remeet amusing.

Suna scruffles your head and cups the fat of your cheeks as a greeting, “hey, Bug. Nothing kills you, huh?”

You’re grateful when Aran saves you, pulling you into a deep hug that soothes your soul. He lifts you up once just to hold you closer, and when he’s done, they all apologize for not visiting you sooner. It was shame, they admitted. Because for Osamu, they were willing to do anything to make him feel better, even if it was to perpetuate lies.

You’re at a space now where you understand because for Osamu, you know you would and will do anything for him too. No one talks about him though. No one dares mention any Miya first, and finally, you’re not compelled to bring them up either.

Of course, it’s just as tumultuous of a ride, even more so now that you’re more aware of your issues. Some days, the social vigor of running a restaurant is so draining that all you can do is keep your head down in the back. Count inventory and roll orders whenever Akaashi places them in. Sometimes it’s even harder than that, where you end up at the convenience store with one bottle of sake. Usually the guilt hits you half a bottle in and you end up pouring the rest over the nearest drain. This time, halfway isn’t nearly enough to ease the pain.

With the amount of volleyball players that have re-entered your life, an old interview of Osamu’s is in your recommended videos to watch. You can’t not click it when the thumbnail is a closeup top angle of his face, long hair pulled into a messy bun.

He stands the same with hands on his hips and in a wide stance but even the way he speaks sounds different. Same voice, different person. Different words.

The comments prove that he has a lot of fans from all over the world. They shout words of affection, recount the best games they’ve witnessed him in and no one mentions a single word about Onigiri Miya.

You’re at a point in your life now that any sort of Osamu brings on a general longing. You miss him so much you’re willing to take whatever you can have.

The realization makes you feel like you’ve lost him again because this place, the venue where you labor yourself until your back is broken despite your lack of knowledge had been a huge part of him. Now it is all lost to his pro volleyball glamor.

Onigiri Miya Osamu will eventually fade from existence. Once more, you begin grieving.

Despite your coping methods, it takes a long time to build yourself out of your rut. The gloom lasts for days and life has a predilection for stacking up your misery.

“Miya–”

Akaashi doesn’t have to finish his sentence. The impact already hits your stomach at the surname. It doesn’t matter which Miya it is. A Miya has stepped foot into this building, the first time since the fire. Suspense boils in your gut and its noxious fumes cut the breath from your lungs.

You’ve thought about this moment in great lengths, anxiously in bed or idle thoughts as you wait for the train. Preparation has never been your strong suit though. The fact is clear with the condition of your restaurant that struggles to even get by.

Blonde hair glistens against the backdrop of an afternoon sun and distracts you from the bells that ring when he opens the door. He glances around the walls with his mouth agape, focusing mostly on the origin story next to the host stand. It’s just a few old newspaper clippings of articles and one image of Osamu’s face. It was one of your few stipulations. He must always be there to greet the customers.

When Atsumu’s gaze finally finds yours, you can’t help but grip the towel tighter in your hands. Misplaced anger simmers right behind your tightly pursed lips. His face is so similar. It’s the closest anyone could get to a clone, and the distinct features you’ve been searching for, the ones that belong to the Osamu you once knew, are not there.

It’s a lot. It’s been a bad couple of weeks.

But Atsumu doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that you’ve worked yourself raw and instead of building calluses, all you've done is made yourself tender.

He passes the backline and you find yourself taking a step back towards the display case as he crosses your first line of defense. He acts like nothing’s changed, that he’s still got free reign of the place and maybe it hasn’t. When he pulls you in, when he mutters ‘I love ya’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over again, you fall apart in his arms.

You fist his shirt at the chest and sob in a way you haven’t allowed yourself since the hospital, since you’d seen any of the Miyas last. You cry into his chest, condense the past years you’ve had to make do with just your hands or sleeves or pillows. There’s rage and pity, but most of all, there is relief. Because as much as Akaashi has sat beside you while you mourned, and how everyone had gathered to remind you of your worth, they could never fill the space that any Miya left behind. None of them understood what it was like to lose Osamu. Not Myaa-sam, or Chef, or Oji-Samu. Youhad borne that misery alone.

You can’t fault Osamu for not choosing you. And Mama Miya has tried reaching out despite your lack of response.

But Atsumu, he could have stayed. You thought there was kinship there, a shared love for his brother. You thought you could have shared the sorrow too. Instead, he’d whisked away his family to Osaka to escape any reminder of the previous life he lived. He took everything and he left you behind.

Atsumu follows you to the ground when you literally fall apart in his arms. He hugs you tighter and he ignores the stack of napkins shelved right next to you, knowing that his shirt is more than enough.

Atsumu is eventually able to get you to a park near the restaurant once you calmed down. You both lay next to each other on the grass and the sun’s power is too strong for your swollen eyes. You have to balance your water bottle over them as shade. Atsumu offers the sunglasses he likes to keep clipped to the collar of his shirt. You accept it cautiously, wary of taking too much.

“I’m sorry.”

His apology is overwhelming and the corners of your eyes overflow, unprepared.

“Don’t,” you sputter out when you have the breath, a sting clinging to the bridge of your nose, “don’t. I can’t take it. Say something else.”

“I–” the way he blunders means he must have prepared a speech and now you’ve thrown a wrench in his plans. “I… uh. It’s good to see ya.”

“Oh, gods. Why are you even here?”

“I wanted to see ya,” he answers lamely.

There’s still anger in your chest and for the past couple of years, you’d been aiming that ire at Akaashi unjustly. Atsumu’s expression from the day at the hospital still keeps you up sometimes and it’s taken months of therapy for you to realize that his emotions were also misplaced. You’d dealt with pieces of the guilt and there’s still a lot that you need to address, but you understand now, that the burden of being was never yours alone to bear.

“Now? When you’ve had all this time?”

“I know. I–” he stops himself from another apology. You’re grateful he’s grown the maturity to keep his mouth shut when asked. “I just wanted to prepare ya.”

“For what?”

“Samu went no contact on me.”

You rise to your elbows in shock, worry prickling prickling your heart, “and Ma?”

“Not Ma,” he shakes his head quickly. “He calls her sometimes, not enough, but more than me.”

“Why?”

Atsumu breathes deeply, worn and weary. He brings his arms back and rests his head on them, eyes up at the sky watching a kite flown by two children, probably siblings. “Why fucking not, ya know?”

“No, Atsumu, I wouldn’t know when you basically went no contact on me.”

Atsumu pinches his bottom lip between his front teeth. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you can see the way they lighten from the pressure. He sighs again.

“I deserve this, I know. But Osamu didn’t. I fucked up but I had no clue what I was doing. Ya gotta understand. Ya were there and ya saw him and how beaten down he was and maybe I did put blame on everyone but myself. I hated Onigiri Miya for even getting him caught up in that sort of mess, and when his dreams lined up with mine, I figured it would be okay. We could leave it all behind. I tried to play God with my own brother’s life and he let me. Everyone did.”

“He listened to you?”

Atsumu shakes his head, “crazy, right? He was lost and unsure, but I was confident, ya know? I just felt so certain I was doing the right thing and I think that’s the only reason why he let himself be led all this way.”

“So what changed?”

“Are ya kidding?” Atsumu looks at you, and when he realizes you don’t have a clue, he turns to face you. “The answer is you.”

It’s a fucked up thing for Atsumu to say. The words erupt an ache in your chest. You curl into yourself, bring your knees up so that you flinch away from the pain but Atsumu grabs hold of both of your hands. He grips tightly in an attempt to siphon the pain.

“A love like yours ain’t something easy to forget.”

You remember the hospital, “that’s what Ma said.”

“It’s exactly what she told him when he left. I don’t know how he found out, but I saw that he looked up Onigiri Miya the day before he left and he’s been gone since. For about two weeks now, I think.”

“No,” you shake your head, closing your eyes to soften the blow of his words but even in the darkness, a stinging, buzzing pain wracks through your body. It’s everywhere all at once but Atsumu holds you through it.

“I love ya. I promise, I do. There wasn’t a day I didn’t regret what I did, but believe me when I tell ya. I do. I love ya,” He takes your hands that have been bunched up into fists and presses them onto the soft skin below his eyes where it’s sticky and wet. “And I’m so sorry I had to put ya through this and made ya go through this all alone, so if ya moved on, if ya got someone else, I understand and I’ll figure something out.”

You try to pull yourself from his grip but Atsumu holds onto you, head bent in repentance and the sincerity of it all spouts more tears.

“I’ll handle Osamu if that’s the case. I know Akaashi’s a really good guy so–”

You take your conjoined hands and jab him across the forehead. Atsumu sputters in shock, letting you go in the process while he tries to soothe the pain.

“Does it look like I’ve moved on, idiot?” You knock soft fists into his chest like a child. “Would I be crying in what I consider my own brother’s arms in a park if I moved on?”

“I just wanted–”

“And Akaashi? Fucking Akaashi? He’s a good guy,” you mock, irritated, “of course he is. Shut up. You know I’m in love with your brother.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Stop hitting me. I said I was sorry already.”

You make sure to put some extra force in that final punch, “you’re going to say it for the rest of your life.”

Atsumu nods gratefully, “of course.”

“And,” the words hurt coming out, “and don’t run off on me again.”

What makes the tears slip this time is forgiveness. Atsumu holds your hand against his chest where you can feel his heart. You’ve missed him, longed for him just as much as you have Osamu and slowly, you feel yourself start to heal.

“He might not need a brother right now, but I do.”

Atsumu kisses you on the cheek and pulls you close. He holds you in his arms with the same exact care he had for Osamu in the hospital, with the same protectiveness of an elder brother.

Finally, you feel understood.

Atsumu spends his off season in Hyogo where you find out Ma has moved back. Akaashi doesn’t take kindly to a change in routines, but he begins helping out where he can along with Ma.

When Ma first sees you, all she can do is hold you at arm’s length, picking her vernacular apart with words that she wanted to say. You just shake your head and let yourself be swallowed by her cardigan comfort. She encourages you to come to family dinner and you have to ask if Akaashi is invited too. She pats his cheek and says of course like the question was unnecessary to begin with.

The world shifts almost exactly the way you imagined it. Life has a funny way of doing that. Atsumu helps around the restaurant and Ma stops by with some of her friends after an activity. She meets Asako who she adores and is adored just as equally. Ma takes ice cream duty from you while Atsumu, because it’s his off season, likes to overstay his welcome at your apartment. Akaashi kicks him out and the athlete tries to use Mumu as an excuse. Mumu, unfortunately, likes Atsumu even less than Akaashi.

Sometimes Atsumu will try to broach the topic of contacting Osamu, something that both you and Ma are against. Osamu has been through enough, you both reason. And he’s probably had his fill of someone telling him what to do.

The restaurant fills and though you know that yours or Akaashi’s food cannot compare, the laughter spills out the doors from friends and family and neighbors that continuously visit. They manage when you accidentally don’t order enough fish, opting for broth and rice and when you run out of beverages, someone offers to run to the convenience store to buy drinks.

It’s not a perfect venue, but it embodies Osamu’s very being, a place that has become a home.

One day, Akaashi is out of town and Atsumu helps you while he’s gone. He’s not as focused as your usual business partner, whose eyes continuously drift out onto the streets and he even leaves early when you haven’t finished clearing up for the day.

“Alright, I gotta go but I’ll lock the door,” Atsumu runs off quickly. “Ya can handle this, right?”

You look at the stack of dishes and the ready to go items that haven’t been put away yet. It’s not much, but it would certainly be easier if he stayed. Unfortunately, his question is apparently rhetorical because the man does not wait for an answer. He reiterates his farewell and with a jingle, the door is shut.

“Okay,” you say, blinking at his figure that eventually passes a corner and disappears. You scan your surroundings, running a mental image of what would be the most efficient process. Wipe down the tables, you decide. Some haven’t been bussed yet so you head over with a fresh rag and empty tray.

Atsumu likes to turn up the music the moment the o.mo.ide closes as a way to decompress. You hum along. It’s a mindless process now that you’ve done it so many times. Clear the tables. Sanitize the tables. Sanitize the chair. Bend down eye level with the table and make sure you haven’t missed any crumbs. You’re not even thinking, just lost in the routine and it’s why the sound of the bell startles you.

It’s so like Atsumu to forget to lock the door. You compose yourself with a slow inhale and prepare for an irate customer who might argue at your innocent error, but the breath expels from your mouth.

You stand there stupidly, hands holding your chest like you’re about to dive backwards into water. It’s that feeling, where two characters catch eyes on a crowded street. Despite everything that has happened and all that separates you, he holds you captive. Your feet are planted to the ground and everything, heart, mind, body, and breath is under his power.

“O – Oh…”

Even saying his name feels foreign because as much as you’ve thought of him, you can’t remember when was the last time you did. It feels foreign on your tongue and you can’t blurt anything out but the first letter, and you witness his demeanor change.

“Osamu,” you say only because you think it’ll make him smile. It does and because of it, you want to fall down on your knees.

Everything, everything that you had observed different about him, his hair that looks like he’s cut but is still longer than you remember, the cut of his jaw that’s sharper, his brows that he’d boast about being strong look trimmed, and even his choice of clothes is different, opting for a sleeveless tee over his favored oversized shirts, all of that is negligent because seeing him once more, you recognize he is still your Osamu.

“Hi,” he greets and your heart flutters. Was this really how it felt when you were falling in love because everything he does brings upon a desire that you doubt could ever be quelled. “Are ya closed?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly and the wilt of his face makes you overcompensate, “but– but it’s fine! You’re come in… I mean, oh…”

This is so fucking embarrassing. “You’re always welcome. Come in and have a seat wherever you want.”

He points at a bar seat with a head tilt. You nod and make sure to lock the door behind him. The bus tub, the rag, you forego it all and pass the swinging door that separates the register and eating area. Your hands perspire at the stress of perfection. It’s a foreign thing for him to be seated while you serve him and maybe it’s you overthinking, but it feels like he’s watching your every move.

Osamu quickly diverts his gaze when you turn around. His not so subtle glancing of the venue, head craned back as he looks at the decorations on the walls and the lighting fixtures you and Akaashi picked, amuses you but you try not to show it too hard. Osamu seems shyer than you’re used to. That’s okay. You’re nervous too.

“Did you come hungry?”

“I did.”

Ease washes over you. Thank the gods, that has stayed the same.

You apologize for the lack of options and Osamu tries to downplay the inconvenience. “It’s okay. I didn’t… Well I did, but I didn’t really come here to eat.”

“No?”

Osamu plays with a stray grain of rice between his fingers. He rolls the sticky piece into a ball, back and forth as he thinks of what he wants to say.

