#🌻sora scribbles

[soranihimawari]

I Missed You

Pairing: Oikawa x (gn!) reader

Word Count: tbd

Rating: Oikawa Tooru Fluff [otf]

Warnings: none// reader in timeskip becomes a doctor specializing in aging/older athletes and completing necessary check-ups before a match.

Note: I tried to not tie any gender-specific nouns when describing reader.

How I think OIkawa & reader hug each other after not seeing each other in a long time.

[23:45]

That’s the time stamp you receive on an old friend’s text. There are only three words which the message is comprised of. When you read them aloud to yourself in the comfort of your own home, you seem to repeat them like a mantra.

‘I miss you’

Simple hope draws from this in a way that can’t be described as you stare at your screen until you ultimately lock your phone. You close your eyes for a a few minutes when your brain decides to show you a highlight reel of the activities you used to do with the sender. Learning the rules of volleyball, joining in their team jogging paths, coming to scheduled matches, accompanying him to the nurse’s office when he landed on his feet wrong, etc. He was destined to be famous, just not here at home in Japan, no. Somewhere half a world away called out to him first. Argentina was distant, far, the most you’d ever be separated and even then, the times prior were literally at the start of up schooling lives.

Unfortunately, the last memory behind the closed eyes you see is a bittersweet one: the reality your friend, confidant, (and crush) hits you. You never did want to wind up fighting with him, but for once you’d want him to fight to stay here. With you. As his best friends remind you, you’d be holding him back from his true potential ever since he started practicing with the collegiate teams up the road from where you live—this was where the initial rift began to be drawn between you two.

During lunch one day, you visit his classroom, sitting next to him explaining (or rather complaining) the trouble you were having with a particular class and one of the assignments needed to be completed prior to a content exam.

“Do you ever shut up about schoolwork, yn?”

You pause, a disappointed look heavy on your brow as those within earshot suddenly fall quiet.

“I’m sorry not all of us have a righteous path carved in front of us, Tooru,” the tonality in your voice was one of annoyance. “Some of us have to work even harder to achieve our dreams other than hoping to skip town and follow in their idol’s footsteps.”

Ever since that brief conversation, you and one Oikawa Tooru, are now practically strangers come graduation day. You hear whispers via the third year rumor mill of his accomplishments and his ultimate defeat against both Shiratorizawa and Karasuno. Matches you weren’t there to show your support for, even if Iwazumi Hajime, the ace and vice captain, had invited you because, “it would be nice for him (oikawa) to see a familiar face in the crowd.”

Glancing back at Iwazumi’s moss green eyes and stoic countenance, “and if I recall, it would be nicer if I wasn’t there because it might distract him further. There are plenty of scouts heading to those matches. I’m sure he’d catch one of their eyes.”

“And if those scouts ask him to move to another country, are you really going to be ok with not saying your goodbyes when we graduate, yn?”

You aggravatedly sigh at him, muttering an annoyed, “Yes, Iwazumi-kun, even then.”

Many months later, post Oikawa's jog in the winter while watching the Karasuno v Inarizaki match, it is now springtime. You’re holding a bouquet of flowers from your parents who pose with you for pictures around the inner school gates of Aoba Josai’s campus. Your fellow classmates and club members surround you for more photos as well. This was going to be one of the final memories you have for your high school career. You were accepted into a university specializing in biomedical engineering with a strong focus on exercise science.

This was your dream, not necessarily the same path as Iwazumi’s to become an athletic trainer, no, however you had wanted to be a doctor whose focus would help restore and maintain older athlete’s bodies even post retirement. Helping those who had maybe one or two career setbacks was something which had captivated you the more you began to focus on the life sciences of your high school careers and with the help of those teachers, they had written for you a brilliant recommendations to boost your acceptance after passing the various university exams.

[13:43]

In your office nearly a decade later from high school graduation, sits your newest patient. He comes from Argentina, like your nurses tell you, but the rumor that he had come on a friend's recommendation is what actually piques your interest. Well, to be fair, two of your friends' personal recommendation are what causes you to raise your eyebrow. The nurse on duty that day takes his vitals as normal, asks him the routine questions before giving him the proper spiel of, "sit tight and the doctor will see you in a few minutes."

Oikawa Tooru has come home for several reasons. The only one on the top of his list is coming home for an exhibition match game he was invited to by the former captain of Nekoma and now representative of the JVA. However, when word reaches Iwazumi's camp in the national team's gym, he smirks, sending a text halfway across the world. Your name is thrown into the mix of doctors who are willing to examine older, closer to retirement age, athletes. Considering this was not how he had wanted to spend his second day back in his home country, Oikawa Tooru asks to book this appointment to get an all clear before playing the V-League exhibition match Kuroo talked him into attending.

You are reading over the file of the new patient outside of the room in the hallway. You scan over the various ticks he had made on the questionnaire along with your nurse who says that his young son looks up to Oikawa-san as a professional volleyball player.

"Repeat that one more time, Sato-san," you clear your throat when Sato-san repeats what he had said earlier.

"My son is as huge fan of Oikawa-san," he points to the name at the top of the document in your hand.

Right there, next to Sato-san, the nurse's pointer finger, is the kanji of the name of a person you thought about since your high school, university, and medical school graduation days. You clear your throat, thanking Sato for his time measuring the vitals of the next patient in the room you're about to enter.

"No prob doc," is all Sato says when he walks back to the nurse station leaving you to enter the examination room where an old flame sits.

You take a deep breath prior to knocking and entering. You open the door and you see OIkawa bent over on the examination bed, reading something on his phone. His hair is cropped shorter, his shoulders are a bit broader, his skin a bit tanner, and for lack of better words, his muscles quite filled out the rest of him. He's still humming a tune you're unfamiliar with until your shoes enters his field of vision.

"Hello Tooru," your voice causes him to freeze and immediately causes his eyes to avert away from his phone. "It's been a while."

Oikawa's coffee-colored eyes study your face and the recognition hits him like a truck. Although he is dressed in a sky blue buttoned blouse and dark jeans compared to your teal scrubs and white lab coat, he stands up, arms extended to crush you in a hug. His patient file falls to the floor when you hug him back.

You hear him for the first time since that argument long ago, voice wobbly and all, "I missed you."

[soranihimawari]

Fondly Yours

Delayed Sakusa x Reader (sorry Omi!)

Pairing: Sakusa x friend!reader

Word Count: TBA

Warnings: none? Mentions of injury (reader: head// Sakusa toe stub)

Reader is fem!presenting

The first time you met Sakusa Kiyoomi, you were out on a coffee shop delivery. The MSBY had asked for a coffee run early in the morning from your family ran shop. Regardless, you were on the morning delivery rotation and weren’t prepared to take a volleyball to the noggin.

“Oww,” you rub your head after you spilled the last coffee all over the court floor. Number 15, the outside hitter steadies you and he snaps at his setter who accidentally hit the ball to go astray.

Funnily enough, that’s how your absurd friendship began with the popular outside hitter began. You two hung out every other weekend and one hang out led to a party invitation which led you to a year later where you find yourself.

“Oh c’mon, Atsu,” you whine. You’re all gussied up in your dress blues (your military casual formal wear from when you were [and still] employed with) and you wait on the blonde setter comes out of his room.

“You look sharp,” you say.

“Was it yer idea to have a ‘formal’ for Omi’s 30th?” Atsumu says fiddling with his cuff link.

“Yes,” you laugh and roll your eyes. “Because you all wanted to see me in my old dress blues. Gotta remind youse guys I make a wonderful lady.”

“And who you trying to impress huh? Cause lord knows if Omi didn’t fall fer yer ass ya would be having his birthday party at his penthouse!”

Atsumu’s typically a loud mouth and an instigator of saying rumors that may or may not be true. You raise your eyebrow at him and play it off, but given the heavy hitters in your shared core memories with the man of the hour being told second hand by his closest confidant on the team, you realistically… freeze. Blushing three different shades of lock and peach color. You momentarily gain your motor skills back as you find yourself being escorted to the ride share with Atsumu holding your arm.

Hours later, at the private area of the speakeasy lihnge you’re in, you are all cozy nursing a whiskey smash cocktail next to a very socially drained Sakusa Kiyoomi. Surely there are snacks scattered on the table, gifts—intimate toys and other wise too are haphazardly littered as well—too are noticeable in the dim lights. Here is something not many people know about a tipsy now 30-year old broody volleyball player: he becomes very affectionate. Like a neighborhood feral cat become docile as he rests his head against your shoulder. You hold his hand and give it a squeeze whispering a birthday greeting on top of his curls and you see his lips curl into a small smile.

Yes, you may have an unconventional start to your friendship, but knowing how Atsumu was right, you push that aside the moment you enjoy your privacy away from the rest when said 6’3” volleyball player presses his lips against yours soberly at 5am. The rest of the party is a blur until you recall his team allows you to watch over their more than tipsy friend. You go home with Sakusa to his place, holding him upright as he limps due to stubbing his toe earlier at the speakeasy’s low table before leaving. You help him undress halfway, no belt, no silk button down in bed, and you decide after he falls asleep to go to sleep too right next to him.

That’s how you find yourself nose to nose with him in the dawning hour. His lips suddenly on yours calling you, “pretty” and his mumbling woke you slightly and you, garnering your senses to realize not all of Atsumu’s tale was a lie, you cup Sakusa’s face and kiss him back.

“Sakusa fuckin’ Kiyoomi,” you curse under your breath with a warm groan when he kisses your neck next. “You do that again and ‘m afraid you might need to show me what else that mouth can do.”

“Gladly,” is the last thing you hear before humming an acknowledgment of said dare.

[soranihimawari]

Good as Hell

A drabble of sorts inspired by this list:

Sunflowers by Van Gogh

SingleParent!Kita x reader

Supporting cast: Kita Hae (6years old); Miya twins

Word count: 1.7K

Rating: KSF (kita shinsuke fluff)

Warnings? Read the disclaimer below ⬇️

Disclaimer/Brief backstory:Kita’s unnamed ex has been out of the picture for about four years, abandoning the farm and leaving behind a two year old Hae on the screen porch along with papers to surrender mother/parental rights thus leaving Kita the sole guardian of his child; Miya twins agree to help their former captain out by becoming godfathers and it is also fair to imply that the rest of the notable players from Inarizaki are Hae’s precious, formed uncle squad.

It’s not everyday that the farmer’s market near the Mori-Kita farmlands would host a night market, but alas, there comes a time for firsts like this summer night. On the eve of the summer solstice, all former students of the Inarizaki sports team had been contacted especially to help one former captain put on an excellent stand for said night market. One half of the Mori-Kita farm owners, Kita Shinsuke, had an easy time setting up the night market stand after receiving a few critiques on the product being sold via his financier, Mori-kun. Regardless, the former captain enlisted the help of all his underclassmen as much as he could to have the stand market-ready by the end of July.

The prep time had been scheduled about a month before the date of the local night market, yet you happened to be off from your inner-city job in the downtown area this particular weekend. A few coworkers from the motorcycle dealership had decided to take a few days off together for team building purposes and attend the summer solstice festivities in the country-side. You had received an invitation as the newest staff member in the mechanic division, suffice to say the men and women whom you work with were using this time to not only get to you know a little better, but to also ask those personal, yet kind of awkward family questions (ex. You have a boyfriend/girlfriend? Where did you learn to ride and fix motorcycles or dirt bikes? etc.). Your calm and nonchalant demeanor caused a few rumors to spread outside of the garage. To be fair, you do your job as best as the rest of them, but when you mentioned you had lived alone for an x-amount of years, your shop buddy, Kunei-senpai, had seemed to thwart any other awkward questions. He was able to shoo away those pesky up sellers from the showfloor out of the garage when they had been very clearly harassing you for dates and the like.

Thankfully, by the end of the first two work weeks, you had been included in very many lunch breaks and even had been invited to a bar by the shop owners to gain familiarity with everyone you work with. A few nights before the night market, you receive a call from Kunei, mentioning to meet up around 6:30p.m. by the old YMCA pool center:

“Apparently, that’s where the motorcycle parking will be, see you tomorrow YLN-san!”

Flash forward after busy work week, the night of the official night market arrives. You meet up with the others at the appointed time in the parking lot where Kunei-san had mentioned. You’re walking by the official banner entrance and you all eventually branch out. You’re at the warmed yams stand when you spot a lost kid who in their heightened panic runs straight to you, panic crying no less. You pay the stand owner and you ask for a sliced version of what you ordered, attempting to soothe and calm the kid. You kneel down after paying for the second portion as you introduce yourself:

“Hello, I’m yn-san. Can you tell me your name?”

The kid sniffles and bops their head.

“I’m Hae. Kita, Hae,” they straighten up and try to formerly shake your hard.

“Say, I have some extra sliced steamed yams here, are you allergic?”

Little Hae shakes their head and you notice how fair their platinum blonde hair is along with their bronzed fox-Iike eyes. It’s like they hit the generic lottery and that kid would break a lot of hearts when they’re older. Regardless, when Hae says they aren’t allergic, you hand them the little to-go boat with a disposable fork in the steamed vegetable. You’re eating yours as you suggest that you two stick together until Hae finds their way back to their parent’s stand.

“Daddy’s got a stand here tonight,” Hae says after taking a sip of the water you provided at a soda stand.

“And how did you get lost?” You wonder.

“My goddofāzās, ´Samu & ‘Tsumu, went to help my daddy bring stuff from the truck and I saw a cat plushie I wanted, so I walked to find it,” Hae looked dejected and embarrassed when they said that.

You try not to laugh, this was serious matter after all, but you’re sure whoever Hae calls ‘daddy’ is busy scolding his friends who were left in charge of watching the kid. Honestly, on the defense of the godfathers, Hae seemed really put together for a six year old. Sure, a little shaken up, but now with a stomach filled with a vegetable snack and water, you’re sure the kid is more determined to help you help find their parent.

Along the way, a few of your coworkers saw you being friendly with little Hae. They sort of send out a text chain saying that the kid looks like the spitting image of the owner of the sponsored booth for the night market. Luckily, your phone goes off and though Hae holds your hand, you use your free hand to read and catch up with the text chain. The ambient sounds of the night market around you calms you as you observe and let Hae lead you down a row of booths they think seems familiar. You give your thanks to your coworkers as they helped narrow down the booths and probable solo guardian of your one new pint-sized friend.

Elsewhere, a set of twins are getting an earful from a worried and angry father:

“Hae’s the most precious person t’me and you both lost ‘em?!”

“We sent out the Bat-Signal to the team, kita,” one of the godfathers says.

“Don’t worry, Hae’ll come running back here in no time,” the other says.

“For both your sakes, I pray my kid comes back in one piece…” Kita grumbles a string of curses as he reluctantly goes back to his stand to man the register.

It takes another fifteen minutes for Hae to start recognizing some familiar booths and although they complain about how much their feet hurt, you notice how the kid’s feet had already outgrown the shoes…

“Say, Hae,” your voice calms down their excited heartbeat.

“Yeah?”

You step in front of Hae and ask if it’s ok with them for you to pick them up and the serendipitous moment Hae says yes, you’re literally almost tackled to the ground by two men who wear the same face—so you scream and push Hae’s head into your shoulder as you make a run for it and those two fools slam into each other chest first. Hae’s laughing the entire time and now your brain is hitting overdrive as you let the adrenaline sink into your bloodstream until you hear a deeper voice call out to Hae. Judging by how much Hae squirms in your arms, you presume this was their father’s voice you hear.

Slowing to a stop, you see the kanji in large font as the cashier jogs to meet you.

“Daddy!” Hae excitedly exclaims as their father who by the way, seems to have been original in terms of strong inherited genes. You put the kid down and you watch Hae run off to their father’s waiting arms. The two gentlemen from before come back defeated and after a few minutes of scolding alongside a heart to heart with not following strangers, you clear your throat.

“Technically not a stranger, “ you point to yourself. “New friend, right Hae-Chan?”

Hae nods much to their father’s dismay, although when he looks at you in your black jeans, smudged crimson striped shirt, dirty under the fingernails from motor oil from the latest tune-up in the shop, and sensible boots, he can’t help but soften the scowl on his face.

“Hae, promise me you’d stay with your godfathers this time, ok?” Hae’s father says he lets them go into the other men’s care.

It’s only apparent to you now that the gentlemen from earlier are not only the godfathers, but also twin siblings who can be heard making small bets with Hae when they depart the stand for a few minutes.

“So,” Hae’s father begins. He sheepishly gives you a small smile while stuffing his hands into his jeans pocket.

“Umm…YLN, YN,” you extend a hand for him to shake.

He shakes your hand while apologizing for his child’s behavior—

“It’s alright, really,” you chuckle. “I liked their company…”

“I think I might like yours too,” he says.

You blush a bit, nodding along while he sort of chortles over speaking his mind.

“Over coffee sometime?…would that be ok?”

He pulls a business card from the register: it has a star and small cornucopia of seasonal vegetables on it: KITA FARMS INC.

He takes a pen and scribbles down his phone number for you on the back and hands it to you.

“I’ll call you sometime,” you say, squinting at his precise penmanship. “Kita Shinsuke.”

His eyes are a softer bronze tone when you say his name for the first time. It’s like you’re a bit unsure for a moment before he says your name back to you and it seems delightfully whole; the confidence in both of you rise and you make a very bold choice.

“If it’s not too much to ask, mind if I buy a few of those blueberries? I muddle them with some soda water and ginger beer at home…”

Kita smiled warmly at this and you hand him some spare yen notes.

“Keep the change,” you say as the register opens. “The first round of coffee is on you. Oyasumi, Shinsuke.”

A light breeze follows you as you disappear into the night crowd, Hae and her godfathers return with some ice cream and other souvenirs, and all three of them have this smug and impish look on their face.

“Daddy, did you ask YN-san to marry you?”

Kita denies it defending that he’d only do it after you had coffee with him.

Yet, his friends, his faithful kouhai since high school, the twin godfathers of this sharply witted child, burst into laughter when Hae goes to call their father out: “Your face is all red…”

“…they had a sunflower tattoo,” Kita says this to himself proud he finally felt the universe deliver a much needed ´win’ especially since it’s been four years since the mother of Hae had wanted nothing to do with either of them.

And for the first time in the four years since he came home to an empty place and an abandoned two year old inside the screened porch during the early spring, Kita felt this calming wave of genuine goodness the second he saw you with Hae, running through to get to his stand. He sees you now, a few yards away, and you lock eyes with him as you make your purchase of a blown glass sunflower pendant. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he reads the text from you:

I’m free day after tomorrow, does coffee sound great then? —Hae’s new friend✌🏼

[soranihimawari]

Hope in an Office Crush

A short story featuring Nanami Kento

Pairing: (salaryman!)Nanami x (data entry!)reader

Word Count: 2.02K

Rating: NKF (nanami kento fluff)//

Warning: none except an ex of the reader is mentioned as being physically abusive & reader fought back; and although Haruka is a more supportive role, I might do a focus feature on her in another short for JJK…

Conversations among the lunch crowd at the facility you work in was well within its normal level, yet on the floor of your department, you’re surrounded by your fellow deskmate. Apparently, coming into work you had a weary expression. Perhaps something had happened in your home life which caused you to be a little more peeved than normal. Was it the stress of the upcoming proposal project or was it something else? Whatever it was, your friend’s willing to get to the bottom of it. Chairs side by side, hot cup noodles and a few rice balls shared between you two has their voice in your ear:

“What’s wrong? C’mon spill, you’re totally withdrawing into yourself or you’re spacing out. So, spill. Who did it?”

You sigh before bringing the can of cold coffee to your lips. You close your eyes for a moment as you formulate the words that would entreat your friend to seeing a new side of you.

