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sashimiyas · 1 year

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The Burden of Being

Summary: There was an Osamu who loved you once. Who loved Onigiri Miya so much he spent most of his waking hours there, supported loyally by the members of Hyogo Ward. A fire changes that and he and his twin brother adopt their old high school motto: we don’t need the memories. Now they’re gone and memories are all you have. So as an homage to the man you love, you reopen his restaurant back up for him.

Pairings: miya osamu x reader (romantic); miya atsumu x reader (familial); akaashi keiji x reader (platonic)

Content: angst; fluff; inaccurate portrayal of how amnesia works; there is a hospital scene; fem reader; reader eats meat; reader has depressive symptoms that are, for the most part, amateurly addressed; reader attends therapy; alcohol as a coping method; undiagnosed alcoholism; unhealthy coping mechanisms; cigarette smoker Akaashi; cigarette smoker Osamu; amnesiac Osamu; pro volleyball player Osamu; the characters are all in their mid to late twenties bc this fic covers the time span of 2+ years; long passages written within parentheses are memories; there is a mentionable size difference between Osamu and reader where reader can wear his clothes and it be too big for them

Word count: 22k+

A/n: the premise for this fic was born after binging The Bear; she's gone through 4 drafts, 2 of which were completely scrapped and rewritten, and strayed much further from the initial plot than I imagined, but she's here! Thank you The 1975 for writing About You which I binged just as hard and would rec listening to it while you read! Sets the vibe, you know? Anyways, I've talked too much (obviously) but if you read, know that I love you!

The day was Tuesday, the most unforgettably forgettable Tuesday to exist.

Your downstairs neighbor was doing laundry. Or upstairs. Someone was doing laundry that day because you remember the scent of down. It lifted into your bedroom, pressed into your sheets, and made it harder for you to wake up despite your phone’s incessant vibration.

A shounen ending song, the season finale. A matcha roll. A nurse who spoke with her fingers and head tilts. A walker with tennis balls at the bottom, an annoyed cab driver, and a tourist who smelled too strong of American deodorant.

They were all there. You remember.

The hospital was the same as ever. It had ample seating, not too busy, which you recall eased the burden on your heart (only slightly) if it weren’t for the reason you were in the hospital to begin with.

An elderly woman sat at the end in one of the chairs pushed against the wall, sucking on a candy that smelled like guava when you passed. Her walker was parked right next to the seat and someone, probably her daughter because she was younger but they looked alike –they shared the same nose– sat beside her on her phone.

There was a man in an obscenely large overcoat sitting in one of the middle aisle seats. You remember because you couldn’t help but be quietly jealous of his wear considering how cold it was in the lobby. And finally, a teenager who was crying on her phone, holding her stomach as she did. Her tears gave you courage, allowed you to slip them quietly down your cheeks and soaked them up with your sleeves when you got your moment alone, away from the rest of the family.

You weren’t there when Osamu got hurt. He was by himself in the restaurant, opening it up and getting it ready before everyone else arrived just like how he always insisted.

You weren’t there. But you do remember.

Ma held you in her arms the moment you turned the hallways. She was on her way to the cafeteria, grabbing something for Atsumu to eat. Her head was downturned, a doleful cadence in her steps, and it was obvious that she’d spent ample time shedding tears, but there was a quiet peacefulness to her. Acceptance.

Her phone call had been quick like a debrief. She mentioned an accident. A fire, a gas leak, and despite your gasp, quickly told you not to worry because the doctors said Osamu would be fine. She said to come when you could, because she was there and Atsumu was on his way and he was going to be okay.

Then when you arrived, she immediately started crying. She had pulled you into a hug, devoured your body into hers as she pressed her head into your chest to weep.

She cried before she even got to say hello. And you didn’t know then, but there was a hierarchy for the pain.

Atsumu bore Osamu’s, Mama Miya, her sons’. And with you on the outside, with you being the last arrival, you held all of theirs.

And gods, do you remember the pain.

Ma had warned you that Atsumu was attached to his brother’s bedside. He was hunched over in a chair pushed back so he could burrow his head into the crooks of his elbows. The steady rise of his back meant he was asleep, probably cried himself to it. It had been a long journey from Osaka to Hyogo, and just the news of his brother’s incident, the weeping he must have done in public and bedside, you didn’t even question his exhaustion.

With your eyes on Osamu’s still figure, you moved to rub your hand soothingly along the length of Atsumu’s back. Comfort him was your thought process. Comfort your brother because Osamu would have wanted you to.

Was it bad to say that, inside, burrowed deep in your selfishness, you felt relief? There was a certain calmness that Osamu had been lacking lately, like a Tuesday morning where he finally, begrudgingly, gave himself an extra day off.

It wasn’t until you felt liquid dip down your neck that you realized you were crying.

Dark hair sweetly tussled to the side, one hand held in Atsumu’s and the other loosely laid over his chest. The scene was a rewind to the past, a replica of a childhood stored in the photo albums you’ve perused more than once in the Miya family home, when sharing beds and staying up until dawn led them to sleeping in until noon. When was the last time you’d seen him so… calm?

If only there weren’t any bandages on his head. If only it didn’t take these kinds of circumstances to finally close his eyes, to allow himself an unlabored breath.

You pulled up a chair and situated yourself amongst them. Atsumu at Osamu’s right, and you at Atsumu’s. Rolling a hand over Osamu’s thigh, you tucked the blankets in, pressed it into the crevices, his soft body heavy under your ministrations. Neither of them noticed you. Osamu only shuffled slightly, tilted his knee to the side and then clenched Atsumu harder. Atsumu responded immediately and scooted in. You stayed beside them, observed from the side.

There was no bitterness to your actions. What they have is something different and sincerely, for them to even love you so much that their bond bent, that they made themselves flexible to fit you in, it had always been enough.

Atsumu was who you called when you couldn’t talk sense into Osamu. And Osamu was who you turned to when Atsumu’s pride refused to allow him to fully run to his brother.

Ma came later. She brought a matcha swiss roll for the both of you to share and Atsumu a complete bento. It roused both of her boys up. Atsumu woke up first.

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his left hand, the one still joined with Osamu’s and though he woke with his nose in the air, his freehand started reaching for you the moment he recognized you were there.

Your tears brought on his. His yours. Yours Ma’s. You held each other close and you whispered, because Atsumu could not bring himself to speak, words of consolation.

“He looks okay,” you muttered, eyes closed because you couldn’t chance a glance to look at him, to really, really look at him. “He’s going to be fine. He’s so stubborn. He’s going to be okay.”

Whether the words were salt or sugar on wounds, it was hard to tell because all that emptied from anyone’s eyes were tears.

No one expected to be here. Who did? Even when you watched Osamu sign the insurance policy and signed your name next to his just in case something happened. Something could never happen to you or Atsumu or Ma or Osamu. These were precautions to ease the heart, not the premise of a tragedy.

But even then, it would be dishonest for you to admit that Osamu’s accident was the most devastating part. You’re only being truthful because true pain began when Osamu woke up.

Atsumu noticed first. Even with his back to his brother, it was instinct that forced him to turn around. His groggy eyes were barely open. You could only see a slit of gray, drowsy and clouded like an overcast morning as his hand patted the edges of his bed as if in search of something. Of Atsumu.

The dutiful brother forewent everything. You, his ma, his bento, and immediately bent down to reach for his brother with both hands. He was at his side immediately, a cup of water brought to Osamu’s parched lips without a word before you could even recognize that Osamu was awake and against all disbelief, that he looked okay.

You took the napkin that was neatly folded atop of Atsumu’s bento, the one that had somehow been passed onto you and quickly made your way to Osamu’s side. To Atsumu’s side. And when Atsumu’s hand pulled back and Osamu resigned himself to a weary groan, eyes shut to take a physical break from all the hurt you were sure he was feeling, you handed Atsumu the napkin. He wiped the corner of his brother’s mouth with a gentleness you had never seen him bear.

An eerie silence persisted in the room as everyone held their breath. Osamu did so because of the aches and everyone else as a life vest because one wrong exhale felt like this reality could slip away.

It did. Frighteningly quick. Relief dissolved from your chest like cotton candy in water and all was left was this cloying and overbearing feeling of inconsolable despondence and disbelief because how? How did you end up here?

Osamu flinched when you pressed your hand against his thigh, a quick jerk that you surmised had to do with the fact that he had his eyes closed. You twisted your palm and stroked up, a move that you had done many, many times before, a premise to sex, a plea for comfort, and instead of him falling prey to your touch, he jerked out of your reach. There wasn’t even enough time for you to react because Atsumu had gripped your hand away between clammy fingers.

You looked between the two boys with a heart going brittle.

“What’s wrong, Samu?”

Said man took one quick glance at you before settling his gaze on his brother and a foreign expression passed him. Insecurity. He pressed himself deeper into his pillows and it forced Atsumu forward and you back as Osamu passed a glance to his mother.

He looked like a boy. And between exchanging glances at his mother and brother, Osamu couldn’t seem to find it in himself to return his gaze back to you.

Atsumu gripped his brother’s shoulder, “Samu, Samu. It’s okay. I’m here. We’re here.”

Osamu responded silently with a glazed stare that made Atsumu sputter. “Samu? Ya feel okay? Can ya tell me how ya feeling right now?”

The question seemed far too much to handle because all that was received was silence. Atsumu was hardly holding himself together with the tears that spilled from his eyes onto blotted, pink cheeks but you couldn’t bring yourself to move forward. You wanted to help carry this burden, hold Osamu like you’d done many times before, but the world felt skewed. Instead of being at his bedside, you felt like you were standing outside a window, watching the scene from a distance.

“Do ya… do ya know who I am?”

Ma broke first. You remember reaching backwards and gripping a wet hand full of used tissues, the fibers sticking to your skin.

“Samu. Samu.” Atsumu repeated his name over and over again like prayer, an incantation meant for miracles. “Samu. Say my name.”

“Tsumu.” The small croak was accompanied by the mildest glare, a small fire of insult always and specifically reserved for his brother and Atsumu choked.

“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s me. Ya remember our birthday?”

“October.”

“What day?”

His face pinched momentarily.

“What day, Samu?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Atsumu tried to deflect, “just try to think about it. What day is our birthday, Samu?”

“Atsumu…” Ma finally gained the strength to speak, a tiny chide that she was too exhausted to actually give any weight.

“Fifth,” Osamu pushed himself to sound out, like the word was a foreign tongue.

“Yeah, that’s right.” Atsumu brushed his brother’s hair with his fingers and the sight was disconcerting because despite how close they were, how they were one part of a whole, they had never been so careful. A childhood of roughhousing and testing limits proved invincibility.

Bruises and beatings and cuts that they wrought on eachother and yet there Atsumu was, tending to his brother as if he’d been his caretaker all his life.

“Ya recognize anyone else in the room?”

“Course I recognize Ma, ya idiot.” He coughed in between, stutters forming one worded sentences, but the attitude brought on the brightest smile on Atsumu’s face.

“Yeah, and who else?”

You remember moving to lift your hand, the one pressed against your lips to keep them from trembling, the one that wasn’t holding Ma’s, to provide a shy wave but thank the gods it stayed. Because when Osamu finally urged himself to look at you, instead of the ardor and the sweet groggy expression right before early morning kisses, he winced in pain. You muffled the sound of shock, but no one noticed with Atsumu’s screeching chair as he rushed to hover over Osamu’s anguished figure.

He writhed for an achingly long moment, though it must have been just seconds. You would have ran off if Ma didn’t force her grip on you tighter but once Osamu could melt back into his hospital bed, Atsumu turned his head.

His expression was tight and so desperately trying to be controlled despite himself. But you weren’t an idiot because beyond the glassy edge of hurt and worry and fear, if you dove deeper beneath the well of tears that pooled in his eyes, was blame.

Atsumu turned his back to you and pressed his brother’s head into his chest as he rubbed large strikes across his back. “It’s okay, Samu. Sorry I pushed ya. Ya did well. Ya did good. Ya gonna be okay.”

And before Ma could stop you, you ran out the door with the excuse that you were going to find a doctor. You turned down the hallways, heedless of direction, where you were able to find what you thought was a secluded cove. The torment was gushing, a pain that you’d never felt or could even begin to understand. No matter how you expelled the misery, in tears or heaves or wracked out sobs, the hurt never abated. It was limitless.

Because for some ridiculous reason, this felt like all your fault.

You were only able to spend minutes crouched in the privacy of your corner until a nurse found you. It must have been a usual sight because she hovered over you, a quiet calm in her voice, as she led you away with a bottle of juice in one hand and into a room where no one else was. She said nothing, only passed napkins your way and didn’t blame you when you couldn’t find it in yourself to express gratitude. Afterward, she pointed down a long hallway and told you that when you were ready, that’s where the waiting room was.

Ma came by maybe an hour later. The pain at that point had swelled into your marrow, aching at every movement you made, but the bubbling river of tears had turned shallow. Now they were silent streams. You had spent the last half hour in solidarity with the teen who cried to her mom over the phone, catching glances every time a sniffle turned wet, and seated in the spot with a lingering guava and menthol scent.

Ma sat where the grandmother had, you beside her. Without glancing up, she placed the matcha roll in your hands, half eaten but notably uneven because you had the larger half.

Her touch lingered. It stayed. When it prompted more crying, the reality that you were a pitiable sight, that this wasn’t just shared between you and the girl with her arm around her stomach and the wordless nurse, the swollen bones in your body bursted.

Ma’s cold hands easily maneuvered you into her bosom. She held like you’d seen her hold Osamu in pictures when he was sick, like how she held Aran when he cried after coming back home after being away for so long.

“We’ll get through this.”

It sounded like an empty sentiment but if anyone were able to make the impossibles come true, it was Ma and Ma alone. You barely believed her, but maybe. Most likely not, but maybe, she was right.

So you nodded into her chest but she only clicked her tongue behind her teeth.

“Together,” she told you sternly, “as a family. I don’t want to hear none of that.” Ma held you tighter when she felt you pull away. “Ya’ve been my daughter for a long time now. Even if the two of ya never got married.”

You’d been trying to be so strong. For Osamu because it was obvious. He was your partner for life, and though the vows were never spoken, you had lived them. For all the good, the bad, the happy, and the sick.

But Atsumu, his pain was tenfold and you had to do something, even if it was to tread the thorny footpath to be by his side, even if it was just your hands cupped open so you could help carry his misery.

Then Ma held you like she was strong enough to piece you together again and you trusted her. Your wails were muffled into her cardigan and she rocked you back and forth despite the arms of the uncomfortable chairs in the way.

“It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t–” your breath ceased, words lingering in the air because living it is already unbearable enough.

“He does.”

“He doesn’t.”

“Ya think a love like the two of ya had is that easy to forget?”

It wasn’t. Or at least, it wasn’t supposed to. But the way Osamu had winced in pain at the sight of you, and Atsumu’s imperceptible glare, maybe it was best to be forgotten.

Ma took your silence as agreement because the circle of her arms loosened. She pulled back so that she could wipe your tears with a bent index finger.

It was jarring seeing the puffy rise below her eyes. She had always been beautiful in your opinion. A simple charm for life and the zest derived from raising two wildly vivacious boys kept her young. In a single day, she aged a decade and you wondered how you compared.