“No, I… To be honest, I didn’t think I was going to go inside.”

“Oh.”

“But I…” then he stops his rolling and he looks at you, like really looks at you. And whatever it is, you feel it too. “But I just had to.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah, well, it took me all up until closing to work up the courage.”

“That’s okay,” you tell him. You pull up the stool near the rear register and situate yourself across from him. The boundary that separates you two is familiar, 76 centimeters of space that you know by heart and it makes conversation flow smoother. “I’m happy you came at all. How was your day?”

“Shit.”

The answer takes you by surprise, him too by the way he stops chewing, lips puckering close together as he ruminates whether or not meant to say those words. But he owns them, and continues on.

“My smoothie spilled all over my cup holder.”

“Oh no. Did you ask for another one?”

“Pretty sure they tried to sabotage me by giving me a cracked cup.”

You break in the most unexpected way. A smile splits your lips and a giggle strikes through your chest. Everything feels so similar, so weightless. It feels like a dam has been broken with just a couple of words.

“It ain’t funny.”

You agree, “I know. It’s the worst.”

“Then why are ya laughing?”

“I don’t even know. It’s not funny at all.”

“It’s not. I had to stuff a bunch of napkins in there.”

“No, it’s going to get sticky!”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Cry.”

Osamu sputters, rice flying from his mouth. He’s embarrassed for only a millisecond, fearful of your reaction, but all it does is make you bend over, sincerely losing control of your body. Osamu joins you, laughing at who knows what, but you’re grateful. For as much pain misery brings, it takes so little for you to be happy.

“Fuck,” he says once he’s able to catch a breath. He says quietly with wonder and it has your giggles soften to match his energy. “I’ve imagined every way this meeting could go.”

Your heart constricts like it’s being pinched from the bottom. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

“No,” Osamu shakes his head genuinely. You almost apologize. “I thought I’d mess it all up but,” he looks at you and it’s the gaze you had been searching when he had first woken up all those years ago. A quiet ardor, soft around the edges but saturated in passion, “but I didn’t expect it to be so easy.”

“Stop,” you have to hide your lips.

Osamu doesn’t understand, back straightening, “what?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Saying those things.”

His lips pucker themselves out, “why can’t I?”

“Because,” you blink furiously, willing the tears away because you want to remember this with clarity, “you’re making me too happy.”

He grins too, but it’s still shy as he bends his head down, nodding slightly as he does, “how do ya think I feel?”

There’s a calmness that settles now that your mania has subsided. Your eyes appraise, trying to find more topics to talk about so he can stay just a little longer.

“Are those cigarettes?” you observe the square box in his breast pocket.

He nods as he pulls them out, holding them in his hands as if they were novel.

“Are you smoking a lot?”

He looks at you curiously, “did I used to?”

The past tense makes you stumble, but you do your best to answer him honestly. “Sometimes. Only the bad days. That’s how we knew you were having a bad day because we’d smell them on you.”

He’d lean his chest against the railings like his body was too heavy, curved his body like a treble clef as he smoked. And often you’d find him in the alleyway, a cigarette in one hand and food for the cats in another.

“It’s crazy how I do shit without knowing the real meaning.”

You shrug, “habits are harder to break than memory.”

Osamu nods. A beat passes before he continues the conversation on his own.

“I’ve had this same pack since I left the hospital.” He opens it and reveals only a few sticks missing, “play with it for the most part but I’ll smoke one when I get overwhelmed. I dreamt of you once and my heart wouldn’t stop beating. I had to go outside and calm myself. Nearly gave Tsumu a heart attack when he noticed my bed was empty.”

“He’s a worrywort.”

The sound Osamu makes is not kind. There’s still animosity for his brother, “even more so now.”

“He means well.”

“Sure he does.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your apology takes him by surprise. Osamu shuts the pack and places it back in his pocket. “For what?”

“For, I don’t know.” A lot of things. For burdening him with faded memories, for not being who he needed, for not being enough, “for being in your dream.”

“What are ya saying? It was a good dream. It felt… nice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods earnestly while looking at you. “I can’t explain it because I really don’t know the specifics, but it felt good. Made me wish I dreamed about ya more.”

The sunset is almost complete, dark orange hues streak the tile floor. Osamu’s been done eating for minutes now. With his plate clean and the conversation running its course, it feels like a good place for this to end. But you don’t think you can part with him just yet. A culmination of yearning and grieving and mourning and aching has led to this and you’ll be damned if it’s over now.

You hop off the stool and Osamu sighs. He matches your movements, slowly getting up, too. He looks ready to leave but you won’t let him go without trying. Not this time.

“Would you like to see the back?”

“Really?” his giddiness prompts yours.

“Yeah, of course.” You lead him to the back and grab your apron. Then you point at the black one on the last hook closest to the back alley door . “Take that apron.”

He hooks his finger around the neck, “this one?”

You nod. “Yeah, that one’s yours.”

He takes it in his hand, shy and foreign in his fingers. It’s different, clumsier, but it’s familiar enough to let your heart burn.

He pulls the fabric over his head and adjusts it along his shoulder. The apron is knotted up by habit, his hands reaching there after the three usual tugs and when he looks up, your stomach swirls at the sight of his beam.

He’s everything you’ve missed in more ways than one, but finally, thank gods, finally. He’s right where he belongs.

end.

He’s everything you’ve missed in more ways than one, but finally, thank gods, finally. He’s right where he belongs.

end.

2K notes · View notes

luvuchihaa · 2 years

Text

ৎ୭ SYNOPSIS: Kiminobu is kind enough to help you study for your exam. Sweet things await those who study hard!

ৎ୭ WARNINGS: University AU, this is pure fluff, not beta-read

ৎ୭ WORD COUNT: 1.5k

ৎ୭ NOTES: I had to write something for Valentine’s, I needed to write something for this sweet man and I just finished my own exams, so here we are!

“Do you think stupidity is hereditary?”

Kiminobu looks up from his notes, simply looking at you while he tries to piece your words together in his mind to gain an understanding of them, despite the lack of context.

Keep reading

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luvuchihaa · 2 years

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PENUMBRA ┊ AIZAWA SHOUTA

synopsis: navigating life with two identities is no easy feat. falling for the underground hero known as Eraserhead makes keeping your worlds separate that much harder. it was bound to fall apart at some point.

tags: AFAB GN reader, strangers to friends to lovers, secret identity (reader is a vigilante; wears a mask; reader has a quirk), minor oc characters, morally conflicting relationships, romantic + sexual tension, cats + coffee, hurt/comfort, canon typical violence (weapons; quirk brutality; kidnapping; villain gun quirk), quirkless discrimination, criticisms of hero system, blood loss + injury (bruises, fractures, bullet wounds, reader gets stitches), mutual pining, making out + heavy petting, I promise this is fluffier than it sounds, mild angst with a happy + hopeful ending

wc: 20k

It happens between blinks. Always a forgiving, dreamless sleep.

When you wake to the obnoxious wail of your alarm the honeysuckle sun has already unsheathed itself from the horizon. “Fuck,” you groan, smacking your lips in displeasure at the dry, cotton feeling in your mouth. Three and a half hours was better than none at all.

Fifteen minutes to make yourself moderately presentable — wipe away the sand from your cornea with cold water, lethargically brush your teeth, appraise the shadows beneath your eyes and twist in the mirror reflection as you try to map out any fresh bruises.

You paint over the purples and blues, wincing as you go. Most were easily covered up by your shirt but you couldn’t take any chances; not the slip of your sleeve, or the dip of your collar. Nocturne’s remnants littered your body, and he would surely recognise them at first glance.

Your lips shape slowly around the consonants and vowels. “Aizawa,” repeated again and again as you dress yourself. Not Eraser now, just Aizawa. Kill the latter part of yourself, saved only for the night. Don’t slip up. You tuck your rudimentary wings back into thick, woolly socks pulled up over your ankles, snug around your calves. Wearing just jeans and a sweater always feels unnaturally light the morning after a patrol.

The key eases into the lock. You turn it clockwise, and try the handle once more before you leave. In passing you can hear your neighbours beginning to wake and get ready for their day. Hasty footsteps echo throughout the stairway as you descend it, too behind on time to even think about waiting for the lift.

You start down the road towards the cafe and tug your jacket closer to your chest. The pavements are wet, rainwater fed into the uprooted cracks. Tired as you are, there’s a restless giddiness building in your chest, and it spurs you on further. Aizawa is a creature of habit — he would be there, rumpled and windswept, as he always is.

The mundane routine wasn’t something you disliked. Not everything had to be exhilarating or dangerous for it to be worthwhile. Life was an accumulation of small victories. When the sun is up, that is when you get to enjoy the fruits of your labour; people in your community with relaxed smiles, unrestrained laughter, going about their day without the burden of worry.

You enter through the back door of Meowtini. Waiting diligently for your arrival, as soon as they hear the click of a lock the cats are flocking to the staff room, a cacophony of yowls of every pitch. “Okay, okay! I hear you!” you laugh, pushing them away gently with the tip of your foot as you try to get to the kitchen.

One leg after the other, you step over the security gate. “No kitties in the kitchen,” your voice threads together in a sing-song cadence, hands busy at work collecting the tubs of cat food from the pantry. “I promise it’s comin’!”

It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since your handover, Hideki, had left, and still they behave as if they’d been abandoned for weeks.

At the cafe there are three rotations. The morning shift runs from eight till twelve. During lunch the doors would be locked, allowing the feline residents reprieve from the public. Second is the afternoon, three till six, and third is the late night shift, reserved strictly for employees able to bake and restock the display cases for the following day.

You always took the morning shift, without fail.

A quiet bell sounds by the entrance and all ears in the vicinity perk up. Aizawa enters at eight on the dot just as he does every Friday, still in the all black jumpsuit and weighted capture weapon you saw him in only hours ago, now with his usual work bag slung over his arm.

You straighten self consciously and smooth down the front of your apron. His furtive stare finds yours through the second security door, peeking over top the new missing person poster tacked front and centre, slightly obscured by the dark hair curtaining his face.

Some of the older cats slink out from their hiding spots, mewling like kittens. They’re only ever like this with him; their internal clockwork has synced to his arrival, you think. It’s only natural — Aizawa spoils them more than any other regular.

They shuffle back as the door pushes inward, and he slips through the narrow space into the warmth of your cafe. You watch with inundated fondness as he takes a moment to breathe in the scent, those broad shoulders lifting, chest expanding with his lungs.

Aizawa bends forward like a puppet cut free of its strings and proffers his hand to the feline closest to him. Ren, an older long haired cat with a black coat to match his own. You get a glimpse of the muscle hidden under that plain fabric, as it slips forward over his bruised collar, and you swallow thickly.

“G’morning,” you call to him, turning to busy yourself with his usual order. A red eye — black coffee with one added shot of espresso — and a glass of cold water. You massage the ache in your knuckles as the coffee drips steadily into the shot glass, conscious of the broken skin on your third and fourth knuckle that you’d covered with concealer.

You hear his gruff response, voice low and rough with fatigue in a way that prickles at the nape of your neck. There’s a familiar, pointed weight at your back that fades the moment you turn, his stare now set firmly on the baked goods in the display counter.

“Want one?” his eyes flicker up, meeting your own as you set the coffee on the surface. “You can give up the bit, Aizawa. I’m already well aware you’ve got a secret sweet tooth”.

It’s still odd interacting with him like this — as yourself, plain clothed and unmasked, voice as clear as the bell by the door. The first time he had stepped foot in the cafe you’d been overwhelmed by trepidation and fear, only to realise he didn’t recognise you at all.

“You pick something,” he murmurs, reaching across. Your fingers are still looped through the handle of the mug, and they brush against his rough skin as he takes it from you. There’s coarse, dark hair on the back of his hand, you notice. “So long as it’s warm”.

Pleased, you hum an affirmative, picking up the pair of tongs behind the counter and plucking one of the croissants from the shelf; crust crisp with a soft yielding centre, brushed with golden egg.

“Hard week?”

Something indiscernible shifts in his expression. He considers you, “What makes you say that?”

This is another of those fleeting instances that you think he may have connected the dots. Face pinched in quiet suspicion, he visibly weighs the possibilities. Your pulse throbs on the back of your tongue as the blood rushes to your ears. You warily telegraph your movements and ignore the urge to turn away from prying eyes.

“Just making conversation,” you smile, though it is strained despite your efforts, and gesture to your collarbones. “I saw the bruises, so…”

A beat of silence passes, and you are forced to exhale on the off chance that your quirk activated itself amidst the one sided panic. When Aizawa accepts your flimsy excuse with a lazy nod you are forced to temper the immediate relief that follows.

“I did run into trouble. Though not the kind you’re thinking,” he continues to speak, bending to pet one of the younger cats. Suzu, judging by the broken mewl. He sounds… unbearably fond. “Just someone that likes to get on my nerves”.

Blunted teeth sink into your tongue. The toaster oven pings behind you, startling you out of your gentle astonishment. Taking the croissant out of the oven, the hot air plumes upward to sting your eyes, and you set it onto a small plate.

“That’s hardly distinct. I’ve heard you say that about everyone in your life,” you tease lightly. “Starting to think you enjoy it”.

“I wonder about that,” Aizawa huffs, sliding the plate across the counter and stepping around the flock that has inevitably gathered at his feet. He hugs the coffee mug to his sternum, glancing toward his usual spot.

Despite being the only person to arrive this early, he always checks. Recently, he has also begun to ask, “Too busy to join me?”

Weeks ago, you’d taken an early break and graded some papers for him while he slept, and he had yet to forget it. “You do a guy's work for him one time,” you laugh, head shaking amusedly. No doubt there were enough poorly written student essays in that worn leather bag to fill your skull with cotton. “I have to feed the cats”.

Do your own job, Hero. The comment sits right at the tip of your tongue, and it takes conscious effort to smother it, pressed up against the back of your teeth. Too much like Nocturne.

Aizawa levels you with a playful glare — playful by his standards — and his nose wrinkles above the ribbons of carbon alloy coiled around his neck. Then he sleuths off to his booth, gait heavy as if he were wading through wet mud.

Now you’re free to enjoy the sides of him Nocturne doesn’t get to see; the man you knew as a force to be reckoned with, the voice of reason and stickler for the law, draping himself across the booth like he was part of the furniture, where he could just be; embedded into a scene that gently unfolded around him.

Ren leaps up onto the cushioned seat, stretching her limbs across his thighs with toes spread. The pro hero slumps down and slips his fingers into her thick fur, head tipping back as the rigidity bleeds from his body. You drink in the way his throat shifts when he swallows, how the dark stubble on his cheeks shadows the underside of his jaw, and quickly cast your eyes to the countertop.