“Y’know that blonde in accounting?” your voice takes on a curious tone.

Your friend glances between you and the cold can of coffee you placed back on the table and the gears in their head start turning.

“Oh my gods,” your friend elbows you in the rib. “You have a work-crush on–”

“Shh Haruka! It’s already bad enough as it is,” you are quick to silence your friend. “There are ears everywhere here and you know I don’t like to be pulled into workplace gossip.”

You lean back in your chair and fold your arms over your chest.

“Yeah, I know, but let’s be real y/n,” Haruka takes another bite of her cup of instant noodles. “You aren’t the type to have crushes on anyone since university. And this is coming from me, your roommate during those years.”

You make several attempts to change the subject of this lunch break talk, but considering your history with your now coworker and ex-university roommate, your friend invites you over to the bar a few city blocks away for a much needed dinner:

“My treat,” Haruka confidently says.

You lean forward this time, nodding in acceptance of the invitation. At the very least, you choose to hold off on any and all details as to how or why you developed a crush on the ‘anonymous blonde from accounting’ (or ABfA). 

Work stays the same for the most part after lunch; you and Haruka head back to your side of the office building in this business skyscraper. You return to your desk where a new pile of data entries needs to be completed after your pile from this morning was nearly two-thirds done. Meanwhile, Haruka types away on her side of the desk before sending you a personal message from a third party instant messaging app. You are amused at her use of guesswork as to the name of the blonde in accounting. Luckily, there are many blondes in the company, yet unluckily for you, Haruka spells out the name of your crush because he seems to be the only ‘natural’ blonde in that department. 

Haru-chan (16:36): It’s Namami, isn’t it? 

What makes you say that? There are plenty of other blondes that work here. :(16:38)y/n-san

Haru-chan (16:40): Not all of them are natural blondes, six feet tall, and looks great in a fucking suit, y/n.

You scoff and Haruka gives you a series of emojis teasing you saying how she was right the entire time, however, you whisper harshly across the cubicle divider:

“If you really want to know how or why this happened to me at dinner, I suggest you work faster, Haru-chan.”

***

Two empty pints of beer sit askew across Haruka whereas your three empty highball glasses sit neatly across from you. There are several plates stacked for your server at the side of the table nearest the aisle where you chose to sit. Haruka seems to have a bit of a wild imagination yet throughout this dinner between you two, she seems to have picked up on a few things since you both had left the office around six:

“First, you know that man doesn’t believe in working overtime, so when six o’clock comes, he is the first one out the door. Second, you are also typically the first one of us to exit our department in hopes of maybe catching the same elevator as him. Third,” Haruka leans in toward you for this one. “I noticed you went to the same bakery as he did last Tuesday when you told me you were stepping out to grab some coffee for yourself.”

“That was purely out of his recommendation aside from the killer croissants they make there,” you pout. 

The alcohol you drank made your cheeks flush a bit. Haruka, for better or worse, is a good friend, and an excellent judge of character. Then again, between the two of you, she is the one with the most ‘relationship’ experience. Sure you’ve each had your own sets of crushes, but only one of you had successful and healthy relationships, the other wasn’t so lucky.

“I can’t get out the voice of this ex of mine,” you frown when you swirl the ice in the third highball glass. “And sure, you’re here to encourage me in talking to this crush of mine, but all I can see are the signs of warning before I fall ass over tea kettle for another person.”

The cold fear and reality in your voice shook Haruka to her core because she remembers the time you desperately called her to come pick you up in a hotel in Osaka (a full day’s trip away from Tokyo). A younger version of yourself in the clothes you had packed for an anniversary weekend trip, torn a bit and the black eye on your face said enough to Haruka when she hugged you at the lobby. Your knuckles were bruised and bloodied all because you chose to fight back someone who thought loved you dearly. 

It’s why having developed this crush on a practical stranger scares you. 

“Nanami’s not your ex, y’know that, right?” Haruka’s comment comes paired with a small taut smile. 

“I know,” you reach out and pat the back of her hand. “Maybe if I see him again at work and we share an elevator, I’ll tell him his eyes remind me of Sunflowers by VanGogh.”

“You really should have taken that gallery job instead, y/n,” Haruka sighs when she leans back in her chair.

“Hah, I know, but then again, you’d have someone else show you the ropes in that office and not have them be me.”

Haruka laughs as do you before the server stops by with the final check; Haruka pays the bill a few moments later as you gather your things. You thank her for dinner outside the restaurant right before she heads into her taxi for the night. The last thing she says to you is a piece of advice:

“If you ever get stuck in the elevator with Nana-er, your crush-just ask him out.”

You make a perplexed face before shaking your head. “What makes you so sure he’d accept?”

“I don’t, but you should have a chance at happiness, right?”

Haruka’s eyes dart over your left shoulder while the street lamp out on the curb makes her eyes shine with hope before closing the door of her taxi.

***

Nearly two weeks later, you’re already clocked out and waiting in the hallway for the next elevator to come to your floor. Haruka was stuck in a presentation meeting for the remainder of her shift, so you had planned like always to walk back to your home after picking up some light groceries. Tonight you were thinking about making some toast with orange marmalade and butter. It was a small appetizer and although you did have left overs, you were also thinking of stopping by the Italian restaurant near you to place a to-go order. The elevator dings a few seconds later and as you board it, you stand side by side with another passenger. As the floors come and go, the car fills and empties a few other people at a time until finally you both remain. Your crush, for the last fifteen or twenty odd seconds studies you, you who has this dark, murky color surrounding your body, before reaching out to tap your shoulder, you flinch.

“Sorry,” you say in a soft voice. “I didn’t mean to flinch, umm…”

“Nanami, accounting,” he introduces himself, lowering his hand instead to shake yours.

“Y/N, data entry,” you shake his hand.

“LOBBY,” the robotic voice of the elevator announces. 

Both of you step out of the elevator together, he holds his suitcase, and your messenger bag is slung over your shoulder. Right before you both reach the doors of the lobby in your work building, you take a deep breath and fully embrace your friend’s advice:

“Would you like to accompany me to Toto’s Bakery? It’s near Via Napoli, an Italian restaurant I frequent.”

He chuckles at the rushed way you invite him, but nonetheless, when he sees you adjust your bag, you shake your head.

“If you have prior engagements elsewhere, you don’t have to,” you sounded a bit sad, but pragmatic. You only introduced yourself to him today.

“Toto’s Bakery, huh?” he asks before walking ahead of you. “I’ve been meaning to pick up a loaf of sourdough bread this week.”

You glance up at this sharply dressed, albeit scary-looking, salaryman (whom for reasons beyond your control, you formed a crush on) who seemed to have a coy smile on his face when he motions for you to lead the way to the bakery.

[soranihimawari]

Cinders and Phoenixes

A second piece to this

Warnings: mourning!gojo x healing!reader

Ratings: angst->comfort->fluff

At approximately 1:25am, your body goes missing. You arrive at your secret boyfriend’s door at 1:46am, seen talking to him through a window per a perimeter check. He pulls you inside to talk. You talk until he kisses you closer to 2:22am. Returning his affections, you feel yourself go numb after you notice him calmly whispering an apology as your breathing is softly, deftly going still… it’s a sleeping curse, you realize and you nod. Your eyes roll to the side and see your best friend, now understanding the situation—an incredible view into the void with a wisteria tree waving it’s flowers in the air. A glass bed waits. Last you, you feel your lover’s hand leave your body last as his friend carries you close to 3:00am and the portals close.

You are pronounced dead on arrival in a forged, legal document meant to fool immediate family, friends, and the elders in the sorcerer community. Your time is frozen around you, but you age alongside your friends until you reach your late twenties… your eyes burn and you break free from the glass… the heat is too strong. Something is very wrong, as you catch your breath. You feel we though your heart breaks a little and you realize perhaps the raven haired love is no more.

“Geto…?” His name falls out as the first you question and the wisteria flowers dance around you, the branches try to hug you by proxy of him and you nod understanding that life is not always fair.

And so, you wait for another. A young boy, probably as old as you are as you tally the sun and moon movements, with hair the color of a falling star and eyes that would make the winter scene scape jealous.

It happens suddenly, you know? One day you were eating a few blueberries after hunting a pheasant down in this lovely part of a place you can’t escape when he falls, bloodied from the sky. You wander toward him and see him dazed and a bit confused.

“S-satoru?”

His breath is knocked of him a second time. You haven’t changed much in appearance, sure your hair is longer and your clothes are a little tight here and there, but that’s what happens in this void: the people or things trapped here age, they’re materials do not.

Gasping, he says your name like a question and a relieved sensation washes over him. Helping him sit up, you dust the crushed flowers off his hair.

“Gardenias?” you ask, small smile tugging on your lips.

“Mm,” he sheepishly nods.

“They mean secret love,” you glance at the crushed blossom in your palm. “I’m so sorry.”

“We were angsty teenagers. I wasn’t going to interfere…”

“Thank you.”

You kiss his cheek before offering some blueberries.

“This is a nice part of your technique. How did you find it?”

“Thought of the first place I’d take anyone on a date, whether it’s a platonic one or not.”

“You did good, Gojo Satoru. I’m really impressed.”

He leans on your shoulder before breaking down and through his shaking shoulders and wobbly voice filled with anger and woe, he tells you everything.

And at the end of his odyssey of a tale, you cup his face and dry his tears.

“You are not to blame,” you whisper against his skin. “I saw it too, with the Eye. We couldn’t stop Geto from doing any of it. We were too young and too full of ourselves then.”

“Now I’ll help you best I can before the king of curses makes our lives a living hell,” you smile as you stand up with him.

“And now?”

Three seasons come and go in this imprisoned realm. In that time, you grow closer again to your childhood menace of a friend. He, like you, process the grief, the healing, and in so doing, come the next autumn, you sense he’s being pulled away.

“They’re calling for you to come back,” you notice he’s more translucent now than before.

“Come with me?”

Gojo Satoru is many things, clever is one of them because as the imprisoned box cracks, he steps out confidently with a person Kenjaku recognizes as a cardinal abomination.

You, you smile telling Satoru to watch the clouds a moment and tend to his students…but not before you bellow a stern, “bow to me.”

And Kenjaku obeys against his body’s will. Geto’s corpse bends lower and lower as Kenjaku tries to resist your livid loathing.

“Go possess someone else,” and the order causes all cursed spheres from the last parade to be regurgitated out of the living corpse. This torture continues for as long as it takes for you to draw out a mean looking man with six arms and glowing red eyes. He seems to be amused at how you command special grades.

“The Eye is a terrible burden on a righteous soul,” Sukuna chuckles in the distance turning his heel after muttering something about how things will only become more complicated later.

Months later, or rather, what feels like a lifetime ago, Gojo and you are back in his own apartment. You have an ID card from Jujitsu Tech, except yours says your home city: Kyoto. You are not often paired for missions, but Gojo takes you anyway to keep you busy. Why? Because he’s afraid he sees a little too much similarity between Geto’s spiral as you stand on the precipice of your own… and it’s quite terrifying.

Until one rainy afternoon, Gojo comes in soaking wet and in a moment of crisis and severe blood loss, his lips align with yours. Time freezes a moment and you feel the blood soaked fabric and the iron burns your nostrils slightly. He tells you it’s someone else’s, but you feel the bandages through his shirt and you shake your head.

“I know it’s not,” you nudge his nose with yours. Your hands unzip his jacket and he breathes sharply when he rests his head on your shoulder, his though roll to help you peel the soaked cloth of his jacket off. His bandages over his eyes push up on his forehead before you carefully slide it off when his lips find your jaw.

“Let me have this,” he begs, his voice so tired and hallow.

“Satoru,” you hum before you lazily close your eyes and give in just this once.

Surely, if this was a myth, Geto’s love for you would just be a lovely filled short season. Gojo’s emotional torment over losing so many and gaining one back is a legend spanning generations—it’s almost comical how brightly he burns himself out for the ones he cares to protect. Even more so if they are all like you. The kisses you shared at first were teasing and testing. Currently? They are viscious and horrendously passionate.

“Mmf,” he presses himself against your hold on him when you triumphantly lean into him more. He’s warm, a little too warm when you leave his kiss bruised lips alone.

“Satoru,” you warn when his hands press into the small of your back. “You have a fever.”

Your breath cools his flushed cheeks and he nods. He relents, but he does let you go.

“We can talk about this later, ok?”

You bring an open palm of his to your cheek before you press a kiss inside the palm. He nods and right before he leaves you in the entrance of the hallway, the strongest hears your voice and he turns to you in a forlorn and lovely way.

“I already lost Geto, don’t want to lose you either,” you say what his expression means. “Go get cleaned up. Your dinner is in the microwave, just heat it up if you want.”

You are in a limbo with him. Yes, he loves you, and you, your heart moves with his. Did it have to take the loss of many to come here? Surely not, but his hands wrap around you every night and you hold him together best you can, quietly cutting the demons tethers around him so he sleeps easier. His insomniac drives grow low because of your help. Gojo Satoru is always talked and spoken highly of, yet he is the most vulnerable he ever is in this sense of home with you, it spells trouble for later on.

For now, for now in the cold December morning, you wrap your arms around him. He chuckles asking what you’re doing up before six:

“I needed you, the bed was empty after…”

“After you and I got out our frustrations?”

You give him a look.

“Sweetness, that was …,” he whistles low.

“Oh, I know,” you laugh before pressing your forehead against his shoulder blades.

Silence hangs itself in the room and he continues to make another cup of tea after offering you some.

Satoru turns to you, both still half dressed, his shirt on your body, his sweatpants on his waist. He slides the mug down down a minute before lifting you up and on to the counter top.

“Is it betrayal if I kiss you?” You ask sipping your tea. He scratches his chin before kissing you lightly. Eyes, all six of them, look at your love bitten skin, your third eye does the same on him. His chest has scars to can’t even remotely fathom and when you press a finger or two on the one nearest his sternum, he stutters a breath.

“No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.”

“How many people can say they had two great loves in their lives, hmm,” sips tea with a smile. Satoru smirks too as he drinks his hot tea.

“Want to visit Suguru?” His voice is eerily calm. “His family mausoleum isn’t that far from his home town.”

You see the doubt and the embers of how this relationship morphs as it was born out of grief and needing to feel loved, so you chose to quell his fears.

“Gojo Satoru,” you place the mug back down to hold one of his hands and the other, you use to guide his face downward to look you in the eyes. “I may have loved Suguru, but I am in love with the man who’s lost so much more.”

You kiss his brow. “You can’t compare apples to oranges because to be fair, I love both equally and differently. It took me an extraneous amount of time to recover in a spiritual sense, but you? You never did…”

“But i—”

“Not done, Satoru,” you say firm in tone. “But you did your best with what life threw at you; at him; at us.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he catches your tear drops in his finger tips. He whispers praises and hymnals is your words. Palaces built on a shaky foundation is bound to fall, yet for him and you, your healing together forges a stronger fill for the cracks. Your lips fit against his when he leans forward, understanding that this is ok too. You break for a moment and rest your forehead against his.

“It’s alright,” you reassure him. “You’re afraid?”

Gojo scoffs before cupping your hair and drawing you near, kissing your neck innocently enough. You laugh, and he does too after cheering your glasses together.

Peace, though in its swiftly fading light, christens over two silhouettes yearning for the answers to the other’s loneliness. And though sorrow drove you apart, your feet and by proxy his, led him to you. So you sing to his exhausted bones a lullaby to appease his fears and even the phantasms of his mind obey your call. Each word soothes him, every touch sends his soul to the Elysian fields where good and morally gray warriors rest. You wonder what he sees that makes him cry so beautifully, you don’t press further until you ask his consent to kiss him in more effective ways. A solar flare seeks the dark as does you to Gojo Satoru who uses this fugue state of his to fall madly, deeply, devoted to you.

“Beware the Eye of the storm: there is silence and resolve; a resiliency most revered,” Geto’s sixteen year old self reads from a shelf. His best friend, shakes his head and in his hands, a gardenia drawing he doodled earlier.

The white haired young lad looked up at his rival of a best friend and chuckled saying, “We should ask yn if that’s true or something the elders made up to scare us?”

The memory remains locked in the minds of those that were there in the library’s restricted section that afternoon. Even now when two lovers are pressed against the other in a dawning sunrise.

[soranihimawari]

Starlogs at 2AM

Word Count: <900

Pairing: timeskip!oikawa x paralmypian!reader

Note: after the holiday season and making sure everything was running smoothly irl, I wondered what it would be like to have friends->estranged athlete->lovers with Oiks.

stubborn oikawa...seems like this was taken right before the argument (it's the same week/day)

Start:

Starlog 202X

Entry 13

It’s been how long since you had stopped by? Months, probably. Can you believe it’s been almost a decade since the last time we did one of these? Regardless, I hope this finds you well. 

Life update: how’s the volleyball club you decide to sign on? I hear the Latin America clubs have their eyes set on snagging a European title. Ever think of coming to play here? ‘M sure Ushiwaka would like a chance to play against you. You’re all giants in the modern generation. Remember the time we all made captain? That was fun. I’m sorry you didn’t get your ticket to nationals during our time at Seijoh, but I am glad you earned the right to play in the Olympics back at home. 

As for me? Apparently, volleyball and diving are two different events with their own seasons. I play in a neighborhood league nowadays since my injury. I received so many well wishes and support from the old group…Except yours. You never sent me one, but I was reassured by the others (Iwazumi, Mattsun, and Hanamaki) you sent your regards. I guess we were really antagonistic in our attitudes toward the end of that year. 

The year that changed everything with the way life called us all to different paths made the choice so clear. You went to Argentina to chase golden sand and I left to Italy to pursue my own dreams. If you’re wondering how I got this address of yours, thank Hanamaki and Mattsun for continuing their OTP-jar to get us to talk to one another.

In case you didn’t know or no one has said this to you in a while: I’m sorry for gloating I got into the university league before you got accepted in Team Argentina… Also, I apologize for this next part too. Can you open your front door? 

Best Regards,

[your name]

The taxi driver is still counting his bills that you paid him for. Nights outside here in the quiet suburb of Buenos Aires have you sort of thankful you packed a jacket on your red eye flight. You glance down at your shoes., These were the ones with flower design, but since your accident on the train service going to an away game in Milan, the one on the prosthetic left knee seems a little loose. You hear the unlocking of the door in front of you and when the door pulls back, you rise to meet the recipient of your letter. OIkawa Tooru, proud starting setter of Team Argentina, protege of the Blanco, in his pajamas at two in the morning stares at you.

“Sixteen hours,” your voice cracks under the weight of his gaze. He leans against his door frame before he reaches out a hand; his breathing suggests he’s just stunned–like the first time he received your letter. 

Oikawa Tooru hasn’t seen you in the same span of time. The last time you were in the same room, you had a shouting match with him and he told you to disappear. Or was it, “go to hell?” He couldn’t be any more upset with himself when he saw your shoulders slump and you really did make good on your word. From what you can infer, there are clippings of your accomplishments on a corkboard and his own are next to yours in a trophy case. 

“How?” His voice is gentle like the breeze at dawn.

“Our friends,” you search your bag for the postcard attached with the plane ticket to Buenos Aires. “Want us to be amigos?”

Oikawa chuckles at the way your lips formulate around the word for friend. 

“I never should have fought with you,” he says when he lets you inside his home.

“We were seventeen, reaching for the stars, or something like that,” your bag is on the loveseat and you sit side by side with him on his actual couch. 