“The doctor is on their way. Come on,” she tapped you the same way she did whenever Atsumu started an unnecessary argument, “let’s go see what they have to say.”

Atsumu’s expression flashed in your mind, hesitation clenched her cardigan tighter, “but Atsumu…”

“Don’t be mad at Atsumu,” your throat had lurched when she looked away from you, head tilted to the side as if you had just slapped her across the face. “He’s going through a lot. He doesn’t know what to do.”

And you remember how your grip relaxed, how your arms had fallen into your lap, diminutive and so, very exhausted. Never did it cross your mind to be angry at the way any of them ached. Not Ma, not Atsumu, and especially not Osamu. If there was anyone you hated, it was yourself for even being there.

Ma said you were family. But Atsumu and Osamu, of course, they would always be her boys.

Osamu was asleep when you reentered the room and Atsumu held your hand as if nothing had ever happened. He stood up immediately when the doctor stopped by, eyes forward. Something had changed that day. Atsumu was a different man.

He’d have neverending stories of when he was captain at Inarizaki, and he liked to pass time by retelling another instance where he had to wrangle control of Bokuto, or Sakusa, or Hinata. Atsumu’s passion and sense of righteousness were great qualities for a leader, but his clumsy delivery always made him the butt of Osamu’s (among others) jokes.

That day had changed him. His footfall was sure despite his blemished expression as he listened faithfully to the doctor, only ascertaining everything you had already deduced.

It all made sense, logically, scientifically, situationally.

The fire was still being investigated but from the report, it had loosened the foundation of Onigiri Miya and it caused a beam from the ceiling to strike him flat against the head. He’d been knocked unconscious before the flames could even consume the restaurant and if it hadn’t been for the regulars and the community that had memorized their favorite restauranteur’s habits, no one would have even known he was inside.

As you all waited for Osamu to come to again, you’d rationalized the incident repeatedly in your mind. Reality though, was never as kind.

Because even in the tepid fluorescent light, you couldn't convince yourself. This could not be real.

It’s not. You knew this, but Osamu spoke with such vindication, honesty in every breath that even he had you fooled.

“Ya traded out Kageyama when we were six points down in the second set.” Osamu recited to his brother at his bedside, in the same spot, in the same clothes, in the same battered expression. “And I remember cheering ya on from the bench when ya set the winning point to Aran against Russia.”

The silence that followed was cold. A shiver started at the dip of your shoulder blades, and wrung you out like a towel squeezed dry.

The doctors had said something like this would happen. Memories could return a little misplaced, as if you had just moved everything two inches to the left because it exactly was as Osamu said.

In the 2020 Olympics, Japan faced Russia in the first round. They won the first set, but struggled hard in the second. To prevent risking their lead, Kageyama was subbed out for Atsumu. The tides had turned and they won with Aran scoring the last point.

Yes, Osamu was there. But rather than on the bench, he was outside the arena. You were manning the register and he’d stepped outside the final moments of the match, standing there with his arms crossed like a dad, cap in one hand, and head tilted at the enormous screen that streamed the ongoing match inside.

Atsumu was the one who made the first sound. It was strangled and faded when his brother gave him a peculiar look. Then he glanced at his mother, urging answers out with his eyes, staring at everything before landing at you. His face contorted in pain, but Atsumu saved him. He grabbed his brother’s cheeks, hair glued to his skin, and he pressed his forehead against his brothers, and nodded.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what happened.”

That was the extent of what you could take and you ran out of the room, droplets of your tears mingling with the tile’s speckled pattern, and when the door clicked again, you didn't have to look up to know who it was.

“I’m sorry.”

Through your blurry vision, the world graying, darkness descending right before your eyes, it was like you were speaking to Osamu himself.

“He looks happy for the first time and I’m so sorry.” The Atsumu-Osamu amalgamation held your hands desperately.

Their individualism had always been easy to parse, especially with you being devotedly in love with one and having developed a brotherly affection for the other, but you allowed yourself this. If your heart must break, let Osamu herald this pain. No one else.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” He pulled you in by the shoulders and hugged you. He sniveled wet breaths into your neck just as you darkened the cloth on his back. “It’s the first time I feel whole.”

The sting reappeared between your nose and you found it harder to breathe so you clutched him tighter in a feeble attempt to expel all the excess tension that had ballooned in your chest.

“I know.”

Though the fact did little to ease you, you'd never been able to compare. What is Osamu’s had always been Atsumu’s and vice versa, too. Joint custody in all things: pride, success, pain.

Memory.

“And I don’t want to break that yet. Not for him.” Not for me he said silently. “And I love ya and I know ya love him. Ya love him so much and he loves ya too but–”

But I love him more. I love him in a way you could never.

“I know.”

Osamu would pinch your lips shut if he were really here. He’d never stand for your way of thinking because comparing yourself to his brother was a thought he never entertained.

That’s like apples to oranges or whatever that saying is. I chose ya. I choose ya for the rest of my life and I just happen to be stuck with that guy for life.

You took Atsumu’s face in your hands. Wet cheeks stuck to your fingers as you collected tears along your lash line until the world blurred just enough that blonde turned dark brown and golden rays faded to gray.

“- but I don’t want to take this away from him yet. Ya heard the doctor. He said we could try some exposure therapy so that his memory can unwonk itself out again, but ya saw that didn’t ya?”

Tears burned down your chin when you gave a somber nod, “I did.”

“When he was talking about being in the Olympics, I… I just–” he bit his lip, the memory painful, “ –and he got all those details correct, I just couldn’t tell him no.”

“I know.”

You couldn’t either.

“We’ll start the therapy when everything settles down. Maybe he’ll start remembering things on his own but it’s been a lot for him to deal with. The injuries, his memory, the shop–”

You shook your head and the man before you paused. He looked surprised with his mouth open for breath, but the foremost expression did not hide how he felt yesterday.

Your thumb started at the plump of his face and swiped up to the ridges of his cheekbones. A clean slate.

“It’s okay. Osamu will be okay.”

Your love was Osamu’s choice. Atsumu’s will always be shared.

After that day, you kept your presence minimal. Only occasionally stopping by, slowly relinquishing the things that the old Osamu, the one that knew you, valued. Each time, he’d hold the item like it was foreign. You watched from the corner of the room, like a diminutive decoration, maybe even a broom, and spectated as Atsumu helped him pull item after item.

The black hoodie, stained at the cuffs, and chewed strings at the ends, the one he had first shared with you.

(The night descended softly, like the flutter of silk sheets, and before you knew it, you’d been in Osamu’s front seat talking nonsense and sharing an assortment of leftovers he’d brought from Onigiri Miya. You’d only been talking for a couple of weeks, slowly getting to know each other outside of customer and cook, but it’s been months of patronage. When Osamu texted you after his shift and found you still awake despite your early start the next morning, he invited you out for a drive.

You’d heard him before he arrived, the worn out truck of his announcing his presence. He had the audacity to apologize for the poor state his vehicle was in, as if it wasn’t endearing, as if he didn’t make you feel like a princess when he held his hand across the console for leverage.

And here you are now, at a hilltop overlooking a beautiful city you’d moved to in a drowsy silence. His presence is calming, a knitted blanket that softens the bite of the night air. It doesn’t stop you from shivering though.

Osamu notices immediately, head snapping to you when you do.

“Ya cold?” he asks, but regardless of your answer, he’s taking action. The man braces a hand around your bare thigh since you’d only come out in sleep shorts and shirt (though you still made sure to check yourself in the mirror before heading out) and just the warmth beneath his touch makes you ache. You lean closer, just a slight movement over the console for any residual heat he has to offer, the seats of his vehicle a sharp contrast.

“Still working on fixing her,” Osamu explains, “she’s a little off in some spots. Her heater don’t work and she leaks some fluid every hundred kilometers but she’s still a beaut.”

Your smile makes Osamu pause. His body is turned as he tries to reach for something in the back, but just the sight of your expression makes him stop and fully face you so he can take it in.

You think it’s cute how he talks about his car, how despite all her flaws, he can see her value. The world has been hard on you, but he gives you hope. From the moment you met eyes on him at your office and when you walked into his shop months later, greeting you with a fond welcome because he remembered you, he makes you think that he can see your true value too.

And with the way he leans in, his eyes glancing between yours and your lips, his hand unknowingly dragging up and down for the feel of more skin, you think he does.

The kiss is chaste, so innocent like the first drop of sunlight in the winter. It warms you from the inside out with a crisp feeling that makes you feel renewed.

Barely a second, but Osamu has you wishing for more. You’ve noticed he has a tendency to do that, to have you eager and hungry for all that he has to offer. How from just one bite of his catered food to your office, you couldn’t help but visit his shop as well.

Though your lips have parted, your faces have not. Osamu’s lashes are long from this point of view, and his skin looks lovely in the moonlight. You’re so close that you can see the small veins, blue and greens below his eyes. The colors are so distracting, his breath so warm across your cheeks, you can’t help but stare, memorize everything before the chance to do so again is taken from you.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

His husky words create a vortex of desire, consuming you wholly. You can’t help but squirm in your seat.

“Like what?” You’re doing your best to keep it cool, but you can hear the fray in your voice, reedy and needy and wanting. It’s scary to even think of the power he has over you.

“Like,” his pause forces you to glance at him and you see it too, a mirrored expression of yearning. It’s so intense the way your barriers break. It’s scary. You want to pull away, escape the emotions that are hardly within your control but he tilts your chin with an index finger and thumb. The motion is so gentle, the slightest touch with the heaviest of meanings, and he continues to stare. Maybe even admire. “Yeah, like that. Ya gonna make me go insane.”

“Me too,” you whine. It’s unfair, so unfair what he can do just with his eyes.

His expression hardens. The corners of his eyes crinkles as he glares his sight down on you, “don’t. If I kiss ya again, I don’t know if I can control myself. Ya don’t know how bad I want ya.”

“I’m right here.”

Your reply induces a vexed response. He has to breathe heavily through his nose as he fully moves his fingers to cup your cheeks. You watch as his chest rises, the breadth of it expanding as the tendons in his neck protrude at the action. Then he looks down on you from a head that’s tilted back and you see it, the subdued hunger that you’re sure he’s trying to persuade back inside. It’s frighteningly beautiful. The attraction beckons you forward despite his grip on your face keeping you still in your spot.

“Why?” You have to ask. What is all this discipline for when clearly, it’s reciprocated.

“Because,” Osamu grits. His hand travels to the back of your head and you can feel the strength of his grip, the promise of more beneath his fingertips. “If I’m gonna wreck ya, I’m gonna wreck ya right. So quit being the devil’s little thing, and let me take ya out on a real date so I can have ya properly.”

You pout but his thumb moves to push the plump of your lips back in, “no, ya hear me? Ya keep those pretty lips in. Be good and I’ll promise I’ll treat ya even better. Ya okay with that?”

His dominance, the assuredness in his words but the ragged pitch in his voice, as if he’s hardly holding himself together, as if he wants this just as bad, or maybe even more than you do has you finally agreeing despite the fact that you’d give it all. Forget the shame or the ladylike propriety of saving yourself for when you’re sure. Lust is a persuasive speaker, but Osamu, he is a promise you want to ensure you’ll have.

“Good,” Osamu is pleased with your ascent.

His attention returns to his back seat and he pulls out a black hoodie for you to put on. When you pop your head through the collar, you don’t expect the confident man to suddenly be so bewildered, mouth agape and wrist hanging dumbly from the 12 o’clock position of his steering wheel.

“What?” you ask though you know the answer. It’s a giddy feeling to know there is a power balance between the two of you.

“Ya, uhm, ya,” Osamu coughs into his hand, turning his head away before looking back at you. “That shit’s old. All stained up and ragged but. Ya make it look good.”

You look down, sleeves well past your hands where you notice blots littering the cuffs. You can’t help but bring the strings up to eye level. There are teeth marks indenting the aglet and you give Osamu a dubious stare.

He shuffles, a nervous chuckle, “like to chew on them sometimes. Keeps my mouth busy.”

Then without a second thought, you bring it to your mouth to chew it on your own. If he won’t kiss you, an indirect kiss has to suffice. His agonized groan is worth it.

Osamu takes you out on an official date the very next day.)

Osamu spared one second for the article of clothing and tossed it to his night stand. You pretended that he didn’t just break your heart.

The next item was Vabo-chan, but not the same one Osamu had brought into your shared apartment. That one faced its demise after a neighbor’s dog ran inside when you accidentally left the door open and used it as a chew toy.

(“What are ya doing on the floor like that?” you hear the door to your bedroom creak but petulantly refuse to acknowledge him. His steps thud, hollow over the cheap wood of your home.

“Hey,” he nudges you with his foot, “ya asleep? Ya gonna hurt ya back if ya stay like that.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Are ya crying?”

“No!” Denying but not hiding, you curl into yourself even further.

Osamu bothers this time to actually hold you with his hands, gentler, more patient. He softens his tone too, “hey, hey. What are we doing?”

He waits for you to react, doesn’t continue pressing further and refuses to leave you alone.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you lift your head up, fresh tears as you admit your failure. You expect Osamu to comfort you, abate the sting of your own proclamation. He stares at you for a moment before he starts laughing in your face.

“You hate me!”

“Hey, now that’s going too far. I don’t hate ya.”

“But you think I’m stupid.”

“Just occasionally. Like when ya make impulse decisions.”

Hearing him makes you scream into your palms. Osamu laughs and urges you into his lap.

“What’d ya do?”

He’s so mean to know you so well, all the good and the bad.

“Tell me. So we can cry together.”

You press your face into his shirt, using it as a napkin to wipe away your tears, ignoring his mild grunt of disgust when you do. “Remember when Vabo-chan got eaten? Well I bought you a new one to replace him because you were sad.”

“Did ya?” His voice sounds so surprised, it makes breaking the bad news feel even worse. “That’s mighty nice of ya. Doesn’t make ya stupid.”

“Okay, but—“ You scramble off him, knee digging into his thigh that he makes a noise of pain, to get a box tucked underneath the bed. Your hand runs across the frayed cardboard where it had ripped open from your excitement. Hesitation stops you but Osamu places his palm on top of yours. Careful and encouraging and though you know he’s going to laugh at you, you finally open it up but stop yourself by placing a hand on top of the item.

“I was so excited! Because they don’t sell him anymore, just the vintage ones that are super expensive.”

“I know.” He’d been talking about it with Atsumu and his Ma, conversations you’d overheard on the phone.

“But I saw it and it was super affordable so I bought it without thinking, but,” you look up at him and he smiles. It makes you hide your face in the box but he’ll eventually admit to you later on how cute you had looked then. How distraught you were on his behalf and that then, in that moment, he’d truly felt loved. “Don’t laugh!”

“I won’t.”

Your constant hesitation brings on Osamu’s impatience and he tries to pry your fingers away, “okay. Seriously. Don’t laugh or I’ll cry.”

“I told ya, I won’t.”

The plush comes out on your own accord and before he has any time to process the sight, you begin overexplaining. “It’s a counterfeit! They gave him a nose and his name is Bavo-kun. I’m so stupid!”