Aizawa Shouta is unbearably handsome in all manner of ways. You’re sure he would regard you with flat disdain if ever you told him so. The unkempt, rugged appearance was all purposeful — being overlooked or underestimated was the whole point. But you liked it. A lot.

You recall the whiplash of seeing him during a press conference all those months ago; hair brushed and neatly styled into a half up do, a youthful face freshly shaven, his suit cinching tight in all the right places. Thankfully his facial hair is as stubborn as he is, and you never needed to grieve it much.

Paradoxically, you are far more masked standing behind the cafe counter now than you were in your gear. There was caution and forethought in every word, every movement; constantly weighing the possible outcomes came with a lot of mental fatigue. You wanted to reach out and touch him, to grasp every version of yourself and overlay them in his mind until it painted a full picture. Look at me.

Maybe it’s silly, with him sitting so close. But you missed him. You wanted to banter with him again, poke and prod until he got a little rough.

Eventually a pair of friends trickle in, bringing a brief gust of cold air when they greet you. The dewy morning sun is bright as it peeks over the surrounding buildings, glittering faintly where the condensation clings to the window panes and casting dappled shadows across the floor. You serve them together and make idle conversation, sneaking quick glances at the weathered hero. He rested against his fist, squishing the fat of his cheek.

“Thank you. Here, since you’re new, take a few bribes too,” you restrain a smile at the sight of him nodding off over his paperwork as you press a few small tubes of wet cat treats into their open palms. “It’ll help warm them up to ya”.

When the coast is clear you gather some for yourself, fiddling nervously with the packaging and approaching Aizawa’s booth. He’s awake again now. Coffee cup empty and croissant half eaten. The man is a grazer; when he eats Aizawa will nibble around the edges and save the centre. You hear the rough scratch of his pen across paper. Spine arched and tail quivering happily, Ren spreads her toes as she pushes up into his equally heavy handed back pats.

You know well enough that he’s aware of your presence. Subtle, his shoulders roll back, opening his chest, chin tilted toward you and hair tucked behind his ear to show he’s listening while he works, leg unfolding from beneath his body and stretching until the tip of his toe taps the opposite seat.

That’s just how he is. Eraserhead’s intentions are largely unspoken. A test, in a way. Tuning into the body language of others and deciphering it is what kept you alive most nights. Hearing the question, the bid for more explanation, the silent praise behind his less-than-expressive expressions had been child’s play.

Not here though. You needed to maintain a level of ignorance to keep his guard down. Standing at the end of the table you ask if you can sit despite knowing you can. He answers again by gesturing his pen over the table, never lifting his gaze.

You slide across from him. “How’s the pastry?”

“Groundbreaking,” he concedes dryly before tearing off another bite.

“Good answer,” you snort, resting your elbows on the table and leaning forward to shamelessly read what he’s working on. The handwriting is barely legible. “What’s the assignment about this week?”

“Overlap of ethics and law. It was supposed to be a two thousand word essay on any case study of their choosing,” he bends back the corner of the papers laid out in front of him to emphasise the thickness and deadpans. “This is all from one student. Five times the word count I set”.

“Midoriya again, I presume?”

The long suffering sigh is all the answer you need. You decidedly do not watch the slow swipe of his thumb across his mouth. His lips part and he sucks the remaining crumbs. Heat flashes through your body that almost makes your tea seem cold.

“Should never have clarified that the word count was a soft limit,” he mutters, clicking the end of his pen twice. “Kid is terrible at cutting down his own work. I advised him to only include the key sections of the essay he said ‘but Sensei, it’s all important’”.

“Sensei,” you repeat, mimicking his voice. “Why did you become a teacher again?”

“I regret it every day,” he replies. You can tell it’s without malice, and not just by the fondness there. He doesn’t mean it — never does. Aizawa Shouta is forthright and honest about everything but his personal feelings.

“Sure,” your cheeks hurt with the effort not to laugh; amusement hidden safely behind the rim of your mug. The tea burns, and you feel it all the way down to your stomach as you swallow. “If you say so”.

Dark eyes narrow in on you. It becomes another of those moments where the proverbial walls are closing in. Pushing back is useless, so you have learned to sit and wait. He’s always… surveying you. You think, deep down, his instincts are telling him things that he desperately wants to put a name to.

“I do,” he rumbles, absentmindedly circling his pen against paper. He twirls it between each knuckle with ease, staring at you for a long while before he says: “You remind me of somebody I know”.

Bracing yourself for collision does not lessen the impact. As expected, this is when the guilt invites itself in and replaces your fear of being caught with the nauseating shame that too often comes with lying to someone you care about. “Is that a good or a bad thing?” you ask, rubbing at that frantic, skittish thing behind your sternum. “I can never tell with you”.

Aizawa laughs. More of a snuffed out, breathy sound than anything, but a laugh all the same. You feel it echo to every nerve ending, simmering into a pleasant buzz. He didn’t do it much, and as Nocturne you knew it was embarrassingly obvious how hard you tried to pluck the reaction from him. So much so that you’d started to suspect he repressed it on purpose.

“It’s a good thing,” he murmurs, overturning another page of Midoriya’s work. Your heart jumps at the unfettered warmth in his tone. Then, following a short pause, he adds, “Mostly”.

You’re semi content to watch him work. There are always questions, but you’re afraid of what he might see in you if you ask. Forgetting yourself would lead to a lapse in control. Disturbance in the deception might not create an immediate break, but restless, inquisitive Eraserhead would not be able to keep his nails from picking at the frayed thread until the tapestry fell apart.

Names do not often come up in conversation, only ever by accident. Mostly, he refers to the majority of his class and his daughter with half-baked terms of endearment. You already knew many of the students at UA — albeit not personally, but it was clear that maintaining a strict level of anonymity for his kids was important to him.

So you dance around the lines he had so boorishly lain, flirting with them a little, but only if you can’t help it. It’s a repetitiveness you’ll never tire of, it’s scripted exchanges and the subtle coaxing until he’s there, in your magnetism. You liked how he’d smile as he receives the tube of cat treat, even if it is a private exchange with the cat in his lap and not you.

How’s work, how’ve you been sleeping, did you shave again?

Work is work, sleeping hours should be longer, do you often pay attention to my shaving habits?

People filter in as the time passes. You return to your place at the counter soon enough, kept in place by one of the newer, clingier kittens, Suzu, sprawled on the top of your right shoe.

You call out to Aizawa as he saunters toward the door. Once again, his stare lingers for longer than necessary on the missing person poster you had tacked to the window. He slouches further into himself at the volume, hands deep in his pockets when he turns to squint with displeasure.

Wearing a sheepish grin, you wave the little powder blue stamp in the air. When Aizawa leaves his face is flushed and hidden behind the sturdy material of his capture weapon, yet another ink impression of a cat on his pink point card.

Exhaustion catches up to you near the end of your shift. Your coworker, Saeko, a young woman fresh out of college, had arrived miraculously early. She gave you a playful, disapproving once over, smiling til a crooked tooth peeks from between her thin lips.

“Senpai. With all due respect, you look worse than I did during my final exams last year,” she snorted, jaw rolling as she idly chewed a fresh stick of gum. The teasing jab is fermented with fresh mint. “You can totally dip, if you want. I got it from here”.

“Are you sure?”

A wet smack of her lips. She shucked off her coat with a shrug, untucking the ends of blonde hair caught in the collar. It fell just below the hemline of her skirt, and you saw a faint ladder stretch in her dark tights when she stretched to hang it in the staff room. “Yea, it’s cool. Unless you’re still stickin’ around to wait for Melatonin-san? Thought he usually came at the ass crack of dawn”.

“That’s not his name and you know it,” you laughed, bundling yourself back up with a passing glance to the back window. Trepidatious, dark clouds make your little concrete world a smidge duller. “But no, I’ve got nothing left to do. Aizawa already stopped by”.

“Aizawa,” she recites, brows wiggling suggestively. “He asked for your number yet?”

“No, Saeko”.

“Want me to get it for you?” she pressed the tip of her index finger to her left eye. There’s gold tinted circuitry in the sclera paving toward the iris. It is vivid orange, without a pupil, and it appears to pulse like the lense of a camera. “On the house. Maybe if you get laid you’ll actually be able to sleep”.

Jacket wrapped close to your chest to brace for the incoming gust, your hand tightened around the door handle. “No, Saeko,” you repeated with feeling, as though you were chiding a toddler. “I mean it. No illegal data syphoning at work”.

Her voice carried through into the side alley, all the way onto the bustling street. Suit yourself, she cackled. The glaring implication that Aizawa could be interested in anything beyond pleasantries fed yarn into that ever-present knot of anxiety in your gut.

As Eraserhead he entertained Nocturne just fine, but that relationship was more akin to that of a kitten latched to his pant leg than anything else.

Even if it was a possibility of something more, that flame would be diminished as soon as he found out who you were.

You rub your hands together, creating heat with the friction and massaging it into your cheeks. The cold bites at the tip of your nose. Falling back into your normal route is natural. Sewn into muscle memory, your legs carry you back home and the thoughts wash over you.

The apartment seems less welcoming when the sun is up. You thought it might be the clutter, or the sound of your upstairs neighbours slow dancing in the kitchen. Creaky floorboards groan under your feet, above your head, as you find no reason to avoid the weak spots. There were things that needed to be done, and little time to do it.

Redress the wounds which have not scabbed. Throw some food into the air fryer and scrub your gear clean while it cooks. Eat well, press on all the areas of your body that feel tender and decide to take a painkiller. Plug in your phone and your mask, turn on the TV and listen to the news report as you stretch. Check your costume on the clothes horse, spend close to an hour examining for tears or concerning damage before laying it out on the end of your bed. Nap.

Blearily, you wake in a dark room, remnants of the day barely visible where it has slipped beneath the horizon, and wash your cotton mouth down with a glass of water. The news cycle is repeating, a red banner rolling bright across the lower half of the screen with urgency. Sidekicks from the Endeavor agency had pursued a villain from the Shizuoka border to the Meguro line on the Shuto Expressway, effectively destroying, in part, one of the main arteries into central Tokyo.

Not your jurisdiction. Not theirs either, if you think about it. Typical. You pat around aimlessly for the TV remote, lowering the volume to a whisper with a heavy sigh as you scoot toward the edge of your bed.

Unsteady on your feet, you amble toward the pinboard kept on your accent wall. An oeuvre of loss. You run your fingertips along the pins until they stop on one particular thread. Ono Mizuki. There are others — lines of every colour, yellow, blue, green, orange, interwoven and connected, overlapping from point to point until the pattern becomes clear.

Tonight you’d patrol further east of the prefecture. There’s one specific neighbourhood in which all the threads crossed. This area was the only other similarity between the victims aside from quirk status, or lack thereof.

Shadows pleat across your floorboards. The room is always a bit stuffy after you’ve squeezed into your gear. The kevlar strapped securely around your torso beneath the layers of clothing is weighted, and you’re quietly comforted by its sturdiness.

Strapping on your utility belt is the fun part. Three pouches secured either side of your hips — tucked into each are a basic first aid kit, flash bombs, smoke bombs and a few nightsticks. In the holsters is a granite baton and a small combat knife. Cuffs confiscated last week, all you have righ now are zip ties. You sniff petulantly. Eraserhead’s fault.

Even on the nights you don’t run into him during a patrol, Eraser’s presence is ubiquitous. A veritable shadow. He could be anywhere, could be anyone, and it was comforting in an odd way. You supposed that is what made him such a renowned underground hero. The possibility of being caught by him was enough to deter most criminals.

That sentiment was not unlike the legacy left by All Might, yet comparing the two — comparing him to any other daylight left an unpleasant taste in your mouth. Less bitter-sweet, more bitter-resentment.

By definition, heroes are not supposed to be human. Humanbeings are multifaceted. Messy. Heroes are scrubbed to the bone, puritanical, manufactured to symbolise something bigger. A bright, special kind of person in a black and white landscape; an iron club wielded by the voices of the people; the displacement of their personal responsibility.

To be a hero is to be the penultimate. A moment of choice, gestures of grandeur against one great foe that unites the people. They answer fears, like a God would.

It’s theatre.

You found solace in Eraserhead’s own translucence. His stubborn humanity set him apart. You had the unique opportunity to see Aizawa from other angles, to observe the ways in which he illuminated the facets of his soul. He was not all that dissimilar to you.

The lackadaisical man openly bore his heart on his sleeve only to convince you it’s a trick of the light. A hero that could shoulder accountability and admit fault. He’s well meaning and rough around the edges to ward off those he deems intolerant. Quiet when he knows to be with the memory of a fox — the ears of one, too. Carelessness wouldn’t be easily forgiven.

Thoughts of him carry you across a grey landscape, towering rooftops and buildings that dwarfed you. The sound of your feet hitting the gravel barely echoes. It had taken months to learn to lighten your footsteps, and even longer to know where to put them. Eraserhead wasn’t the only person that liked to remind you that your fighting stance needed work.

Dropping into the narrow alley below, you begin to weave through the prefecture's interconnected veins, senses attuned to your surroundings and prepared; any sudden noises, a shift in atmosphere, an item out of place, your breathing came to a stand still.

Something prickles under your skin as you approach the singular street where all the victims had once been. There is the innate feeling that something wrong has happened here — the kind that beats against your breast bone and begs you to turn back. At first glance the area isn’t overtly suspicious. Some of the buildings are boarded up, broken into or covered in anti-HPSC graffiti, but that wasn’t necessarily a red flag.

More often than not, areas that received less government funding tended to receive fewer patrols from heroes, and when they did, compensation for damages was rarely offered. It would need to go through the courts, and every day people did not have the means to fight a branch of government when they were busy with mouths to feed. Causation aside, their anger was natural, understood.

The true source of your discomfort comes from a warehouse at the far end of the road. A big, hulking structure, outer paint peeling to reveal varying layers of sun baked hues, encircled by fire escapes fastened firmly to each floor that gave it an almost skeletal appearance. Creaking in its decrepitude, you hear groans echoing throughout the empty rafters. That unnerving emptiness follows you in, finding a wide empty space entrenched in shadows.

Except, it feels strangely lived in. Touched by something. Light filters through the window panes enough to outline the tall pillars, looming and evenly spaced. Rubble has been swept into the corners, faint lines from the bristles in the dirt, and tread marks left by the wielder.

There’s an elevator in the back that you daren’t risk using. You apply some of your weight to the floor and it yields as though it would plummet. You come across a trash bag full of beer bottles and food tubs, which upon closer inspection, are mostly filled with needles and bloodied fabric.