You both swap stories of the last decade and in the end, he realizes just how much he missed. A void in his heart he once confided in Iwazumi must have gotten out when the Seijoh reunion in Sendai. That was a pinnacle where when you walked through the door of the pub, limping a bit and though the male counterparts of the sports cheer for your triumph, you persisted in leading your group-division of paralympians to victory. Oikawa hears this all second hand afterall, but now you’re here–in his home.

“And you’re ok?” you ask him. You try to not notice the box of take out, the soiled dishes in the sink, the box of tissues from the last change of seasons. “Oikawa…?”

“...not ok,” his smile falters. “But I’m relieved you’re here, chibi-chan.”

“Me too,” you give him a comforting smile before you cup his cheeks. You press your lips to his brow after he whispers it’s ok especially since you’re quieting his overstimulated mind.

He lets you embrace him and for the first time in what seems like a lightyear, the animosity isn’t there. The misunderstandings are forgiven when the stars collide in a tiny abode on the outskirts of the Argentine capital.

[soranihimawari]

Winters breath

A Kita Shinsuke x reader drabble

Word count: 600+?

Pairing: kitaaaaa! x reader

Warnings: fluff confession

You were a vision, according to your old friend, Kita Shinsuke. You were visiting home for a much needed vacation from coordinating all the intramural matches for the local schools ranging from middle school to high school and even some colleges. The deadline was approaching and lo and behold you bosses had tasked you with at the very least coordinating the opening season match of your shared alma mater before your vacation truly began. Regardless of talking your friend’s ear off in the car trip back to the house you grew up in, Kita softly laughs at the way your brows furrow and relax when you’re overly exchanging how dreadful Mo-kun is as the ‘office snitch.’

“…I almost slapped him for asking me out. Again,” you sighed. “I’m sorry I rambled on for too long, huh.”

“It’s ok,” he says with a sweet smile. “I’m just glad you stopped by to say hi. You’re a very busy person, y/n.”

You both were seated on the front porch of his farmhouse which had been the main scene for a few teenage shenanigans while still in high school. A medium sized coffee table complete the furnishings for said patio; cups of cold tea remain on their saucers now. One of the many shenanigans happened shortly after the spring carnival where your class had a silent auction for a ‘date night.’

Apparently the rumor around the student body the was how a first year Suna or was it second year Aran mentioned how they didn’t want to ask any member of the student body until they kissed their first love. The moment either Miya twin heard of this, they consistently tried to get you alone with their friends. Considering you were in a few classes along with Aran and an art elective with Suna, the volleyball team seemed to have their eyes suspiciously on you. Well, more like in the sense that whenever your name is brought up, Kita had to quell his teammates’ annoyance at the twins’ teasing. Granted, Kita, bless him, was a little peeved at the time. The only one who knew of their diligent admiration from afar was perhaps Gin. Gin who saw how flustered Kita became whenever you had swung by during morning practice with sweet cream sandwiches amongst other snacks. Or when you stopped to deliver some calculus handouts to both Aran and Kita right before midterms in your third year caused a bit of a ruckus since Aran noticed how Kita’s eyes lingered on you speaking with a member of the management team that brisk fall afternoon.

However, presently, the thought of you with someone else made Kita blurt out a rushed, “go on a date with me.”

You were busy glancing at the blossoming hibiscus tree whose branches swayed in the wind; you had heard what your dear friend said, but you decide to play coy instead. You curl a fist under your chin and tilt your head to the side to have a better look at his features. You see his stern expression grow softer the more you stare at him.

“Ehh?” Your voice is a mix of both surprise and confusion.

He’s leaning back in his chair shyly covering his flushed cheekbones, an amused expression reflects through his bronzed eyes. For a second there, you think you see the sparks of the fabled western idea of fireworks, he must have felt it too. You feel your own cheeks flush with embarrassment because even you can fall victim of the revered, “Captain Kita stare.” Though you are feeling a bit bold and initially had aimed to tease the company you keep, you glance back at your dear friend who for whatever reason made you feel a bit unsteady.

“Oh don’t look at me like that Kita Shinsuke.”

Kita shrugs. “Like what?”

Golden brown eyes reflect a warmth and strength you didn’t know existed; supposing his dating history, given taking care of the fields to the east of the house, would be small, it seems to you that his tactful nature when talking to you had fallen a bit… well, flat. Then again, you wonder to yourself, when was the last time he had even thought to date anyone? Let alone bring anyone to bed? From what your text chain conversation with Aran, Suna, the twins, and sometimes Gin pokes in every once in a while, Kita never really brought any significant other around. Yet, if any of them mention you, according ‘Samu, Kita would literally spend hours bugging them about more details about your life post college graduation (are you ok? taking care of yourself in the ‘big city’? pack you extra onigiri which kita not so anonymously pays for, etc).

Your curiosity has led you here. Back to the farm of your youth with the man determined to love you the best way he knew how. Who cares if he had been waiting a little over a decade for the right time, sans your friend circle who could’ve interrupted you two at any point. It’s such a quiet, earnest request from you to him. Bleach locks with ebony tips blow gently in the wind as you notice he will not budge from staring so sweetly back at you.

You needed to break eye contact for a moment, so you glance down at his boots compared to your business kitten heels: you jump to the logical solution, you’re determined to test the waters of whatever may come from this, so you chose to speak your mind when you bring your eyes to look at him like you haven’t noticed his matured features before:

“Like you’ve been in love with me forever and now you’re coming to terms with—?!”

Kita silences your rambling fear in such an austere way: his lips align with yours in the most subtle of moves. Perhaps if you’d have been more careful, you’d notice he was staring at your lips the entire time you were speaking. He holds your hand when he breaks this quiet confession, a bold smirk on his boyish face.

You’re too stunned to speak by this development; your cheeks are flushed with a fever you can’t sweat out as you try to suppress your beaming grin with your free hand. The other is currently being held (and kept warm) by the man across from you. You feel him exhale over your brow before pecking you there. He chuckles a bit when you lean back a bit in your chair.

“So, about that date…?”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

You lean forward and as he turns his face, you kiss his lips again. Here is where you both feel your heart stutter for you feel yourselves topple over in compassionate way. Though you break this kiss first, you smirk at him. Kita shakes his head slightly as he says your name so deftly you almost miss it. You’re too enamored by the sudden electricity passed from you to him; it’s in the reflection of his eyes when you realize perhaps Kita one day will truly answer your question.

[soranihimawari]

Love Me…?

Pairing: timeskip!oikawa x reader (yn-san)

Word count: 2.8K

Rating: OTF [[oikawa tooru fluff]] (no angst!)

Warnings: allusions to sex, not explicit nsfw// makeout scene?

Notes: what a fun time to write for Oiks.

Seven dates in the span of six months. Seven dates spanning three time zones outside of your hometown one; three of those dates were on approved leave in your home city; two of those dates were done via FaceTime; one was for Christmas; and the last one? The airport. Not necessarily in that order, but alas, here we are. Well, we, as in you and Oikawa Tooru—established two time Olympic medalist, three time world champion, and two time MVP of loving you. The first time was a practice run to get his fans in high school to turn down their fawning over him; the second one is still being worked on as you speak. He doesn’t tell you he’s at the airport waiting to board the next flight home, so you keep it brief, making a mention of the event the JVA is hosting a month from now. 

You pick him up at the airport a little after three in the morning, stiffing a yawn while you’re standing at the arrivals gate. You’re wearing comfier clothing, ie just yoga pants, sneakers, and an old high school music club shirt. Curls that bounce with every step is soon seen grazing atop peoples heads. 

“Mí amor!” 

The nickname sticks for what seems to be years, yet you never tie listening to him call you that. Bicoastal love had always been easy with Oikawa, who the moment he spots you, runs to you—burying his face in your neck, he smiles at you when you cup his face and look directly in his eyes.

“Hi,” you whisper against his lips. “Welcome home.”

Throughout this off season break, you and your lover(?) spend time together: you visit his hometown, passing his old high school. You stop by the fence leading to the track, he points out the gym building not too far around the corner.

“Three years here and not once did I make it to nationals,” he smugly says. 

You raise an eyebrow at him before tilting your head back to look at the building.

“But that was small time,” you tease. “You’re an international sports Olympian now.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your head. “Damn right. And I have you, something an eighteen year old me didn’t know I needed.”

His arms wraps around your shoulders, guiding you to walk back a familiar path to an arcade he mentions he still has the hi-score in: “It was two against two, me and Iwa-chan versus Mattsun and Makki.”

“Oh?” you try to hide your smile while peeking inside at a particular cabinet game.

“Mmhm, but we won because the timer was running out on the Marvel vs Capcom 3 fight,” Oikawa says. He puffs his chest out when you say you think you could have easily defeated his ‘top-score,’ only for you to be dragged inside by him. He had a bold, competitive look in his eye: “Prove it princessa.”

“You’re on Oikawa Tooru!” 

Three hours and after many tokens were spent, you’re sitting next to him at the combini window, facing the street. Your open box of meat buns and milk bread is laid out between you both. He’s got such a sour face on, it amuses you so. You lean your head against his arm, politely pushing a piece of the milk break up to his pursed, pouting lips.

“Grew up with five cousins who loved video games my ass,” he grumbles when he playfully nips the tips of your fingers.

“Oi!” you roll your eyes at his comment, but shake your head when he presses kisses against your open palm. You’re sure he’s completely smitten with you. Even the following night when you’re out with his old teammates and kouhai, they ask him a bunch of questions like, ‘how long have you two been a thing?’ and ‘yn-san’s cute.’ Oikawa hugs you closer to him while you take a swig of your pint of beer.

“Yn’s mine, get your own!” he blurts. 

“So spoiled,” you murmur into your glass. 

Iwazumi stands to the right of his best friend who chuckles at your statement.

“But it’s been the happiest we’ve seen him since he moved,” the friend shared a secret with you.

You hum a “me too,” back to iwazumi who just nods.

When the appetitzers hit the bar high top table, you take it upon yourself to share the karrage chicken and umeboshi bought. These five guys surrounding you and Oikawa Tooru realize you’re going to be around for a while with the way the newly naturalized Argentinian steals glances at you. His eyes are only ever for you, suffice to say those old girlfriends from high school never stood a chance. Later on, right before parting ways, you excuse yourself from the group allowing for the guys to grill their old friend and former captain.

“You’ve been seeing yn for how long?” Mattsun asks. His pint is almost empty as well.

“Since last December, why?” Oikawa answers.

“Because we’ve only met them like three times and,” Iwazumi smirks. “You’re falling harder every minute you spend together.”

“...” Oikawa doesn’t scowl nor does he nod. His expression is hard to read, until Makki and Yahaba point out the distinct blushing glow under his cheekbones. Mattsun is apparently seen slipping both Iwazumi and Kyoutani a few yen notes. Kyoutani, who had arrived late, had witnessed how easily it is to call out his captain’s emotions for years, says something a bit poetic and profound:

“Never thought you’d find true love, huh?” the punk fashioned boy says with a glint in his eye. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Oikawa presses for an explanation.

“Y’don’t meet people with as much patience like them every day,” Kyoutani expands upon his answer. “You’ve been traveling the world, Oikawa, so yn having patience and diligence to wait for you to come back is astounding.”

Iwazumi nods, yet Yahaba hints at what or who has Kyoutani, the once Mad Dog, wrapped up in a sea of rose colored lenses. 

“It’s that new nurse on the team, ain’t it?”

“Shut yer trap,” Kyoutani growls.

OIkawa raises his brows before laughing at the banter shifting focus away from him and you and now all questions and exclamations are sent toward the outside hitter.

By the time you return from the bathroom, you hear the guys now grill the blonde about the new work crush. Looking at the group of them, finally settling on checking out your partner, you smile to yourself uttering a, ‘they really are a rather eclectic bunch.’

Toward the end of the week, as you are putting on the finishing touches to your outfit for the announcement dinner at the JVA, your boyfriend (officially, now you love to add), leans against the bathroom awning. Your hair is tied in a cascading braid and the pants suit you wear is highly accentuating every dip and curve of your body; those same dips and curves hid bruised skin from a few hours ago where promises of being in love were whispered against them. Being in love with love was what you coined Oikawa’s bright cinnamon colored eyes reflect when looking at you–”I can hear you undressing me, ‘Ru.”

“Can you blame me?” his hands rest at your hips, turning you around to peck your lips. Your hands press against his chest prior to looping around his neck. 

“You’re staring,” you smirk up at him. He chuckles, curling a finger to caress your cheek. You make a mention of the time as the car his contact in the JVA sent  is being pulled around the corner. 

The dinner goes well. You make your way in the social circles with Oikawa leading the way–you meet formidable players and even two other setters who try to one up Oikawa to get under his skin. Iwazumi was thankfully in attendance to drag Oikawa away before he made the front papers after insulting the blonde standing across from you. He introduces himself as Miya Atsumu and the red-head next to him is Hinata Shoyo. 

“You two seem chummy,” you nod between the pair. 

“Yep, we’re on the same team,” Hinata points to Miya. “He’s a setter too.”

The blonde nods with a devilish smile. “Can’t believe ah get to play with Oikawa, not against.”

“Oh? I take it you’re still sore about the medal match a few years ago?” you can see the irkmark forming on his brow. Just in case Oikawa was the only one Miya had to worry about, Iwazumi had passed by with another helping of drinks to give to Oikawa (who was talking to other players from various clubs), Iwazumi halted for a second. Did he hear you right? Oh, oh these two for sure are a match made in hell sent to torment me, Iwazumi thought before trudging toward where his best friend was.

“Obviously,” Miya says with an air of finality. If he were still six, you’d think he’d stick his tongue out at you like on the playground.

Hinata, though, chuckles a bit nervously before switching subjects. “So, how did you and the Grand King get together?”

“Funny you should ask,” you teasingly bite your lip before glancing at where Iwazumi had taken your boyfriend. “I had to upgrade my ticket at the airport because my connecting flight was canceled. We were seat mates.”

The three of you continued to talk together, eventually exchanging numbers with the promise of tickets for the next home game the MSBY would have. Miya is a bit of a brat, but he does have a sense of humor when he openly says he’d like to see how many service aces he can do compared to Oikawa (who humbly accepts the challenge one practice before the match). Hinata, on the other hand, is a ball of sunshine that must be protected, your brain reasons. Essentially you follow both of their careers starting then. Oikawa a few minutes later rejoins your side whining about how the two of them had more time with you than he did. 

“I blame Iwa-chan,” he complains. 

“Don’t worry,” you hold his hand, giving it a slight squeeze. “I’ll only have eyes for you.”

Racing, that was what your words did to his heart. It’s at a marathon runner’s pace right now, did you know how dangerous that is for a very passionate man like OIkawa? 

“You’re going to drive me insane,” he says loud enough for you to hear when he leans down. 

“Am I really?” you flirt back, lifting his hand to place around your waist.

Suffice to say, when you wake up the following morning, you’re in his unbuttoned dress shirt from the event. There is a dull ache between your legs, but it was worth sleeping in a bit. Not that it hasn’t been a while since the last time, but knowing how much you care seemed to have put you both in a flirtatious mood. Perhaps the promise of making you truly his exclusively in the future had you nod affectionately trying to stifle a moan of his name between your teeth. His mouth pressed hot kisses down your throat, discarding extra linens so you could only grab on to him when he picks you up to settle your self on his lap. His hair is damp with a light sheen on sweat and you once envision a play ground crown on his head. Being in love with you had him in a chokehold and he nearly growls a praise in your ear as you lose yourself via letting go of all your inhibitions when you lean back, a wicked smile on your face as lets you ride him through your high.

“Shh,” he says, wiping away your excess glossy tears. “I’ve got you.”

Pulling you back into him, he brushes your hair aside, saying how one day you won’t need to take your pill nor will he be buying any more contraceptives. The thought of running around a home with one (?) or two(?) kids seemed like a possibility with him. You laugh, agreeing he’s worth sharing the future with. Both of you keep at it until he hoists you up to escort a very worn, yet satisfied you to the tub. You’re listening to him hum melodies of songs he’s heard abroad and in your drowsy state, you rest your chin against the lip of the tub. The warm water splashes behind you when he joins you, dropping a sea breeze bath bomb for you both to enjoy. He’s holding a necklace he gifted to you ages ago in his hand and as you lean back into him, you hear the clasp close. Uttering a thanks, you tell him you love him and he too returns your confession in the warmth of his embrace.

Hours later, Oikawa’s bare chest stares back at you when you blink awake. The remnants of last night are seen on the love bites on the side of his neck as you push a bit away from him. He groans before his hands wrap around you again pulling you half-way across his body. You’re trying so hard not to laugh in case your boyfriend below you has very ticklish abs. You hug him, pressing an ear against his sternum, allowing his steady beating heart to lull you back to sleep. When you wake up again, you’re surprised to be sitting upright, almost straddling the athlete. You don’t have an opportunity to apologize because he keeps you steady against him.

“Easy there darling,” his voice is a bit groggy; hair disheveled, but he readjusts his position, almost teasing you by rocking his hips to help you adjust yourself. You’re chest to chest now, slowly blinking up at him, a tender hello greets your lips as his trace over yours lightly. The sun stays hidden behind the curtains as you come to terms with being exclusively his. Your shirt in a series of smooth moments, is rolled off one shoulder of yours as his mouth travels to kiss the sweet skin there. You push him more into your shoulder, whispering words of affection. His hands grip the fabric again, a worried look hovers heavily on his brow; he was cleared ages ago to play at this match, even going so far as to pack extra knee supports. This afternoon was a self-practice kind of day before the official ones began tomorrow morning.

“Everything will be alright,” you say when he expresses his nerves about his knee’s condition. “Take it easy before you head out. You’ve got this, Toorū.”

“Ok,” he says before kissing your cheek once more. His smile presses against yours.

Two years. You had been dating happily for two years. Media outlets has been reporting on your relationship after every game your boyfriend has. Sure, there had been rumors about Oikawa still being a playboy lover while abroad, but you are always reassured by staff and public relations managers alike, he still only has eyes for you. You’re quoted by the athlete that you are the thing he looks forward to the most when he returns from any game. There is a sign he makes after the games during interviews (a sigil for crown), the cameras make a note to always showcase it in the highlight reel. Many fans on the Argentine social media account have varying ideas as to who the crown is for (after someone finally traces it in realtime on their live-youtube feed). 

Two years (not counting the first series of seven dates), Iwazumi receives a call. You’re asleep in the hotel room after surprising your boyfriend at the abroad location for his next game. His teammates knew you were flying in close to the end of their practice, and without saying anything their co-captain’s wife said she had to run off to do something real quick (pick you up). Suffice to say, once your luggage was brought up by hotel staff, you waited with her while the team was walking through the lobby. Oikawa shrieks picking you up in his arms twirling you around. The players just laugh at their setter’s reaction to seeing a loved one. Surely, there were two days after the game scheduled for downtime, much of which would be discussed later on after dinner. Your feet touch the ground and though Oikawa doesn’t let go, he laughs when his team behind him yells various versions of, “have fun guys!” and “don’t stay up too late!”

The line rings until Iwazumi groggily answers the phone.

“Shittykawa, it’s three a.m.,” he grumbles.

“I’m gonna marry yn,” Oikawa blurts out, a puff of air before chuckling into the receiver is heard. For this, Iwazumi sits up, joining in the laughter. 

“What brought this on?”

Oikawa switches to facetime for a moment to show his best friend your sleeping figure atop the mattress in the hotel (jet lag was the worst on this trip). You’re breathing deeply, turning over, nose scrunching, running a hand over the empty sheet.

“Finally,” Iwazumi explains in his one worded answer, how everyone since the first time they met you, were playing the waiting game. “Looks like you got some shopping to do, buddy.”