Osamu’s too quiet, expression unreadable as he looks at the stuffed toy. Your heart is teetering on the edge of a cliff, so close to falling off and on the verge of tears once again. Then he bellows out a solid bellow from the gut. Before you can crumble into embarrassment, Osamu pulls you back against him, squishing stupid Bavo-kun between you two and holding you tightly against his chest.

“I love him,” his voice turns wistful. “Bavo-kun.”

“I hate him. He’s so ugly.”

“That ain’t right to say about ya kid.”

“What?”

“Look at him.” His eyes fall to your chests, forcing you to take in the hideous sight of your failings. “He’s got ya nose.”

“That is not funny, Miya Osamu.”

“Oh no, Bavo-kun. She used my full name. What are we gonna do? Ma’s mad.”

You slap his chest. Bavo-kun is collateral damage, “don’t call me that!”

Osamu’s humor is all sorts of fucked up. His laughter is excessive, shaking the both of you that he loses his balance and you guys fall to the floor. A hand of his comes to cup your cheek, acting as a buffer before you thud onto the ground and with your heights at the same level, tears drying out, you can finally see his expression clearly.

He reminds you of gemstones at moonlight, the sparkle of something beautiful. Light cannot replicate it, only refract it. And though it’s close-lipped, his smile pulls you back from the edge, melts you to the ground and anchors you back with him.

“I love this life,” Osamu confesses, “This family. I love ya and our little mishap.”)

The way Osamu’s eyes had lit, you couldn’t help but clasp your mouth to hide the smile that blossomed beneath. It was devastating how despite it all, his joy elicited yours.

“Vabo-chan!” Osamu looked to his brother in an eager excitement. “Remember how we begged Ma to buy us this when we were little?”

“Yeah. Then we had a sleepover every night with the four of us. Tucked them in with their own pillow too”

Osamu lifted up the plush’s hands, fondness tight in his expression. His eyes roamed, though they were elsewhere, remembering the memories he never lost.

“Wait a second,” Osamu’s expression hardened. His hands traced over the lines on the Bavo-kun’s face, flipped him over to read the tag, and when it didn't provide the information he wanted, he turned the toy over again to face it directly. “This ain’t Vabo-chan. The hell is this fake shit?”’

Atsumu was quick to return to damage control the way he had been these past couple of days. He plucked the toy and tossed it to a chair on the side and told Osamu not to worry, that Vabo-chan was back in Osaka in Atsumu’s home because Osamu was kind enough to lend him his when Atsumu left the one he owned on an airplane.

New memories. Fake memories.

Lies.

You were out before anyone could stop you. Not that either of the boys would have since in the midst of this whole facade, all you were was a burdensome truth.

You laid in bed accompanied with misery. The emotion made for a poor cuddle partner but it kept you company as you shivered and wailed into pillows that hardly smelled like the Osamu who knew you anymore.

Ma called. The image of her worried eyes made you answer, but when she’d update you about Osamu, how she’d first tell you he was getting better and then, as if an afterthought, urged you to visit him, you didn’t have the heart to tell her that you didn’t want to hear it.

So you started ignoring her calls. She was persistent, as expected of a woman who raised a set of rowdy boys all on her own. She knocked on your door between two minute intervals, called and texted in the gaps between and you made excuses like you were busy working over time to catch up on the job you’d left behind.

All untrue because you’d emailed your supervisor that you’d be on an indefinite leave of absence with no explanation. There was no part of you ready to meld back into the real world again. Your world had ended, your existence ceased and now it was your duty to find your place again.

Ma’s final message was an update that Osamu was getting discharged from the hospital. She mentioned that the family would be moving to Osaka at Atsumu’s insistence. She wanted you to come by before they left.

You didn’t.

With the money you’d gotten from selling Osamu’s food truck, a phone with a dying battery lost beneath your bed, you traveled in the opposite direction to Okinawa.

It was supposed to be healing. You were supposed to recreate a new identity here, find yourself in the beaches, among the company of strangers, smoothened into fine stone and drawn back to shore after getting caught in the riptide.

But here you are, with misery steeped so deep within your bones that it’s turned you bitter.

You leave your budget lodging only because your stomach tells you to and the measly mini fridge of your studio had nothing but flat soda. There’s no reason to look in the mirror, a quick scrub across your face is enough to remove the crust from your eyes and dried drool from the corner of your lips.

The convenience store is just around the corner from your temporary home. You’ve been trying to maintain your elusive nature, hoping you can leave the island as folklore, by limiting your patronage and entering the establishment at various times.

It’s the first time you smell fresh air, and admittedly, it does feel good against your skin. Much more palatable than your room which was already scented by mold when you entered. There’s birds singing and even the scent of smog excites your stale senses.

The world is so effortlessly beautiful.

And that’s what makes it so cruel.

You push your way into the convenience store, the aggressive movement rattling the bell above.

By your last visit, you’d memorized the aisles so you stroll on through with a single basket in hand. The thought process is careless as you pick out which shelf stable meals you’ll have for the week. It’s not until you reach the cold beverage section that this mundane visit turns into something interesting.

You squat to level yourself with the bottom shelf, debating whether or not you had the energy to carry a full twelve pack the half kilometer back. Just the thought of it hits you with a sudden feeling of fatigue that you cannot help but groan and press your forehead against the fridge door.

You’d spent the past two weeks alone so just the quiet call of your name has you jumping up defensively.

Akaashi looks down at you unimpressed.

“What are you doing here?” You look around, fearful that Atsumu or another one of Osamu’s volleyball confidants might be around. “Are you following me?”

Akaashi is an acquaintance at best, an Onigiri Miya fanatic at most. You hardly had a chance to have a conversation with the man when every time you saw him, he spent most of it with a face stuffed full of onigiri.

Your reaction flattens his expression even further.

“No, I did not take a three hour flight all the way to Okinawa only to watch you buy alcohol in your,” Akaashi pauses, “sleepwear.”

He has a point so you settle in the defeat by glaring at him.

“I am on a company retreat,” he finally explains. “You are far from home.”

“Retreat,” quick to use his verbiage, “yeah, I’m on a retreat, too.”

He eyes you then glances to the fridge door. You glance along with him and notice that the oils of your skin transferred onto the glass panel and do your best to hide your embarrassment with anger instead.

“What,” you challenge, feeling awfully prickly today and poor Akaashi is the one you get to take it out on. Who else? Certainly not Ma, or Atsumu, or Osamu or the nice landlord who handed you keys without question. Of course, you’re particularly nasty with yourself as of late, but if you can share the beating with someone like Akaashi whose deadpan nature is persevering, then so be it. Now that Osamu’s erased you from his life, it’s not like your social circles will ever collide again.

“You look…” Akaashi doesn’t spare you any grace. His eyes roam over your figure, disgust especially contorting his features when he witnesses the sight of your shoddy pants that have seen better days. In fairness, so have you. “Maudlin.”

Despite not knowing the definition of the word, you gather context from just the tone of his voice and it immediately makes you frown.

Defensive, you’re quick to retort. Because who is he, baggy eyed Akaashi, hangnail ridden Akaashi, squinty and blind Akaashi, no owning hairbrush Akaashi, to speak of your current condition?

“And you look like your retreat isn’t retreating.”

You get up, discreetly rubbing your self portrait in sebum with a pants leg, and impulsively decide that you deserve the 12 pack thanks to this new inconvenience. The pack slams against the glass door when the suspension forces it back too quickly. Akaashi moves to help but you cast a glare before he can.

“I do not need help,” you supply.

His reply is nonplussed, “you do.”

“I don’t,” and now the corner decides to catch on the gasket. Akaashi ignores your small grunts and your quiet insistence, pulling the door wide open.

You thank him begrudgingly only because it’s the socially acceptable thing to do but the man doesn’t let you stray much further.

“What if I bought another pack?” That catches your attention. More liquor, less lucidity, less opportunity to remember you’re sad. It seems to be a curse these days, the power of memory, and for once, you think it’s quite unrelenting. “And I paid for your items? Will you let me camp out wherever you’re staying?”

“There’s only one bed.”

“The floor is fine.”

“It smells like mold.”

“Let’s buy a candle before we leave.”

There’s a desperation that you recognize, a solidarity between two persons barely hanging on and the least bit put together. It shouldn’t be so exciting to find someone as miserable as you but isn’t that what they say? Misery loves company.

“Holy fuck,” you grin at him, sardonic, “I don’t remember liking you so much, Akaashi.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

It’s a stupid response, a very Akaashi response, so you giggle manically and kick a pack with the toe of your shoe.

“Grab the 24 pack. We’ve got some retreating to do.”

Akaashi is running away from his responsibilities and so are you. He locks himself in your studio without a mention of its disarray and happily sleeps on the flat futon provided by your temporary landlord with a single fitted sheet and your neck pillow. The amenities offered are quite militant, but considering the price point, you cannot complain and neither does Akaashi.

Neither of you mention what sorts of horrors plague your sleep, a respect for each other’s privacy, because despite enjoying his company, life did not bring you two together out of kindness.

There’s a reason why the underneath of his eyes have swelled to a charcoal gray the same way you cannot help but begin your mornings with a beer. The two of you watch reruns of old childhood shows and every so often, Akaashi wordlessly gets up to go outside for a smoke. You thank the heavens there’s no balcony so you wouldn’t have to face the familiar sight of a back lazily bent over a railing and the slow wisp of smoke. He comes back inside with the hint of tobacco on him and you think he’s noticed how it makes you choke because the first thing he does is wash his hands before sitting next to you again.

He chooses to abide by the code of silence until the fifth day. It’s an evening where the bed has been stripped bare, the room emptier than it already is.Your dirty clothes had been piling up but it had been a struggle to clean them when laundry felt like a hug, the firm press of a collar and a lost nape. The two of you lie on the floor and bide time while you wait for the linens and whatever paltry laundry either of you have dry.

Akaashi dons a white undershirt and sleep shorts, you in a shirt that doesn’t belong to you. It doesn’t belong to anyone actually, because its owner has abandoned it too.

He holds a half eaten Okinawa style onigiri in his hand and the sight is so familiar you don’t pay him any mind. Your thoughts are gluey from the alcohol so it takes an extra line for the jokes to settle. Laughter is muffled by your forearms where you’ve placed your chin, laying on your belly and big toe tracing a gap between tiles on the floor.

Even the sound of Osamu’s name takes longer to process.

But you still remember. You devotedly will.

“These onigiris taste different from Myaa-sam’s,” Akaashi says beside you.

You lay a cheek on your arm and look up at the cross legged man. He finally got his glasses and other belongings from his previous room yesterday. A smile is already plastered on your face because the liquor makes Akaashi funnier than usual.

The joke never comes.

“Did you ever want to talk about it?”

His question prompts self reflection. Talk about what? What was there to say when the two of you have been so busy running. Immediately, you scramble to get up onto the smooth surface of the stripped mattress to put some distance between you two.

“That’s why you’re here, right?”

Beneath glasses, Akaashi’s eyes have a pointed edge to them.

“What do you know?” It’s suddenly so cold now with the space between you and there’s nothing to cover you up. You can only pull your knees to your chest.

“Nothing.” Akaashi turns to look at the TV. He watches the scene play out until it cuts to a commercial. “Atsumu doesn’t say anything. He’s been uncharacteristically tight lipped.”

Akaashi says uncharacteristically but you’re not surprised at all. This sounds exactly like the Atsumu you know now. It fouls your mood and has you reaching for your emotional support sake from the nightstand.

“He tells everyone to entertain Osamu lest he get a traumatic episode.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“No,” Akaashi watches your face deflate so he tacks on that Bokuto has.

Tension coils the muscles along your bones. It makes you feel frigid so you gulp down the rice wine in hopes that it warms you up from the inside out. Akaashi only watches. He never mentions your drinking habits. You don’t say anything about his smoking tendencies. These were the boundaries you were supposed to respect, but the man keeps on pushing.

“I heard you sold the food truck.”

“How else could I afford all this luxury?” Your hands stretch out to broadcast the shoebox the two of you call home.

He’s used to your defensive sarcasm by now, only taking a singular bite from his onigiri. “So the branch in Tokyo?”

You laugh. “Not happening.”

Then you finish the whole bottle with an aggressive gulp. You flatten yourself against the bare mattress. You ignore him, pretend you’re alone, pretend you’re okay, and you accept the dizzying fall into slumber.

When you wake, the laundry is brought in. It smells exactly like down and a headache. The digital clock on the nightstand tells you it’s midnight so you drink a bottle of water and work on fitting the sheets to the bed. For your efforts, you reward yourself with another can of beer. Then another. It only takes two for you to fall asleep again.

The both of you don’t broach the topic. He reels you back in with a sense of normalcy, the routine of bumming it in front of the TV and the unhealthy eating habits. Even when you blurt out that onigiris are now banned from the house, he only provides a knowing blink.

Slowly, the space between you two skitters away. He coaxes you in like a stray with indifference and eventually, he’s sat cross legged in front of the TV while you lay next to him on your belly.

The duration of your lease is running out as the month dwindles away into repetition. There’s only a couple of days left but you’ve run out of alcohol and food. It’s a weekend night with prime time television over reruns and you’ve gotten particularly attached to this drama that you started halfway through so Akaashi and you head out one evening to prepare for the last couple days of indulgence.

You should have known Akaashi had something planned when he veered to the left with the excuse of wanting to try out a different store.

Once you heard the quiet roar of waves crashing, you had to pause. A rush of trepidation overcame you. Akaashi was already halfway through the crosswalk when he turned around and noticed you weren’t there. He urged you with his eyes, sharp still below the frames of his glasses. People walk around him and you cannot help but notice their peeved expressions. The sound of cars whiz past and the waves do nothing but recede and crash and it’s all so much to take in.

“No,” you shake your head.

You want to run but where do you go? Forward? Away? Where else because there is no going back.

The crosswalk sign starts blinking and there is renewed severity in Akaashi’s expression. He beckons you with an outstretched hand.

It reminds you of Atsumu, the way he had reached for you the first day at the hospital.

It reminds you of Osamu, the days he’d pull you out of bed when you slept in.

“Come with me,” Akaashi says.

That is all you need to go. The dramatics are uninhibited as you make your way to him, blind with your head bent as one wrist wipes away incessant tears and the other is extended to catch his hand. He takes it. It’s a foreign union with his spindly fingers that are long enough to twine around your wrist like a restrictive vine but you relinquish yourself to it.

Because, this whole time, all you’ve wanted is this: promised, unselfish companionship.

Akaashi leaves you on a bench and returns with meat pies bought from a nearby food truck. The smell of it saturates the area in an appetizing scent of fried deliciousness that has your stomach gurgling. You’ve not had a single healthy meal since you arrived in Okinawa but the alcohol you’ve imbibed religiously for the past few weeks welcomes the offering.

“Have you wondered yet what is going on with me?” A bus whips past you two with an uncomfortable gust of warm wind. You want to pretend that you didn’t hear Akaashi over the sound of the engine, but his silence is imploring.

“Always,” you say.

Akaashi entertains you with a small huff, “you could ask.”

“But then that would breach our secret NDA. Which you have breached by the way. You owe me another 24 pack.”

“Considering I no longer have a job, we might have to put that on hold.”

You reply only with a wide eyed surprise.

“I put in my resignation yesterday.” Akaashi admits. His hands glide up his thigh to clear the grease from his fingertips. “Do you want to ask questions now?”