Tipping the contents onto the floor would only alert someone if they returned later. You wanted to rummage through it piece by piece, maybe bag some of it up to hand off, but as thick as your gloves are you didn’t want to chance being pricked or contaminating something.

Your shoulder sag with a deep sigh, the sound crackling through your voice changer. One thing that does catch your eye is a bracelet — or what was once a bracelet. The chain has snapped and most of the beads are lost, but a few remain caught by the thicker part of the clasp. They’re speckled like granite and warm coloured, brown, green and orange. You can make out some kanji script etched into the beads. It is not a name you know, but an instinctive urge encourages you to keep it.

The bracelet is bagged and heavy in your utility belt as you peruse what’s left of the space, passing various rusted machinery covered in tarp. There’s a vice fixed to one of the work benches. The wood is stained dark, smatterings of dried blood dotting the lever. You try not to think about it.

Tension slips notably from your muscles as the distance lengthens between you and the warehouse. Heading back west, this route winds through the busier parts of the city. People of every shape are weaving around one another in every direction, filing out from the clubs and bars in a chorus of raucous laughter. Non locals might call this the heart but you know the heart lies in where they’re going — home.

You stick to the rooftops to maintain a vantage point. The air is thick with the bitter smell of alcohol and street food. Vendors made good money on nights like this; you feel your stomach twist in hunger, mouth watering at the sight of browning yakitori sizzling just below.

A woman stands off to the side, picking off the morsels of meat from her little stick, visibly unstable on her feet. The glow of satisfaction on her flushed face dims with discomfort when her foot narrowly misses the curb, and she bends to rub where the strap of her heels crosses over her ankle.

Your attention is magnetised to the figure near her. Unremarkable at first glance. The two stand out clearly, both immovable against the tide of civilians stumbling toward Futoura station, much further up the road. He’s watching her intently. Beady focused, unblinking. You notice another pair above his— no, a mimicry of them. Eyespots blending into a close-cropped head of hair.

His movements are carefully telegraphed as he begins to follow her. In turn, you do the same. The pace picks up when she nears a corner, mostly vacant, forking off into an alleyway that leads to the back of a club. Quicker than you could’ve expected, he throws a look over his shoulder before crowding her into the shadows.

The arch of your boot meets the ledge. You take a deep, deep breath. Desperate and obstructed by a large hand, her frightened yelp is cut short by the abrupt freezing of time.

You fall through it. The sensation is odd, as if you can feel every atmospheric thread breaking around you like spun sugar. Gravity is merciless. Untouched by your quirk, you drop hard as a stone, and you exhale.

Everything resumes. The dissonance of stepping into a frame and suddenly being written into it is hard to explain. You buffer and snap forward like a band into the maw of the alley. Startled by the impact, the pursuer swings his elbow back and reaches you first. They often do. Your quirk was good for gaining an advantage or getting away, but it did nothing to enhance your own speed.

Your balance is terrible, Eraserhead murmured blithely in the back of your mind. Ground yourself. Keep your upper body aligned over your lower.

“Fuck—!”

Blood is pumping frantically through your veins. Every pained grunt rings loud in your ears, tuning out the muffled cries coming from behind you. There’s a tenderness blossoming across your left side, and it throbs by the fifth and sixth rib.

While you might be well adjusted to fighting in the dark now, you’re still human. Living, breathing, feeling. Your body and your mind must be split at times like this — two creatures on your shoulder, one that begs to run and live, another that wills you to fight.

The assailant dives forward in one sluggish motion, rewarded with the sharp chink of your armoured glove as his fist connects with hard steel. He reels away in pain, cradling the injured hand to his chest while the other frantically reaches into his coat pocket.

Polished silver glints in the moonlight. Your boot meets the hilt of his knife and it pirouettes into the shadowed alley, skidding across the gravel. A look of pure rage crosses his face and his mouth splits open. Fangs. You’re ready when he charges, arms flailing heavily, a roar pushed from deep in his gut.

Your lungs bloat, and again, you hold. Everything freezes in time and the sound cuts out. A large hand caked in dirt hovers only a hairsbreadth from your nose. His skin smells of cheap alcohol and cigarettes. You step aside and draw your arm back.

Exhale. One fast, hard punch to the man’s unprotected jaw and his head whips to the right, body arching sideways as all his momentum snaps backward like a rubber band. Time resumes and you power through the sudden sensory overload as his body collapses to the floor with a weighted thud.

The lack of movement doesn’t deter you from dragging the knife forward with your foot, eyes focused on the unconscious stranger as you crouch to pick it up. A sharp sensation shoots through your muscles as you twirl the weapon between your fingers. It’s clearly new and not well kept. His stance had been entirely amateur.

After tying his wrists together with multiple zip ties, you turn your attention to his victim. “Are you physically unharmed?” you ask with a gentle tone that still bleeds through your voice changer.

The woman he'd pinned to the brick wall is curled up by the dumpster, knees tucked protectively to her chest. She has her phone held to her ear with a shaking hand, the fear visibly wracking through her form, stuttering her words.

“Yes, I— are you—,” she stammers, tears spilling over her pink cheeks. There’s an insistent, tinny voice coming through her mobile speaker, but she appears unaware of it as she appraises you, her eyes wide with what looks to be gratitude. “Are you a hero?”

“Not really,” you smile at the question and hope she can see the assurance in the happy squint of your own.

Flipping the knife to pinch the blade, you beckon her to take the hilt. Sirens wail in the far off distance. Shuffling closer in careful, considerate movements, you murmur encouragement as she takes the weapon from you.

Blue and red cut through the darkness, flashing interchangeably and obscuring her vision. As you move to leave the scene you tell her, “Ask whoever’s on dispatch Nocturne said to send Eraserhead. He’s the best hero I know”.

Inhale, hold, flee. You are gone from the canvas before anyone can blink.

The night is alive with a muted bustling. People on all walks of life filter out into the neon lit streets, worn by the day and rushing home to their warm beds. A sense of calm settles around your bones, bleeds into the ache left by old wounds and quietens the restlessness that you permanently house in your body.

You’re teetering on the precipice of an old office building — a publishing house, if you remember correctly. The cement beneath your boots shifts like a loose tooth as you lean forward, heart reflexively crawling up your throat at the drop, pulse rocketing in your ears.

Here, you are simultaneously burning and at ease. There’s a satisfaction that comes only when you are standing exactly where you belong. Freedom tastes like three minutes to midnight; crisp air and the faint scent of oncoming rain gathering in the dense cumuli above.

You smile behind your headgear, adjusting the straps drawn tight around your masked hood with thick gloved fingers. The carbon fiber is an extension of you now, a permanent part of your skin, leaving behind a phantom pressure face even when you have stored this part of yourself away.

That yearning for self is constant and comes with the setting sun. You exhale and feel the warmth of your breath stick to your cheeks. Swaying against a gust of wind, steadied by a practiced hand, your arms spread wide in a welcoming embrace.

Like every night before, you whisper to the place you grew up in: “I’m home”.

Amidst your reverie, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Barely audible footfalls. Boots scuff against loose gravel. The new presence clouds your senses, as if it has physically reached out to strum the dipole between you and him, and you’re turning before his feet make contact with the rooftop.

Poppy red eyes scan drag over your form. The clothing you wear is padded and loose fitting for concealment, but still you find yourself conscious of the shape of your body. Humming under your skin is the urge to cock a hip, maybe tilt your head in a manner that is coy, to close the distance between you.

“Surprise?”

“Hardly,” he drawls. “There’s really nothing I can say to stop you from bothering me on my patrol, is there?”

“You catch on quick,” you reply with a grin. He may not see it behind the mask, but he hears it. “Only took you… what, six months?”

He looks rightfully exasperated, “Seven”.

Stepping down from the ledge with barely a sound, your hands clasp against the small of your back and bouncing on your toes despite yourself. “You’ve been counting? That’s cute, Eraser”.

Warmth trails behind him and plumes into the air as he exhales tiredly. You follow his movements as he comes to a stop at your side, hand flexing into a fist and out, overlooking the busy streets below, much like you had. “The woman you saved earlier asked me to extend her gratitude,” he returns, ignoring your teasing comment.

His words temper the playful atmosphere. A quiet bud of pride begins to bloom and your smile wanes into something bashful. Saved, he’d called it. As exhilarating as fighting was, the most fulfilling part of being Nocturne may be receiving gratitude.

The gleam in Eraserhead's gaze wasn’t so bad to be on the receiving end of, either; half lidded in a way that suggested he was at ease, the scar cutting over his eye and another across his cheekbone, slightly curved. “She wasn’t injured, was she? I didn’t get the chance to check her over,” you fret.

Another chill dances across the roof and he tucks behind his capture weapon, comically burrowed into the nest of cloth and thick hair. “No, just shaken up,” he reassured. Watching closely from the corner of his eye, he adds, “Refused to tell the detective which direction you ran, though. Quite intent on protecting you”.

You don’t like the suspicion bleeding into his tone — not that you can blame him. Still, “You think I’d ask a civilian to cover for me?”

Eraser sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. “No. But you know it doesn’t matter what I think,”— it does, you want to insist, staring as his fingers spread to rub roughly over his closed eyelids — “the victim insists they don’t recall you using a quirk, so you’re in the clear. But you need to tread carefully. The guys at the precinct aren’t happy”.

“Then they should do their job better so schmucks like me don’t need to step in. Didn’t they receive a pay increase just last year?” you respond bitterly. “I don’t need you to lecture me, Eraserhead. I need you to help, because you’re the only one that ever does”.

The steel toe of your boot meets the ledge with a dull thud, chipping off some of the old brick, and you cross your arms defensively over your chest. You release a hiss as a painful throb pulses through your knuckles where they’re tucked into the crook of your elbow.

There’s no hiding it. You flinch as he catches your wrist in one quick movement. Struggling is fruitless, you know that better than anyone, but still you like doing it for show. It has the grip reflexively tightening, keeping you in place with a bid for compliance, authoritatively murmuring come here.

You enjoy it when he touches you. Maybe more than you should. He’s careful, uncharacteristically gentle as his fingers slip beneath the cuff of your glove. Anticipation zips through you and settles in your stomach like a fluttering kaleidoscope. Fingertips brush your palm and suddenly, breathing becomes a conscious act.

Inhale. Exhale. Each greedier than the last. The temptation to draw out this moment is too great. You wanted his hands on you for a little longer.

The night air bites at your skin. Aizawa turns your wrist over in his grasp, delicately tracing the ley lines stitched into your frigid hand, rubbing over the faded bruising by your third and fourth knuckle.

“Seems like the fractures healed nicely,” he stated. “Still should’ve rested it longer”.

You can’t look away from his face; softened like wax to a flame, his frown smoothed out in a way you rarely get to see with the mask on. All of that subdued concern and care directed at the point where your bodies connect — at you.

You reel yourself in. “I am capable of looking after myself, you know,” his tired eyes lift to pin you with a sceptical stare that has your hackles rising. “I am!”

“Right,” he drawls. His touch lingers on your wrist after he lets go, and you cradle it to your chest. Before you’re able to retort, his eyes dim and he steers the topic to something sombre, “Have you heard anything more about the missing civilians since I last saw you?”

You rub idly at your pulse point and it beats rhythmically under the skin. You can still feel him. Even when reminded of such sobering circumstances you can’t help but wish, in the deep recesses of your mind, that he had kept his hands on you.

A young couple stumbles down the lamp lit street. They are hand in hand and sharing unabashed laughter. It’s the sound of freedom; loud and ugly in a way that is wholly human. They stop in a circle of concentrated light and you smile as one man spins the other, their improvisation sloppy in a way that’s heartwarming.

“A young woman by the name of Ono Mizuki disappeared two days ago. Her father is in fits about it,” you shift your weight between each foot, shoulder bumping against him. Eraser doesn’t move. He listens to you attentively as he watches the very same couple dance with one another, and when you think you feel him leaning into your warmth, you decide to put it down to imagination.

“She’d been on her way home from cram school when she was taken. He reported it to the police that night but she hadn’t been missing long enough. They said she probably ran away”.

Eraser releases a heavy breath. “Quirkless?” he asks.

“Yeah”.

“Thought as much”.

You shiver, instinctively seeking shelter from the cold, and Eraserhead lets you press to his side. As the couple walks out of sight, the unattainable image of you bundled up in his arms flashes unbidden through your mind. Hastily, you continue to speak, “I followed her usual route home a few days ago and found her rucksack tossed in the trash with her ID and such. Took it to her father”.

“That’s good,” he murmurs. You try not to preen at what sounds like genuine praise. “Anything unusual at the scene?”

“No,” you step away to turn and face him with resolve. “But I’m going to keep trying to find her. And the rest of them”.

Above your heads, the plume of cloud is severed into two, crisp moonlight spilling through the fissures. Eraserhead hums as he lifts his chin to survey the everchanging canvas and you find yourself following his line of sight to a cluster of stars shaped vaguely like a scorpion.

“And what’ll you do when you find them?” he says after a few beats of comfortable silence. There’s a teasing intonation to his words. “Will you restrain their captor with another zip tie you found at the hardware store?”

You play along, scoffing as he dodges an elbow to the ribs, “You’re making fun of me. You, the reason why my newest pair of cuffs were confiscated in the first place? Who cares what I use. It did the job, didn’t it?”

Eraserhead does not like heroes without potential. Those who act thoughtlessly; who do not know their own strengths and weaknesses; who put others in danger with their insatiable greed. Quirks may have birthed a new world, but power or not, humans would always be the same. Special power, not special people.

Which is why his sudden lightheartedness felt so significant. Eraser trusted you, in his own way. If he didn’t you would’ve found yourself on the receiving end of another tiresome lecture. In the early days he’d even cited one of his young students' quirk law essays, dubbing you ‘more troublesome than a fourteen year old’.

“He was over six feet tall with a strong arachnid quirk. It only worked because you managed to knock him out cold first”.

It’s hard not to preen as he appraises you from his periphery, almost proudly. You let yourself grin; concealed, yet so wide that it’s obvious, “Correct, I apprehended a guy three times the size of me —

Slowly, you exaggerate your point further by winding up your middle finger, and waggling it in his direction in time with the mocking punctuation of your voice,

— And I didn’t even need a fancy scarf to do it”.

His hand wraps around the offending finger and gently pulls it back, applying just enough pressure to cause discomfort. “A little respect goes a long way,” the threat falls flat, his voice entirely amused and lacking malice. “I could easily break this again”.

You exhale a breathless laugh, still making no move to get away from him. “It can’t be much worse than dislocating my shoulder”.

Bingo. Abject regret flits across his features and he lowers his chin behind his capture weapon. “I’ve already apologised for that,” he grunts.