“Yeah, yeah I do. Later,” Oikawa says, hanging up the line. He walks back to the bedroom, laying himself down next to you. The next instance your hand moves, Oikawa takes it in his and presses it against his chest prior to drifting to sleep.

Three months of browsing, finding out your ring size thanks to a very supportive co-worker, you’re standing face to face in a rented out planetarium. The stars are projected above you both. You’re dressed casually in ballet flats and a simple belted dress; he’s in a business casual style, slacks and an ivory top. A unique date idea is all you’re given to as a hint. In the wings of the auditorium there stands your cousins and the alums from Seijoh. 

“Tooru,” your voice grounds him before you see his feet shift a little to stand at his full height. For once you seemed a bit small, but not by much. “What’s wrong?”

“Huh?” he tilts his head a bit before your hand turns his head to face you. 

“You’re acting strange, hun,” your finger rubs against his jawline, a look of poignant concern, but he kisses your palm, inhaling deeply. 

“Yn, babe,” he sputters a bit, shaking out the last bit of nerves. The ring in his pants pocket presses against his thigh when you kiss the corner of his mouth. You smile when he seems back to his normal self. His next words seem to catch you off guard when he holds your hands. It’s now or never Oikawa decides.

"Every time I think of the future, I've got you right beside me. And I never questioned that, not once,” Oikawa starts. 

“Mmhm,” you’re grinning like it’s one of the most natural things to do when you’re with him.

“Maybe I've been in love with you this whole time, and I'm sorry it took me this long to figure it out,” he goes on, chuckling with you when you say seven dates isn’t that long. Oikawa waits for you to blink away as you hear him move a little bit before calling your name to turn your attention back toward him. A shadow of a ring is projected against the wall and you nod excitedly. A rushed whispered yell of “yes! of course!” is said before you’re pulling him to stand reaching for his lips as his fingers place the jewelry on your finger. He looks like he’s about to cry and if he does, you wipe his joyous tears away with a flick of your wrist. Oikawa hides his face against your neck before peppering your face with short kisses, causing you to giggle a bit saying there will be time for that later before saying something a bit profound:

“We have the rest of our lives to figure out how much I love you too,” you tell him with a look in his eyes.

To him, you couldn’t be more radiant than the upclose shot of Saturn’s rings. Truly, the ring now resting against your knuckle shines when a few familiar faces approach you both extending heartfelt congratulations. 

[soranihimawari]

Candle

Pairing: university&timeskip!bokuto x reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Rating: BKF [bokuto kotaro fluff]// strangers->lovers

Warnings: mentions of academic stress// love at second glance(?)//

In an apartment not too far away from the city center, there sits a small package atop a table. It seems like the package had been abandoned earlier by the tenants hours ago, yet the thought is still there, a kindness lingering. On the surrounding walls, there were photographs indicating the milestones in the life of the tennant. Within one such photograph is one of a team from several years prior dressed in an ivory and noir uniform, bright smiles on everyone’s faces. The brightest one was that of the person in the middle, whose attention seemed to have been drawn beyond the lens of the camera. A little further toward the entrance of the abode, there is another frame sitting atop a bookshelf by the house phone. It is a university graduation photo and the graduate is seen holding a celebratory bouquet alongside two young women who share several features, like the family’s infectious grin, and the older couple standing to either side look at their grown children. 

As time moves ever forward, so does the life of the tenant inhabiting the space. There are allusions of a lustrous career in the sport he is so passionate about. A calendar with written schedules outlining the practices and training regiments gearing up for the next away game. Surely, the apartment seems empty, however there have been several signs of friends and old colleagues stopping by– from parties, holiday celebrations, professional signings, and even dates. Like now, this apartment, this home, is where you find yourself leaving behind a bag with a boxed up cake several hours ago on a crisp autumn day. 

Time plays into fate’s hands as one of your parents would say. The door is closed behind you, and you begin your walk to the restaurant not too far away. You’re on your way to a celebratory dinner for an old acquaintance. 

“Well, he no longer is an acquaintance,” you murmur to yourself. A short lived chuckle escapes your lips. 

Several years ago, in your youth, you found yourself walking past the gym of your high school. It was a few weeks before the beginning of the intramural matches for a majority of the sports clubs. You received a text from a classmate who was an avid fan of one such club asking you to join her in the small crowd gathering by the entrance of the gym. When asked what for, all you were told was your classmate wanted to show their support for the upcoming season. 

“So you texted me to come here because the boys volleyball club is having their photo taken?” you playfully nudge your classmate.

“Mmhm,” she nods. 

You cross your arms over your chest, shaking your head, lightly scolding her to use her time more wisely. She replies with simple facts that you had missed, like how the second year setter is getting better at keeping the ball off the ground or how the middle blockers are becoming much stronger in groups of two or three depending on how the play dictates the next point. Unbeknownst to you, it seems that beyond the entrance, one member of the team seemed to have his eyes drawn toward where you were. It doesn’t take very long for other members of the team to notice how one of their star players began to become a bit distracted. Regardless, when their coach makes the decision to cut practice a little short so the photographers can take the necessary pictures. You’re still conversing with your classmate and her subsequent response makes you laugh and from the perspective of where a certain player was sitting, you were the most enchanting person he has yet to meet.

Then, there was that one time you noticed him years later at the cafe close to where your part time job was located. You couldn’t remember his name for the life of you, but you wish your former classmate was with you, however there was no time like the present, as the saying goes. In your mind, you were checking out the athlete, muscles hidden beneath the confines of a well-loved hoodie, paired with what seemed to be (not-so-recently) washed sweatpants, thus ticking off the signs of burnout in your head. You must have forgotten about finals week since your classes still have about two weeks before that internal stressful time. Thankfully, you were given the day off, and when the cashier takes your order, you choose to approach the table where he sat with an air of caution. You see his hands pulling at his hair, the open notes with highlighted words and workbooks with spines crinkled through showing how dedicated he was. He was probably one more practice problem away from reaching the breaking point, so you approach him with a friendly overtone.

“Excuse me,” your voice is a bit firmer than you would have liked, yet it does snap the college student out of his hyperfocus zone. “But I don’t think this goes here.”

“Huh?” he asks, baffled at the page and at the disembodied voice. 

Taking up a pen from the plethora scattered between the workbook and his own notebook, you begin with practice problem number thirty-one. You explain as calmly as you can the process in which you arrive at the answer. You try not to pay too much attention to the way this stranger stares in wonder at you; were you an angel or another celestial being encapsulated with the gift of knowledge? Perhaps, when this lesson is over, the student and you will part ways only to circle back to meet each other.

The ambiance sounds in the cafe fade into the background only to be broken by the call of your name. You wrap up your lesson with a quick, dropping the pen atop the open page, “Good luck on your exams. I’m sure you’ll do great.” 

“Uh, thanks. You too.”

You walk to pick up your order and when you turn around to wave, you’re appreciative of the way the student’s tense shoulders relax when he leans back into his chair. He reminds you of someone your old classmate might have been obsessed with in high school, but more importantly, he reminds you of yourself. Moreover, after he watches you leave the cafe, his eyes scan over the page and he laughs a bit at the text you left behind:

〖#31 (ENG3400|| ANALOGIES):

PALTRY : SIGNIFICANCE ::

A. redundant : discussion

B.  austere : landscape

C. opulent : wealth

D. oblique : familiarity

E. banal : originality

Paltry is defined as small or meager; significance is defined as the quality of being worthy of attention. 

Hence, the correct answer for this analogy problem  is E since banal means to be lacking in originality as to be obvious or boring  and originality is defined as being able to think independently and creatively in English. 

Hope this makes sense. :) See ya around…and between you and me, don't forget to take a break (try the hot Apple cider! It’s really good! ^-^). You don’t know what you might miss. 〗

The months thereafter are filled with hopeful run-ins at the convenience stores for late night snacks; trips to the local arcade to blow off some steam; and finally when the holidays begin to be advertised, you find yourself sitting across your fellow-student-in-arms at a diner half-way across town. He learns these intricate details about you like the one time you were ten and your cousin convinces you to a test of courage (staying in your grandparent’s attic overnight because there was a rumor that you could get a rare candy); he is all-in when he listens to you retell this story. Upon exchanging stories with him, you listen about how he fell into volleyball thanks to his older sisters’ influences. He had the support of everyone around him along with succeeding and being scouted in his third year of middle school before he was recruited to his high school; you heard how his best friend from high school went on to become captain like himself.

“What school did you graduate from again?” you inquire with a tilt of your head to the side. You don’t want to be wrong, but your heart finally catches up to your brain; you remember your former classmate dragging you to several home volleyball games to show support for the team; you help her set up her confession to one of the members of the team later that year before nationals. 

All the while, across from you, the way your companion currently stares at you makes you believe he is going through the same recognition processes. He doesn’t want to be wrong, he knows his best friend and former setter reminds him everyday to not be too naive; his sisters had inquired about his love life prior and during his years, even now when he’s just about to enter the professional league. 

“We went there together,” he says, scratching his cheek before resting his arm back on the table.

“We did, huh,” you confirm. It is followed by a short melodious laugh before you continue. “It’s a shame Akaashi-kun and Nori-chan aren’t here to see this.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

He extends his hand toward you to shake. You gladly accept it formerly introducing yourselves to one another:

“Bokuto, Kotaro. Just an ace.”

“Ln, Yn. Nice to see you again.”

His hold on your hand is kind and warm, which is reflected in the photos he hung up in his first apartment post-college. There is an unspoken understanding between you both as you stand at the precipice of a new endeavor.

“What a funny memory,” you say as you shake your head, rounding the entrance of the restaurant. 

You find yourself biting your lip in a coy manner reminiscing about the dates that came after that initial one; you recall your former classmate, now close friend, asking you to spill the details when you came home. You laugh into the receiver saying how small the world really is and she sheds some light on the day she texted you to meet her at the practice gym all those years ago. You straighten your posture as you see through the window the guys you’ve come to know personally as your partner’s teammates and friends; you hear muted laughter and boisterous variations of ‘happy birthday’ and ‘cheers.’ 

As the door chimes rattle when you open the door, the familiar scent of good food and boisterous greetings fill the air, you smile brightly. You’re handed a bottle of apple cider as your ears pick up the birthday celebrant’s voice. He is retelling the story of how he first saw you outside those old gym doors, while you took a sip of your beverage. Just like before, you’re pulled toward him enigmatically moving yourself close to where he is. He whispers his greeting into your hair like this morning. You feel his arm wrap around your waist and when you lean against him a comforting smile reaches up to his eyes, you figure the candles and cake can wait.

[soranihimawari]

24-hour smudge proof

A short about something I saw earlier:

Word count:

Pairing: friends->lovers: kuroo x reader

Rating: 17+

Warnings: two 18 year olds have miscommunication & make out

Notes: in my inbox drafts for a while…unedited 😑

𝖴𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝖺𝗅， 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗍 ．𝗀𝗂𝖿 𝖨 𝖿𝗈𝗎𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗌𝖼𝖾𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗌

You remember the first time you tried the new Revlon Color Last lipstick. It was advertised as a 12-hour formula for lasting lipwear. Smudge proof. You nearly hugged your television when you turned eighteen. Y’see your school and even your parents were on the side of “no make up unless special occasion (or club activities for festival days)” where as being in the makeup department for theater and arts club were the specialty clubs excused.

You loved to paint, more with eyeshadows and foundations, yet here you were at eighteen, sprucing up your natural makeup with a Sakura-pink hue. It’s the most flattering pink you own outside of Barbie doll fuscha and not as mature as Snow White Red which came out that year. Contrary to popular belief, you had just been asked out on your first date by your classmate since middle school—he played a team sport and on good faith asked if you were free Saturday night. Mentioned he’s been thinking about confessing for a little over a year now, so you agree. Today was just a test date, you remind yourself in the mirror. Liking each other has little to nothing to do with this. Little do either of you knows you’re about to embark on learning a more intimate part of the other.

So, you board the nearly packed train to the aquarium. A few minutes go by and you see him at the entrance. He’s dressed just as casually as you are, and you notice he has a small token in his hands. He hands you the hair pin with a cat on it.

“Flowers were too expensive,” he sheepishly apologizes.

“Thank you,” you smile telling him it’s alright. “I think these are way better Tetsurō.”

You’re calling him by first name? His heart nearly falters at that. Blinking golden irises mask the blush forming on his cheeks. Jesus, you should warn a guy when you’re gonna call them by their name, his inner voice says.

“You look cute,” he gets his bearing right.

You compliment his outfit too. He holds your digital tickets on his phone and a polite, “shall we?” is heard.

You hold his hand as you take the lead in guiding him in where you want to go. Both of you explore the monthly exhibits and the classic shark aquarium. You take photos together with a seaside frame. He keeps the bottom two that print and the top two go to you; you’re securely tugged into his side and the bashfulness in your closeness is masked by a near kiss when your lips almost mark the corner of his mouth. He slyly teases you by smiling a bit wider a little more shocked in his expression on the second picture. maybe it’s your favorite one because for a moment, though brief, you can say with confidence, Kuroo Tetsurō, Nekoma Third Year, the scheming captain, had eyes only for you.

The rest of the date goes on as sweetly planned. It ends around dinner time and you coincidentally knew of a small French restaurant that won’t break the bank. He walks with you, talking about how excited he is for inter-murals to start.

“I’ll be there,” you smile. A small fist is raised moderately high and you hear him chuckle.

“You better be,” he holds your hand and pushes it down.

“Kuroo…,” You don’t fight the comfort his hold brings. Rather, you relax your hand in his.

“YLN.”

“…I, how can I say this?”

You’re nervous, he can tell by how tense your shoulders are becoming.

“I’m not the one you should be here with,” you say after exhaling a deep breath. There is a brief look of embarrassment on his features. Still worried about that? Why? He ponders.

“If you’re implying I should be here without you, then perhaps I wasn’t very clear when I asked you on this date,” Kuroo leans forward to bring a kiss to your knuckles. “I lied about using you to go on this date because I liked someone else.”

You feel your blush only adds to the stunned look you give him.

“Eh?!”

“Shh!” An elderly couple hushes you, unaware of what had transpired. Kuroo shrugs and you lean back uttering how you’re going maim Morisuke for gossiping behind your back.

“Hey, hey,” Kuroo brings your out of your two step plan to ruin Morisuke’s chances overseas as a joke. “Breathe.”

You do exactly that and as you calm down, you hit your head on the table with an a abhorrent thump!

“Should I come back?” The waiter had graciously brought you your meals, but alas, when your non-date-date explains, the server just rolls their eyes saying it’s the fourth time this week. You nervously laugh saying to come back, apologizing for the scene.

Over the course of the meal, Kuroo is an open book to any and all questions concerning his newly formed affection for you.

“About a month ago?” You nearly choke on your chai tea.

“Promise you won’t beat me up too?”

You nod. “It depends.”

And so, Kuroo enlightens you the thing known as ‘the list.’ All captains of the sports team have a yearly list of people they think are highly attractive.

“It’s for the yearbook, that’s how it started,” he explains.

“…okaaay…?”

Then it dawns on you, someone put your name on the list. That someone being the jerk who couldn’t take no for an answer.

“And I told him no one can have you unless I try first.”

“How chivalrous of you,” you muse, yet you have a darker expression set in. Kuroo thought you were angry about being on the list, you were, but that’s not why.

“So you basically asked me out to save me the embarrassment from some other guy?!” You’re whisper yelling now. “That’s even worse than being asked out on a date or a bet! Tetsurō, we’re friends, why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Are you really that mad at me?” his voice is more shocked than anything. “Oh, oh no.”

You’re pretty face looks crestfallen when you abruptly stand, thank him for spending time with you, but you leave. He doesn’t have the heart to stop you, it was a fifty-fifty chance you’d be highly upset. Kuroo didn’t know it would be the worse possible outcome.

You don’t talk to him for three weeks. Avoiding the captain is easier because outside of the shared classes you have third years, you pay him no mind. Kai and Morisuke are mortified when Kuroo tells them what occurred, but one of them enlightens their captain as to why you were so angry (something about it’s your choice who to date and who to decline that privilege and though his heart was in the right place, Kuroo took away that power of choice from you).

Within that time, the silence had become too much. You still talk to the others just fine from the team, but you still ignore your friend. You’re having trouble processing the fact he not only confesses, yet finding out about “the list” as the motivator for Kuroo to finally confess doesn’t sit right with you. Texts and calls slowly diminish until the screen with his name has been made up of dry humor and possibly even drier “how do you do’s.” None of which go answered for days at a time from you.

Kuroo eventually gets sick worried over how cold you’re being. First it starts with him being more introverted than before. It was like he reverted backward to when he was in elementary school: shy and observant. Then came the skipping of meals or barely eating because he would spend lunch breaks with you or vice versa; his bentos usually taste the best when shared, so why would he eat only a little less than half? After the terrestrial downpour which started over the weekend, Kuroo forgets his umbrella and catches the worse cold he’s had since the flu came around the first year hallway two years ago. You don’t find out any of this until you’re pulled out of class by Kenma of all people.

“Kodzuken?” you say flatly. “Kuroo sent you too?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“You’re here about what happened?”

The duo toned kid nods.

“I know about the fabled list. I’m on it, aren’t I? Did you know too and you’re here to beg forgiveness on his behalf?”

“…he’s been dealing with a fever, so he’s not here, I’m here because I told our mutual best friend to tell you the truth and he does care. He’s an idiot you’ve known this.”

“Rewind, he’s sick?”

“Kuroo’s been sort of depressed since he came back to school and he’s been stressed since the upcoming practice match with Karasuno. So,” kenma looks at you. “What are you going to do?”

.

.

.

You never bounced your leg out of habit with anxiety, yet you do so as you sit on the train en route to Kuroo’s. He may be an idiot, but you still care. Sure, you needed a month to process, yet Kenma of all people talked you into seeing the scheming captain on a whim. Your texts and concerned voicemails are delivered, but not replied to, so you take it upon yourself asking for extra worksheets and assignments used for his classes. Kuroo and you were varied, but balanced students, so it was no problem to hand over the coursework to you. The teachers were grateful, even Nekomata-sensei.

“Team and practice needs their captain, yn-chan,” he pats your shoulder.

“I know,” you answer. Small smile drags across your face.

Now outside the door with the inscribed Kuroo plaque, you knock on the door twice. By the third and final “panic” knock, Kuroo swings the door wide open. His gel pack on his forehead slides askew, he’s wearing a Christmas sweater you got him with sailor moon motifs at the bottom, and his nose is a little pink. Kuroo is worse for wear, but boy does his heart leap when he sees a concerned you fussing over his cold. His pajama pants are a day old and he stands aside while you bully yourself into his abode.

“…and these are from physics, college algebra one, and—”

“YN,” he interjects.

You ignore him.

“Modern English and Japanese are here in this folder, history there…”

“YN.”

He is holding every paper you hand him, placing the neat stack on the kitchen coffee table now. Stepping toward you, peeling the gel pack off, Kuroo grips your shoulders, relief written all over his features, and he shakes you gently after explaining you can stay if you like.

“We have time,” Kuroo gives you a soft stare.

You frown with your brows, but his clammy hand cups your face instead. Heeding his request to breathe with him, he sort of wears a lopsided smile. You’re here, for him, worried and upset he didn’t take care of himself like he normally would.

“YN, I’m fine. You’re here to make sure I didn’t die, yes?”

“But you got sick because I stopped talking to you, Kenma said so.”

Kuroo waits for you to stop rambling on about how you heard second hand how he got sick. His palm never stopped rubbing your cheekbone. You ramble when you’re worried, he can hear the unsure breaks in your voice.

“Oi,” His body stands closer to you now.