There’s a lot of questions running through your mind. First of all, why? Why quit? What was the reason? Why did it take you in your pajamas buying alcohol before noon on a foreign island for him to do so?

“Yes, but I won’t.”

“You’re aberrant.”

“I’m assuming that means ridiculous.”

“Close.”

“Share whatever you want to share. I won’t…” you almost hand the crust of your meat pie to Akaashi out of habit. You press it into the napkin instead, crushing it with the pressure of your fingers. “I don’t want to force anything out of you if you’re not ready.”

Akaashi hums. It’s a sound similar to when the understanding of a concept finally dawns on someone. He kicks his long legs out. The Oxfords provide a bouncy noise and it’s only now that you see how aberrant Akaashi is. Near the ocean shore, he wears business casual dress with slacks and though unpressed, he still dons a button down with elbow pads. Freaking elbow pads. You must look ridiculous next to him in your novelty shirt and pajama shorts. It’s been difficult wearing anything that doesn’t have elastic lately and jeans leave for no room to breathe.

He pulls out his cigarettes from his breast pocket and when he remembers, he turns with a silent tilt of his head, asking permission to smoke. You only nod but turn your head away quickly. The gradual exposure to the smell is one thing, but the sight of him smoking might be another step you’re still not ready to take.

The cigarette crackles twice in two long inhales and he makes a point to blow in your opposite direction.

“I’m told that literary composition is not my forte.” You remain quiet, respecting the beginning of Akaashi’s soliloquy. “People tell me that I’m not meant to be an author. The world, actually. My short stories weren’t selling so I tried my hand at writing fanfiction for Meteo Attack, the manga I edit and hardly anyone read it. I even got hostile responses for my characterization.”

He needs another two inhales from the admittance. You don’t blame him.

“My boss and I had been working on a training plan the last two quarters so I could move to the literary department and the night before I met you, we were announced our placements for the next quarter. Mine didn’t change, still editor, still in manga. And when I asked, my boss said he’d be an idiot if he let me leave. I was too good at my job to change positions now. I went on a manic binge, slept through my alarms for the scheduled office activities, saw you, and figured you’d be the best excuse I could have to avoid my boss and coworkers for the rest of the trip.”

The sound of the lighter flicks once more. You listen to the quick initial inhale and the lengthy one that follows.

“My intention was never to quit. It was just like you said, retreat. I wanted to abscond myself of responsibilities for a moment but then I ate the onigiri I bought and I remembered. I remembered lots of late nights in Hyogo with you and Myaa-sam and Bokuto. And it made me think of you.”

“If it’s pity you’re offering, I don’t need it, Akaashi.”

“It’s not. I’m offering another contract. A business one.”

You turn to him and find that the smoker had finished his cigarette already. He gathered saliva in his mouth and discretely spit it on the floor before turning back to you.

“Let’s open Onigiri Miya up again.”

The idea sickens you because just the name of the restaurant brings back an onslaught of memories you’ve been trying to avoid. Osamu in his tight arm sleeves and black apron. His musk after a long night. His weary smile that would worry you only for a second until you realized it was satisfaction that compelled it more than anything. The sweet and salty scent of sticky rice and the starchy feeling on your hands whenever you would swirl your fingers in the buckets of dried grains that Kita would present to you. Long days, long nights, and Osamu, Osamu, Osamu.

“There’s no way. I have no clue how to even begin starting a business.”

“You say that but do you even know if your job will be there when you get back home?”

That was also another pertinent issue you were still planning to avoid.

“There is an Osamu out there right now who doesn’t even know that Onigiri Miya exists. The world is telling you you’re forgotten and there are people out there willing to accept it. But did you? Did you forget?”

His intensity brings on a delicate quality to your voice, “of course not.”

Osamu could forget you, but you? Forget him? The erasure of his existence was something so foreign of a thought that even just the mention of it strained your heart raw.

“I didn’t either. Do you want anyone else to?”

Your response is incomprehensible as you blow snot into your grease laden napkin but the point comes across. For all the weeks you and Akaashi have spent together in the apartment room, he touches you a second time ever, hand atop yours once more.

“Then let’s open Onigiri Miya back up.”

It’s minutes later until you can gather yourself up again and even longer for you to seriously entertain the idea. The night is quiet and you’re thankful there are no passersby to witness this embarrassing exchange.

You think of everyone that Osamu had brought into your life when you walked into his. All the customers and friends and neighbors that offered you joy and small gifts worth living for. Atsumu was okay with throwing it all away, abandoning it just like his high school motto had endorsed.

But they were the ones who found Osamu. They were the ones who saved him, who forced the firefighters to break down Onigiri Miya’s door when the fire began to consume. If not for the community he fostered, he would not have had the second chance he has today.

There’s an Osamu out there that does not love you, that you may never learn to love without being hurt, but there was an Osamu that was beloved by all. If you had to do it for anyone, you’d do it for him.

“Fine.” Akaashi does not move, eerily still as if to not startle you to backtrack. “We can give this a try.”

You settle in with your choice and finally, with a bit of courage, you ask “I know what I am getting out of this, but what are you?”

“A flexible schedule so I can write my novel,” the man beside you answers frankly. Then in a softer voice, he adds, “and maybe I can finally open that branch in Tokyo.”

You cannot help but crack an amused snort. Akaashi joins you with his singular chuckle.

“That seems ambitious.”

It is so grossly, overwhelmingly, exceedingly ambitious to run a restaurant and more so, to even consider a second location. Promises are easy to make on tear-stricken nights amongst the salty air of Okinawa, but back in Hyogo, the air is severely stifling.

Even with more than half a decade of partnership with Osamu, it is a steep learning curve managing all its operations. Your ex boyfriend did not make it seem easy. No, not with the long hours he’d pull or the days when he’d lash his frustrations on you. Some days, even seasons, happened to be more difficult than others but to have first hand experience all on your own is novel.

Akaashi moves in the day you guys arrive. The two week unofficial dry run makes the decision easy. He fills in the space that has been left behind, screens all the voicemails that you’d avoided when you were gone, and confirms that you are officially jobless by looking through your emails too.

What is better than one jobless, mid-twenty travesty who is one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown? Two jobless, mid-twenty travesties who are one milligram of caffeine away from a breakdown. It’s a support system, hardly structural but functional enough.

It includes a lot of spontaneous frenzies, you and Akaashi both. He teaches you to be quite efficient with your distress. A prolonged yell helps relieve the pressure and it compels the other to join. You teach him the benefits of isolation. Sometimes, it’s simply best to take some space, to cast away the burdens for a night and relearn how to breathe.

It takes a year and a half to open the restaurant with the help of Onigiri Miya’s neighbors. Their support does not come without payment though. They ask questions you’re unprepared for and no response is ever safe. If you say you are fine, you’re scrutinized with a watchful eye, just waiting for proof of a lie. If you admit that you’re struggling, there’s pity. Some are more vocal about it than others, a patronization in their tone that never used to be there before.

The price may be steep, but it’s worth it because Hyogo ward was Osamu’s community. They carry the pieces of Osamu that you know, the ones that made the alleycats fat.

(Osamu frequently gets yelled at by the Shizuku, the florist, three doors down. She blames him for the rising cat population. Osamu laughs it off. He always did and frequently, there is a cheeky quip that follows. He says something about catnip.

Something like, “ya sure ya ain’t the one growing catnip in there?”

It taunts the woman even further, but malice never burns their interactions.

A grudge on Osamu, though easy to promise, is impossible to uphold. Not when he delivers a bouquet of onigiri right to her door the next day. Not when he accidentally tips a pot over while obnoxiously perusing through the abundance of greenery, hoping to find catnip within the collection. Not when he looks at her sheepishly, swiping his hands on his apron as if dusting away any evidence and says, “now how did that happen?”)

Shizuku’s a savior, by the way. If left to your own devices, Akaashi and you would work yourselves to the point of exhaustion but Shizuku comes in during lunch and always provides tea in plastic cups. Eventually those cups turn into a beautiful ceramic set when Kita drops off your first order of rice, a visit in disguise.

His barley eyes that were always warm to you darken at the sight of Akaashi. Their greeting is stiff which you thought just had to do with their taciturn personalities but it wasn’t until Kita pulled you into the alleyway, Akaashi left to finish painting the front, did you realize it was out of protectiveness.

“I was glad to hear from ya.” Kita leans against the waist high wall that separates two lines of shopping streets. “But I didn’t know how to feel when I found out ya were calling me about business.”

“I know,” you say, eyes cast down low. Kita has a way of making you feel guilty with so little words. He’s disappointed, you know despite his level tone, because you never called. What was there to discuss? You figured if Osamu could forget you, if Atsumu can cast you away, then there was nothing to expect out of his friends either.

“I won’t say anything because I know ya already feel bad but Gran and I were worried about ya. It’s good to know that you’re okay.”

You shrug. Okay is hardly what you’d describe yourself when you’re barely hanging on just like the threadbare sheets from the studio in Okinawa.

Kita crosses one muddy boot over the other, “and what ya got going on here, it feels like the right thing.”

It’s hard to make of what you feel, decipher the feelings that manifest inside because the days have not gotten any softer. The pain is ambiguous and persisting. Whenever you feel like you’ve made progress, another strain emerges like a new variant of the same virus. You’re doing this for Osamu. But Osamu…

“Have you talked to him lately?”

Kita’s lips line into a solemn expression. He stares you right in the eye and you hold yourself strong because you know he’s testing whether or not you can handle his answer.

“Not recently. Atsumu’s kept their distance from here. If I do see them, it’s when I stop by Osaka.”

“And…”

“And he’s good. He plans on going pro,” Kita shakes his head, “or Atsumu says, going back to pro. He tells him he took a break.”

You nod slowly. So that’s what you were. A break.

“But it ain’t him.”

The farmer’s voice is barely above a whisper and for some reason, it is gut wrenching. You have to lean against the wall with him in case you topple over. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it, the admittance that the Osamu you had was someone real. And maybe that’s why you’ll never be okay because you’re chasing after validation that has already been erased while he chases other things, of dreams unfulfilled.

“This,” Kita points to the restaurant in renovation, “this is him, but…”

He never finishes his sentence. The irony of it makes you laugh.

“Well I’ve got another delivery to drop but don’t be a stranger now. I’m serious. I ain’t letting ya. And visit Gran once in a while, will ya? She needs someone to talk to because I think she’s about had it with me.”

Kita hugs you goodbye and by the end of his visit, you think Akaashi’s gained his approval. When he leaves, he gifts the two of you the tea set. They are black with white and brown intricacies. Two of them have geometric blocking designs and the other two have one lone stalk of rice, bent gracefully by the wind.

Akaashi and you sign up for onigiri making courses where you eat them for every meal. So much so that even Akaashi of all people gets tired of it. The craft does not come easy to either of you despite your business partner’s penchant for it and Osamu’s intermittent lessons over the years. When you did help him out on the days he was short-staffed, Osamu would have you ring up customers up front, smoothly mentioning how your pretty face would help them rack up tips when you knew it was just to keep you out of the kitchen.

(He flusters you with a wink and an encouraging tap on the ass, laughing when you look back. He flings his glove into the trash can and makes his way to the handwashing station, thinking it was worth it just to see your cute pout. You know he’d wasted boxes of gloves since you’d been together just for one quick touch. Your eyes would be enraptured by the graceful jerks of his chest and the curl of his lips and later, at close, when the two of you were finally alone, he teases you about it. He asks you if you were hungry, what with the way you devoured him with your eyes. You bite his arm just to prove how hungry you were.)

“Quit drinking the mirin. That is foul and we need it.” He hides little revulsion in both tone and expression but your time with Akaashi has you immune to his harsh delivery.

You take another swig out of spite even if you didn’t plan on having another sip. It is, in fact, foul.

“This is the only thing that has alcohol in this apartment.”

Akaashi snatches the bottle with starchy hands. The residue imprints the shape of his palm onto the neck of the bottle, furthering his irritation. “Then drink something that does not have alcohol.”

“No,” you slump with your chin on the table, leveling your gaze with the practice oblongs you’ve just made. “I am sad.”

They’re lumpy and if they’re not lumpy, they are mushy. If they are not mushy, then the filling is peeking out. All in all, completely imperfect and not suited for a restaurant succeeding Onigiri Miya. Just the image of his disappointment discourages you because these were not up to his standards and certainly not to yours.

“We just need more practice,” Akaashi tries to console. “Maybe we could buy molds.”

“He didn’t use molds.”

“Unfortunate. We’re not Myaa-sam.”

“Neither is he.”

Akaashi doesn’t respond. You don’t say anything more either. If anyone is tired of your deploring, it is him and he already has to handle you enough. But it’s true, isn’t it? No one is Osamu anymore, not even the one out there who is probably doing practice sets in a gym, who wears a uniform that’s less than five years old, who has no recollection of you.

“Everyone’s going to be disappointed because it tastes nothing like the ones he used to make. They’re going to hate us for even disgracing his name.”

Akaashi’s had enough. He drops his practice roll, the heavy weight of the thud clattering the utensils on the table. You’re about to reprimand him but the man talks over you.

“Do you think that’s why people will come? Because of Osamu?”

The answer seems obvious that you can only gesticulate.

“Are you inane?”

That hasn’t been a word of the day so you haven’t learned that one yet but you can take a guess what the right answer is. “No?”

“People want to come and support you. Everyone knows Osamu’s gone off elsewhere doing whatever he is doing now. You’re the one honoring his memory. You’re the one keeping him alive. You are the reason they’d walk through our door now so get your act up.”

You glower like a child, unsure how exactly you feel. That sort of pressure seems daunting but comforting at the same time. You want to do him right. Is it really better than not even honoring him at all?

“You’re mean,” you settle on saying.

Akaashi clicks his tongue behind his teeth, “do you want to scream about it?”

You smile, “yeah.”

His mood lightens, “me too.”

“Okay, but it’s late already so we should probably scream in some pillows.”

“Yeah, that sounds right.”

The journey continues like that. Ups and downs. Ebbs and flows. Akaashi handles operations and finances. Your first job at the local government helps you complete the clerical stuff like having the proper documentation and paperworks. Your most recent job in IT helps you develop the website while Akaashi words out the marketing. You set up all the socials, design the uniforms, and the last step is to decide on the name.

The night before the opening, you have a dinner for everyone that helped as a thank you and soft launch. You and Akaashi slide in and out of service with Shizuku, Kita, Gran, and some of Akaashi’s friends like Konoha and Kuroo and Kenma as guests. It’s a small gathering of every single member of the community that never forgot about Osamu sitting around a massive table you’ve made by pushing the smaller ones together.

“Lovely what ya did with the rice, here,” Gran says beside you, a seat she had claimed.

You tilt your head to the side, “that’s all Akaashi.”

“Fine cooking, dear.”

“I followed a good recipe and had a little luck.”

“Ya better hope not,” Kita laughs and it’s comforting to hear the quiet trickle of his humor knowing fully well that Akaashi’s been accepted into the family. “Or else ya gonna have some unhappy customers.”

“Will ya tell us now what the name of the place is? Hard to advertise if I don’t know what it’s called,” Shizuku demands.

Her impatience started when she walked right through the door, but you wanted to wait for the right time when everyone was already gathered together and broken bread, heart happy and stomach satisfied. It’s how Osamu would have wanted it. It’s how you do too.