It sounds as if he’s pouting. His grip pulses once, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Actually you reset the bone, handed me an ice pack and threatened to arrest me if I got in the way again,” you recount fondly, your smile widening as he retreats further into his carbon alloy cocoon. “Then you said sorry”.

“That’s what happens when you jump into a fight without announcing yourself,” he mutters, loosening his grip on your finger. Distracted by the new, gentle rub of his thumb into your knuckles, you almost miss it as he tacks on a quiet, “Troublesome”.

Laughter bubbles in your chest, partially conjured by the nerves as he cradles your hand, “You act like I do it on purpose. My body just—”

“—moves on its own,” he interrupts you, finishing the sentence with a light shake of his head. You mourn the loss of heat when he lets go of your hand. The arm falls limp at your side and you feel him tense as it brushes his hip. “You really didn’t use a quirk against the suspect back in the alley?”

“Who knows”.

The topic of your quirk came up every so often — though lesser now that you’d formed some sort of camaraderie. You evaded answering each time he asked. At first it was a matter of trust; your meta ability was rare and easily found in the quirk database should he focus his search on your prefecture. Now it’s purely for security.

As an underground hero Eraserhead played nice with vigilantes, most of the time. There were others, like Knuckleduster, a grievously-injure-first and ask later kinda guy, whom he wasn’t a fan of. But he never tattled on anyone or turned them in, to your knowledge, as long as they abided by the law. If he knew you’d been using your quirk, he was then still legally obligated to report it. Eraser had a lot to lose by keeping secrets on your behalf.

That first night you met this other half of him had been surprisingly startling, because so much of him is unchanging. Eraserhead and Aizawa truly were one in the same. His expression so nonchalant and frayed with exhaustion, eyes narrowed and red rimmed, the incredible manner in which he carried his body — somehow simultaneously lazy and graceful, like an old cat.

Suddenly being wrapped up in white lengths of metal alloy and sent careening into the concrete had been another surprise, albeit less pleasant. The reminder makes your shoulder ache. You recall how his knees straddled either side of your hips, one large hand gripping the nape of your neck while the other bent your uninjured arm at an awkward angle. He’d leaned forward, the full weight of him, hair draping over his shoulders and falling into your vision like a black curtain, mouth rough against the shell of your ear.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You revisited that particular moment a shameful amount. It was as if his voice had rewritten the memory into one of fondness, and somehow the immense pain you’d endured was merely a blip in the story. Eraserheads gruff, bumbling method of apologising had only endeared him to you more.

Then came the hunger. Voracious, you would finish your less-than-legal nights of patrol with a twisting sensation in your stomach beside the kindling satisfaction. You weren’t willing to seek him out. The Aizawa you know wouldn’t respond well to such an intrusion. Rather, you broadened your routes into the next district over — an area you knew he frequented — and prayed it would play out naturally.

“You’re being quiet”.

You blink out of your stupor as the memories retreat, “What?”

“You’re being unsettlingly quiet,” he repeats. “What are you thinking about?”

The whole of his face is visible now. In the time you were reminiscing he had tucked his hair behind his ears and risen from the confines of his capture weapon. Outlined by cool moonlight, casting a shadow of his lashes against pale cheeks and exaggerating the bags beneath his eyes.

Plainly, “I think I’m realising I'm in too deep”.

Your success at worming into his good graces can only be attributed to your persistence. It helped that you already knew most of his tells—

Exasperation slips from his expression in favour of subdued wonder. His eyes burn red, and you thought if he stared any longer you’d be reduced to nothing but ash.

You hold his gaze and purposefully exhale. His jaw shifts as he swallows, and the air around you is unbearably thick. The pager on his utility belt sounds off once more in staccato beats.

All heroes available within a five kilometre radius please attend.

“Go,” you chide with a wry smirk, “do your job, Hero”.

He grits his teeth and abruptly reaches for his capture weapon in preparation, motions stilted as he glances back at you once more.

“We’re tabling this for later,” he insists firmly, teetering over the weathered rooftop edge. You nod and offer a complacent wave as he leaves, all too relieved that your disappointment is hidden by the mask.

—and kept him unaware that he, too, knew many of yours.

Fatigue wears on you through the night, and you find yourself ambling home at around three in the morning with aching permafrost chipping away at your bones. You wondered if the world fell silent might your joints audibly creak, straining under the weight of your self imposed responsibilities.

Your thighs protest as you leap over to the next building, heart squeezing in anticipation as your lack of force shortens the distance of the jump. Landing hard with a haphazard roll, your body unravels itself and you lay spread out as you catch your breath.

There’s a question you’ve been asked many times by both civilians and public servants alike: Why you?

As you pass yet another missing persons poster, Ono Mizuki’s young, heart shaped face smiling back at you, the only answer left to give is: If not me, then who?

The stairwell leading down from the roof is only slightly warmer, illuminated by a single stream of moonlight from a small broken window. You keep your eyes closed as the door shuts behind you with a resounding slam, blinking them open slowly as your vision adjusts to the darkness.

Piloted by your subconscious, you can hardly recall reaching your apartment, keys held between your trembling knuckles. It takes three tries before it slots into the keyhole, turning with a resolute click. The familiarity of home lowers your inhibitions with such abrupt immediacy that you could collapse.

The protective gear you wear works so well because it is armoured, padded, layer upon layer of protection sewn to fit you perfectly. While you’re grateful, you hated how difficult it was to take off. As you lumber further down the hallway you peel away the clothing bit by bit. Mask left atop the shoe rack, boots kicked off haphazardly after a weak attempt at untying the buckles, your soiled jacket left strewn across the living room floor.

“Shower…,” you mutter aloud, your unaltered voice still foreign to your ears. The police scanner is nestled beside the television and habitually, you turn the volume in passing, overlapping tinny, static voices echoing throughout the space. You enter the bathroom and tug at the string light, flinching when you’re blinded by the cheap fluorescence.

Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to the reflection in the mirror. Left only in your thermal under wear, you look as tired as you feel. The impression of your mask curves over the bridge of your nose and across your cheeks. You trace it lightly with the tip of your finger.

Stripped naked, you stand beneath the spray and let the sharp pressure unravel the knots in your spine. It’s hot against your cooler skin. Soon the rhythmic pitter patter dwindles into numbness and you urge yourself to get out despite the protest from your muscles.

You fall onto your half-made bed wrapped in an old bath towel, hair still damp, fighting a losing battle to keep your eyes open. Your consciousness blurs as soon as your head hits the pillow; you find yourself pulled into the recesses of sleep, ever sinking.

The week passes with disturbingly little fanfare. Not wanting to abandon your regular patrol routes, specific days are allocated to observing activity in the far eastern parts of Musutafu. No other people have been reported missing, thus your pinboard remains unchanged, and the investigation stagnant.

Eraserhead offered no new information, and could sense some pent up restlessness in you. Suddenly your roles have been reversed, and he is seeking you out frequently with the sole excuse of keeping you in line. He begrudgingly allows you to assist him in smaller takedowns; public quirk usage, purse snatchers, drunken brawls. Tasks for fingers much greener than your own, but placating his concern was more important than pride.

Your abject indulgence in his company feeds the guilt hollowing out your bones. He felt better having you in his sights, that was clear. You are brittle, weathered by his appreciative glances and quiet praise, slipping away whenever you get the chance before he can see the cracks.

It’d be simpler if you could tell him everything. About yourself, your quirk, the warehouse, the blood, the bracelet. Eraserhead had taken part in numerous trafficking raids, and that experience is invaluable. But understanding and leniency didn’t mean the rules that bound him were miraculously undone.

He would be required to inform the PD and hand over any evidence. Your involvement would be revoked, and his report would likely be shucked to the bottom of the pile, ‘quirkless individuals’ typed bold and underlined in red pen.

Six were already missing, and those were just the people you were aware of. There could be more out there. Other families left wondering, unanswered grief persisting. You had the ability to meddle and bring them closure.

Losing an underground hero's tail was a uniquely difficult task. He remained in your periphery in the nights leading up to Friday. His presence was poignant, beguiling in a way that demanded your attention. If the wind changed you could taste him. There was no doubt — for reasons unbeknownst to you, you had escaped capture all this time because Eraserhead chose to let you leave.

“Gotta admit, you’ve been a bit annoying this week,” you accused. He presses something into your palm in lieu of a response and exhales a short, snuffed out little noise that might’ve been a laugh, or close to one.

You peer down at the small box of salmiakki and pout as you weigh it between your hands. Salty licorice. “Is this supposed to convince me not to put out a restraining order? I’ll be honest, it’s doing the exact opposite”.

Aizawa clicks his tongue. His profile is outlined in soft, dewy moonlight, egregious yellow goggles pushed back into his hair. “Salmiakki is good. I like things a little bitter,” he griped.

You watch him push a piece of the licorice from his own box and tear at it gracelessly with his teeth, strong jaw shifting as he chews. There’s a dry itch in the back of your throat. Averting your gaze to the moon breaking through the stretches of cirrus cloud, you said, “I bet you add extra espresso to your coffee”.

There’s a shift in tension and you instinctively hold your breath. He’s staring at you, and the intensity seems to worsen the longer time is frozen. Fleeting, you wonder if his quirk makes him sensitive to the use of others. You’d never needed to activate it in his presence before.

Exhale. Unaffected, Aizawa blinks slowly from the corner of your vision. “My regular is a red eye”.

“Not a dead eye?”

He hums, “That’s not as on the nose”.

You laugh just like you did the first time he ordered it, reflexively tucking your chin to hide the surge of affection despite being concealed. You roll the licorice between your fingers before bringing a piece up to your mouth. It thunks deliberately against your mask, once, twice.

“Guess I’ll have to save it,” you spin on your heel to leave, pausing when he follows close behind. “Gonna stalk me home, too?”

“You’re up to something,” he insisted solemnly. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of impulsive people. Jump first, think later. You’re going to get yourself killed”.

“I’m not one of your students, Eraserhead. You don’t need to feel responsible for me. Unless…” the hero doesn’t move when you take a step towards him, then another, “you’d miss me?”

The teasing intonation doesn’t translate well through your voice changer, a strangely eldritch quality to it. You think he hears it all the same. His expression pinches into a tired glare, but he doesn’t refute your comment and it pleases you; warms you from the inside out.

Quiet befalls you. You worry your lip and tug at the velcro around your wrist. The sound rips through the silence. When it’s loose enough you pull the glove off, hissing under your breath at the sudden chill. “Okay,” you falter, lifting your pinky finger into a hook and holding it out between your bodies. “I’ll pinky promise to try and be careful, then”.

Despite offering, you’re still a little breathless when Aizawa reciprocates. Cautious, finger twitches at first, before slowly wrapping around your own. His skin is expectedly rough in comparison. You’d seen the scar tissue and callus build up before, uneven on his broad palms, a little dry on foggy mornings.

He gazes softly where you connect then back up from beneath half lidded eyes and emphasises his next words with a firm squeeze, “I’m holding you to this. Behave yourself, because if you keep meddling you’ll end up with more than just fractured bones”.

You return the pressure to solidify the promise, bending your wrist slightly until the heels of your hands kiss. A new ache spreads throughout your wrist that you dutifully ignore. I promise.

There’s no purposeful intention to break it — but he speaks like his word is law, and when have you ever adhered to that?

Friday morning starts gradually. You struggle to pry your eyes open, the forces of gravity exerted on you from all directions, keeping you pinned like a butterfly to the mattress under your thick winter duvet. The sun is barely out of bed herself, dusky horizon bludgeoned with hues of orange and pink, a glow bleeding around your curtains, filling the room with warmth.

Everything is palpably insipid. Exhaustion dulls your senses, vision barely focused as you pull up a pair of loose pants, only realising they are backwards when they bunch up awkwardly between your thighs.

The lifeless reflection in the bathroom mirror glares back at you. Running a cloth under cold running water, you press it to the swelling around your under eyes until the puffiness lessens. You haven’t taken a single break this week, too fixated on all the things that could happen if you did, and your body was paying for it.

Meowtini is a welcome sight. Being greeted at the door by a gaggle of excitable, nagging cats would never get old. Suzu, five months old, demands to be held and doesn’t settle until you’ve tucked her into the front pocket of your hoodie.

“Better hope we don’t get any surprise health inspections,” Hideki smirks, nodding pointedly at the inconspicuous smoky blue lump. Rarely do you cross paths, but admittedly you’re a little late, and you’ve caught him on the end of a long night.

“I’ll put her in one of the hammocks and wash my hands before I handle anything,” you huff, hanging your coat up in your locker. The stretch draws your sleeve to your forearm. “Fuck”.

“Hm?”

“Nothing. Actually, can you hand me some of the disposable gloves?”

Suzu yowls in complaint as you gather her up and set her on the cool tiled floor prematurely. Hideki sidles beside where you are standing, examining your bruised hands under the fluorescent light, and hisses sympathetically.

“Didn’t know you threw hands in your spare time, Senpai,” he comments with genuine curiosity, tilting his head, pink framed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose with the movement. “Ah. Hiding them from your boyfriend out there, s’that it?”

“Not my boyfriend,” you mutter reflexively, eyeing his palms face up where they wave in surrender. You snatch the gloves pinched between his thumb and forefinger, pausing as his words finally register. “Fuck, is he out there already?”

Hideki’s face wrinkles with the effort of keeping his amusement concealed. Restless, he tucks the silvery springlets of hair hung over his eyes back behind his ear, only for them to stubbornly bounce back into place. “Got here early, actually. And you’re kinda late, so he’s grouchier than usual”.

Pulling on an apron, you tie it into a sloppy bow at the back of your neck with stiff fingers, then repeat around your waist. Rushing to the kitchen sink with careful steps around the gathering felines, you call over your shoulder, “Did you serve him?“

The water is soothing over the tenderised flesh. It isn’t your knuckles this time — the bruising is obviously new, and begins from the side of your pinky, past the heel of your hand to the bump by your wrist.

“Course not,” Hideki answers genially from the doorway, perched on the balls of his feet and swaying slightly as he tries to stroke every cat within reach. “The coffee I make tastes like piss compared to yours”.

“He did not say that to you,” you laugh, tugging the polythene gloves on one hand at a time, fingers wiggling until the material sits comfortably.

“He did. With his face,” pushing his glasses up to sit on his crown, Hideki’s features flatten into a blank expression, devoid of emotion, and he stares at you unblinkingly with an air of disdain.

“Come on, that doesn’t mean anything. Aizawa always looks like that,” you try not to grin, biting the soft inside of your cheek between your teeth as you bend to flick his frames back onto his nose.

It wrinkles as he pouts, pushing up to stand and brushing nonexistent dust from his knees, “Not with you”.