Quickly, one arm steadies your shoulder, the other snakes around your hips and he abruptly pulls you forward and higher. Your eyes focus on the ground instead of where Kuroo’s seem dead set on. You continue going off about derivatives until Kuroo leans down and kisses your lips shut. It’s a bold move, one he’ll regret later passing on his cold to you, useful and effective. You feel his smile against yours when you instantaneously hold him by his plush sweater. The stronger the grip you have, the more you’re losing your stance on annoyed refined and well placed anger—then it takes you a full fifteen seconds to start kissing him back. He gasps a little when you sneakily slide an arm across his broadening shoulders. Gods you drive him insane, even if you want to part, you can’t because the second you do, Kuroo’s breath dances across you Cupid’s bow.

“Can you be quiet for a second?”

Your noses bump against the other as you nod. Eyes opening back up wide, yet drowsy have a flirtatious gleam reflect back to the other. You inhale briefly tilting your head to one side a little curious in the expanding silence.

“Good because I’m about to kiss you again with your permission, ok?”

You blink, understanding whatever he just said meant and you easily lose the shake ground you formerly stood with him. Hungrier and greedy, that’s what his lips are; tender with promise are how his arms holds you; and when you lead, you feel his heartbeat through the sweater. Your cool hands sneak underneath the fabric and he stutters, almost slipping his tongue into your mouth again.

“Careful,” The word is swallowed by your mouth on his, returning the adoration felt from him.

This goes on for five plus minutes until he pulls away to a disappointed you. He sort of chuckles when you answer if it was something you did. Pulling down your uniform shirt and you his sweater, you stay comfortably close.

“No,” Kuroo slyly smiles. His hands play with your hair trying to smother it down now. “You just…?”

“Mm, so I did,” your middle and forefinger press against his pursed lips. Mirthful laughter behind graham cracker hazel eyes and your stifle giggle has kuroo biting an embarrassed smirk into the crook of your neck. You’re affectionately running both hands through the roosters nest of noir hair and he thanks his stars you forgave him.

“Don’t care about some stupid list,” you say. “And yes, whatever we are now, we’re going to be just fine…”

Kuroo just lets out a sputtered laugh before biting your cheek affectionately.

“Be my girlfriend,” his voice is saccharine brimming with forgiveness. His lips press against your higher cheekbone this time, feeling the muscles twinge with a small smirk. You remain quiet though. “Please, YN?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely, I think my sick boyfriend should go back to bed, hmm?”

You pat his shoulder when you wiggle out of his hold in his family kitchen. Unbeknownst to either of you, the front porch door chime had rang signaling someone’s return home. Thank goodness you two sat at the kitchen counter talking about how math these days are filled with nothing but the minimum calculus equations both of you have come to like; physics can wait.

Both Kuroo and you, for now, talk about finding limits, yet the laws of thermodynamics can wait when he shows up to classes two days later and you? Over the weekend, you text your boyfriend from bed, cursing him out for all those times you and him spent time together (though brief) because now you’re about to find out just how spoiled being Kuroo Tetsurō’s significant other actually is. And believe you me, it’s quite fun having him come over with some rice porridge from his granny, have him help you out of your blanket burrito, just so you could sit side by side and watch a comfort film—typically a musicals—and a majority of the time he comes over after you beat the flu, he helps you test out all twenty four color last lipsticks. His favorite one? The one you continue buying for three years until they discontinue the old formula.

[soranihimawari]

Darling, if you Dare

Pairing: Miya Osamu x reader

Word count: 2.5K

Rating: MOF [miya osamu fluff] //17+ for language

Warnings?: inarizaki shenanigans//being locked in the club room with crushes

Notes: lowercase intentional & these two have this kind of relationship below

“miya osamu! you are insufferable!” your voice echoes across the promenade. surrounding students wait a moment before the chatter begins again and you hastily walk away from the rest of your fellow third years with a notebook in hand. said galaxy gray haired twin smirks up at you, raising his hands to claim his innocence.

“i’ll send ya my part o’the project tomorrow, ok?”

“nine-thirty tonight, miya or else i’m talking to sakamoto-sensei about taking your name off the presentation.”

“what?! can’t ya ask fer an extension?”

“the project is due tomorrow, dumbass.”

he checks his phone’s calendar and in bold letters the midterm project for that class in particular is staring at him in the face. why did he have to take art history, he didn’t know, but it was an elective credit and he needed one more art to satisfy the requirements necessary for graduation. bonus of being in this class was attending it with you. you were desk mates since first year and frankly, when you accidentally left a sketchbook behind in the gym after class one day, the volleyball club thumbs through it only finding case studies of different students from the perspective of the artist. the giveaway hint was one of osamu asleep during morning traditional japanese literature—they had just come back from an overnight away game—the clock read nine-forty. it was a rough sketch, the only detail? the undercut and vbc hoodie he wore with his textbook open. he remembers that day because you covered for him when he woke up to the teacher calling his name to ask a question:

“sir, he wasn’t feeling well,” you cleared your throat. “hay fever, i heard him in the hallway…”

miya osamu mouths his thanks and goes back to sleep. his muscles on his face make him smile peacefully at you. thanks to that encounter, there were many more to be had: lunch the next day, you were feeling kind of blue because you forgot your lunch at home, but you found an extra bento with his handwriting—girls from other classes were crowding your desk jealous of the gift. you stubbornly sit down and see what they were staring at, the box with chipped lime green paint was slightly warmed and inside were onigiris with little salads and cut star fruit. the girls scatter when they hear the twins argue in the halls, but the blonde one stops and points at his brother’s classroom.

“they’re pretty cute,” it’s all miya atsumu says and osamu glances at your smile. you’re three bites into the first umeboshi onigiri and you’re clearly enjoying it. shortly thereafter, when his brother leaves to take a make up quiz, osamu joins you. he introduces himself and after you do too. you thank him with the empty bento, holding the note in your other hand. sliding your phone out of your pocket he noticed the series of numbers you’re saving in your contact list. his vibrates during study hours before final period begins. months later, you’re glued by your classmate’s side as a barrier between the crazy fans of his and the ones for his brother who actually learn to back away when you’re with them. you explain to them the reason why these girls don’t wish to quarrel with you because of your pretty gangster look; the boys laugh. until you said your grandfather ran an underground armstice in hokkaido. you’re visiting him next week for vacation.

“yer kiddin’, right?” atsumu asks worried there was some truth to that.

“nope,” you smirk. “gramps was a bit of an odd ball. always looking over his shoulder, but when you’re in the business of buying guns, you could assume he had a few policemen in his pocket too.”

osamu lets out a low whistle instead. he’s beside you, mentioning he doesn’t care about your family’s yakuza ties.

“like at all,” much to his brother’s displeasure. “c‘ mon, ‘tsumu. yn said it was her grandfather. this was what? post great war two?”

you nod. “so there’s absolutely nothing my favorite sibling terrors should worry about, yeah?”

atsumu reluctantly nods asking for a souvenir while osamu asks for a recipe book about regional fishes. you promise to bring the gifts next week.

presently, you spot a fox with a snack bag from the school store. three years you’re familiar with the volleyball team; three years sharing a room with miya osamu and you’d think he caught on to how serious you are about fine arts classes. suffice to say when you decide to ambush him about the art history project you’re asked to be his partner for (he was absent because of extra practice before nationals), he puts schoolwork on the back burner leaving you to do almost eighty-five percent of the work. that includes creating a replica expressing the themes of what the original artist and painting were trying to express. luckily for you, the project subject you suggested was photorealism and being naked as a natural state. you had two months to work on it and now the day before it’s due, you confront the infernal free-rider with a fury rightfully placed on him. osamu’s gray hazel eyes glimpse up at you and he sees his heart slow down. sure being disappointed in losing a game, being scolded by his ma, and arguing with his brother all made its way to the surface of his face to hide the bit of shame attached to these. but being scolded by you, his other close friend, for honestly not pulling his own weight for this class you convinced him you needed to take to get into the art program at TUA was far worse—it was like being scolded by an ex, although in his eighteen years of life, he’s only had two.

“hey yn-chan,” casually you walk past suna, best friend extraordinaire to the person who had received your wrathful outburst.

“not now sunarin,” you grit your teeth before placing an awkward smile on your face contrary to the irk mark on your brow. “i’ll see you later. and tell ‘im to get his shit together.”

suna walks up to where his friend was sitting, offering a precious chuppet to the would be chef.

“what did you do? yn is pissed,” suna watches you leave and his attention turns to his friend who sighs into his hands.

“forgot about a projec’ we was doin’,” osamu explains. “we had nationals to worry about, but i could have started it and now…”

“it’s due tomorrow and yn did all the work?” suna guesses, osamu groans. “skip the last half of the day.”

“huh?”

“skip the last half of the day, go to the library or museum and work on the project. i’ll cover you because your brother is gonna be a bitch today.”

suna says this and the tea he spills about atsumu being dumped by the class vice president is hitting the rumor mill tonight on the student body’s social media tonight. osamu doesn’t think twice before grabbing his stuff when you’re in the art club room before he heads out of campus grounds. he doesn’t want you to feel like he’s failed you even if it’s a school project. the club, his team, he could handle all that. but you? failing a project worth a good chunk of your overall grade could make or break your transcripts being accepted, that alone, would hurt his pride even more because it was something preventative. 

isolating yourself after dinner that night to put the finishing touches on a painting to go with the written report caused your parents to worry a bit. it’s not everyday their talented child decides to forego family game night, but times were changing, as you said. around nine-twenty-seven, your phone lights up with an e-mail notification. you turn on your desktop and once it completely boots up, you open the attachments from one miya.samu@inarizaki.edu you read his portion of the report about american painter chuck jones and were caught scoffing at the selfie he took in front of the exhibit banner. you text him a thumbs up saying you read and received his report.

two weeks go by and as the rest of the third year class makes preparations for the entrance exams for the schools of their choosing, you and osamu are called into the faculty lounge. this was a double whammy of both art history teacher and your shared guidance counselor asking you which schools you were considering taking the exams for and in a surprise turn of events, asking to include your finished project in the sample of sketchbooks being reviewed for admission.

“i'm considering tokyo u's art program for fine arts and art history,” is your answer. you’re the first one to speak and the last one to concur amongst the adults there of the extreme conditions of the exams, yet you have this indecipherable blaze around you it’s scary. 

“culinary school for me,” osamu answers their question too with an equal attitude, shifting the focus to him. "maybe attend tokyo for an internship in the future." the teacher and guidance counselor chuckle saying the two tracks suit the two almost graduates before them.

"yn-san, bring your sketchbooks to the art club room next meeting for critique and review,"  sakamoto-sensei says clapping his hands. he was the art club sponsor this year and seeing the president of said club with this air of finality in their path, it is clear you are to achieve greatness in small steps.

once classes had let out for the afternoon, you receive a text from suna and atsumu to meet at the volleyball club room. there wasn’t any emergency as one would have predicted when you’re asked to stop by, but today was locker clean out day. the boys wanted both their vice captain and the supposed reason his cheeks flushes scarlet (when he misses a toss) to confront talk about their suppressed emotions. well, more like suna bet atsumu snack-buying for a week that osamu would crack first where the blonde bet that you would not crack one bit. regardless, when you greet the underclassmen from the club, they say their goodnights to you making sure to mention that you’re coming into the room in case anyone else was still in their draws. hearing osamu call out saying that it’s fine, you bump into a half-naked suna, pulling a shirt over his head and one fully clothed atsumu. 

“are you guys walking home together?” you have this cheeky grin on your face. you wink at them when they deny everything saying they’d wait for you and samu. "i think that's cute, even if it's a bit elementary school-ish for me."

"oi!" atsumu says, crossing his arms over his chest.

"what? yn-san's not wrong," suna says. he then picks up his stuff signaling atsumu it's time to head out.

“you’re not going to do anything stupid, are ya?” you narrow your eyes. what you don’t see is osamu staring at his brother and best friend as they deny doing anything like, “oh, i don’t know. locking you in here with the person who has a crush on you.” (<-suna)

they leave with this determined look on their faces and you hate the fact you hear the door lock.

osamu sort of blinks then panics when you’re banging your fists against the door calling the two on the other side “dead bastards.”

you regain your composure when you feel osamu’s hands wrap themselves around your wrists, turning you around. he has this slight blush spreading across his face and down to his ear lobes. the space between you is practically non-existent because he asks if you’re ok with a pointed eyebrow since he tends to worry about you more than he does his own brother. it’s a gentle kabedon when he adjusts his grip on your wrists into a lighter touch, his bangs brush against your forehead.

“you’re too close ‘samu.”

holy hell, have your eyes always been this crisp? why, why are you looking at me like that 'samu? your thoughts are linearly curious.

“Oh, hah, sorry,” he said, allowing your hands to slip out of his hold. 

you notice his duffle bag filled with clothes and old jerseys from the last three years he had joined and played with this club. 

“you were one of the best wing-spikers i heard,” you compliment. 

he smiles a bit, raising a hand behind his neck. of all the times for him to be nervous, this was not one of them. 

“'m not like aran-senpai,” he says, but his chest puffs out with a bit of prideful air from your comment.

“did i say i was talking about aran-kun?” you arch your brow at him. 

“...no.”

you move to sit down on the bench in front of his things. osamu sends this confused look to you as you pick up the second year white jacket with his name embroidered on the chest and his number on the sleeve.

“what're ya doing?”

holding it up against your chest, you’re hugging the cleaned jacket with a definite hold. it smells like the miya house on laundry saturdays–lavender and spring rain softener was used the last time it was done.

“can i have this one?” 

suddenly, you’re shyly hiding behind the collar of the jacket. osamu chuckles a little before placing an open palm on the crown of your head, gently tossing your tresses to one side like you have it for picture days.

“i was going to give you my graduation pin,” osamu confides in you when he steps aside to sit down in front of you. the jacket is the only barrier between both your knees from knocking into the other. the weight of his confession knocks you forward with butterflies spilling out of your mouth.

“hah?!”

“ don't pretend ya didn't hear me the first time.”

“...mm.”

he chuckles, covering his mouth like he’d turn into a cough. you, on the other hand, choose to place your hands on his face, checking if he’s feeling alright or if he’s catching a cold. you’re too close again, but neither of you care.

“walk home with me and i'll tell you how i feel,” you say, your lips dangerously hovering over his for a moment before backing down completely. “now text those two assholes to open the door and let us out. please.”

picking up the jacket off the bench, you unzip it to wear outside when the door slides open and suna is seen with a surprised expression as you walk by, tugging the jacket closer to your body. atsumu to this day, swears he was the winner of the bet, however he was seen at the combini buying seven different bags of chuppets. 

elsewhere in the neighborhood close to the miya residence, neighbors had said that the vice captain was seen locking lips with the president of the art club, just like he was going to after making yn-san listen to him spill his heart out. you regain your composure when he says something foolish like apologizing for not asking to date you until right now. you hold his hand and bring it to the small of your back. you are sneaky when threading your fingers through the belt loops of his school uniform, jutting him forward to crush your lips on his again. your kiss is hard and deep, and you show him how to tease you tongue into his mouth. it’s appalling you know how kiss him, it’s a shame he hadn’t known you like this either. who taught you how to kiss like this? it didn’t matter anymore because miya osamu obeys your every whim. he isn’t shy at all when he kisses you fervently spelling ‘mine’ skillfully with his mouth. you leave him gasping when you ask him to come over later, your side window remains unlocked.

miya osamu sneaks in around eleven that night. you chuckle saying you didn’t know he’d take up so seriously. alas, when he kisses you again as a greeting, you return his affections when you instinctively kiss him back—every ounce of ‘weak in the knees’ feelings they had harbored together boils to the surface. enough of the residual heat from this passion project causes you to sit on his lap on your bed, half dressed knowing this is as far as you’re willing to go with each other for one night. resting your forehead against his, osamu nudges his nose against yours saying he’s determined to make up for lost time, yet you agree with a hum. he presses a kiss to your hairline saying he should sneak back out before getting you in trouble. you instruct him to lay down, saying sleeping over is an option because you’re worried he’d land in more trouble at home. he faces you and you him, short lived chuckles and giggles echo in your room before kissing each other one final time, holding hands under the duvet.

it is said the pair stared at their future with a bold look of arrogant determination like they always did at school–because long distance is meant to work out for those who are daring enough to win at love.

[soranihimawari]

Kiss Me before Sunrise

Pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x reader//platonic!komori x reader x sakusa

Rating: SKF [sakusa kiyoomi fluff]// [lunch] friends-> lovers// komori being a super sleuth

Word Count: 4.3 K

Warnings?: Itachimiya shenanigans, mentions of deprivation tanks, learning to appreciate the connections made; talks of crushes; dealing with schoolyard fans

his neutral face always is my favorite

Lunch breaks in the past were supposed to be just that: a break. You often enjoyed those moments to yourself, but alas, peace was not meant to last considering your deskmates this term with a rather rambunctious set of terrors. Why on earth did anyone think this was a good idea? You seemed to space out one day with your heads in the clouds until you were approached by the class representative with a rather intriguing question: “would you rather be stuck in rush hour traffic for an hour and a half or would you rather be stuck in a deprivation tank overnight?”

Apparently, the game had been gaining popularity and from what you have been told, the social circle surrounding your class rep had pushed them to ask you. You snap back to reality and weigh the pros and cons while you keep a very neutral expression on your face when you deliver your answer.

“Deprivation tank.”

Two words cause your class rep to look at you with a sullen expression. You just roll your eyes before drawing out a sigh; you clarify your answer via mentioning sometimes it’s good to be alone with your thoughts. Even if it’s overnight.

“The dark and I are very good friends, Shio-kun,” you speak with an air of sarcasm. 

“Scary,” you hear them mutter when they turn to leave your desk alone.

Three weeks pass and now, during another break, you find yourself standing in front of the drink vending machine. You pay no mind to the student conversations that melt into the background noise. There are clubs scattered here and there rehearsing for the upcoming festival. You insert your coins and make your selection. What you don’t see is the set of onyx-eyes observing you from a distance. You think it not worth making a mental note of when you lean down to pick up the canned coffee from the tray before walking away. 

Life falls back into a steady rhythm of exams and new course units; another lunch session is about to begin. This time, however, you are not alone at your desk–you are somewhat welcomed into the group your class rep is a part of. They are a little too loud for your liking, but when you keep to yourself, it must have been projected onto the outside that you were a lonely soul. Someone calls out to you and you turn your head to your right so you could face the person properly.

“Mind repeating what you said?” you ask.

“Yn, always spacing out,” they chuckle. 

Your lips that were once in a state of pressed line neutrality seem to tremble lightly before they naturally fall into a frown. 

“Then count me among the stars,” you whisper. It is cryptic, as one believes, yet you further explain it was something your grandparents had said to you since you were young. Just like a stream must join the mighty rivers, you too seemed to have been lured into opening up to this group of acquaintances.

“This is why I hate this place, there’s too much light; you can’t see the stars from here,” your voice cracks. “You can’t see the stars, but I know they’re there.”

You stand abruptly, apologize for the inconvenience of ruining the break period, as the conversation switches topics. You chose to reseal the cracks once the light shone through just a bit. Adolescence and the lessons it brings causes at least one member of the semi-circled group to give you a once over. That classmate sees a lot of you in someone else he knows, so before everyone departs to move back to their original assigned seats, he passes you a note with a series of numbers. He gives you a slight wave of his hand paired with a small smile. Thus this was how your impromptu friendship with one Motoya Komori begins. 

Surely over the years you’ve been seen coming and going out of his family home. You’ve been invited to study and at the behest of his family to stay for dinner. On one such occasion, you were formally introduced to his cousin, Sakusa Kiyoomi. For reasons beyond your comprehension at the time, you thought the elusive athlete at the time was seeking tutelage under your classmate. Who would have known it was the other way around? 