“Fine,” you say, dragging the word out with little bite in your tone.

You pull out the uniforms you’ll be wearing tomorrow. It looks not much different from what Osamu used to wear, plain black shirts with lettering on the upper left portion of the chest. Everyone lifts up from their seats to witness it.

o.mo.ide

Miya Osamu, Onigiri Miya, memories that you’ll always keep close to your heart.

There’s tears that escape, from you no different. There’s more that follows when you show them the corner right by the entrance dedicated to Onigiri Miya. You want everyone to know whose walls these actually belong to, whose essence and soul brought his dreams and yours to life, that without him, this would have never been possible.

Kita helps you kick everyone out knowing that you and Akaashi have a long day ahead. People promise to visit tomorrow just to show their support as they bid you goodbye. Gran slips an envelope of cash between your hands and quickly loops her arms around Kita’s so you can’t make a scene.

Akaashi is quick to have a foot out the alley back door after cleanup. He nods his head out, “are you ready?”

“Yes.” You run your hands through the crisp fabric once more as you shuffle your bag over your shoulder.

And the two of you leave. The black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door waves as the door slams shut. There’s a black cap above it with the original character snaps against the wall from the wind pressure. They sway in the dark, until finally they lose momentum and settle in the dark.

They stay. They always will.

The support is so overwhelmingly kind. People show up in droves that Kita has to come in later in the day with an emergency delivery because your forecasts had been so off. Compliments come one after the other, of the design of the store, the food, and even yours and Akaashi’s service. Cheery employees were no longer in, it seemed. Everyone loved the stress-ridden ones instead. More relatable, they’d explain.

The novelty slowly wears off, but you maintain a generous rotation of regulars. Of course, Shizuku always arrives. She retains her habit of having afternoon tea with you and Akaashi. She’d bring along Hayashi, the man who owned the ice cream shop behind your store. He’s a grizzly man with a barrel chest with a right bicep so plump from years of scooping ice cream. The two are the neighborhood’s newest gossip. Flowers and ice cream. Looks like they do go together.

And you think that you have finally have this life handled. You and Akaashi settle on this pleasant routine of wake, work, and rest and the mundanity has you fooled. Still, after all this time, it takes so little to disrupt your small ecosystem of peace.

You hear someone compare o.mo.ide as a mockery of what it used to be and it sends you into a spiral. You listen with a crazed expression, hands busy scrubbing tables but ears listening like a hawk.

Osmau never needed consolation like this. He had been a master of quick glances. He was always multitasking, mind on the next task as he was still in the process of finishing the first. And his eyes never missed anything, not when you’d try and sneak into his office unnoticed to surprise him for break or how he’d always know when someone was taking their first bite. He’d watch from the corner of his eyes and he’d wait for that precious moment. It didn’t take much to make Osamu proud. Just a single hum. He’d beam from ear to ear, and as if shy from his sudden display of emotion, he’d tuck his chin into his head and pull the brim of his cap down.

But then again, this was his forte and not yours.

You start sleeping in and waking up late. You lose the habit and Akaashi has to pick up after you. In order to make it up to him, you offer to close the restaurant on your own. His response is a simple scan to check that you’re okay, but he has little energy to say a word, probably expended it screaming in the walk-in freezer when he couldn’t get you out of bed. So he goes.

You don’t even wait a full five minutes after he left to lock the doors and ignore any knocks from customers who know your regular hours.

In the silent kitchen, you situate yourself atop the recently wiped down stainless prep table, a bottle of sake in one hand and Kita’s teacup in another. A shot glass is much too small for your preferences.

“Cheers,” you raise your glass in the air. This might be your sixth one, so just the image of your hand and solo teacup is enough to make you giggle. “This one is to…”

Your gaze is glassy and there’s no one here, but the alcohol reminds you that you’re not lonely. An image of Osamu appears before you like an apparition and the sight brings on a void of yearning. You throw back the shot and quickly pour yourself another.

“To you.” This time you clink the tea cup against the bottle, already hollow in just one sitting. When the burn dies down and settles in the pit of your stomach, you begin to kick your feet.

“Hey,” you say softly. “Haven’t spoken to you in a while. Think about you every day though.”

It’s weird because you thought that with this place being saturated by Osamu’s very essence, you’d find his face everywhere you look. He’s more of an idea now, lately. A feeling you carry, memories that you play before you go to sleep. It’s difficult to accept because it feels like you’re losing him. The old Osamu, the one you knew, the one you loved. The other one in Osaka, Kita’s accidentally slipped that he likes to read as a pastime and that they’d recently visited Panama. Osamu never bought books unless they were cookbooks and that was more for aesthetic than anything. And the one you knew had never been to Panama, more so even mentioned it at all.

What you have left is the remains of his legacy and the bare bones of a former flame. You crack open another bottle. Here’s another shot to that.

“Life sucks by the way. I don’t blame you for it. I just wanted you to know. This wasn’t my dream. Yeah, I can hear you. You know, you know. But I haven’t told you in a while so you’re going to hear me say it again. I just wanted a cushy, IT job. I’d be your sugar mommy and force you on vacations, pay you for any lost wages. Any reason to have you all to myself. That’s what was supposed to happen.”

Another shot to missed opportunities. That one has you feeling woozy that you have to lay on your side but your drunken mind fails to realize how cold the stainless steel would be against your cheeks. It makes you squeal and then you can’t help but giggle, laughing at your own stupidity. That’s what’s nice about inebriation. Instead of being so serious about yourself, you can just laugh.

“And in the middle of it all, I knew that one day, I’d get absorbed into it. That’s just what you do. You say Atsumu is charismatic, but I don’t think you ever realized the power you had in just being. People get caught up in it and that includes me. And I imagined myself working hard so I could leave early from work just so I could help you in the kitchen. And then working part time until eventually, we woke up together and ran it together and did it all. Together. As a family. Ma would help when she has the time but you know her. She’s got clubs and activities and neighborhood responsibilities. And Atsumu would try and hang out but not do any work so we’d just ignore him until he ended up whining his way into the kitchen. I didn’t imagine…”

You look around the backroom. It’s nothing like how Onigiri Miya used to look. There are some items you’ve inherited like the pots and pans with their grease-stricken bellies and the three step ladder with The Little Giant (Akaashi actually wanted to throw this one away but ladders are surprisingly expensive) labeled on the top step. Everything is paltry pickings compared to the care Osamu had when working with his suppliers. It was hard enough with Kita’s endorsement to find something within your budget so you’re left with limp greens and off brand soy. And no Osamu.

Time for another shot. Should you make a game of it? Every time you thought you felt sorry for yourself, should you?

“No,” you giggle as you get up, answering your own question, “then I’d get really drunk and you’d get mad at me for that. Anyways,” you shoot it, neck craning back so swift it makes you dizzy. Your body bends wilted just like the spring onions you were talking about and you have to close your eyes, groaning and giggling, unable to discern discomfort from pleasure.

“Mmmm, what was I saying? I don’t know.” Suddenly, you’re crying. There’s a mess on the prep table that you have no idea how to clean. Over a year now and you’re still not over Osamu and you’re missing the rest of the Miyas especially too.

“This is so hard and fuck, I feel so alone.” It’s heartbreaking to hear how much you pity yourself when there have been so many people in your life that have supported you. Like Akaashi who has dealt with your disaster tendencies and Shizuku and the neighbors and everyone that has made this possible.

But they can’t fill what you’ve secretly been trying to reclaim. Of a family that had loved you, had accepted you with open arms. The ones who held you when you needed them most but… Fuck. You just weren’t enough. You lacked the strength to hold their pain, so much so just by being, by existing, you burdened them.

And maybe this had been a ploy to simply gain approval and find some self-worth again, to show them that the love you have has value. It had been distracting enough while you and Akaashi prepared for the grand opening but only for so long until you fell into this sort of misery again. How long would the next pocket of happiness last? Could you find a stable source of bliss ever again?

Sometimes, as difficult as it is to think, you wish you never…

No, you shake your head adamantly. For all this anguish, for all the ache you’ve accidentally caused the Miyas, you want to selfishly keep all the memories, even if Osamu has to forget, even if you know how it ends. You don’t want to change a thing.

You grab the extra aprons in the back except for the black apron on the last hook closest to the back alley door and slump into the office chair in the back nook. It was a simple office with just a desk and a file folder cabinet. You cover yourself with the aprons, your impromptu blankets as you wait for the inebriation to tide over. The open sake bottle stays on the prep table with the finished one and your used tea cup and you make a mental note to hide your drinking from Akaashi who’s been passively limiting your intake lately.

You fall into a light sleep when a meowing out the alley door rouses you. The office chair snaps as you ungracefully rise. There’s remnants of your misery in the form of crusts at the corner of your eyes that you blearily wipe away.

He stares up at you with a single meow as a greeting when you open the door. The cat sits on his paws like a well mannered customer waiting to be let in. A gray puffball like a ball of lint straight from the dryer, his gold eyes blink up at you and maybe it’s the hour or your halfway sober state or just life in general because you think it’s a sign.

Many of the cats had left when Osamu did too, venturing into more fruitful alleyways that can get them the fixings that they. You’re quick to pick him up but you do it a little aggressively that his limber body bends to evade your hands. Instead, he enters o.mo.ide and you’re able to lure him in with a few slices of fish.

Akaashi is not amused when you get home, especially considering the late hour and cat in your hands.

“No,” Akaashi greets, eyes hardened, aimed at the feline creature who has taken to resting his chin into the crook of your elbow.

“But, Akaashi, look at him!” You turn your body to the side so he can witness his complete cuteness.

The man is not impressed, only closing his book, an index finger marking the pages he left off, and crossing his arms. “No. You can hardly take care of yourself.”

“But they’re low maintenance,” you mention the fact you had quickly googled before unlocking the front door, “and he was crying outside our door because he was so hungry.”

Your roommate weighs the cat with his eyes and before he can complete his calculations, you add, “if I wasn’t there, he would have starved. He needed me.”

Akaashi finds something in your expression and you think it’s this new energy, this purpose outside of yourself or Osamu and after a drawn out glare, he finally sighs. It’s a world weary sigh, the kinds only parents of rowdy and impossible children should only make and you take note that you’ll make it up to him somehow.

“Okay, fine,” he extends his hand for your new friend to sniff, “what’s his name?”

You smile, “Mumu.”

An homage to your boys, your favorite twins, and Akaashi cannot help but sigh again.

But Mumu quickly becomes your new best friend, much to his benefit. Even though Mumu never quite opens up to him, he has to worry about you less and you spend more of your time laboring efficiently at work so you can go home and play with silly things like lasers and a little rattle ball he likes to roll around. There’s energy to do your share of household chores now, and despite the slow trickle of business lately, you’re unbothered.

At the end of the day, the success of the business does not define you or your love for Osamu.

The stability lasts only for a few months because you arrive home unannounced, closing the shop early when the pelting monsoon keeps people locked in their homes.

You opted to take responsibility for the day, allowing Akaashi a break. His trust in you has slowly renewed considering it’d been a while since you dipped into the restaurant’s liquor stash. You knew he’d understand the shortened hours considering the weather but he hadn’t been prepared because when he got home, he was watching a livestream MSBY volleyball match. There was this understanding that had been established when he moved in because the both of you knew that you’d be powerless to the demise.

When you see Osamu on TV, that split second the camera had panned to him, you felt gravity warp. Your heart constricted and condensed while it felt like that floor beneath you had slipped away and you were just as helpless as any other leaf victim to the storm.

Akaashi tries to turn off the TV, but you manically topple over him, not wanting to miss what little camera time he might have.

“I don’t think this is good for you,” Akaashi’s eyes doesn’t leave you as you continue to watch the game. You agree, but you can’t strip your eyes away from the stream. You can’t believe what you’re seeing and you have to continuously wipe away your tears just to be sure, to ascertain that what you’re viewing is really true. It’s him. It’s him and this is the closest you’ve seen him, the closest he’s been to this home in basically two years and he looks so different.

“He grew out his hair,” you observe.

All you can do right now is play spot the difference. What parts of him do you still know? What is gone forever? Osamu’s hair is near shoulder length and you think he might have gained Atsumu’s salon habit because it’s curlier and fluffier than you knew. The color in his eyes have lost their luster, making them appear darker like a smoky quartz and he’s bigger. He’d always had a stronger upper body but you can tell he’s far more defined than you’d last seen him. He looks. Good.

You feel so small knowing how well he’s moved on without you. There’s always this small spark of hope that can’t help yourself from holding onto but seeing him on the screen, living a dream that he had once left behind, you figure it must be your turn to be abandoned for something else.

“He looks good,” you nod, trying to be strong. Because that’s all you’ve wanted. You’ve wanted him to be ok, to live out the life he desired, whatever that may be and regardless of how it involved you. “He looks good. I’m so–”

“You don’t–”

“–proud of him.”

The admittance makes you burst, diving head first onto the floor and crying into the rug. Mumu comes to rest between your legs, wary of Akaashi as he does his best to console you which alternates between a hand down your back and simply hovering over your figure.

But then you hear the announcer and how the music stops, and immediately your head lifts up because you know what the sound of those footsteps mean.

Miya Atsumu is on court, serving the ball with just as much assured confidence as you had left him. He passes to his brother where they easily make a point and you watch the two boys celebrate. The camera eats it up, their facial expressions, the way they hold each other in a solidified joy, and you see it. You see the true reason he’s left this all behind. This was the life he was meant to share.

And you were never meant to be a part of it.

It was delusional of you to think that their bond had enough space for you to fit in.

Of course, as much as you tell yourself Osamu’s happiness is the most important thing to witness, it still sends you on a spiral that neither Akaashi or Mumu can bring you out of. Business slows down when you can’t provide proper service and Akaashi struggles to pick up the labor you can’t complete. Days pass in a haze where you burn things by accident and your mindlessness has you putting in two servings of soy instead.

You wallow in your sheets, so worn that the Osamu’s essence has filtered through the gaps and all that’s saturated it is your misery. Mumu leisurely snoozes beside you, happy to keep you company.

Akaashi tries to persuade you out of bed with ice cream.

You shuffle to the side of the bed pressed against the wall and tuck yourself into the crevice, “no thank you.”

He ignores you and opens the door and you whine, noisy and petulant. “This one is from Shizuku and Hayashi. They’ve missed you.”

You instantly sit up, interested because Hayashi’s ice cream had been a favorite of Osamu’s. Whenever he’d have a bad day and their schedules lined up, the two men with their solid stature would gossip in the alleyway, the brick wall separating them. One would be devouring an onigiri while the other relished the fox shaped ice cream he’d always be given as payment.

You’d peek your head out the alley door whenever you could never find Osamu in the kitchen or in his office. The alley was the only other place he’d be and Hayashi would prompt you to come out, sit and gossip with them. He’d leave so he could serve you an ice cream of your own, but you suspect he’d take longer on purpose so that you two could spend some time alone.

(“Have you heard about Shizuku and Hayashi?” Osamu asks once the confectioner steps back into his building. Your response comes for the back of your throat, a soft hum while busy licking the dessert your boyfriend offered. He laughs when he sees you nibble off the candy eye of the animal, leaving him a little lopsided but far more endearing. “Damn, I said ya could give it a try, not eat all of it.”