You head out onto the main floor. Cats and kittens alike tottle over on their paws, coiling their bodies up and around your calves, fur clinging to the dark material of your pants. To prolong the inevitable, and stew a little longer in cowardice, you dip to individually scratch under their chins in greeting.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ren’s pupils are needle thin, her big eyes blinking up at you as she registers the whisper, blunt claws kneading your thigh like dough. “You’ll help soften him up for me, won’t you?”

She’s about as impressed as he is, you’d say.

Rather than ask, you speed straight to the coffee machine. Aizawa glances over from the corner of your eye. Memory guides your hands — you needn’t think twice about it, having made this drink more times than you can count. Still, your movement stutters under the blatant intensity of his stare.

The gloves pull uncomfortably at your skin and irritate the bruising. You tuck a surreptitious grimace into your shoulder, self conscious of how your shape changes under the cheap recessed light; whether you can’t shake your own shadows, no matter how hard you try to conceal them.

Approaching sheepishly, you feel the hot cup sting against the pads of your fingers. He has pointedly returned his gaze to the papers in front of him, pen tucked between his knuckles and flicking back and forth. It makes you think of a cat’s tail.

“Morning,” you say, apology clear in your voice as you set the red eye down beside him. Ren is under the table, curled up in the space between his ankles. Her lacklustre effort is appreciated.

A grunt in return. Aizawa taps the ballpoint to paper, leaving a speck of red ink. Beneath it are hastily written characters, something illegible about the overarching qualities of justice and virtue. He spares no glance to the coffee percolating beside him. Instead you are caught in a leaden snare, his eyes sharp as they skim over your form.

They linger on the pair of powder purple gloves. “Did something happen?”

“Aside from oversleeping and almost forgetting to brush my teeth?” you reply bemusedly, allowing some of your fatigue to bleed through. Lies are easier said when there’s a little bit of truth in them. “I’m alright. Made it here in one piece”.

Now that you’re looking, the lines around Aizawa’s eyes are more pronounced. His skin is pallid as if he’d bathed in moonlight. It is common for Aizawa to be tired but this is different. Worn, there’s a distinct tightness in his shoulders where they knot beneath his ear, flesh and bone brick and mortar, woven with his stubborn concern.

Casting a quick glance across the empty cafe, you slip into the seat opposite. “Are you?” he peers up through windswept, unkempt bangs. A thick strand is draped over the small bump in his nose. An old break. Sunlight refracts through the grey in his right iris, bouncing against flecks of artificial red.

“You look more exhausted than usual, and that’s saying something,” you continue lightheartedly, hoping to whittle at his exterior. Tap, tap, tap. His knee bounces restlessly beneath the table. A long breath of contemplation and the first chip flakes off when your eyes meet once more. He looks as tired as you feel.

“People from this prefecture have started going missing, one as recently as two weeks ago. I’m sure you’re aware,” Aizawa murmurs. There’s something underlying those words. Your mind flickers to Mizuki’s poster in the window. You remember how her father had bumbled, shrouded in palpable grief and nails bitten blood-black.

It clicks, “You thought I might’ve…”

The tension briefly pulls taut, as though bracing for whatever impact came alongside the mere thought of you being missing, and then it drains from his body. You ponder, is it possible to be jealous of yourself?

Little feet pad across the room. Suzu leaps onto your lap and her light weight anchors you. Gloved hands kept away from her fur, you lean further forward onto your forearms, shortening the distance. He watches your fingers flex toward him — pinky extended, wilting, returning to the cradle of your palm.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, apology unsettlingly sincere; it is overarching, overreaching, large enough to cover every minute from the first time you’d met him to the very last. Sorry for what you had done and for what you would inevitably do.

Aizawa doesn’t so much shrug as he does visibly let go of the resentment. The underground hero looks somewhat diffident at his own pettiness. “As long as you’re being careful,” he says.

“I am”. As good a time as any, you take the opportunity to pry with both hands, “Is that what you’ve been working on the past few weeks?”

“You know I can’t share that information”.

“Right”.

He brings the coffee cup to his lips, swallowing a mouthful without bothering to cool the surface. From behind the rim, he relents, “Yes. I was brought into the investigation just over a month ago”.

Suzu kneads at your stomach, giving a muffled mewl as she rolls adipose tissue between her paw pads. Your mouth curls into a small smile only to thin with melancholy, “Ono-san asked that we put Mizuki’s poster up in the window not too long ago. Had it not been for him, I think most people in our community would still be unaware of the other five missing”.

Aizawa weighs his response carefully, slouching until he is fully ensconced in the booth cushions. You feel the briefest of touches beneath the table as his thighs spread. “The relationship with the local PD is pretty poor, I assume?”

You offer a rueful grin, “If by poor you mean non existent, then yeah”.

He exhales thoughtfully through his nose, ruffling the hair curtaining his cheeks. While he did always listen to what Nocturne had to say, it was almost as if he needed to feign suspicion to disempower your claims. With you, here, his expression is one of genuine frustration.

“Why do you think that is?”

Answering his question in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion could be hard. You glance toward the large window, spanning the front of the cafe floor. There are various cat trees and shelving fixed across the clear pane for passers by to see. Beyond that is the main street — overcast by a passing cloud, world a little greyer — and a bus shelter directly opposite Meowtini.

A large digital billboard flicks through the latest advertisements of Mt. Lady, her latest hair product now covered in iridescent cracks branching from a fist sized hole in the glass.

Mount Lady has never even stepped foot in this part of Musutafu.

“Y’know, I read that before the sudden appearance of quirks, public servants were usually labelled as heroes,” you absentmindedly snap the glove against your inner wrist to quiet your nerves. “Serve and protect, same shit HPSC peddle now, but with no special abilities”.

Aizawa is entirely silent. Even the felines littering the cafe have fallen decidedly quiet. It accentuates your voice, and feels as though you are carrying something much bigger than yourself. “This area is known for petty crime, assault or drug dealing — mostly. Not the type of stuff that brings notoriety. That’s why heroes rarely pass through here anymore”.

You continue, slow spoken in an effort to properly articulate yourself. “But I think a lot of the police force harbours hidden resentment for those same reasons. Not to suggest they’re… upset by a lack of villainy. But the current hero system has created a hierarchy for crime. There’s no recognition, funding or gratitude working here, so they only really exert themselves when it’ll get them a good headline”.

Aizawa’s gaze falls on the papers laid out in front of him, a deep wrinkle in his brow. “A serial kidnapping case wouldn’t do that?”

“The victims are quirkless,” you reply, because that was all that needed to be said. He sighs in defeat and you know that he understands. Tentative, you shift your feet, knee knocking his own. Neither of you move away.

Just as you are debating returning to the counter with his empty cup, he asks, “What about vigilantism?”

You swallow air and strain with the effort not to choke on it. “What about it?”

“Do you think positively of them?” he clarifies, hunching forward to rest his forearms on the table, mirroring your position. The change sees his knee slide along the outside of your thigh, close enough to feel his natural body heat. “There are a few I’ve dealt with who are local to Shizuoka”.

Heartbeat loud in your ears, you are far too fixated on the press of thick muscle against your right leg to think about the consequences of toeing such an irreversible line. “They’re quite well loved. At least in these parts they are,” you mused, wringing your fingers together. Soreness radiates across the heel of your hand. “I liked The Crawler, back when he was more active”.

“Yeah?” Aizawa’s brow arches. “He saved my life, once”.

You sit up straighter. “Really?!”

Low, he hums an affirmative and you feel it reverb into your chest. All the while he’s watching you carefully, that invasive stare always coming back to your eyes. He holds and tells you, “Most recently it’s been Nocturne pulling my pigtails”.

Spluttering, you repress a noise of embarrassment with the press of your hand, “That’s how you’d describe it?”

He snorts. “How else can I? They follow me around the city like we’re in a playground, do things to get my attention and disappear into the night”.

Your dignity might’ve folded itself into a paper crane if it were not for Aizawa’s gaze softening imperceptibly. The wrinkles by his eyes smoothen, sinew relaxed under the skin, life returning to his cheeks; his expression is one of far off affection, as though his thoughts had strayed to you despite himself.

“Irrational and impulsive,” he adds, notably warm. “Above all, they’re irritating”.

“Hate to have to tell you, Aizawa, but your voice completely gives you away,” you pose, canine teeth sink into the corner of your mouth, afraid you might smile so wide your cheeks will split. “Admit it, you’re a little fond of vigilantes”.

“Shut up,” he mutters indignantly, and you laugh. Too loud, too giddy, Aizawa’s lips react to the sound by pulling into a grin, all teeth, that he quickly tucks to his sternum.

Ren and Suzu startle in tandem when you gasp, crossing your arms and leaning into the teasing atmosphere, “When you said I remind you of someone, was it…?”

He pointedly does not look at you — pointedly does not speak. The tip of his index finger slides the empty cup in your direction, an unspoken request for more as his pen returns to paper.

“Not even going to talk now?”

The hero makes a twisting motion against the seam of his mouth. Lock and key. Your voice completely gives you away. You cradle the coffee cup to your chest, surprised by the adrenal shake, your heart rumbling as though the interaction had created a tectonic shift.

Two plates converge closer. He liked you enough, bipedal creature of the night; you had felt your identities overlap and saw the possibilities it could foster. If you told him everything it might wipe away the emotional constipation from his face.

Then again, it may also make it worse.

So you brew his coffee again, this time plucking one of the freshly made tarts from the display case and setting it onto a plate to sate his sweet tooth. He eyes you perceptively, eyebrow lifted in question, but then a group of college students is stumbling in through the security door, arms interlocked and giggling as they run from the sudden onslaught of rain, saving you the trouble.

Aizawa remains in his spot for longer than usual, unashamedly staring. You can taste the acrimony. Your excitable thoughts have soured, and again you can only wonder what he’d do once he finds out the truth. Nebulously, you know he wouldn’t have you outright arrested, you’re too careful about quirk use. But the knowledge will burden him enough to tighten his leash on you. It wouldn’t ever be the same again — and that was the best case scenario.

Reality is rigid. There are expectations, clear borders and assigned roles. Anything outside the confines of right and wrong is looked upon with contempt and misshapen to fit one or the other. Fantasising about Eraserhead is exhilarating, a secret world kept safely between you and I, but more importantly it isn't real.

You forget yourself. He’s still a hero, and there are is too much at stake for you to be distracted by the intricacies of your relationship.

The night is daunting in a way you cannot put your finger on. Black as a chasm, not a star to be seen, covered by another blanket of dense rain clouds. There’s petrichor in the air, crisp as you breathe in, puddles splashing up the inside of your boots.

Retracing your steps, you’ve made your way back to the warehouse. It stands eerily in the distance. You circumvent the surrounding buildings with ease, pace quickening at the undeniable flicker of light through the broken windows.

Just additional reconnaissance. Nothing more.

But there’s somebody inside this time. You stick close to the shadows and wait with bated breath at the slightest of sound, conscious of the broken bracelet tucked in your zip pocket. At-su, they read; neat kanji lovingly inscribed onto each remaining dainty bead.

You count three guards circling the entrance and exit. Their steps are leaden, deliberately loud as the gravel crunches underfoot, and you watch their movements until a pattern forms. They mustn’t expect anyone to pry; notably lax, stopping together in alcoves to bum a smoke, laughing about whatever it is they did that day. You are grateful, in part. It makes slipping by much simpler.

Navigating the fire escape is a challenge in and of itself. The thing has been corroded beyond belief, left to fend for itself against the elements, loose at the hinges and too loud for your liking. Even so, you land in one sinuous movement and exhale a shallow sigh of relief when the structure accepts your weight with a meagre groan of complaint. Your gloves are covered in flakes of rust, abdomen still coiled tight to brace for the possibility of falling.

You wait silently until the muffled voices continue, unperturbed by your arrival. Could’ve been worse, you reason internally, glancing up the ladder steps toward the source of conversation.

There’s a narrow, tilt and turn window left ajar on one of the higher levels. You curl up beside it and peek down into the warehouse floor. The angle causes strain behind your eyes, obscured by the bulk of your mask. It appears empty, just as you’d found it.

Distantly, “No… call me in… fucked… First Atsushi, now…”

Atsushi? At-su, maybe? You lean in closer and slow your breathing to listen, instinctively feeling for the accessory in your pocket. The sounds soon sharpened and coalesced into words, frighteningly calm despite the obvious fury lying beneath them.

“…I told you to be careful. Look at what you’ve fuckin’ done”.

“Sorry sir,” a meeker voice replies, tone sheepish rather than apologetic. “Y’know I can’t help it when they start squirmin’! It pisses me off—!”

An abrupt yelp is caught, the reply bubbling in his throat until the man is wheezing for air. You can’t see a thing, but you imagine he’s being choked. “Ya feel that, Morita? Your body fights instinctively, just like theirs do,” a chill frissons down your spine at the genuine vitriol echoing through the rafters. “Leave any more marks on them and I’ll put both your arms in the vice, got it?”

‘Morita’s’ strained acquiescence is barely heard over the blood rushing in your ears. Theories and assumptions filter through your thoughts, flipping through pages of a book, every new possibility too unthinkable to put your finger on. The needles, the blood, the tattered clothing— the bracelet. Bodies, he’d said. Not products, but people, and more than one.

You’re shaking. You step back, reaching blindly for the rail. Dread swoops through your stomach when it groans loudly and starts to bow under your grip, like it were about to give. “Shit, shit, shit—!”

“Oi!”

There is a hulking figure running across the rooftop towards where you’re hunched. You were careless. Their gait is heavy, movements slowed by the weight of their arms, silhouette unnaturally thick and bulging. For survivals sake you assume it is to do with their quirk and duck when they swing their arm in your direction.

Something zips past your cheek, then. It is so fast that it whistles through the air like a bullet, and lands unceremoniously on the concrete behind you when it loses momentum. Oh. You inhale sharply. It is a bullet. Ivory white, slightly knobbled, shaped like a pellet.

You fall into a crouch with a dramatic inhale and scoop it up into your hand, breath held. Afforded time to glance back at the pursuer, you find him closer than before. Uncomfortably so. Close enough to see the tips of his five fingers unscrewed, hung by a thread, exposed like the barrel of a gun.

He shoots again. And again.

Your lungs burn furiously as you leap over the railing and run, the sensation spreading wildly through your chest to your oesophagus, urging that you exhale. Blood thunders in your ears, you can feel the vessels sweltering under the skin of your cheeks as tears gather along your lash line. There’s pressure behind your eyes — bloating, fervourently pushing at the bars of your rib cage.