You learn despite their varied upbringings, you notice the passion they have when it involves volleyball. If you were being honest, it was fun to listen to their banter. Though you were all the same age, both boys found it amusing (just a little bit) that you were older than them both. You make a mention of starting schooling late since you were a winter’s babe when you were packing up your course materials; you helped clean up the study table in Motoya’s room a bit afterward. Excusing yourself for a moment, you leave the cousins to their own devices.

“...so, what do you think?” Motoya gives his cousin an encouraging nod.

“They’re nice,” Sakusa seems to not overthink his answer. His cousin gives him a sheepish grin.

“Sure you do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean Komori?”

“Nothing.”

You hear whispers about this supposed conversation, but you choose to not pry. Actually, you don’t get a true chance to pry because on the first week of midterm examination, you catch wind of one of your new friends being invited to the all-youth camp. It was the height of autumn break, but it truly was the talk of every grade level. Of course, once word spread about who it was, you were consistently bombarded with fans of Itachimiya’s Volleyball Club. Sometimes, Komori confesses to his cousin, he sees your desk in class filled to the brim with well-wishes and gifts. Often your strategy wavers between the following, yet amicable excuses: ‘I’ll pass these off to him when I see him next’ (you put the sweet smelling envelopes in the trash when you’re on classroom duty); ‘Oh? For Sakusa-san?… I’m sure he’s too busy preparing for the training camp. Yeah, no worries’ (a false smile and a polite nod usually has the hounds as you nicknamed these type of people in your head walk back to their respective classes hoping to even catch a glimpse of their affections); and this last one (it was truly Komori’s favorite), “Wouldn’t it be better if you were the ones to give these all to Sakusa himself? … In person? I’m not some courier pigeon.” 

The final bell rang, thankfully to your good conscience, and you begin to pack your belongings. You also figure it was a good time to clear the unnecessary clutter in your desk. Envelopes ranging from small paper origami stars to cute stationary start piling; roughly ten minutes pass and with practice having been canceled so the players could have a day of rest before conditioning training begun over the course of the extended weekend, you pay little attention to the two familiar footsteps headed your way.

“Yn?” Komori’s voice makes you pause for a moment. 

He picks up a few of the letters, reading the name on all the envelopes; he doesn’t deny the popularity of his cousin among the students, yet seeing you deal with this side of your amicable friendship was rather annoying. Every day, Komori understands the reasoning behind your answer of spending time in a deprivation tank, even if you meant that as a sarcastic answer, it was a plausible one. Maybe introducing you to his cousin who is also weary of too much human contact was a bad idea? Komori begins to backtrack a little bit, but alas when you catch on to his rather oddly quiet demeanor, you make a joke saying last time you checked Valentine’s Day isn’t for another three (or “was it four?”) months away. Komori’s delayed chuckle is heard shortly after you extend a greeting to him and the intended recipient of the letters some few short feet away. 

Now what does Sakusa think about this outcome? Well, for him, he is mystified as to why anyone in the student population would be so obsessed with him. He’s just trying to get by in his classes just to remain on the path of participating in team sport his cousin had him hooked on to. When they were younger, the two of them would often get into mischief only to be scolded later at their respective home. Eventually this led to a certain fineness in Sakusa’s formidable years. As the years went by, Sakusa began to withdraw into himself, thus making him present his pride of pristine cleanliness to his peers only to be branded a germaphobe to a degree. Certainly Komori doesn’t think that way and aside from keeping to himself, Sakusa lets his cousin talk him into joining an athletic club in early middle school to “make new friends.” Fast-forward to the present and here Sakusa is watching you exchange words with his cousin and he catches on that the envelopes are not confessions for you, nor are they for Komori. 

Those obscene envelopes of pink, white, and lime green were addressed to him. So now Sakusa Kiyoomi, at the age of seventeen, learns to deal with his first set of love confessions and or fanmail. If Sakusa was being honest with himself the whole thing from start to finish was a trifle annoyance. And yet, just like Komori said to him in private: “it’s quite easy to draw the outside hitter’s attention especially if it’s yn (i.e. you).” 

Does his cousin want to rat him out about his growing fondness over you? Of course. Will Sakusa Kiyoomi ever let that happen? Absolutely not. Somehow working with an agency of chaos must have been added to Komori’s lengthy list of accomplishments.

Walking home with the two athletes is nothing of the ordinary. Asking about how the team is fairing since you’ve come to terms with practices being held and whatnot. Komori, as you’ve known him to be, is quite talkative. He fills in the blanks while Sakusa speaks when necessary. You hum along when appropriate. Fifteen minutes later, you notice Komori’s phone light up several times, prompting him to open several messages from his sibling at home. He says a quick goodbye before mentioning he was tasked to cook dinner tonight at his mother’s request.

Preoccupying your mind with an upcoming sketch you wanted to complete before handing it in for a contest to the art department. Komori waves over his shoulder before breaking out into a steady jog, hoping the pair he leaves behind would come to their own senses, shedding a little of their sturdy and stoic selves to let enough light pass through the cracks. Slowly, out of the corner of his eye, Komori sees the growing potential, you raise an eyebrow as if to challenge his cousin’s peculiar actions; and when Komori continues walking, he is glad to have been the one to befriend you first..even if you think your time is well spent in a deprivation tank.

You nearly knocked into Sakusa when he blocked your path. You were perplexed by his abrupt turn on his heels, thus a startled, “huh!” manages to pass through your lips. When Sakusa takes a small step back, you tilt your head up a bit to ask if he’s feeling ok only for it to come out as an invitation to your house. You’re about to retract the invite until he nods. 

“The Sakusa Kiyoomi wants to come over to my house?”

Since when were you so shy? He wonders, but he just nods again, this time his heart beats a little out of rhythm. Is that what Komori warned him about two months ago? You cover your smile, hyper aware of how the tall statuesque classmate falls into a steady pattern with you. 

Reaching the doorstep to your childhood home of nine years, you intake a deep breath. Your keys are about to be placed inside the knob, and you turn to face Sakusa asking him silently if he does wish to not come in. He shoots down the idea when he stands next to you in front of the door. If you weren’t apprehensive before, you sure were now, but alas once the deadbolt has been turned and you push the door open, you hear one of your siblings’ old records play in the kitchen. Sakusa follows your lead when you enter your home. His eyes observe the entrance hallway: there’s a fishbowl painted in lilac atop an end table (it’s where your keys joins the rest); magnificently imperfect hues of burgundy line the walls dividing the painter’s designs with the inhabitants; on one such corner past the entrance corridor there are several markings on the corner caps displaying your height and age. Much to your amusement, Sakusa wipes his hands before tracing over the knicks in that specific part of the wall. 

“You can put your belongings in my room,” you say with a gentle tone. You reach out to place a hand on his shoulder. It’s an act he doesn’t mind when he turns to face you (though his comfortably built walls were always quaking when you were nearby).

 “C’mon, I’ll give you a tour after.”

Twenty minutes pass into the next hour and within that time frame, Sakusa learns of all the intricacies of your person outside of Itachimiya walls–you love epic poems as detailed on your overly stuffed bookshelves; there is as grid system you use for organizing your art supplies including one for your paper swatches; then there is, dare he say, a normal study desk complete with your laptop closed and charging on the dockett; all of this and more is a little overwhelming, but alas necessary in order for him to make a stunning thought:

“Komori’s right,” he mumbles. “I’m so fucked.”

And the Sakusa elicits a sound you personally haven’t heard before. Rather, you have yet to hear his laugh, you’ve certainly heard him scoff before, but laugh? Not in the cards as Komori would note.  Oh, but when Sakusa Kiyoomi laughs, you’ll know–it has him reveling in this saccharine melody. It is beautiful and mirthful and so full of life. You think he’s actually lost it when the face mask (his security blanket to the public eye) is taken off and he clutches it in his hand.

You’re amused by this, but alas finally hearing the chuckles he elicits, all for you. Selfishly, you keep this secret. His eyes crease into the crescents you rarely see and you, yourself, are taking a series of snapshots in your mind. You want to freeze this twilight sun in your room illuminating his figure; you’re staying decidedly still when his free hand grazes your arm, igniting a million to one fires in your impulsive heart. Shit, you were going to be in so much trouble. And it was all Komori’s fault because of course it was. How could neither of you see it the gods of fate only know, but alas like the saying goes, the truth is stranger than fiction. 

Milliseconds, that’s all it takes when the impulses take over and your lips meet. It was such a  quick, fleeting moment you might have had to pinch yourselves a bit. He still lingers above you equally as flustered as you, yet for whatever reason he can’t locate a reason to be angry at this development. Sakusa doesn’t back away, although he couldn’t explain why he’s so eager to kiss you again. Your breathing stutters and yes, your cheeks gain a rustic hue. Your fingertips trace intimate lines over the veins on his closed hand. The mask gains more wrinkles in the fabric when he readjusts his hold on it before letting it fall to your floor. You want to continue, will he let you?

“Humor me,” your lips ghost over his, still in a haze. 

Gods above, you sound so eager. 

“Gladly,” he muses. 

With his hands free of any debris, he makes a move to cradle your head in one swoop before sliding his right one past your ear to hold your neck firmly, raising your head altogether. This second kiss is just as intense as he is–you show him your tenacity of how well you’ve paid attention to how the lines blur. You chase the feeling, he drowns in this pool you carve into his soul; your lungs are on fire and the more you burn, the more he keeps you grounded. When you turn your head the other way mid-kiss, you warn him with a playful nip on the corner of his mouth. He pulls back, sinister canines on full display just for him when you see him mirror your expression. 

“That’s enough for now,” your voice is quite demure. 

Sakusa pecks the space between your brows, not letting you detach yourself from him just yet. 

“For someone who despises germs, are you sure you’re ok with this?” 

This is a loaded question, yet it yields the proper answer from him.

“With you here, I’ll always be ok,” is the last thing you hear prior to being granted leave from his embrace. 

You intend to uphold what he claims. In lieu of sounding pretentious, you instead lean forward against his chest, moving your arms around his toned middle. This was comfortable, being in this state post-kiss. Would you avoid asking each other about this whole enchantment? Perhaps. Is this a route want to join each other on? Sure. You wiggle free a minute later, noting how hope rides on this curvature of his lips. You can’t go back to being whatever label defined your companionship with Sakusa just as before, right? Touching your lips with your fingertips, you nearly trip when you sit down on your study chair. Sakusa internally panics and his own thoughts are filled with curses no one has heas before. Wrong, it seems you both have a few issues to get sorted, and one thing is sure: Komori is going to have to receive two interesting phone calls later.

“You’re my first,” why you blurt that out is beyond you. Sakusa takes this as a sign to sit on the edge of your bed. He leans forward much like a king would upon his throne, hands folded above to hide his face, back bent into a C shape; blush fiercely spreading across his features. Suddenly the air in the room teetered between spry innocence to a concoction of vengeful lust with one call of his name. 

Your voice warps the letters in a confident cadence of sound all the while whatever Sakusa’s pulmonary condition at rest suddenly elevates when he gridlocks eyes with you. You who makes the day just a little more bearable because there will be days when Komori isn’t there; you whose cynicism is just as beautiful as the sun during the mid-morning breaks; who as of three thirty-eight, threw out some letters from peers who just liked him that day versus learning and respecting the blunted edges of his personality, etc. He runs a hand through this curls when his typically menacing auras shift like rain clouds dissipating to let the sunshine is the basis for all those times and more he wants to experience with you. 

“If this is how you’re going to be after we kiss,” you are testing his patience at this point just by swiveling your chair to face him, bending your elbow to stay still on your desk and resting your cheek against a closed fist. 

“Then kiss me before sunrise,” his voice is just as deadly, waking up something in you which causes you to almost become deceased. 

Those beauty marks above his brow move with his expressions so often you wonder if he knows you’re reading his tells just as an efficiency test. 

“You can’t just say things like that!” whisper yelling is an inherited trait you got from your gran (according to your family unit). You really want to wipe the shit-eating grin off his perfect face, you really did. Subconsciously, both of you lean in further, more curious than before. Your eyes are closing just a smidge, giving him the opportunity to drop his faux guard around you wondering if this series of firsts will be shared with him as a highlight of the season; alas you lean back in your chair at the last possible moment much to his dismay. His face crumples in true Sakusa fashion right as he reaches to grip your armrests on your chair and jolt you forward with such momentum you let out a sharp breath. His coal eyes spark into life, a bit apprehensive of what he might have done wrong. He’s still learning, you check yourself. 

“Be patient (with me),” his voice volume barely above the steady run of the music downstairs. 

This turn, you see him start to retreat within himself, however things come to a grinding halt the second you maneuver your arms in order for your hands to graze by those two infernal marks. Sakusa closes his eyes, surrendering to the kindness you present; you guide him to rest his forehead against your shoulder instructing him to take it easy. For some reason, whenever he was told those words from family, they had an air of arrogance, yet with you, he finds those words permit a sense of serenity. 

“Look at me,” you say into his ear. 

When he does, your demure gaze is replaced with an impish sheen. You omit giving him a proper answer because your lips are preoccupied with pressing the promise of tomorrow on the corner of his mouth. Your lips are sweeter than any tea he’s had and the thought of keeping you by his side made his heart race; Sakusa feels more driven since you kissed him back, securing the answer to his confession with a final peck of his lips. You tell him to pick you up at your house before going to the youth camp. When he asked why, you simply state you want to go on a date with him before volleyball takes over. He kisses your cheek mentioning he would.

The sun sets, eventually Sakusa leaves your abode with a phone filled with unanswered texts from Komori and his siblings. Sakusa bluntly tells them all off except for Komori who just receives a cryptic, ‘i have a date.’

You, when you have your room to yourself again, you sit atop your bed texting an old friend of yours if she wants to go shopping tomorrow. The coursework can wait, this was a smidge more important. When your friend had asked why, you are quick to say you’re probably going to need more concealer.

Later that evening, your phone vibrates with Sakusa’s name on the text notification. Curious one you are, you open it to reveal a screenshot of your new contact name: the kanji for patience with a partly cloudy emoji (⛅️) is there. 

At the very least, you figured Kormori was right: Sakusa Kiyoomi is going to be the death of you. 

___________

Science Hall:CHEMISTRY LABS/3.5 MONTHS AGO

“And I’m telling you’re wrong,” you haughty cross your arms over your chest. 

“Why’s that?” Kormori stubbornly pushes. 

“Because there’s no way your cousin would do something that extreme.”

“Yn,” his countenance softens. 

You slump in your seat in the chemistry lab bit exasperated from the whole exchange which lead to here. You drop the stack of lab notes for your teacher to grade later, but Komori shakes his head. 

“Yn, listen,” he wrings his hands like he’s about to betray his fellow countryman. “Sakusa doesn’t just let anyone approach him, believe me. But lately, he’s been acting differently.”

You claim it’s because the tumultuous rumors are starting up again about the so-called prince of his year. 

“And you think it’s my fault? Komori,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “If Sakusa Kiyoomi, your cousin, and one third of our small, but mighty lunch trio’s in love with someone, he might have to do one of the many things that terrifies him.”

Komori’s eyes almost roll to the back of his head when you tap your lips with your fingertips. He lets out a ghastly, “oh no.”

“Mmhm.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Totally Komori… Komori Motoya, I swear to god if you find out before I do, don’t tell me. I’m sure Kiyoomi would want to navigate this on his own.”

Komori closes his eyes while deep in thought . Suddenly, he stands with a jolt of strict certainty: Of course! He packing his things all the while having this great epiphany moment by the invitation of his crowning grin. Before he leaves, he crushes you into a firm bear hug making sure to elaborate: “the absurd part is quite possible to achieve. Yn, you’re a genius. Now if only I knew who it is.”

“Get sleuthing,” you chuckle. 

Komori is too far gone in this development he accidentally stumbled into his answer. You organize the papers a little bit, turning into a small pile on the teacher’s desk. You keep yourself rather busy, wiping and cleaning some of the equipment that was safe to touch, even plugging in the hot plate attachment to brew yourself an instant cup of coffee in a graduated glass. You use a glass stirrer to mix the drink on occasion. 

Komori’s mental image of a cobwebbed lightbulb that was labeled ‘omi’s crush’ completely decides to burn on all its LED goodness when a highlight reel of memories of previous talks play. He has seen the way you two are around each other after the initial meeting—you respect the boundaries and if you cross the line, you amend your behavior just as Sakusa does;  Komori senses the sublime expression on each of your faces and though neither you nor Sakusa say much to begin with, you still circle each other. 

Now all Komori needs is plan to bring you up in candid conversation. The cousins talk about anything and everything, so from then on, Komori makes it his mini-mission to corner his cousin to confront his feelings. It was a good thing you were invited for a study session at Komori’s that weekend, huh?

[soranihimawari]

Between Flowers and Gemstones

An Akaashi x reader story

Word count: 1.2K

Pairing: uni!Akaashi x uni!reader

Rating: AKF (Akaashi Keiji Fluff)

Warnings: none? Just Akaashi not recognizing his feelings for yn until he does…

There are many eyes on a set of two university students in the building square. With March graduations around the corner, and with White Day being within the same week, you are a bit confused by this gathering. It’s not everyday a scholarship athlete asks an honors student out.

What on earth possessed one Akaashi Keiji to do this for his crush must have been born out of the three hour conversation with Bokuto asking for advice on how to confess. In hindsight, maybe he should have waited to express his emotions when you weren’t slightly stressed out from a course you typically excelled in…

So here you both were, glancing at the wrinkling plastic Akaashi held out to you. Though you couldn’t tell, he was nervous beyond every sense of the word. He didn’t even have anything prepared to say to you.

“You got me flowers?” you reach out to accept the bouquet. Breaking into a small smile, you look between the shy athlete and the bouquet.

“You seemed a bit stressed,” he tells you. “Thought you could use some cheering up.”

“…Thank you,” you hug the bouquet, a slight blush on both of your faces. “They’re perfect.”

As the students start to disburse, you take a step toward Akaashi.

“Is this you making your move, Keiji?” you teasingly inquire.

He inhales and exhales, brushing his hands over his bangs.

“It depends.”

You raise your brow. “On?”

Akaashi swallows the bundle of anxiousness in his throat before he chooses to hug you and whisper in your ear: “whether or not you’ll let me pick you up tonight at your dorm?”

You are stunned into a brief silence before your free hand pats his back.

“I’d love it if you did. You remember how to get there, right?”

“We shared two math courses last semester, I think I ought to remember where my tutor lived, heh.”

You shake your head as you release each other from this few minutes long embrace. Of all the people in your core major for the arts & sciences you weren’t expecting Akaashi Keiji, of all people, to confess as smoothly as he did. You choose to bid him goodbye since he never really specified a time, you tap his shoulder, telling him to give you an hour to get ready.

Akaashi nods, a genuinely warm smile at you.

“It’s a date then,” he says.

You find yourself in front of a mirror of your drawer. You’re wearing a simple black button down collared shirt and navy skinny jeans; picking up your hair and tying it in a loose bun, you deem yourself ready to head out. Your slip on shoes were in the makeshift shoe rack by the door when you heard a slight lighter rapping.

Akaashi, on the other hand, had texted his best friend that the flowers had worked! He didn’t think you’d fall for such a gesture, but he was glad he was wrong! Bokuto, though he was on an abroad trip for a game at the moment, had given his old partner a thumbs up reply. Akaashi also had extended his thanks to one of the Bokuto sisters because the flower arrangement suggestion came from one of them. Regardless, Akaashi was quite content with how his confession for a date worked in his favor. Although now, as he stands in front of your door, he takes a deep breath before he knocks.