“I was hungry and you weren’t inside.”

“Ya could have made yaself some food. I’ve taught you enough to be self-sufficient.”

You shake your head immediately, “doesn’t taste the same. Stop changing the subject. What’s going on with Hayashi and Shizuku?”

Despite all the time you’ve spent with him, all the different faces and expressions you’ve been gifted to witness, his smile still disarms you. It’s the right combination of conniving and whimsy that has your heart traipsing the edge of a cliff.

“I was talking to the Grandma that’s got the okonomiyaki shop right there, ya know?” He points with his ice cream whose lifespan is slowly disappearing, “and she told me how she went into Hayashi’s shop and he had a full bouquet of flowers.”

“Oh, that’s nice. I wonder who got it for him.”

Osamu snorts, “Shizuku obviously. Who else would have?”

“Osamu,” you give him a discriminatory look, “are you starting rumors.”

“No, hear me out. Shizuku came by yesterday and was asking me for some cooking tips.”

“You?”

“Yeah, we have a truce right now. The onigiri won her over.” You giggle, snatching another bite from Osamu’s hand. He’s too busy telling his story to even admonish you. “And she was telling me she planned on making grilled mackerel and guess what Hayashi had for dinner last night apparently.”

You hum forcibly, drawing it out and giggle when Osamu gets irritated with you. “Mackerel?” He nods and the image of those two makes you laugh.

Hayashi’s just like the ice cream he serves, a man who longs for the richer things in life. He has women swooning out of his restaurant with his velvet words and Shizuku is a woman who knows what she wants, spritely and tough. She’d be perfect to keep him in line.

“Now that I think about it, they’re surprisingly good for each other.”

Osamu agrees, “Grandma says Hayashi needs to lock it in and get married.”

“Shizuku’s a catch! He’d be wrong not to.”

Your statement dulls the mood because Osamu turns quiet. He hands you his ice cream for you to finish, Hayashi forgotten, and his hands clasp together, right pad of his thumb running over the back of his left. His side profile is soft, round cheeks over a strong jaw.

“Ya know that I–”

“We don’t have to get married for me to know that you love me,” you say quickly. You don’t want him to finish the thought because he gets caught up in the guilt a lot. You’re not certain what it exactly is aside from the fact that he doesn’t want your future to be tied down to one as unstable as his, as if marriage would be the only thing that could permanently hold the two of you together. As far as you know, he’s all you want for the rest of your life and Osamu makes you feel like he thinks the same.

Your admittance relieves the weight on his back. He straightens up, a thankful expression on his gaze when he rolls an arm out to wrap around you. You fit right into the crook of his body, pleasantly warm with your ice cream.

“I love ya, I really do.” You nod. “One day, when I get my shit together, I promise I’ll make ya mine for real.”

He says it like you’re not his already. He says it like this relationship is less than the ones acknowledged by law or the gods or whoever presides over the validity of unity.

He says it like he really does love you.)

Thinking about it makes you cry despite Hayashi’s ice cream. He artfully crafted the gift in a pint that he must have bought from the store because you’ve never seen him sell take-home products. A frog decorates the surface complete with blush, large, round eyes, and the brightest of smiles. Usually the confectionery is an immediate remedy but it looks like your sorrows have fallen so deep that its effects are hardly uplifting. Akaashi hands you a letter made of cardstock in a saturated red and shaped like a heart.

“What’s this?”

“Open it,” is all he replies.

You do as he says and find a poorly drawn replication of what you assume is you, serving a triangular item to a smaller stick figure human.

“That’s from Asako. She missed you when you left early today.”

Asako is the little girl who orders a plain onigiri with extra sesame seeds. Exxxxtrraaaa she likes to say and you entertain her, seeing who can lengthen the word the longest. It’s an effortless game that comes with a high reward of giggles. She comes in on Fridays when her grandparents pick her up from school. They didn’t know of Onigiri Miya then so you never thought much of them, but clearly, she had thought of you.

“I understand that we opened up o.mo.ide in order to commemorate Myaa-sam and everything he’d done for this community, but have you ever stopped and thought that in the process, you’ve integrated into it yourself?”

You hadn’t. You’d been so deeply absorbed by your own troubles that you had never bothered to even look outside of yourself or Osamu.

“We’re operating at a loss right now, but there are people like Asako that rely on us to stay open. And so help me, I need you too. We promised to do this together and I refuse to let you abandon me.”

“Oh… oh, Akaashi, I’m so–” you’re forced speechless by your own guilt.

“Don’t apologize. Just.” Akaashi searches through his vocabulary, “just get better. Have you ever thought about therapy?”

Akaashi introduces you to his therapist but after two sessions, you find that the way he gels his hair back and the nasal hums he provides every time you confide in him is unsettling. The journey through therapy is not so much a journey but more like an illegal obstacle course formed with bottomless pits and thorny vines and a portable bed.

It’s physically draining and mentally exhausting that you need a nap most days. Akaashi hardly yells at you anymore when you fall asleep in the office chair while on break as long as he knows you have an appointment scheduled at the end of the week.

You go through three more therapists. This fourth one, she’s on thin ice, but you’re five months in and she’s managed to get you to stay. She encourages you to reach out to the people you love on your own and to make time for them every week.

Now you spend time teaching Mumu new tricks. He’s mastered the command ‘sit’ and is also very good at laying down. You’ve yet to teach him much else though. Monday mornings are for mahjong with Granny. Sweet as she is, that woman is a good liar and to this day, you still haven’t won a game. According to Kita, no one has yet to beat her. You’ve extended tea dates with Shizuku into dinners after you and Akaashi close. Most of the time Hayashi is there and despite Akaashi’s indifference to their relationship, every night you gossip about the way his hands would linger around her waist or how he’d whisper something in her ear while they washed dishes. When Asako visits, you untie your apron and give her grandparents a break. Only when she is done with her meal, you walk her into the back where you tell her to mind her step and you and lift her over the wall so she can knock on Hayashi’s back door for an ice cream.

People gradually enter your lives, ones that you didn’t have courage to see. With a warning text sent like an afterthought, it’s a welcome surprise to find Bokuto seated on top of your kitchen table, towering height even more pronounced, while Akaashi showcased his skill in a new apron.

“Oh?” you say and at the sight of Akaashi’s expression, all you do is smile and wish them a good time. If there is a time that Akaashi shouldn’t be burdened by you, it would be now. You are in the process of healing after all.

Suna and Aran eventually visit, dragged along by Kita. His small build compared to the two athletes make an awkward remeet amusing.

Suna scruffles your head and cups the fat of your cheeks as a greeting, “hey, Bug. Nothing kills you, huh?”

You’re grateful when Aran saves you, pulling you into a deep hug that soothes your soul. He lifts you up once just to hold you closer, and when he’s done, they all apologize for not visiting you sooner. It was shame, they admitted. Because for Osamu, they were willing to do anything to make him feel better, even if it was to perpetuate lies.

You’re at a space now where you understand because for Osamu, you know you would and will do anything for him too. No one talks about him though. No one dares mention any Miya first, and finally, you’re not compelled to bring them up either.

Of course, it’s just as tumultuous of a ride, even more so now that you’re more aware of your issues. Some days, the social vigor of running a restaurant is so draining that all you can do is keep your head down in the back. Count inventory and roll orders whenever Akaashi places them in. Sometimes it’s even harder than that, where you end up at the convenience store with one bottle of sake. Usually the guilt hits you half a bottle in and you end up pouring the rest over the nearest drain. This time, halfway isn’t nearly enough to ease the pain.

With the amount of volleyball players that have re-entered your life, an old interview of Osamu’s is in your recommended videos to watch. You can’t not click it when the thumbnail is a closeup top angle of his face, long hair pulled into a messy bun.

He stands the same with hands on his hips and in a wide stance but even the way he speaks sounds different. Same voice, different person. Different words.

The comments prove that he has a lot of fans from all over the world. They shout words of affection, recount the best games they’ve witnessed him in and no one mentions a single word about Onigiri Miya.

You’re at a point in your life now that any sort of Osamu brings on a general longing. You miss him so much you’re willing to take whatever you can have.

The realization makes you feel like you’ve lost him again because this place, the venue where you labor yourself until your back is broken despite your lack of knowledge had been a huge part of him. Now it is all lost to his pro volleyball glamor.

Onigiri Miya Osamu will eventually fade from existence. Once more, you begin grieving.

Despite your coping methods, it takes a long time to build yourself out of your rut. The gloom lasts for days and life has a predilection for stacking up your misery.

“Miya–”

Akaashi doesn’t have to finish his sentence. The impact already hits your stomach at the surname. It doesn’t matter which Miya it is. A Miya has stepped foot into this building, the first time since the fire. Suspense boils in your gut and its noxious fumes cut the breath from your lungs.

You’ve thought about this moment in great lengths, anxiously in bed or idle thoughts as you wait for the train. Preparation has never been your strong suit though. The fact is clear with the condition of your restaurant that struggles to even get by.

Blonde hair glistens against the backdrop of an afternoon sun and distracts you from the bells that ring when he opens the door. He glances around the walls with his mouth agape, focusing mostly on the origin story next to the host stand. It’s just a few old newspaper clippings of articles and one image of Osamu’s face. It was one of your few stipulations. He must always be there to greet the customers.

When Atsumu’s gaze finally finds yours, you can’t help but grip the towel tighter in your hands. Misplaced anger simmers right behind your tightly pursed lips. His face is so similar. It’s the closest anyone could get to a clone, and the distinct features you’ve been searching for, the ones that belong to the Osamu you once knew, are not there.

It’s a lot. It’s been a bad couple of weeks.

But Atsumu doesn’t know that. He doesn’t know that you’ve worked yourself raw and instead of building calluses, all you've done is made yourself tender.

He passes the backline and you find yourself taking a step back towards the display case as he crosses your first line of defense. He acts like nothing’s changed, that he’s still got free reign of the place and maybe it hasn’t. When he pulls you in, when he mutters ‘I love ya’ and ‘I’m so sorry’ over and over again, you fall apart in his arms.

You fist his shirt at the chest and sob in a way you haven’t allowed yourself since the hospital, since you’d seen any of the Miyas last. You cry into his chest, condense the past years you’ve had to make do with just your hands or sleeves or pillows. There’s rage and pity, but most of all, there is relief. Because as much as Akaashi has sat beside you while you mourned, and how everyone had gathered to remind you of your worth, they could never fill the space that any Miya left behind. None of them understood what it was like to lose Osamu. Not Myaa-sam, or Chef, or Oji-Samu. Youhad borne that misery alone.

You can’t fault Osamu for not choosing you. And Mama Miya has tried reaching out despite your lack of response.

But Atsumu, he could have stayed. You thought there was kinship there, a shared love for his brother. You thought you could have shared the sorrow too. Instead, he’d whisked away his family to Osaka to escape any reminder of the previous life he lived. He took everything and he left you behind.

Atsumu follows you to the ground when you literally fall apart in his arms. He hugs you tighter and he ignores the stack of napkins shelved right next to you, knowing that his shirt is more than enough.

Atsumu is eventually able to get you to a park near the restaurant once you calmed down. You both lay next to each other on the grass and the sun’s power is too strong for your swollen eyes. You have to balance your water bottle over them as shade. Atsumu offers the sunglasses he likes to keep clipped to the collar of his shirt. You accept it cautiously, wary of taking too much.

“I’m sorry.”

His apology is overwhelming and the corners of your eyes overflow, unprepared.

“Don’t,” you sputter out when you have the breath, a sting clinging to the bridge of your nose, “don’t. I can’t take it. Say something else.”

“I–” the way he blunders means he must have prepared a speech and now you’ve thrown a wrench in his plans. “I… uh. It’s good to see ya.”

“Oh, gods. Why are you even here?”

“I wanted to see ya,” he answers lamely.

There’s still anger in your chest and for the past couple of years, you’d been aiming that ire at Akaashi unjustly. Atsumu’s expression from the day at the hospital still keeps you up sometimes and it’s taken months of therapy for you to realize that his emotions were also misplaced. You’d dealt with pieces of the guilt and there’s still a lot that you need to address, but you understand now, that the burden of being was never yours alone to bear.

“Now? When you’ve had all this time?”

“I know. I–” he stops himself from another apology. You’re grateful he’s grown the maturity to keep his mouth shut when asked. “I just wanted to prepare ya.”

“For what?”

“Samu went no contact on me.”

You rise to your elbows in shock, worry prickling prickling your heart, “and Ma?”

“Not Ma,” he shakes his head quickly. “He calls her sometimes, not enough, but more than me.”

“Why?”

Atsumu breathes deeply, worn and weary. He brings his arms back and rests his head on them, eyes up at the sky watching a kite flown by two children, probably siblings. “Why fucking not, ya know?”

“No, Atsumu, I wouldn’t know when you basically went no contact on me.”

Atsumu pinches his bottom lip between his front teeth. Through the dark lenses of his sunglasses, you can see the way they lighten from the pressure. He sighs again.

“I deserve this, I know. But Osamu didn’t. I fucked up but I had no clue what I was doing. Ya gotta understand. Ya were there and ya saw him and how beaten down he was and maybe I did put blame on everyone but myself. I hated Onigiri Miya for even getting him caught up in that sort of mess, and when his dreams lined up with mine, I figured it would be okay. We could leave it all behind. I tried to play God with my own brother’s life and he let me. Everyone did.”

“He listened to you?”

Atsumu shakes his head, “crazy, right? He was lost and unsure, but I was confident, ya know? I just felt so certain I was doing the right thing and I think that’s the only reason why he let himself be led all this way.”

“So what changed?”

“Are ya kidding?” Atsumu looks at you, and when he realizes you don’t have a clue, he turns to face you. “The answer is you.”

It’s a fucked up thing for Atsumu to say. The words erupt an ache in your chest. You curl into yourself, bring your knees up so that you flinch away from the pain but Atsumu grabs hold of both of your hands. He grips tightly in an attempt to siphon the pain.

“A love like yours ain’t something easy to forget.”

You remember the hospital, “that’s what Ma said.”

“It’s exactly what she told him when he left. I don’t know how he found out, but I saw that he looked up Onigiri Miya the day before he left and he’s been gone since. For about two weeks now, I think.”

“No,” you shake your head, closing your eyes to soften the blow of his words but even in the darkness, a stinging, buzzing pain wracks through your body. It’s everywhere all at once but Atsumu holds you through it.

“I love ya. I promise, I do. There wasn’t a day I didn’t regret what I did, but believe me when I tell ya. I do. I love ya,” He takes your hands that have been bunched up into fists and presses them onto the soft skin below his eyes where it’s sticky and wet. “And I’m so sorry I had to put ya through this and made ya go through this all alone, so if ya moved on, if ya got someone else, I understand and I’ll figure something out.”

You try to pull yourself from his grip but Atsumu holds onto you, head bent in repentance and the sincerity of it all spouts more tears.

“I’ll handle Osamu if that’s the case. I know Akaashi’s a really good guy so–”

You take your conjoined hands and jab him across the forehead. Atsumu sputters in shock, letting you go in the process while he tries to soothe the pain.