Using all the strength in your thighs, you catapult yourself from the next ledge. Your pulse rockets at the momentary loss of stability, held suspended in the air for a fleeting few seconds.

Your right foot meets the next roof. The impact ripples through your body and forces all the air from your lungs. More guards are converging in the alleys below, chasing. A bullet whips past your shoulder. Cold dread washes over you as the frost dances over your skin, causing you to stumble. It had torn open the sleeve.

This is your black ice. The weaker ankle that twists, the skidding of a dull tire, the loss of control. For a fleeting moment, you have no edges. Swallowed by darkness as you careen into the stomach of the city, there is a nauseating moment of surprise in which your body tries to readjust. Your heart thunders as your subconscious spins out and you think, this is it.

“You won’t get far, little mouse,” the voice booms through the night, dripping with vitriol and promise. Your bones rattle as you scramble to move. “We’ll find out who you are!”

There’s no time to consider the abrupt flare of pain in your hip. You need to keep running. You need to regain control and use your quirk, but the gasps keep coming; fast bids for air hiccuping in and out, refusing to slow. Bated breath activates and the world around you pauses in short, staccato beats.

It’s enough to increase the distance. More and more until the landscape changes. Despite that, your body maintains a state of flight, blood pumping forcefully throughout your veins, legs moving even as they ache and tear. You’re bleeding, undoubtedly. Heat is pouring out, saturating your suit, the fabric sticking to your skin as it congeals.

Thoughts filter frantically through your mind in search of a safe place to go. You weren’t often injured enough to warrant a visit to the clinic — technically unregistered with a much appreciated no questions asked policy — but tonight you’d strayed too far, unable to get there before you inevitably passed out.

But Aizawa— Eraserhead had two places of residence. For the sake of convenience he now spent most, if not all, of his time in the UA dorms; stays at his old studio were improbable but not impossible. Like reading from a celestial phone book, you mentally called to every deity that tonight was one of those unlikely instances.

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t.

In the thick of your lightheaded, bleary eyed attempt at clinging to consciousness, you see a dim glowing light from the fourth floor of the next building's quaint balcony and stumble with relief. Your fingers are wet, leaving behind smears of red where they slip along the window sill, the squeeze into the open crack made easier by fresh blood.

“Sorry,” you whisper into the absent night, feeling tendrils of guilt in your gut at the mess you were making. There’s really no time to consider the loss of your voice changer, or the broken mask hanging askew around your jaw, or how you are only inches away from being yourself.

The window itself is aged, wood splitting under your fingertips, the kind that expands more with every winter and lets in a cold draft you can never quite find. It jams on the first try, loosens a little on the second rattle. Your body protests as you try to lift it open.

When the pane slides up it is sudden and with far too much ease. The abrupt loss of resistance jars your balance, careening forward into a graceless fall as you roll onto the living room carpet, yelping like a pup, only to be met with the sharp end of a knife at your throat.

Hand fisted tight in the material of your hood, Eraser’s face is thunderous. Anger unrestrained and dark in a way you’ve rarely seen, an expression you have never been on the receiving end of. His cheeks are slightly ruddy, quirk blazing as his hair stands on end. He forces your head back and mercifully, you are too out of it to be ashamed by the sound you make.

The blade lowers when he freezes in recognition, the tense atmosphere dissipating while he keeps a tight grip on the hilt. You move with him as he yanks you upright, noticeably gentler than before. “What are you doing here?”

Your eyes are drawn to the tendons flexing in his forearm. There’s a swath of pale skin by his hip where his waistband has slipped. You’ve never seen him in such comfortable, casual clothing before. The black sweatpants are loose with an egregiously neon print of Present Mic’s signature slogan down the side of his right leg. If memory serves you correctly, an exclamation of ‘yeah!’ should be splashed in blocked lettering across his ass.

“Hey. ‘Raser,” blood loss must’ve contributed to your lack of brain to mouth filter. The words are slurred in your ears, thick with amusement as you point at his lower half and try to whistle. Your hand is trembling with the effort. “Turn around for me f’r a sec”.

Aizawa’s jaw shifts as he takes a long, deep inhale. Broad shoulders rise, expanding with his ribs, your mouth drying at the steep dip of his collar where it falls just above his pecs; his muscles defined enough to create a faint shadow of cleavage, darkened by his chest hair.

You’ve changed your mind. He shouldn’t turn around, not at all.

Then he exhales, drawn out and slow. The exercise does nothing to lessen the irritation woven into his expression, “How did you find this apartment?”

A hot, sticky sensation is spreading through the layers of thermal underclothing. Fatigue has draped itself around your bones. You press the heel of your hand harder against the open wound, biting back a pained hiss. Faux bravado prevails even as you are bleeding out on his living room floor.

“I followed the smell of black coffee and despair,” you rasp, licking away the dregs of copper lingering between your teeth. “All perfectly legal”.

Blinking away the frustration, his eyes flicker from your bloodied mouth to your shoulder. The fabric is darker, a disquieting shadow spreading through the threads as it soaks up the weeping wound. “You’re injured,” he notes with a quiet curse. Being bundled up in his arms isn’t so bad, you think. Eraser helps you on your feet then, a hand resting at your waist as he takes most of your weight.

The apartment is quaint. Small. Not enough to feel closed in, just enough to be described as cosy. It is deceptively bare. At first glance you might’ve made a teasing comment about him being a minimalist — but then you look again, eyes racking over the homely touches and trinkets. A pair of old slippers with worn cat ears, cacti kept in matching orange spotted pots, an open book laid face down and full of sticky notes, a framed picture drawn with crayon hung in place of his high school diploma which has been left on the small desk to collect dust.

“…So cute”.

You’re jostled at his side as he reaches over the back of the couch with the click of his tongue to pull over a threadbare blanket, covering both the cushions and another notably nicer, newer blanket that soiled fingers should not touch.

He manoeuvres you in his embrace and circles your lower back, cradling the nape of your neck to lower you with unerring care. “Focus,” you hear him say. “Keep your eyes open”.

Had they been closed?

Two fingers are clicked an inch from your nose, startling you into blinking. The world moves without permission; suffusing into a blur of mosaics, bloating with vertigo that sparks a chilling sense of dread in your chest. Starkly warm blood is saturating your shoulder. “I’m leaking,” you croak, breaths coming quicker. “‘Raserhead. I’m— leaking”.

“Yeah. All over my couch,” he returns. “And I’m going to help you, but I need you to sit still. Can you do that for me?”

There’s not really any choice in it. Your motions feel lethargic as you recline against the cushion, sinking further. Your body flinches, perceiving it as free fall, and Aizawa smooths the flat of his palm over your unwounded shoulder. “I’m going to cut away your gear and stem the bleeding,” he begins.

“No…” you groan at the dryness in your throat, swelling, like your stomach has pushed its way up into your oesophagus. Your cognition rolls to a stop. Suddenly, spoken word is not within reach. All you can say is, “Not… Not the mask”.

At mention of it, his gaze skims over your poorly concealed face, lingering on the oval shaped device tucked under the fabric where it nestled beneath your jugular. The voice changer had devolved into broken static somewhere between being shot at and being found. Had you been able to keep a conscious grasp on your thoughts, you might’ve known to shut your mouth, all too recognisable.

“Not the mask,” he concedes. Mercifully. A large pair of scissors glides through the padding around your middle. You can feel the weight of Nocturne peeling away, tepid air meeting damp skin as the sharp blades nick on your thermal wear, right above your breast.

No longer are you a shadow within a shadow — your formless body takes shape. Bumps and curves and imperfections. Scar tissue, old and new. Aizawa’s fingers brush over a new bruise, collarbone purpling, unspooling a tender whine where it sits in your chest.

“This next part is going to hurt more,” he warns with genuine regret. A little breathless underneath it. You aren’t paying much attention; there’s cloth soaked in antibiotic ointment swiping over the open injury, washing away the dried blood. It cracks like mud, splits into uneven flakes, and creates downstream pathways as the wound overflows.

You hiss at the sting and force yourself rigid, ignoring the urge to squirm out of his hold. The graze runs through the side of your arm, tissue torn into a natural curve around your shoulder. “You’re lucky this doesn’t need stitches,” Aizawa mutters. His brows are drawn tight, dry bottom lip pinched between his canines as he reaches for something to dress the wound with.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?”

Cold settles in your bones but there’s heat curling in your belly. That same feeling after you get a taste and find yourself craving more; you’ll go home and think of this between seconds, when your mind isn’t crowded with lies and excuses. Selfishness is such a human trait. It reminds you that pro heroes are expected to be anything but.

The pads of his fingers are hot, rough yet purposefully gentle. You lean into the touch and hope that they’ll cut through you like smooth, warmed butter. “I think,” there’s saliva pooling beneath your tongue and you wet your lips in hopes it’ll cushion your next words. “I think one of the bullets got my hip”.

An embarrassing noise slips from your mouth when he pulls away. He’s hot even when he’s scowling, you think. Oh, now he’s blushing. Can he read minds? Hey, Eraser. Can you—?

“Stop. Talking,” Aizawa fumes. The order comes through clenched teeth. He rocks back onto his heels, pinching the bridge of his nose as he often does. Continuing under his breath, “You got shot at. Shot. God knows what I did in a past life to deserve this”.

You pout, “Most of them missed, actually”. He could at least praise you for that. “I saved one. Think they were made of bone. How cool”.

“We’ll get to that later. Shoulder’s done. Push your pants down,” he sighs, ignoring your dazed comment. The various bottles, packets and containers clank together as he rifles through the first aid with haste. It stops when he zeroes in on you, and your lack of movement. You are told with gritty authority: “Now”.

You bite your tongue and swallow the suggestive comment waiting idly on it. Trembling, you unbuckle the straps around your waist and open the clasp of your belt to tuck your thumbs under the waistband. There’s an obvious slash through the material, mapping out the bullet's path. A lot of the blood has dried and is sticking to the inflamed skin, pulling at the soft hair on your thighs.

It is as if you’re tearing off another layer of yourself. Jostling the deep wound, fresh blood trickles over the curve of your exposed hip. Aizawa soaks the cloth again, rinsing the exposed tissue then offering quiet instruction to keep it held there as you squirm. He ducks into the kitchen. Your eyes wander at the sound of running water, desperate for an adequate distraction from the disquieting, restless discomfort building in your chest.

You don’t mean to croon out loud. He returns, catching you staring at the framed picture. Stick figures drawn in crayon; depicting him, long black hair scribbled around his large, misshapen head; a small girl at his side coloured in silvers and pinks, waving around what looks to be a candy-apple; green, a boy at her side with a beaming grin, to large to fit his outline.

“It’s good,” you rasp. Aizawa glances between you and the picture, a ephemeral, fiercely protective look passing over his face as quick as it came. “Even drew your scars and eyebags. I love... the commitment to detail”.

He softens. “I’ll let her know you like it”.

And you nod happily, satisfied with that, incognisant of the sterilised thread he is looping through a needle. “Breathe,” you hear him say, feeling the cool press of the forceps once he pulls back the cloth, “Looks like you’ll only need three stitches. I’ll make this quick, alright?”

“...Yeah,” your answer comes shakily, senses already flooded with adrenaline as your body reflexively braces.

It is unlike any pain you’ve experienced. You cry out at the piercing, burning sensation spreading through your left side. Nausea washes over you, overcome by dizziness as your vision litters with black spots. His voice anchors you; uncharacteristic rambling, jaw set in determination, steady hands working.

“Almost done. Deep breaths, just one more to go”.

Words form but they aren’t aired. You are swimming in the depths of your own consciousness, vision wavering, his concerned face duplicating into three. The timbre of his voice probes the sea, familiar vibrations bypassing your ears.

“Hey. Look at me,” and you do, head lolling onto your shoulder. “You with me?”

All that’s left is an unpleasant tenderness. Hip throbbing in time with your heart, the nausea gradually recedes. Aizawa accepts your hand around his wrist, overturning until your fingers entwine, and he squeezes.

Eventually, you croak, “That fucking sucked”.

“It did,” he concurred, equally weary. Three dull taps to the mask barely guarding your mouth, loose on its hinges. He wants to take it off, you realise. The now-jagged ridge has cut into your swollen cheek.

Fear prickles cold over your scalp. “I—I can take care of that myself,” you frantically demur, the remains of your confidence slipping. There are pleas cloying in the back of your throat. We can keep pretending. Let’s stay ignorant. But he waits, he knows— he has known, and he isn’t as generous as you wished he’d be.

Cautious, his thumb slides over your cheekbone and back, tracing the lower curve of your eye socket. It doesn’t hurt, though you think it should. The swell is enough to somewhat obscure your vision. But there’s no pain when he loosens the straps cinched around your hood, no discomfort with the abrupt loss of pressure.

Aizawa pulls down the lower half slowly. The cotton stuffed into your sinuses isn’t enough to dull the anticipation of being seen. You wondered if he hadn’t already heard your voice, would he have known you just from the shape of your lips. Did he ever look long enough to notice?

A part of you hoped that he had.

Everything is heightened. You can feel every spring and divot impressed against your back, his breath stirring in your hair. The sofa dips under him. Chest to chest, his lungs expand with a deep inhale, pushing up against your breasts.

Cautious, his chin lowers, fingers sliding from your temple to your cheek. Your skin pulls. Further still, his touch ghosts over your ear. Infuriatingly slow with it, as if he wanted to discover and memorise each individual reaction. Your fingers tighten at his waist, and he isn’t saying anything.

The light refracts dimly in his irises, still a glimmer of red where it bends, glowing as he looks at you. Aizawa is always suffused with brilliance despite his avid attempts to appear apathetic. Like an old oil lamp turned to low, his gaze is soft and warm, and you’re inexplicably drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He angles his head. Your mouths could align, and his eyes are murky. You think that he might—

“That should be enough to stop the bleeding,” he says. There are butterfly bandages on your cheek, now, applied amidst his distraction. Layers upon layers of armour can not hide how his voice resonates through your body.

“Oh,” you breathe, awe visible as it dances in the cold night air. “You… weren’t going to kiss me just now”.

Eraserhead’s expression is schooled into something carefully blank. His tongue reflexively dips forward to wet his dry bottom lip and your eyes follow the movement. Exasperatingly, he says, “No, I wasn’t”.

You’re still close, enough that you really could kiss at any moment, feeling a little dazed and justified for it. The anticipation of being touched urges you to chase when he rolls back onto his haunches, legs straightening to stand, but the sharp pull at your shoulder stops you in your tracks.

Aizawa is half bent, tilted to meet your gaze. He’s flushed. The intimate moment is broken instantly at the call of your name. A surprising wave of relief follows as you are doused in the harsh, cold reality. You resurface and scramble for some semblance of control, hold out your upturned wrists and sigh with forced bravado to cover your earlier faux pas, “Put me in cuffs, chief”.