You unlock the deadbolt and standing there in a similar outfit was Akaashi, although he did wear a white collared shirt instead, his pants seemed to be made of a poly fiber between cotton and polyester blend. He looked sharp ever since he had his hair tapered a bit since third year at Fukurodani, however his hair nowadays seems to have grown a bit longer. You whispered a hushed, “hello,” before inviting him inside.

You mention over your shoulder you had needed a final walk through to make sure everything that had needed to remain plugged and at home was done then you’d be on your way.

Standing in your kitchenette though was Akaashi. He nodded politely while watching you flutter about until he spots where you placed the flowers: in front of an old photo of you and your grandparents. You’ve gotten to know each other over the course of last semester, so when he sees the photo, he is reminded that your parents were busy individuals who put work first, however their children grew with their grandparents filling the parental roles. You were close to both of them before they passed sometime before you went to university, so seeing the bouquet there was an indication you wanted to go closer to him.

“Perhaps that may be true,” he says casually to himself.

You claim that you are ready a couple minutes later and with an elated smile and pep in your step, you show Akaashi out as you lock your door behind you both. He holds your hand as you walk off campus and stands behind you on the train. He doesn’t tell you where you’re headed, but you do talk about how kind he’s being considering you two had an argument on Valentine’s Day when he wouldn’t take your chocolates seriously… only for you to call him out for insulting how you genuinely felt made him reevaluate how he felt about you. However, when you arrive at a nightly fundraiser in the Museum of Natural History, you seem speechless.

“My old kouhai helped organize this and asked if I had wanted to come,” Akaashi says when he extends his arm to you. You loop your arm around his and walk with him to the entrance where said kouhai would be and there you are introduced to one Tsukishima Kei, a ‘fossil historian’ according to his badge. You smile and listen along as they speak briefly about their time on the court even though they faced each other one summer for training, their friendship lasted years since graduation, regardless, you look around and see posh couples charming others with champagne flutes, marveling how they hope their own donations are enough to satisfy the reconstruction on the west side of the building.

A few minutes later, you and Akaashi are about to steal a moment to yourselves as you walk past some mythical jewels once thought to be the cousin of the blue diamonds half way across the world. Looking into the pieces encased in glass, you tell him you weren’t expecting a date like this. He laughs saying he couldn’t believe Tsukki remembered to spare him two tickets.

“These really are beautiful,” you say, nodding at the gems.

Akaashi who looms behind you with a soft smile, leans forward and whispers, “they seem made for someone like you.”

And though he gives you enough space to back away and turn around, you find your lips mere moments from swiping over his. He doesn’t flinch like you thought he would, he lets it happen because even if he didn’t take you here, he had been meaning to see what the big deal was about kissing someone he likes. So, when your face does miss his lips entirely, he holds your wrist to pull you behind a pillar and lets you try again.

In the dimly lit display room of marvelous wonders of the gem world, two lovers make their hearts known to the others underneath a lightning opal sky.

[soranihimawari]

sᥱ᥎ᥱᥒ ᥡᥱᥲrs

ᴀ ᴍᴀᴛᴛsᴜᴋᴀᴡᴀ sᴛᴏʀʏ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ᴛʙᴅ < 3ᴋ +

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴇx!ᴍᴀᴛᴛsᴜᴋᴀᴡᴀ x ᴇx!ʏɴ

ʀᴀᴛɪɴɢ: 🔞-ɴsꜰᴡ// ᴇxᴇs ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀs!!

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: 🔞 ɴsꜰᴡ ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ// ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ sᴇx// (( ꜰᴀᴄɪᴀʟ??ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍᴘɪᴇ?? ))

An engagement party is not the place you'd conveniently find yourself making amends wth the best man. Alas, here you are as maid of honor at the request of one soon to be Hanamkai-san. The groom and bride to be met abroad in a bar in Rosario, Argentina. You worked alongside the bride in an artistic agency office building in Shinjuku, the groom you formerly met at the combini he often frequented as an ex-volleyball player. Regardless, you don your favorite asymmetrical black dress, kitten heels, and your clutch purse as your ride share arrives.

The pub is alive with the rest of the hens for this party as well as the stags and groom. Your girl friend, Rei, aka the bride, introduces you to other family you haven’t met yet in the past. Hanamaki finds you both with your favorite cocktail in hand. He greets you with a brotherly hug and kiss calling you “one-san” affectionately.

“Been a joke since college, why not keep that up?” The bride says. She explains you were the responsible one out of the three. Pretty soon, Hanamaki drags, ie escorts, Rei away to reintroduce her to a few more old friends from high school. Eventually, as the conversation circle grows, the best man, glances over to where you were busy reminiscing about your friendship with Rei and how it included Hanamaki too. What the bride doesn’t know or rather, she plum forgot, was how intimately you know the best friend of her groom.

It’s not a secret the rest of Mattsukawa Issei’s former classmates knew of his rather untimely ex. You dated him on a whim after revealing the random hookups weren’t so random: Dare he say it, he gave you guys a fair chance. Not saying you didn’t, but time proved to be the biggest challenger of your straining relationship.

You were just about to debut a photography series in another part of the world as you were chosen to represent the photography department from Japan to South Korea. Mattsukawa was already starting his internship. Though splitting time between being intimate, work, and individual days off, time stacked the odds against your relationship. Unfortunately, during what would be your last date with the young funeral director, he brings up the topic of ending things as, “amicably as possible.” You look back up at him, an equally tearful set of eyes reflect upon you, so you ask a weak, “why?”

“We can’t be together now, look at where you’re going,” He holds your hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of your own. Mattsukawa smiles, deftly brushing away a stray tears with his free hand. “I love you, but we can’t. Not right now.”

You protest, promising to fight better. Fight with him to make this work. Whatever this was, still is. If you could hear each other’s worlds crack around you, neither of you would let the other go. You calm yourself by the time the cake and coffees are delivered. Smiling brightly with hope on the curvature of your lips, you feed a a forkful of the dessert to you soon to be ex.

“Will you wait for me to make a name for myself?”

The sluggishly tempting slow bend of his massive frame to entertain bowing to you who held the fork makes your breath hitch. Mattsukawa was warm and inviting in the city you moved to study photography; he’d been kind enough to show you around wherever your paths cross like the night market the first month you were on a a long weekend.

As all impromptu dates are concerned, he does his best to think on his feet as you let him see all the sides of you that were pretty: your sense of wicked humor, sharp wit, and even bold choices in food. You were a dream and Mattsukawa could not be blamed for falling a lot harder than he had intended. He and his friends always used to talk about various lovers in the past, but in all honesty, if one of them would have seen the way you lock eyes with him across the pagoda filled food court of the night market, they would have assumed their dear friend had found his potential match.

As he chews on the morsel, he gives you a slight delightful hum. He heard your question and acknowledges this was non-rhetorical.

“Baby, I’d wait an eternity if you told me to,” The dinner is paid for as you rise up out of your chair.

That night, at your shared studio, behind closed doors, you hold on to him, telling him to love you like you’re never coming back.

Seven years in Seoul spent, making you a photographer by trade. Seven years of being one of the most sought after fashion photographers and even credited film photography for city scapes led up into the bed of many an illustrious star. None of which could compare to the measly little funeral director you dated in your early twenties. Imagine your surprise when your best friend from high school, Rei, reforms her relationship with you. Inviting you out so much so that you eventually fall into a lovely pattern with her. Wake up, go apply for jobs, go to interviews, eat lunch with her at her building, go home, etc. eventually, you are employed by her creative team once you find yourself an agent within that company. Seven years ago, at twenty-two, you would have freaked out when Rei told you the name of her very serious boyfriend and now fiancé. The name was familiar, but you didn’t know why until wedding prep had begun.

Now you’re both here and for what it’s worth, you leave the ball in your ex’s hands. Perhaps the alcohol and really great karrage chicken makes Mattsukawa walk toward you. The girls you chat with are playing matchmaker for you because you’re the only one in the bridal group not attached. You declined the offers sort of not explaining the awkward truth. One of them had the audacity to ask, “why not mattsun?”

“B-because,” You stammer embarrassed after all. “He seemed like he’d reject me.” (Because I never came back).

Mattsukawa couldn’t believe what you said, so he stands a little straighter behind you, making a silent sign to the girls who could see him.

“How are you so sure, yn?”

Your glass is abruptly taken away as the ladies scatter to find other teas they can spill. One of them finds Rei and Hanamaki, who contrary to what you didn’t tell either of them, figured it out on those own.

“Think it’s still a bad idea to have them paired?” Hanamaki whispers. Rei kisses her almost husband’s freckled cheek.

“Not at all,” Rei answers. “Just want to see them happy. They deserve it.”

Hours go by and as the party dwindles, the hotel bus comes to pick up the last members of the party. You’re one of the chaperones that got left behind stuck with closing duties alongside Mattsukawa who didn’t want you to be alone. Sitting side by side with him, he offers his arm if you feel sleepy. In a matter of minutes, your curt innocent “thanks,” is replaced by a light snore and head bop. Mattsukawa, gentle giant he is, guides your head to slump against his arm.

When the bus comes to a stop and you holy awake. Mattsukawa doesn’t dare look down to notice your expression is the same—shocked, a little by how you still fit against him, but adorable. He walks with you from the lobby to the elevator. Escorting you to your door, very reminiscent of your first date with him. The emotions of wanting to be held by him surface when he bids you a gentlemanly, “oyasumi.” You do the same as you unlock your door and toe off your shoes.

Five minutes. Both of you are giving each other five minutes before either of you came to your senses. Mattsukawa’s already by the elevator when he receives a, “go get ‘em asshole” from Hanamaki. His smile fades as the doors open saying he’d take the next one to an older couple who sees alot of their younger selves in a determined best man walking with a purpose.

Just about to raise his fist at the door, Mattsukawa hears the deadbolt unlock. And you, with your dress half way undone pulls him inside by his collar with a desperate yet swift, “thank fucking god.” Seven years without kissing you to suddenly trying to remember how you felt against him drives him mad. The door closes, he blindly locks it behind you. It’s insane how fast you have his heart in your hands, with every gasping breath when he pulls away for a bit, “missed ya so much” kisses are slower and lags in nature versus the way he worms his hands under your skirt to tease you there. You’re whining, his name on the top of your tongue when he head your pinned against the wall.

“‘Sei, I’m back home,” His hands stop teasing the things he wishes he’d bite later. Instead, they almost yank down the rest of the dress as your hands undo the buttons of his dress shirt quickly.

“Never letting you go again,” He kisses your forehead when you slide off the shirt from his shoulders. You smirk up at him before you raise your leg to pull him closer to you. Taking you up on the offer and hint, you’re lifted up in a flurry of hungry kisses and as you instruct him to where the bed actually was, you warrant a breathy groan from him as you feel something a too familiar press against your thigh.

“I forgot what that dress makes you do,” you roll your hips to center your gravity and he nips your ear.

“Naughty baby,” he smiles kissing your neck.

“Worth it,” you grab his hair and give it a purposeful tug. “You’re absolutely worth it.”

His lust blown pupils are wide with aching want. You tell him to take it slow when he lays you down. You don’t have the heart to tell him you think you’re wet enough by that little session in the hallway, but it’s better to let him taste how ready you are.

“Are you sure?”

“Issei, I’m more sure now that you’re here than before.”

“Ok then.”

Letting his mouth greet you is not that strange, what is though is how easily compliant you’re being to have him hear the lewd calls to the holy rulers as you let his tongue fuck you. You’re nearly there when he notices how you still do that thigh twitch thing where your trap him there. Mattsukawa doesn’t care how messily you cum, but when you do, it’s an honor for him to know he can and will make you over the simplest things.

You’re breathing hard as you try to come down, yet you know it’s not really a one and done with mattsukawa. Hearing the drag of his zipper and the pants he wore be discarded, he asks you if you want to stop.

“Fuck no, look at you,” Your voice is poisonous with love galor. He can’t help but lean down and give you his thanks after wiping your excess into his mouth.

Your eyes never forgot how massive your reconnected ex is; such refiness can only either be praised about our sculpted, not that it matters as Mattsukawa easily lays down into you, aligning himself with you. Eyes of his gleam in either devotion or sexual pleasure, but hearing you take in a nervous breath is reminiscent of the first time he fucked you senseless: you were unsure how your core got him all the way in, but it was worth the soreness in the morning. As you lay down, you wait for the pain of the stretch to subside, biting your lip and gripping on to the sheets, every encouraging word that spills from your lover’s mouth makes you moan with slightly louder with a glee you forgot you had.

“Were you always this th-aah!-ick?” The words die on your mouth as you realize he’s closer to your face now when he leans down to pick up your leg.

“Only for you,” his devilish smile hides behind a kid to your knee.

You admit you wiggle a bit too much before you beg him to move with you.

“Give me a chance,” he murmurs against the underside of your breasts.

“Nngh, ‘kay. Don’t make me do all the work.”

Mattsukawa locks eyes with you, kisses your beauty mark by your pelvis before whispering a cool breath of acknowledgment. Your leg rests against his shoulder now.

How Mattsukawa fucks you deeper is a continuation of both your want and his need; the day Mattsukawa decided to meet up with Hanamaki’s now fiancé was the same day he figured out who was going to be in the bridesmaid group. The second the bride said your name, he almost spat out his tea at the cafe. Nearly choking on air, Mattsukawa since then, made it a personal mission to be on your good side.

Did he think the rehearsal and the pub outing was a trap set up by his friends? Sure. Does he think you, with a fucked out expression, now pressed against his chest, will ever let him free again? Absolutely not, the loneliness and jealousy of those who kept your bed warm for seven years (literally only four people and it wasn’t that serious) kept Mattsukawa Issei on a short tangible leash. It’s not like he waited either—there was Ami, who despite her best efforts, never got to ride his dick like you; there was Kinomoto-san, the florist who always made an extra bento for her funeral director, which lasted a week and a half because your photo kept Mattsukawa’s desk looking like an office; and then there was Makoto whom he only half-fucked in a way because she asked him to stop since his thoughts kept drifting to you (Makoto was kind to end the fling saying a word of grace: “‘sei, you don’t love me like yn. When they come back, love ‘em like they’re dying the next day, ok?’)—but now, as Mattsukawa’s hands scratch your lower back and he helps you ride him up and down, slow and steady beats, he realizes you’re crying. He still moves to calm you, wiping tears and a small, barely audible, apology for making him feel unloved for so long reaches his burning ears.

“You’re here now,” his voice rumbles through his chest. “You’re here, with me, fucking me, baby you’re ‘xactly where you belong.”

You nod, it’s the only thing you can do as you bite into his neck, gently succumbing to the lull of his stride. Kissing away every trace of doubt, Mattsukawa rolls with you, effortlessly punctuating his acceptance with vigor expressing he wasn’t unloved, he was just loyal enough to wait for you. It takes a few more minutes of rapid movements and it’s good to know how you recall his body burns feverishly as his torso constricts, face hidden in the crook of your neck.

“Wh-where?” he only has time to ask you a one word answer before his hips stutter against yours. “‘M close. Where?”

You hold him steady, your muscles tense around him and without missing a beat, a desperate sounding, “inside” reaches his ear. Your sex either drags him in or flutters even more and you hear him chuckle as you feel him fill you up even more than before. He whispers to not waste a drop, “we’ll deal with the consequences in a few hours. Pharmacy opens at 7.” you hum, rubbing a playful hand in his coarse hair.

The room smells like sex and days old perfume. You’re still acting as a cocksleeve to a teasing Mattsukawa, who for lack of better words, is deftly tracing the love bites on your chest. He loved how you massage his scalp, curls which never listened to him obey you. Complete submission of his body spurned by love for you is how he figures he’s with you in the present.

“Issei,” your throat hurts from the myriad of orgasms (both hard and perhaps a little more short lived to squeeze in two more post having Mattsukawa reach his high).

“Mm?”

“Thanks for walking me to my door.”

You both laugh, he kisses the corner of your eye. He stays with you to use the rest room and wash up; going so far as to pull out the extra bedding (your room was graciously a suite, so extra linen were in the closet). A protest of him leaving the bed so you have first dibs has him be curt with a resounding, “be good and go ahead. I’ll see you there first.”

Showering with Mattsukawa does have it’s perks though: you recall how the same hands that kept you close now are massaging your back muscles. You slightly hiss at the scratch on your spine when he dragged a calloused set of fingers down your midback. The suds do little to hide what little is there left to explore with each other. Water runs from lukewarm to hot when you rinse off only to be slightly kabedoned as Mattsukawa leans down to stare affectionately in your eyes. A silent question on his raised brow is answered when you smile right before pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Stepping out of the shower, you pull the curtain back a touch and answer formally:

“Mattsukawa Issei, I’ve loved you from the beginning. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

The man stands, stark naked like the day he was born, he turns the knob so the water shuts off. You hand him a towel sheepishly looking away before he deems himself ‘decent.’

“Good because sweetness, I will follow you to the ends of the earth…”

A mirthful smile and a slight yell of, “put me down!” was heard outside of your room, as Mattsukawa effortlessly picks you up asking if you’re brash enough to ruin this set of sheets too. And who are you to blissfully disagree?

[soranihimawari]

Stick Together

A story about a hat, a tailor, and a jailbird

The first BSD fic I wrote & it is centered around Chūya Nakahara

Word count: 3.6K

Pairing: (port mafia!) Chūya x (tailor-gifted) reader

Rating: CNF (Chūya Nakahara Fluff)// strangers->lovers

Warnings: mentions of poverty, growing up around drug users (none used by principal characters) , reader and Chūya do fight, mentions of Dazai

Sitting in a jail cell is not how one Chūya Nakahara thought he’d be spending his afternoon, yet here he was. A recon mission for the Port Mafia had gone awry after a client of the Armed Detective Agency had their cover blown by his fellow cohorts. Unfortunately when the battle had settled and cleared away via the local authorities, only a high ranking member of said mafia was apprehended.

Though the use of one phone call to his boss and another to a trusted lawyer, Chūya paces his holding cell now, hoping to change out of the dreadful ensemble jumper he had forcibly been told to wear (his signature top hat would only be returned to him after being released). Thankfully, his gloves that kept his power intact were allowed to be kept on his person.

The hat, though a stylish and signature wardrobe piece, had a tale uniquely its own. Perhaps if Chūya ever bothered to listen to his dear ol’friend Dazai more often, Chūya would have taken better care of it.

Once, when you were five, a teenage boy stopped by the city slums. Your parents were nowhere to be found, probably getting their fix on some gifted-approved uppers. The teenage boy arched his eyebrow at your direction as you unashamedly brought little straw dolls to life. You were a little puppeteer and you even chased the pigeons away with said talent. Magic was never lost in the eyes of a child, at least that was what the boy was thinking. He knelt down and beckoned you to come closer. Surely, you knew not to trust strangers, but with his charming grin and alluring smile, you couldn’t help approaching the older-young man.

“I’m Dazai.”

He extends a bandaged arm and hand to you.

“YN, mister dazai.”

You enthusiastically shake his hand. He chuckles at your eagerness to make a new friend—you stay out with him exploring the slums, making straw and paper-debris dolls, he fills your head with stories about the city he’s heading to for work. With the lights of the sunset reflecting upon your face, you notice a small black hat a few paces away. You run to grab it and give it to Dazai. Your smile is infectious for one who seems to have gotten lost in the wastelands.

Sometimes, you wonder what ever happened to the teenager with playful jokes and charming grin; other times, he wonders if you ever made it out of the slums. Your name never appeared in the obituaries over the course of the years—post wartime, post formation of the Port Mafia, and Armed Detective Agency. Imagine the surprised look on an older Dazai when he spots you chatting with his old apprentice, Chūya, in a tailor’s shop.