“Does it look like I’ve moved on, idiot?” You knock soft fists into his chest like a child. “Would I be crying in what I consider my own brother’s arms in a park if I moved on?”

“I just wanted–”

“And Akaashi? Fucking Akaashi? He’s a good guy,” you mock, irritated, “of course he is. Shut up. You know I’m in love with your brother.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Stop hitting me. I said I was sorry already.”

You make sure to put some extra force in that final punch, “you’re going to say it for the rest of your life.”

Atsumu nods gratefully, “of course.”

“And,” the words hurt coming out, “and don’t run off on me again.”

What makes the tears slip this time is forgiveness. Atsumu holds your hand against his chest where you can feel his heart. You’ve missed him, longed for him just as much as you have Osamu and slowly, you feel yourself start to heal.

“He might not need a brother right now, but I do.”

Atsumu kisses you on the cheek and pulls you close. He holds you in his arms with the same exact care he had for Osamu in the hospital, with the same protectiveness of an elder brother.

Finally, you feel understood.

Atsumu spends his off season in Hyogo where you find out Ma has moved back. Akaashi doesn’t take kindly to a change in routines, but he begins helping out where he can along with Ma.

When Ma first sees you, all she can do is hold you at arm’s length, picking her vernacular apart with words that she wanted to say. You just shake your head and let yourself be swallowed by her cardigan comfort. She encourages you to come to family dinner and you have to ask if Akaashi is invited too. She pats his cheek and says of course like the question was unnecessary to begin with.

The world shifts almost exactly the way you imagined it. Life has a funny way of doing that. Atsumu helps around the restaurant and Ma stops by with some of her friends after an activity. She meets Asako who she adores and is adored just as equally. Ma takes ice cream duty from you while Atsumu, because it’s his off season, likes to overstay his welcome at your apartment. Akaashi kicks him out and the athlete tries to use Mumu as an excuse. Mumu, unfortunately, likes Atsumu even less than Akaashi.

Sometimes Atsumu will try to broach the topic of contacting Osamu, something that both you and Ma are against. Osamu has been through enough, you both reason. And he’s probably had his fill of someone telling him what to do.

The restaurant fills and though you know that yours or Akaashi’s food cannot compare, the laughter spills out the doors from friends and family and neighbors that continuously visit. They manage when you accidentally don’t order enough fish, opting for broth and rice and when you run out of beverages, someone offers to run to the convenience store to buy drinks.

It’s not a perfect venue, but it embodies Osamu’s very being, a place that has become a home.

One day, Akaashi is out of town and Atsumu helps you while he’s gone. He’s not as focused as your usual business partner, whose eyes continuously drift out onto the streets and he even leaves early when you haven’t finished clearing up for the day.

“Alright, I gotta go but I’ll lock the door,” Atsumu runs off quickly. “Ya can handle this, right?”

You look at the stack of dishes and the ready to go items that haven’t been put away yet. It’s not much, but it would certainly be easier if he stayed. Unfortunately, his question is apparently rhetorical because the man does not wait for an answer. He reiterates his farewell and with a jingle, the door is shut.

“Okay,” you say, blinking at his figure that eventually passes a corner and disappears. You scan your surroundings, running a mental image of what would be the most efficient process. Wipe down the tables, you decide. Some haven’t been bussed yet so you head over with a fresh rag and empty tray.

Atsumu likes to turn up the music the moment the o.mo.ide closes as a way to decompress. You hum along. It’s a mindless process now that you’ve done it so many times. Clear the tables. Sanitize the tables. Sanitize the chair. Bend down eye level with the table and make sure you haven’t missed any crumbs. You’re not even thinking, just lost in the routine and it’s why the sound of the bell startles you.

It’s so like Atsumu to forget to lock the door. You compose yourself with a slow inhale and prepare for an irate customer who might argue at your innocent error, but the breath expels from your mouth.

You stand there stupidly, hands holding your chest like you’re about to dive backwards into water. It’s that feeling, where two characters catch eyes on a crowded street. Despite everything that has happened and all that separates you, he holds you captive. Your feet are planted to the ground and everything, heart, mind, body, and breath is under his power.

“O – Oh…”

Even saying his name feels foreign because as much as you’ve thought of him, you can’t remember when was the last time you did. It feels foreign on your tongue and you can’t blurt anything out but the first letter, and you witness his demeanor change.

“Osamu,” you say only because you think it’ll make him smile. It does and because of it, you want to fall down on your knees.

Everything, everything that you had observed different about him, his hair that looks like he’s cut but is still longer than you remember, the cut of his jaw that’s sharper, his brows that he’d boast about being strong look trimmed, and even his choice of clothes is different, opting for a sleeveless tee over his favored oversized shirts, all of that is negligent because seeing him once more, you recognize he is still your Osamu.

“Hi,” he greets and your heart flutters. Was this really how it felt when you were falling in love because everything he does brings upon a desire that you doubt could ever be quelled. “Are ya closed?”

“Yes,” you answer honestly and the wilt of his face makes you overcompensate, “but– but it’s fine! You’re come in… I mean, oh…”

This is so fucking embarrassing. “You’re always welcome. Come in and have a seat wherever you want.”

He points at a bar seat with a head tilt. You nod and make sure to lock the door behind him. The bus tub, the rag, you forego it all and pass the swinging door that separates the register and eating area. Your hands perspire at the stress of perfection. It’s a foreign thing for him to be seated while you serve him and maybe it’s you overthinking, but it feels like he’s watching your every move.

Osamu quickly diverts his gaze when you turn around. His not so subtle glancing of the venue, head craned back as he looks at the decorations on the walls and the lighting fixtures you and Akaashi picked, amuses you but you try not to show it too hard. Osamu seems shyer than you’re used to. That’s okay. You’re nervous too.

“Did you come hungry?”

“I did.”

Ease washes over you. Thank the gods, that has stayed the same.

You apologize for the lack of options and Osamu tries to downplay the inconvenience. “It’s okay. I didn’t… Well I did, but I didn’t really come here to eat.”

“No?”

Osamu plays with a stray grain of rice between his fingers. He rolls the sticky piece into a ball, back and forth as he thinks of what he wants to say.

“No, I… To be honest, I didn’t think I was going to go inside.”

“Oh.”

“But I…” then he stops his rolling and he looks at you, like really looks at you. And whatever it is, you feel it too. “But I just had to.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Yeah, well, it took me all up until closing to work up the courage.”

“That’s okay,” you tell him. You pull up the stool near the rear register and situate yourself across from him. The boundary that separates you two is familiar, 76 centimeters of space that you know by heart and it makes conversation flow smoother. “I’m happy you came at all. How was your day?”

“Shit.”

The answer takes you by surprise, him too by the way he stops chewing, lips puckering close together as he ruminates whether or not meant to say those words. But he owns them, and continues on.

“My smoothie spilled all over my cup holder.”

“Oh no. Did you ask for another one?”

“Pretty sure they tried to sabotage me by giving me a cracked cup.”

You break in the most unexpected way. A smile splits your lips and a giggle strikes through your chest. Everything feels so similar, so weightless. It feels like a dam has been broken with just a couple of words.

“It ain’t funny.”

You agree, “I know. It’s the worst.”

“Then why are ya laughing?”

“I don’t even know. It’s not funny at all.”

“It’s not. I had to stuff a bunch of napkins in there.”

“No, it’s going to get sticky!”

“What else was I supposed to do?”

“Cry.”

Osamu sputters, rice flying from his mouth. He’s embarrassed for only a millisecond, fearful of your reaction, but all it does is make you bend over, sincerely losing control of your body. Osamu joins you, laughing at who knows what, but you’re grateful. For as much pain misery brings, it takes so little for you to be happy.

“Fuck,” he says once he’s able to catch a breath. He says quietly with wonder and it has your giggles soften to match his energy. “I’ve imagined every way this meeting could go.”

Your heart constricts like it’s being pinched from the bottom. “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

“No,” Osamu shakes his head genuinely. You almost apologize. “I thought I’d mess it all up but,” he looks at you and it’s the gaze you had been searching when he had first woken up all those years ago. A quiet ardor, soft around the edges but saturated in passion, “but I didn’t expect it to be so easy.”

“Stop,” you have to hide your lips.

Osamu doesn’t understand, back straightening, “what?”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Saying those things.”

His lips pucker themselves out, “why can’t I?”

“Because,” you blink furiously, willing the tears away because you want to remember this with clarity, “you’re making me too happy.”

He grins too, but it’s still shy as he bends his head down, nodding slightly as he does, “how do ya think I feel?”

There’s a calmness that settles now that your mania has subsided. Your eyes appraise, trying to find more topics to talk about so he can stay just a little longer.

“Are those cigarettes?” you observe the square box in his breast pocket.

He nods as he pulls them out, holding them in his hands as if they were novel.

“Are you smoking a lot?”

He looks at you curiously, “did I used to?”

The past tense makes you stumble, but you do your best to answer him honestly. “Sometimes. Only the bad days. That’s how we knew you were having a bad day because we’d smell them on you.”

He’d lean his chest against the railings like his body was too heavy, curved his body like a treble clef as he smoked. And often you’d find him in the alleyway, a cigarette in one hand and food for the cats in another.

“It’s crazy how I do shit without knowing the real meaning.”

You shrug, “habits are harder to break than memory.”

Osamu nods. A beat passes before he continues the conversation on his own.

“I’ve had this same pack since I left the hospital.” He opens it and reveals only a few sticks missing, “play with it for the most part but I’ll smoke one when I get overwhelmed. I dreamt of you once and my heart wouldn’t stop beating. I had to go outside and calm myself. Nearly gave Tsumu a heart attack when he noticed my bed was empty.”

“He’s a worrywort.”

The sound Osamu makes is not kind. There’s still animosity for his brother, “even more so now.”

“He means well.”

“Sure he does.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your apology takes him by surprise. Osamu shuts the pack and places it back in his pocket. “For what?”

“For, I don’t know.” A lot of things. For burdening him with faded memories, for not being who he needed, for not being enough, “for being in your dream.”

“What are ya saying? It was a good dream. It felt… nice.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods earnestly while looking at you. “I can’t explain it because I really don’t know the specifics, but it felt good. Made me wish I dreamed about ya more.”

The sunset is almost complete, dark orange hues streak the tile floor. Osamu’s been done eating for minutes now. With his plate clean and the conversation running its course, it feels like a good place for this to end. But you don’t think you can part with him just yet. A culmination of yearning and grieving and mourning and aching has led to this and you’ll be damned if it’s over now.

You hop off the stool and Osamu sighs. He matches your movements, slowly getting up, too. He looks ready to leave but you won’t let him go without trying. Not this time.

“Would you like to see the back?”

“Really?” his giddiness prompts yours.

“Yeah, of course.” You lead him to the back and grab your apron. Then you point at the black one on the last hook closest to the back alley door . “Take that apron.”

He hooks his finger around the neck, “this one?”

You nod. “Yeah, that one’s yours.”

He takes it in his hand, shy and foreign in his fingers. It’s different, clumsier, but it’s familiar enough to let your heart burn.

He pulls the fabric over his head and adjusts it along his shoulder. The apron is knotted up by habit, his hands reaching there after the three usual tugs and when he looks up, your stomach swirls at the sight of his beam.

He’s everything you’ve missed in more ways than one, but finally, thank gods, finally. He’s right where he belongs.

#reina.writeshaikyuu!!#haikyuu angst #miya osamu angst #miya osamu x reader #osamu x reader #haikyuu x reader #i think i’m going to have a drink now

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seijorhi · 1 year

Text

Powder Keg

it has been far too long since i've indulged with these three

Bokuto Koutarou, Kuroo Tetsurou & Akaashi Keiji x Female Reader

w.c 6.1k

tw: implied non-con, yandere, implied violence and bad times all round

Not guilty.

There’s a moment after the verdict’s read, right before the courtroom erupts into noise where time slows. Your heartbeat thunders in your chest, violently – like it’s trying to rip its way free, and it becomes harder to breathe.

For days, you’ve avoided looking at them, treating the left side of the courtroom as though it simply did not exist.

Your head turns without conscious thought, and you watch it happen. In slow motion, you physically witness the verdict hit them.

Not guilty.

Relief. Joy. Bokuto pulls Kuroo into a hug, pounding his fist across his back as he beams.

Not guilty.

Akaashi shaking their lawyer’s hand, head tilted in a polite bow.

Not guilty.

The gavel slams down, a harsh, strangled sort of noise escapes you. Your knees, shaking as they are, suddenly give way. Cameras flash, your lawyer reaching for you as you sink back into your chair, numb – whatever he says to you gets drowned out, nothing but static and haze.

Three days spent trapped at their mercy while they broke your trust, lied to you, hurt you, fucked you. Cases don’t make it to court for trial unless the prosecution’s almost certain of a conviction, everyone knows that. You had the evidence, the rape kit, DNA, all of it. How– how could they–

The skin at the nape of your neck prickles, the tiny hairs standing on end. Lifting your head, you’re met with a cool gunmetal gaze, Akaashi’s expression giving away nothing.

He nods, though. A slow incline of his chin, his eyes never leaving yours. Bokuto and Kuroo are breaking apart, the latter already beginning to follow Akaashi’s line of sight, and you feel the bile rising up your throat.

In a sudden burst of energy, you lurch from your seat, racing out the side doors. The meagre lunch you’d managed to force down comes hurling right back up – the only saving grace being that you barely manage to make it to the bathroom in time.

On your knees, clutching the toilet and sobbing, you vomit until there’s nothing left but bile and pain. How could they– how could they do this to you?

How could they not believe you when you gave them everything?

You don’t glance up when the door swings open, nor at the tentative knock on the stall door – which as you hadn’t had the time or inclination to lock it, creaks open.

Your mother peers in. “Honey?”

“They think I’m a liar,” you croak out, finally lifting your miserable gaze. “They think I’m making it up.”

“I know, sweetie.”

“We believe you, we know you’re telling the truth. I’m sorry those assholes convinced everyone else otherwise,” your cousin murmurs, appearing behind her shoulder.

Together, they help you to your feet, your mother gently wiping away the tears while your cousin places a comforting hand on your back.

“Those bastards. Those fucking bastards! If the lay judges had any sense at all–” her voice, shaking with rage, cracks, a sob threatening to break through. Beyond words, she shakes her head, clamping her lips shut, and your cousin sighs.

“Come on, it’s going to be a circus out there. Better to get it over and done with.”

She isn’t wrong.

By the time you make it to the steps out front, reporters are everywhere, swarming. Their lawyer’s mid-way through a statement, smugness radiating from every slimy pore.

“– justice served today. These three young men have such promising futures ahead of them, and we can only be thankful that the lay judges and judges alike saw their true character amidst the wild accusations and, quite frankly, outright fabrications from this poor, misguided woman.”

And the reporters are pummelling you and your family with questions, demanding a comment, asking how you feel about the verdict passed down.

You can’t bring yourself to answer them, so you keep your mouth shut and focus on the ground in front of you, one step after another. You can’t stop or you’ll break all over again.

Your mother, however, has different ideas. “You let her down,” she spits. “This whole system let my daughter down today. Do you give all rapists a free pass, or just the ones on track to become olympians?!”

Which, naturally, only invites a flurry of rapid fire follow ups.