Aizawa snorts, batting you away to present the sterilised bandages in his grasp. You watch the fluid motions of his fingers as he unrolls them, “Not even going to attempt to lie?”

You are half naked. The overlaying waistbands of both your thermal wear and your pants draw tight around your thighs — you’re ensconced in the plush couch cushions, practically splayed out for him, letting him reposition you to wrap your stitches. A strained sound bubbles from your chest that was definitely supposed to be a laugh, “I’m too tired for subterfuge right now, Eraserhead”.

“Shouta,” he corrects quietly. Calloused knuckles knock against your temple, fist unfurling until fingers brush over your crown, hesitant to hold before returning to dressing your wound. “Might as well use my name, now, if I can use yours”.

None of this makes sense. In the many outcomes you had accounted for, this ambivalent kindness wasn’t in any of them. Shouta, above all, is a rational man. A logical man, not known for being led by his emotions, and yet, “I don’t understand why you aren’t…”

“Angry?” he supplies. “Do you want me to be?”

You push through the balls of your feet when he coaxes you to lift your hips, “Obviously not!”

“First I want to understand why you’ve been doing this,” he says, focused on tying the bandages. They sit tight, like a second skin. A third. “Why didn’t you just get your licence? You’re clearly capable”.

“Because I didn’t want to be a hero, Shouta! I just wanted…” your burst of frustration tapers, words steadily lose confidence, thoughts scattering and making your voice unsure. “There are always lines you say you won’t cross. But then you cross them, and everything you do becomes a little grayer”.

Your brow furrows, unable to meet his eyes, “When you know you can cross, it becomes easier to do it. Over time, that clear black line starts to fade, until it isn’t there anymore. I can’t go back anymore”.

He gazes at you in quiet contemplation. You feel your defences soften when his fingers brush along the dip of your waist. “I wanted justice for my community. Nobody was doing anything so I… I did it myself”.

“And what is justice to you?”

“Justice is fairness,” you blink at the unexpected question, and your tongue feels unnaturally swollen in your mouth. “That doesn’t always mean a happy ending, but it— it means you had a chance. Same as anyone else. I don’t… care if you think it’s too idyllic. People deserve that much. To feel safe, and to have a community they can depend on”.

He hums. While monotonous, it’s his genuine attempt to listen that silences your frustration, “Then, do you think anyone should be able to commit vigilante acts so long as it works in their favour?”

“Obv—obviously I don’t,” you mutter blithely. Such a broad statement allows for too many loopholes; ones easily weaponised. “But there’ll always be situations that require immediate action. I exist because our… current system doesn’t account for that. People slip through the cracks too easily and they’re forgotten about”.

“So you are the one exception?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He does a poor job of flatten his voice, even still it drips with warmth until you’re soft with it; sounding suspiciously like respect. Aizawa glides his fingers across your navel. You shiver, soft hair raising.

“Now you’re just being annoying,” you huff. Talking shouldn’t require so much exertion, but it’s enough to distract from the searing pain at your hip. Aizawa works fast, fingers tearing the end of the bandages to knot it above your hipbone. “The law isn't always a clear indication of what is good or bad”.

“No?”

“No,” you emphasise with a heavy nod that knocks something loose in your skull. Suddenly, everything blurs together into long streaks of light, edges softening and diffusing until you aren’t sure where one thing ends and another starts. You flinch and force your eyes shut, face twisted into a grimace.

Over the incessant beat of your heart you hear a low, concerned murmur, “Careful. I’m not done interrogating you”.

You groan, “You’ve got shit bedside manner”.

“Never said otherwise,” he replies plainly, rising to his feet and setting a knee on the cushion beside you. The sofa dips with his weight, and he takes your jaw into the cradle of his hand. You nuzzle into his touch, ready to employ the excuse of delirium.

He says your name again, pauses for a fraction of a moment, “You mentioned the pre quirk era, back at the cafe. What’d you mean by it?”

You huff heavily through your nose as the scabbed skin pulls under his fingers. “It’s just— with quirks, Pro’s became another kind of a bandage on an open wound, right?” his eyes are half lidded, lazy as always, sharp with interest. “People act as if they can fix everything. But ordinary things are what keep us all together, quirk or not. Everyday people who, despite their own hardships, would stop to help another person, are real heroes. To me”.

The warmth of his touch lingers as he pulls away and you quell the urge to chase it. “And Pro Heroes can’t be that?” he asks.

“Being a Pro Hero has been bastardised. It’s like a big celebrity cop game show. I do the same thing they do, and you don’t see me advertising bottled iced tea with my likeness, or plastering my ass on billboards”.

Aizawa clicks his tongue. Your blood has dried under his fingernails. “Not iced tea. You’d probably be on some fizzy drink that gives me heartburn”.

“And I’d sooner see your face in a one hundred yen store,” you grumble, turning up your nose to stare at the ceiling. “Bet you’d do well advertising grubs”.

The corner of his mouth curves into a faint smirk. “And you were behaving so well for me until now,” he murmurs, then reaching forward and slowing with contemplation. Clasped gently around your forearm, you let Eraser guide it under your shirt. After slipping your arm back through the sleeve, he tugs it into place at your wrist. That small gesture should not charm you as much as it does.

“I like this”.

Aizawa hums in response, a bid for clarification. You focus on the space between his brows rather than his eyes when you mumble, “This. I like it when you pay attention to me”.

“Yeah?” his face twitches, as if he were repressing a reaction to your words. “Is that why you enjoy making my life harder?”

You laugh breathlessly in lieu of a response, and Aizawa settles properly at your side, drawing you into him. There’s a bloodied half-hand print staining the blanket behind his shoulder, air still tinged with a distinct copper smell, forgotten at the first hint of his cologne.

“You know,” he intones wearily, soft spoken and enunciated as though he were picking each word with care, “I have my own dislikes for how the current hero system works. Justice shouldn’t be profitable, and something does need to change. But it’s also true that heroic acts, even when done under false pretences, leave some good in the world, too”.

“I have hopes for my students,” he continues. “This is the only full class I’ve ever had make it through an entire school year”.

“Even with Stain, the League and everything?”

Tousled hair slips forward over his shoulder as he nods, tickling your cheek. “They've been exposed to a lot more truths than most graduated heroes I know. It’s…”

The pride in his voice wanes then, rough with guilt. “It’s been rough on them,” he says. On all of us, you hear. “Bettering society shouldn’t require so much blood shed. They’re just kids”.

Your façade feels brittle, whittled away. Lips pursed thin and pulled into a sad smile. There was so much he claimed responsibility for — fretting about things out of his control, just like any parent would.

“It’s inevitable that changing the world will come with some growing pains,” before doubt creeps in, you reach up to cradle his face in your palm and skim the scar tissue surrounding his right eye as it closes. He accepts the touch and leans heavily, like he hadn’t realised how much he needed the comfort of another.

“You’re a good teacher, Shouta. You’ve more than done your part”.

“And your part?” he monotoned. He’s teasing you in his own way, peering through one half open eye. “I have more grey hairs now than I did an hour ago”.

Your abdomen jumps with your short laugh, getting caught in your throat as you suddenly hiss. “Ah. Sorry,” you wheeze, air filling your cheeks. His finger pokes at the swell and they gradually deflate, breathing through the throbbing pain. “I didn’t plan on coming here. Honestly I can barely remember— I just ran to the nearest safe place”.

“I can’t believe it was you all along,” he mutters. His head cocks, stubble rubbing against your skin. “No, I can. You had so many obvious similarities but I could never put my finger on it”.

“You even mentioned my coffee order. Brat”.

Fully spent, you recline against his chest with an apologetic hum and look up. You’re surprised he lets you, heart stuttering when you find him watching you with a glimmer of intrigue.

For a moment it’s just the two of you. Blood pumping, beating like a swans wing; in your ribs, your pelvis, the crook of your neck. Those worn eyes flicker down to your mouth. It’s almost physical, the way they trace over the unique dips and curves of your lips. Instinctively, you feel them part, wet, a coy attempt at holding his attention. He doesn’t stray as he murmurs, “It felt awfully one sided”.

Nose drawing across the bridge of your own, breath ghosting skin. “I’m sorry,” you echo, wedging closer. “Would you’ve preferred not knowing?”

You’re not afraid of his silence. Knowing him, knowing you, he isn’t thinking of a way to let you down gently. Aizawa Shouta is honest, maybe a little too honest — though his tongue is less sharp these days.

Rather, he is entangled in his own reasoning and weighing the trouble of telling you. Pink splotches are spreading up his throat. His upper lip curls. “It’s a relief to know I don’t need to pick between one or the other”.

“Oh,” you whisper in awe, tilting as he is drawn forward. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

Anticipation coils hot in your belly when his mouth grazes your own. Tongue dipping to wet your lips, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. You shiver as they move, forming his reply.

“No”.

A whine is pulled from the depths of your being when he moves away with a toothy grin. You fall onto his shoulder and turn into his throat, “Why not?”

“Tell me what you were running from first,” he says.

“What I was—Oh!” he startles at your outburst. You pat frantically around your pockets, producing the bullet and the bagged bracelet. You hold them out to him, “I got some intel”.

Frustration wrinkles between his brows. “And why the hell didn’t you lead with that?”

“I was literally bleeding out when I got here and then you got all handsy,” you protest, continuing through the affronted glare he gives you, “It is not my fault you look so cute in Present Mic’s merch”.

“Give me those,” the baggy and the bullet are taken from your grasp with unnecessary force, driven by Aizawa’s obvious embarrassment. He squints at the beading. “At-su?”

“I think it belongs to someone named Atsushi,” you begin. “Are they on the missing persons list?”

Mind no longer a foggy cacophony of unfinished thoughts, every detail comes pouring out into the open. All the things you held close, tucked away in the recesses of your brain, reluctant of who could be trusted with it. He gives you a sheet of paper and you map out your pinboard. You are still shaking from the fatigue, but he doesn’t comment on the janky lettering as you write the warehouse coordinates.

He knows names, better still he wants to hear them from you and more; asks for your theories and hypotheticals, picks through them, gives each one equal consideration. “I heard Mizuki’s name,” you insist, circling the address over and over until he’s stilling your hand, covered by his own, the other thumbing away at his phone screen.

You can feel the two lives you had cleaved clotting back together. Strings of connective tissue, taut and thickening. Like any scab, you’re tempted to pick at it, to see if anything lies underneath. You weren’t expecting him to take to your identity so quickly — to be treated as though you were an equal.

“I’ve sent the information to a detective I trust,” he states, glaring at the phone until the backlight automatically blinks out. You follow his movements as he pockets it. “That No Name’s gun quirk rings some bells. There’s a group Fourth Kind was keeping an eye on a while back that disappeared. Could’ve moved prefectures”.

You’ve worked tirelessly to find the answers he’s freely giving you; yet the second somebody accepts the weight you’d been carrying, you feel your knees buckle, and all you can think about is kissing him.

“Good. That’s good,” you answer dazedly. “There was a lift in the warehouse. Maybe they’re being kept underground?”

There’s a determined look on his face. You can see the undertones of excitement beneath it. Glowing, hard demeanour turned gauzy and warm. True, you weren’t made to be a pro hero. Aizawa is excellent at that — denying himself the things he wants. You're not. It’s a perfect fit.

When he sets the device down alongside a sigh of relief you take a chance. His chest expands under your hands as you rest them against his collar. Slow, they slide up over his shoulders, then back around to toy with the short hairs on the nape of his neck.

He shudders, but lets you guide him down. You don’t want to disturb the stitches, so he goes willingly, shapes around you as he ducks into your space. Finally, laid in the crook of his arms like a bouquet, your heart is full of him.

Aizawa is all rough edges and purposeful touch. He’s gentle when you need it, teasing when you don’t. The kisses start by your jugular and you’re bereft by it. You can feel a grin broadening against your throat. Mouthing at your pulse point like it could kiss back.

“Shouta,” you whine, nudging your nose into his hair. It’s softer than you expected it to be. He leaves a trail of wet pecks in his wake, following the curve of your jaw to your ears, kissing the delicate shell. It scratches and you tremble, a warm feeling diffusing throughout your body.

The baritone in his voice rumbles through you as he murmurs, “Yeah?”

You bury into his scalp, fingers curling insistently. Seeking more of him your leg moves to hook over his hip, to which he stills, holding you in place. You’re certain the hot impression of his hand splayed over your bare inner thigh will linger for days.

“Can you just…” worse, it moves again, tantalisingly slow. You’re soft between his fingers. His thumb grazes the hem of your underwear while he turns to press an innocent kiss to your cheek. “Don’t do this to me”.

“Do what?”

The air is stifling. His touch dips under the fabric, too quick to register. Your thighs flex beneath the palm of his hand as you pulse. “Fuck. Stop being unfair,” you feel it as he smiles, pressed to the corner of your mouth. “I know you aren’t going to do anything to me while I’m like this”.

A drawn out, pleased sound rumbles in his throat. Almost as if leaving you teetering on the brink was the point, he takes your words as permission to pull your pants back up — both pairs, stretching the waistband carefully over your wound.

You are disturbingly endeared by it and pouting all the same. Giving a warm laugh, knuckles brushing along your cheek, Shouta angles himself just so, and brings you into a kiss.

The seam of your lips part to meet his tongue and he sighs languidly into your mouth. You fist the fabric of his shirt with a sharp inhale, feeling the firm muscle behind it. He kisses you again and again. Chasing, wanting; an ode to your cat and mouse relationship.

Heat prickles over skin. Between breaths, you mumble, “Want you”.

The soft pressure of his hand to your lower back brings you closer. You wanted more. Light handed fingertips walk the length of your spine, murmuring appreciatively as it bows, arching into his chest.

“I’ve wanted you,” he echoes, leaning until your foreheads press together. You watch his eyes fall shut and hear the sotto voce remark, “We shouldn’t be doing this”.

If not for the amused, sanguine tone in his voice, you might’ve started to panic. But he kisses you again. Soft and chaste and shorter than the last.

“What now?” you smile feebly. The adrenaline is tapering off and you can no longer ignore the ache radiating throughout your body, nor the reality of what you are doing.

“Now, you need to take it easy,” he instructs with finality, thumb smoothing over your kiss bitten lip. “I’ll get on the phone with Fourth Kind and see if he’ll cooperate”.

“And the rest?”

Everything is there, in the small, covetous slant of his grin. All the patience, affection, respect and desire. He chooses all of you, said so himself — you’re fine as you are.

“The rest comes after”.

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