Dazai notices the hat Chūya is wearing, surely you’d know whose hat that was. He enters the building undetected wondering how this will play out:

“That’s not your hat sir,” you are stubborn in your tone. Chūya looks offended as he scoffs.

“Oh, and pray tell,” Chūya squinted and read your hand embroidered name on your worker’s apron. “YN, who’s hat is it?”

“An old friend of mine! I-I-I haven’t seen him in a while,” you now your head in defeats. A quivering pout forms on your lips and you muster up your resolve to explain how you were a child of the slums, the teenage boy you befriended, the hat, and that one blissful afternoon you were able to be yourself.

At this admission, Chūya removes his hat and scratches his auburn head.

“And this guy…did he have a name?”

“Dazai-san. Do you know what happened to him?”

Chūya glances up to see the person in question hiding behind a coat rack; Dazai blinks back in a code only Chūya deciphers as, ‘tell them I’m ok. I made it out of the slums at that point in my life just fine.’

You fiddle with the ties on your left when Chūya released a resigned sigh.

“He made it out of the slums just fine,” he relays the message through gritted teeth as his former boss and mentor leaves through the alternative side door entrance of the shop. Your eyes widen when this intriguing man not much older than yourself allows you to hold the hat.

“Y’know he was supposed to come find me?” you fiddle with the brim. “I was five years old, making dolls that could move on their own with paper scraps…”

You glance down at the hat with misting eyes.

“He never came back, did he?” Chūya inquires. He didn’t want to take too much longer since he was supposed to be at the drop location (for his current next mission) in under an hour and fifteen minutes.

“No,” you hand him back the hat with a short lived sniffle. You sort of let out this soft laugh. “Dazai was unique, to say the least. He did have enough gall to encourage me and…”

A few dolls made of excess yarn and thread held up several push pin needles thus freezing the port mafia man in place.

Of course this was a sting trap. Why couldn’t Chūya see through this? Or wait…

“You-you think I killed him?” He nearly doubled over in laughter when he locked his eyes with your stone cold ones.

Your anger and shortened fuse cause a few of the dolls to deliberately take a fighting stance. Your hand came into contact and thus you struck the Chūya Nakahara, upper rank in the Port Mafia, across the cheek with a slap. Your hand was calloused and roughened from years of living in the slums, only to be discovered for your needlework by an embroiderer who let you inherit the tailoring shop after her retirement. Chūya was caught so off guard by the physicality of your slap he nearly lost control of his gravity gift for a moment there.

“No,” your voice is icy and there is a fist of yours that nearly collides with his other cheek. “I just think Mister Dazai wouldn’t let such an idiotic member of the port mafia wear the hat I gave him.”

Chūya grabs your wrist and forcibly twists your arm behind your back as he stands behind you, urging you to calm yourself.

“Sweetheart,” his tone changed from that of a thief to a serial murderer. Your blood doesn’t run cold at this nickname, rather your brain and your heart chose to follow two very different paths: the first is telling you to at least elbow him in the ribs and give him some sassy remark; the second chooses with every inconceivable thump of blood in and around your body, decides the next words to fall out of your mouth.

“Yes darling?” your arm is rigid in his bruising hold.

Chūya’s suit jacket grazes your lower arm close to the wrist behind your back as he straightens up with you in front of him. He inhales the scent of freshly rained lavender from your clothing, from your hair, you excite his need to flirt with you longer with the way it twists and turns into a lowered braid, now draped over the opposite end of your back.

“Dazai would have mentioned you to me if you were so important to him back then, wouldn’t you ag-ack!”

You stomp on his foot, causing his hold to loosen enough for you to lunge forward and have your small army of threaded men ready their push-pin needle weapons at the largest threat you might face: a gravity manipulating monster.

Chūya hears you hurl insults at him in a language he thought he had forgotten: it’s a lost and dead dialect of those who grew up in the slums. Broken Japenese mixed with a few French words and hyphenated with English terminologies made him reassess the situation at hand. All he had wanted to do today at this tailor’s shop was ask for a new pair of pants that went well with his winter’s coat. Instead, he finds you, a loss last connection to his former mafia ‘big brother’ at the cost of not revealing the understanding fact Dazai had been keeping some tabs on you since you had parted ways all those years ago.

Dazai is a man of many talents and connections, such a feat would be possible even if you were never to be found again. After all, since the president of the Armed Detective Agency had been recruited as part of the team which busted the trap house your junkie parents had overdosed in, Dazai had been put in charge specifically looking into those next of kin whose loved one had since died during the siege. Apparently, your photo when you were five had been shuffled in with the rest. The president nodded when he had finished wrapping up the report with the authorities, however considering one member of his team had been thinking about how well a young orphan was doing in the streets, it is fair to say Dazai had been keeping track of you.

When you were done calling him every name under the sun, Chūya stood back and dusted off his suit. It wasn’t as wrinkled as he had thought, yet on the sign of good faith, the thread-men army you had created had slowly begun to unravel.Your frustrated tears had subsided thus leaving Chūya staring at you with his mouth slightly agape. His hat was still on the table from where he left it and his brilliant eyes shine with curiosity.

“YLN?”

The blood in your face drains a bit when you stumble backwards.

“I haven’t been known by that name for quite some time,” you breathe a little easier. “How did you know my family name?”

Chūya wants to tell you the truth, the whole part about his life prior to Dazai up until the mad lad left the group; he wants to tell you about how a few years after the trap house bust, he probably saw you trying to sell your wares in a flea market at night in another town. Sure you donned what the shelter would have given you, yet you made it your own (and no one would think twice about the embroidered flower branches covering a year’s long seam rip). Akutagawa and his faction were watching for any signs of the were-tiger in said night market, yet luckily for those who had gone on ahead, no one seemed to have taken note of your little kerchiefs. All but one, if Chūya were to be completely transparent with you. You dry your own tears, just like you did that first day when no one chose to buy any of your goods, yet now as you look on at the redhead, you hold your wrist. Dark splotches of light red and purple begin forming an imprint of his hand; feeling of guilt is not a foreign concept to Chūya, yet you allow him to approach you.

You’re hugging yourself, insulting yourself for almost attacking a customer in your store, one who knew of the teenage boy who took you far away from the location where your guardians were too busy trying to find their escape in lethal doses.

For once, Chūya doesn’t say anything brash. There is a stillness he brings when he sees how fast you can calm yourself, and yet when he glances at your arm, he chooses to show a bit of mercy. All this for a hat, huh? His inner thoughts scoff at him. Ever so curious, Chūya takes a short step of faith toward you.

“YLN?” he asks in such a voice laced with a false sense of sweetness.

“Go away,” you’re stern and deliberate in your dismissal.

If looks could kill, Chūya would be dead on the ground at that very moment. Your eyes are growing colder every second that ticks by. Chūya himself might have just shot you because you immediately begin to tune him out even as the words of apologies flutter about and out of his mouth hoping to reach your ears.

And yet, three days later, you don’t listen. Not even when you’re told about the news when you clock in to the seamstress office that morning. From what your co-workers had told you, there was a raid on a Port Mafia safehouse not too far from here. Apparently a deal with the Armed Detective Agency might have turned sour with the arrival of another organization threatening the life of the Gifted.

“...thank goodness none of us are Gifted,” an older co-worker says as she pours herself a cup of coffee.

“Yeah. I think we’d lose so many customers, don’t you think so, yn-san?” the other seamstress that morning chides on.

You fix yourself a cup of coffee as well humming along, not willing to expose yourself as one of those they say with a disdain in their tone. Honestly, with those three days, now four, without hearing back from the intolerable redhead, you wonder if he was swept up and caught in the whole affair.

So Chūya sits in his cell’s bunk bed, waiting for a lawyer or another grunt worker to come bust him out of jail. He wants to ensure the hat, his hat, can be returned to you in one piece for repairs. Chūya’s thoughts drift every now and then back to you; did your bruises heal? He still wishes to apologize to you, for angering you, for annoying the crap out of you, hell, for even calling you ‘sweetheart.’ Chūya’d run through the entire city if it meant you could be his, and he wonders now if leaving the life of a mobster behind is a path open to him.

“People with likened minds, who share sorrows, or tales of hardships, will gravitate toward the other,” Chūya whispers this to the nothingness of the cold concrete walls of the cell.

Tonight he will play nice with the guards, tomorrow, he’ll stop by the tailor’s shop hoping against all odds you’d join him for tea.

A sudden crash and surprised shouts of the guards outside the highly defended unit for the Gifted can be heard about thirty feet away. There is gunfire and even more shouts as the sirens blare.

Turns out, Chūya doesn’t have to wait for long at all. If there is one thing you’d learn about Chūya and his subordinates in the Port Mafia is that they are loyal to the elders for as long as they are willing to obey. Under Akutagawa’s orders, Chūya was supposed to be freed one way or the other and the current Boss would clear up any misunderstandings calling it a ‘peaceful protest’ gone awry on local news that late evening.

Currently, Chūya rides in the back of a taxi, finally changed out of the tragic sham of a jumpsuit, with his faithful hat in tow. Forty city blocks are cleared in a matter of minutes as the getaway cab had it’s driver and passenger breaking the speed limit within normal parameters so as to not disturb the citizens (best they can). Yet, the driver is a familiar face and though Chūya claims he never wanted his help, Dazai just smiles away in the rearview mirror.

“Make up with my old-new friend,” Dazai has a serious expression on his face. “YN-san hasn’t been dealing well with the new regulations for the GIfted and might have been found out tonight.”

A bandaged hand throws back a smartphone with the article of business listings with gifted employee members both known and unregistered ones. The tailor’s shop is listed there within the first column, in the middle of said list, and Chūya swallows nervously. His hat is upon his head when Dazai pushes the brakes too hard. Chūya doesn’t say a word until he opens and slams the door shut behind him yelling a word of thanks over his shoulders as he runs the rest of the way.

It is nearly eleven at night when you’re about to exit the store when you hear a pounding on the front glass. All those early hens had decided to leave early once their latest projects were done, so it was just you who had left the cashiering duties until the end of the night. The lock for the safe had already been bolted, your apron had been hung up almost immediately after the last customer left for the night, so imagine your surprise when you see what, or rather, who, was making such a ruckus.

You roll your eyes, not ready to deal with this jerk on the other side of the glass. Suffice to say, until he types out a message on his smartphone and holds it up to the window:

‘Open up. I think my hat needs a repair…Please?’

You read as promptly as you can before unlocking the front. Chūya passes through with ease and he hides in the corner of the shop away from the searchlights of helicopters and other law enforcement vehicles flashing their sirens down the quiet streets. He waits for a fifth police car to ride past before reaching over to where you stood, holding on to your hand with his gloved one. He holds it as firmly as you hold on to him, a worried brow raised at him. You know what you want to ask, however, you acknowledge there will be time to explain everything from the top when the coast is clear. With his free hand he makes a sign to stay as silent as possible to move within the shadows of your shop, guiding you back to the offices where the soft glow of the desk lamp lit the back office.

“You got any alcohol?” Chūya inquires as he motions for you to have a seat.

“No, only coffee,” you shrug your shoulders before running a hand nervously through your hair.

“Bah, I don’t drink the stuff, but I suppose you might enjoy it,” Chūya says, leaning on your desk.

You glance up from his shoes to his face, you notice he might not be as tall as you recall from a few days ago, yet he is strikingly, robustly, handsome. Sure, a few patrons of the store did have their preset preferences, but now, in the late evening, amidst the glow of the lamp, does one Chūya Nakahara tell you about his life both before, during, and after meeting Dazai.You sit back and listen, fixing yourself another cup of coffee as he comes clean about every little detail he could think of about Dazai’s time within the Mafia family.

“...and that’s why I stopped here earlier last weekend…”

“Because you had a mission in the next town over?”

“No,well, not really.”

Chūya hands you a note in Dazai’s script instructing the red head to keep an eye on a person who looks like the composite sketch the note is written on. The sketch must have been made by one of those with a gift for sketching or one of the many who can recall with photographic memory the countenance of a person with only a few descriptors to go by.

“Uncanny, ain’t it?” Chūya chuckles when he sees your lips turn slightly upward.

“There is something written on the bottom, right?” you ask, seeing a few light pen parks on the bottom left of the page. Rounding the corner by the desk your company leans against, you take a final sip of your beverage before joining him on the side there. Chūya still holds the sketch in his hand.

You and Chūya are in close proximity to each other, so much so your lips graze his jaw when you read the inscription to him.

“Stick together.”

Chūya turns to you suddenly, not realizing how close you truly were because though he felt your lips graze his jaw, he was not expecting his own to become pressed to the top of yours so suddenly. It takes a half a minute to realize what had transpired, yet you don’t push him away, much to his surprise. Rather, you pursue his lips again the moment you feel his free hand turn your chin more toward his face. He wishes to heal some wounds of your past over and over again the longer you let him linger there.

“Is your arm ok?” he deftly asks, placing the paper on your desk so as to trace over the yellowing marks covered by your shirt sleeve.

“Mmhm,” you nod against his forehead. “I think it’ll heal faster if you kiss it.”

“Hah,” Chūya pecks the corner of your mouth, sneakily raises your injured arm to his shoulder. “Are you flirting with me dear?”

You shake your head, defending your innocence. “I wasn’t the one who leaned in first. Heh.”

Rolling his eyes, Chūya smirks before peppering your arm where he had his hand been wrapped, clearly smitten by the sudden attention he was given. You tried to hide behind your blush, yet he genuinely smiles when he pauses, curling his forefinger to trace your cheekbone.

“You’re much more beautiful than I thought,” he confides in you.

You’re still a few inches shorter than he is, but nonetheless you relish in delight, thus causing a small number of thread people to be created on a whim. Purple satin ribbons with a star design are soon being fabricated as a secondary option to the tarnished yellowing one on the hat at the furthest corner of the table.

“And you’re not as lethal when you’re docile like this,” you let him kiss your knuckles before you shy away.

Chūya presses his forehead against your own, taking a deep breath leaving your hand against his shoulder. Closing his eyes, he exhales.

“Stick together,” you say to each other like a secret.

Sirens and search parties can be dealt with in the morning, for now, you enjoy this slice of paradise for as long both of you can.

[soranihimawari]

flowers for a souless king

Word count: tbd

Rating: T/M (teen to mature for theme)

Pairing: geto suguru x reader (before the madness begins)

geto suguru has been your upstairs neighbor for the last six years. he is your dorm buddy, your late night case closing report editor, every boy (or girl)'s sexual awakening, or next heartbreak. not yours. and definitely not his best friend and bane of your gloomy existence, gojo satoru's. this topic of discussion came about after nanami came back from a trip. ok, a mission, with his close classmate. that being said, you were invited out to eat at the local fried chicken place because shoko said she'd spot you this time around.

"what happened to you?" gojo seemed aghast at the bags under your eyes.

"me? oh you mean the raccoon eyes?" you rub your temples before geto and shoko arrive with the trays of fried chicken. "i had to close several cases by 23:59 last night and a certain neighbor-geto-had brought home some date or whatever ya call fucking buddies these days."

shoko nearly chokes at my bluntness and gojo just laughs.

"nice going romeo," the ice blonde says and geto rolls off his shoulder.

"she has a name you know, yn."

"does it look like i care?" you bite into the chicken thigh and are carnivorous when devouring it. "any word on nanami-san?"

gojo shakes his head. "not yet, but ichiji-san is picking them up."

"ah, ok," you reply. "save him a bucket, shoko."

"way ahead of ya," shoko holds up a fourth bucket in a to-go bag.

you four continue eating and not once would you have noticed the way gojo and geto stare back and forth at each other. it's stares only best friends would exchange anyway. you and shoko do the same.

"i don't know what's going on in boy world over there, but you two better stop looking at yn-san like they’re a prize to win," shoko scolds them both on my behalf.

an hour goes by and we're still in the kfc before our phones go off.

"we lost another one," is all you say and we head out immediately.

gojo is not even on campus when he sends out a text saying that he needs to go finish what nanami and his partner had started in another city. shoko lights up a cigarette for her friend. geto and you head back to the morgue to pay your respects.

"geto, wait," you pull his shirt sleeve and force him to turn to face you. you study his features, you see a small light dim behind his eyes, you know why that girl upstairs bothered you. "the woman you were with, she was an orb, wasn't she?"

"what does it matter? our friend is dead," geto replies bitterly.

"geto," you assert your stance to be more rigid and form a block on the door. "sugu."

he softens his features at that nickname you gave him since second year. "sugu, you're spiraling."

"am not."

"are to."

"i'm not."

"suguru," your other hand touches his cheek furthest away from you and turn his face to lock eyes with you. "let me in, please? i won't hurt you. you know i can't..."

you give him a hopeful smirk before he turns away from your touch coldly saying you're wasting your time. you make a snap decision to hug him from behind firmly, tightening your hold on his torso when he reaches the door knob.

"not giving up," you whisper into his shoulder blades before loosening your hold and letting him walk inside.

some time later, you're in your room, rereading the case which lead nanami to become more interested in finance. you hear a knock on your door.

"shoko?" you open it and she looks at you confused. "where?"

"room 13, since nine am yesterday."

you push past her and she sits in your dorm, wondering if you can pull geto suguru out of his darkest pitfall yet.

"geto?" you knock on room 13's door. "geto, it's me."

"go away," he growls at you.

"you know how stubborn i am."

geto picks up a bar of soap and throws it at the door. the bang causes you to jump back.

"geto, please," you rest your forehead against the door. "we've known each other for better half of three? six years now..."

you let your technique bound by nature deliver wisteria blooms to ward off evil. it forms a pocket barrier and veil around you and him. you're no longer visible to the prying eyes of a certain family clan. geto is familiar with this domain. it's the first one you showed him you could do successfully at 14 years old. coincidentally, it's the same rose tinted hue which telegraphed how you felt about him. tonight? it was a lilac color: in sweetness there is strength. and when he emerges from the room, he rests his weary head on your shoulders, arms that were once so strong, hold you so tight you can barely breathe.

you run your hands through his unwashed hair, doing your best to not cause him anymore pain when your fingers find the knots.

"it's so, so meaningless," he mumbles into your shirt.

"what is?" you nudge him to tell you, kissing his temple with a soft expression of affection.

"what we do. what is the point if we can't even protect our own kind?"

"...the death of one versus the many, geto. you know yaga will be like that too. however, you have no time to grieve. so come with me and we can grieve our friend together."

five days later, i wake in his bed, curled into a little ball wearing his jacket. geto must have left me after he kissed me over and over again to remind himself good things can happen to balance out the darkness brewing within himself. his flower crown of sunflowers and vines rests on my head, a note on his pillow follows.

"to the one who loved a soulless king,

have courage & be resilient.

the worst is yet to come when a good man loses his mind to war."

later that same evening, the news plays on all tvs: "2000 people dead in the mountain village off the coast of okinawa. only 3 survivors and one of them, is the son of the geto family."

years go by, i stay the same. public enemy number one is still geto, yet i know this isn't him. his body was stolen by another powerful curse i wish would lay the man to rest. gojo tells me to head east to find nanami in shibuya with their shared pink and navy-haired proteges.

"it's not too late to join the fight," nanami tells me over the phone the night before 31st october.

"i'll see you in shibuya. it's a call to arms, nanami," i sigh, brandishing my spear. "gojo and shoko called me too. i'll be on the east side. be safe."

"come back alive, yn."

be safe. come back alive. survive the darkness. save our old friend's soul and let the ghost of our youth rest. <- famous last words spoken by nanami, myself, shoko, and the last bit came from the strongest of us all.