They’ve all decided that you’re a whore. A liar. A greedy, attention seeking slut who wanted nothing more than a few nights of fun to leverage for your five minutes of fame. They might not admit it outright, but you can hear it in their questions, see it in their looks.

The verdict only cements that belief.

Three days, every waking second spent clinging to the idea that once you got away, once they were done, you’d be free and everything would be fine.

You’d get justice.

The three of them would spend years rotting away behind bars, and it wouldn’t be enough, not ever, not for what they put you through. Somehow, though, you’d find a way to make peace with it.

And now… now they’re walking free like they did nothing wrong and you– you’re the one left standing there in the wake of a shattered reputation while people you’ve never met hurl abuse at you and your family, telling you you deserved what you got. That you wanted it.

The bolder ones tell you to do everyone a favour and just go kill yourself.

You catch one last look as the car pulls away; surrounded by their family, their crack legal team, supporters. The three of them – each with loosened ties, Bokuto having shed his jacket entirely – meet that gaze head on.

And the weight of it, burning and uncomfortable, lingers long after they disappear in the rearview mirror.

—

“Mr. Kuroo, sir, your two o'clock is waiting in conference room three.”

He hums, fingers tapping away across the screen of his phone

“And,” his assistant continues, “I have your coffee.”

At that, she finally grabs his attention. Stowing his phone back into the breast pocket of his jacket, he smiles, “You’re a lifesaver, have I mentioned that?”

“Once or twice.”

Accepting the cup gratefully, Kuroo laughs, “Yeah, well, remind me ‘bout that when we have your next salary review.”

She brightens at the praise, tucking her hair back behind her ear with a small nod. Kuroo, already halfway down the hall, doesn’t notice, too busy wracking his brain in an attempt to recall what his two o’clock appointment is actually regarding.

There were interviews for one of the junior positions, but those weren’t until next week, he vaguely recalls someone from legal wanting to talk about their upcoming campaign, maybe it’s about that? Usually they want to talk with the whole team, though. Long, drawn out meetings that leave him wanting to repeatedly slam his head against a wall.

Upon reaching the conference room in question, he realises that it’s not legal he’s scheduled to meet with.

Sitting with her legs neatly crossed, pen and paper in hand sits a woman of about thirty, a bottle blonde, with perky tits and a tight black, pencil skirt that clings to shapely thighs. She smiles when he opens the door, sticks out a perfectly manicured hand.

“Kuroo Tetsurou, I presume?”

He takes it, smirks as her eyelashes flutter and they shake hands.

Nope, definitely not someone from legal.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but you are–?”

“Of course, my apologies. My name is Sato Kisumi, I’m a reporter from the Metro Times, we spoke last week…”

A vague memory of a phone call surfaces and Kuroo finds himself nodding. “Right, yeah, I remember. You wanted to talk about an article or something? Sorry, we’re a few weeks from launching our campaign for the new season and it’s been a hell of a day.”

She laughs, a sweet, bell-like sound, “No, no, it’s alright. If anyone understands how crazy it can be working towards a deadline, it’s a reporter.”

He settles himself down across from her, making himself comfortable.

“You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”

Kuroo shakes his head. There’s one already set up on the table, next to the tea his assistant must have procured for her when she arrived. Leaning forward, she clicks it on, “Wonderful.”

“So what’s this article for, anyway?”

“You don’t remember?” her voice carries a teasing lilt. “We did speak about it on the phone.”

“Busy week, like I said.”

“Busy man,” she counters, red lips curling into something like a smile. “To be honest with you, it’s more of an exposé. I’m investigating professional athletes dodging charges for criminal offences. The taking of illegal substances and DUI’s of course, but more serious allegations, too. Spousal abuse, assault, rape, that sort of thing.”

Leaning back in his chair, Kuroo picks up his coffee cup and takes a sip, savouring the bitter, chocolate-y notes of the dark roast his assistant – godsend that she is – knows he favours.

He vaguely recalls the conversation – enough to remember that she neglected to tell him this part whilst she was angling for an interview. Then again, she’d hardly be the first reporter to lie for a chance to get their foot in the door. More than anyone, Kuroo can appreciate that kind of deception.

Now that the truth is laid bare, he’s faced with a choice.

If Kuroo had any sense at all – if he cared about his job and his reputation – he’d politely but firmly tell her to leave before she gets any more comfortable. It’s one thing to ignore and downplay what he’s sure will inevitably turn out to be a scathing indictment of the whole system when it’s published, another entirely to actively participate in it, regardless of intentions.

If he doesn’t tread carefully here, his boss will most certainly have his balls for it.

So he should kick her out. He should.

Instead, Kuroo lets out a light chuckle, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “And you decided to start with the VP of JVA promotion? It’s an… interesting approach, I’ll give you that.”

Kisumi mirrors him, lifting the tea to her lips to take a slow sip. She sets the cup back down on the desk, taking a second to adjust it ever so slightly, the tip of her finger running along the edge of the rim. Then, with an air of nonchalance, she shrugs. “Well, what we’re seeing is that these athletes are usually being protected by their teams and management, and in some cases, with certain athletes, that extends all the way up to high ranking officials within their respective governing bodies. Victims and police are paid off, charges mysteriously disappear, negative press gets buried, like magic.”

“It’s a sad story ‘n all, I’m sure there’s some commentary in there about the failings of society, corruption and misplaced hero worship of star athletes or whatever it is you’re after, but I’m failing to see what that has to do with me. I run the promotions division, not public relations.”

“I’m not interested in talking to you because of your job title, Mr. Kuroo, although believe me, that someone like you could rise to an office like this is damning enough,” she says, no trace of her earlier sweetness, the flirtatiousness. No, now her eyes are cold, her smile, while it still adorns her lips, all too sharp. “I’m here because of a court case a few years ago, in which you and two friends – one of whom now plays for the national volleyball team – were accused of the kidnapping and rape of a fellow student.”

Kuroo barks out a laugh, leaning back into his seat. His eyes flicker to the recorder on the desk, the pen she wields, poised over the blank pad of paper, and back to her cool smile. “A very publicised court case that ended with a verdict of not guilty. No one bribed any judges or tampered with evidence, no one made it go away. That’s our justice system, that’s how it works. If you’re looking for something damning,” he throws the word back at her, “you’re going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

“And you think that was a fair trial?”

“I think you’re wasting your time. Mine, too.”

He moves to rise, intent on ushering Kisumi out of his office when she asks, “You don’t remember me, Kuroo, do you?” Not playful anymore, not even angry; she spits his name like it’s poison, as though the very act of uttering his name aloud makes her skin crawl.

And that, more than anything, is enough to really pique his interest.

Kuroo finds himself studying her – really looking at her – beyond the blonde curls and the hateful scowl, beyond all that he’d dismissed earlier. And there is something that rings of familiarity – her eyes, maybe, the shape of her nose – but Kuroo’s short on time, and despite his amusement, what’s left of his good will is dwindling fast.

“Nah, but don’t take it personally, the whole prissy, up-tight bitch thing you’ve got going on isn’t really my thing.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t, you only ever saw her.” Kisumi makes a disgusted noise, “The whole trial, you wouldn’t stop staring. You and your friends ruined her and then you sat there making moon eyes for three days while your asshole of a lawyer tore her apart on the stand.”

The pieces fall together, a memory resurfaces; a blonde woman leaning forward to touch your shoulder, whispering in your ear as you tried in vain to keep your tears at bay.

And it’s a stupid thing, the faint tinge of jealousy that stirs inside of him as he eyes the woman sitting before him. She’s family – has to be, because Kuroo knew all your friends back then.

(Funny, wasn’t it, how none of them had shown up at the trial either.)

Pushing aside the ugly feeling – at least for now – Kuroo rises to his feet, allowing a smirk to curl at his lips. “Like I said, Miss Sato,” and oh, how he relishes the cold fury that sparks across her features. “You’re gonna have to do better than that – but not today. Get the fuck out of my conference room.”

With her lips pursed, she goes to do just that. Makes it all the way to the door, clutching the handle when abruptly she stops, turning to face him once more.

An eyebrow rises, “Something else?”

“She’s missing. She left years ago, which I’m sure you already knew, but now she’s gone-gone. She hasn’t called in weeks, and the cops won’t help. They said that she’s already proven she’s flighty,” Kisumi spits out a humourless laugh. “They won’t open an investigation when we can’t even tell them the last place she was staying. But I know my cousin, and I know the only reason she’d go this long without calling is if there was something physically stopping her from doing so.”

Her voice remains level, her breath on the other hand–

A chink in the armour.

The family resemblance might not be all that strong between you two, that look though – trying to pretend she’s not afraid when everything from the expression on her face to the tremor in her hands is screaming at him otherwise – all he can see is you.

He loves when you look at him like that. More than he should, but guilty pleasures and all that. He doesn’t want you scared, not… necessarily. Not as much as he wants you vulnerable.

Unlike you, who’d burst into tears, crumble and break, she straightens her spine, swallows down that emotion and continues. “I know the kind of man you are. All three of you. It’s because of you that she left in the first place, and I’m willing to stake my career on you being the reason she’s disappeared this time ‘round as well.”

“S’that right? You got any actual proof, or is this whole thing based solely on the fact that you don’t like me?”

Kisumi, rather than dignifying that with an answer, merely spares Kuroo one last disdainful glare and stalks from the room, letting the door slam shut behind her. A minor victory, but one that brings no small sense of satisfaction.

A shame then, that it doesn’t last.

His smirk slips away, vanishing like a slate scrubbed clean.

Pulling the phone from his breast pocket, Kuroo dials the last number he called, lifts the phone up to his ear, and waits.

“What’s up?”

“We’ve got a problem.”

—

Akaashi isn’t one for the spotlight.

He doesn’t hate it per se, he just isn’t all that interested in chasing after it. Better to let everyone be blinded by the other two and let their guards slip around him.

He’s patient – has to be, dealing with Bokuto and Kuroo day in, day out. Calm. Observant enough to realise that the blonde sitting four seats down on the rattling train car has been following him for several days now.

Sato Kisumi.

Akaashi had looked her up after her meeting with Kuroo, begrudgingly having to admit that as an investigative journalist, she was rather impressive.

Kuroo was worried she’d be a problem, and Akaashi’s inclined to agree. Upset relatives were one thing, a well respected journalist with a personal vendetta against the three of them, a separate beast entirely.

One that wouldn’t necessarily be so easy to shake. Or put down.

A polite, feminine voice filters through the P.A system, announcing the imminent arrival of the next station. The train has another four stops before his, yet he rises smoothly when the train slows to a stop beside the platform, exiting amongst the throng of commuters without so much as a backwards glance.

She follows, however, as he knew she would, trailing after him when he makes his way out of the station and onto the busy streets of Shinjuku. There’s a ramen joint he’s particularly fond of a few minutes downtown, only a short walk away.

The quickest route would be to take the main road, lose himself in the throng of people. Akaashi, curious more than anything, decides to instead take the long way round, via the back alleys and narrow laneways, where every footstep echoes, and puddles splash underfoot.

He’s pleased, though not exactly surprised, that Kisumi follows at a distance.

A block away from his destination, he stops on the street corner, turning back to address her.

“Are you hungry?”

The question clearly takes her by surprise, and her answer comes slow. Distant honking from the street ahead, laughter and the rumble of voices tangled together interwoven with music and the shouting of kitchen – closer to the main road, it’s louder here. Easier to mask her presence.

Even so, she had to have realised he’d been toying with her from the start, perfectly aware she’d been tailing him. Why else would he have led her down the rabbit’s warren?

“… What?”

“Dinner,” he elaborates. “Are you hungry? I didn’t have a chance to eat today, and I figured that rather than spending all night following me in the hopes that I’ll – what, lead you to your cousin? – we could sit down and talk over some food. Ramen, actually. That’s what you want, isn’t it? To talk?”

She regards him warily, brows knitting together, considering the proposition. He can’t blame her for the reticence, exactly, but it is somewhat of a pointless exercise considering they both know that she’s going to say yes.

She might hate him. Despise him. She might even be afraid of him, but she went toe to toe with Kuroo and that doesn’t speak to someone meek or spineless. If she wants answers – if she wants you as badly as he thinks she does, she won’t be able to resist.

A heartbeat later, and he’s proven correct. Her jaw tightens, but she nods; a short, sharp jerk of her chin. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

Despite the proclamation, Kisumi remains silent as they’re shown to one of the tables set up beneath the awning outside, shielding them from the drizzling rain, and when Akaashi orders for them both, two bowls of tonkotsu, with a side of gyoza to share. She just sits, shoulders back, arms folded gracefully across her chest, glaring daggers.

All of that fades away when the waitress comes by with their food. In an instant she softens, smiling and politely dipping her head in thanks. Only when the waitress disappears back inside and they’re alone again does Kisumi finally break her silence.

“I don’t suppose you’ll save me the trouble and tell me where my cousin is?”

Akaashi smiles at that, splitting his chopsticks to snatch one of the pot sticker dumplings and take a bite. He savours the mouthful, the rich flavours of garlicky pork, cabbage and chives bursting over his taste buds, chewing thoughtfully before posing another question to the blonde.

“Did she ever talk about how we met?”

Kisumi laughs, shaking her head as she pulls her bowl of ramen close and grabs her chopsticks. “No. No, somehow between all the tears and the breakdowns, her gripping my hand while she lay in that hospital bed and told the cops every detail about how you trapped her in that house, how the three of you touched her, raped her, we didn’t get around to chatting about the meet cute. Weird, right?”

“There was this ramen place on campus,” Akaashi begins, ignoring Kisumi’s dig entirely. “Kind of like this one, except it was open twenty-four seven. Busy as hell during the day, but after ten, eleven at night it got pretty quiet, and she always worked the late shift.”

There’s a quiet wistfulness in his tone that Akaashi doesn’t bother masking.

He remembers the way your face used to brighten when the bell above the door would announce their arrival, the cute little bounce in your step that he never could get out of his head.

When it was dead and you could get away with it, you’d come over and chat, sneaking them drinks, dumplings, an extra egg or slice of pork, even ‘forgetting’ to tally their orders up correctly when it came time to settle their bill. If your boss took notice, he never said anything – or if he did, then you never cared enough to stop.

You could make a few exceptions for your favourites, you’d told him when he’d asked you about it once, smiling that soft, pretty smile of yours. Blind to the way those words, and the image of you beaming so beautifully, would etch their way into his very being, refusing to give him a moment’s peace.

Bokuto and Kuroo would waste hours fighting over who you liked best, only for Akaashi to add fuel to the fire, dryly reminding them that arguing was pointless – you weren’t stupid or blind enough to prefer either one of them.

It was a slow thing, this descent into hell with you… and then it wasn’t.

And he wouldn’t trade what he has now for all the world, but some small part of him will always mourn those early days, the sweet naivety with which you used to treat them.

Kisumi, picking at her ramen rather than eating it, sucks on her teeth and exhales slowly, drawing him from his reminiscing. “So when did it change?” she asks.

“Hm?”

“When did you decide that that wasn’t enough? At what point exactly did the three of you sit down and make the decision to take her to that cabin, keep her there against her will and spend three days systematically abusing her for your own sick fucking pleasure?”

A flash of irritation sparks, and his eyes narrow. “She agreed to come with us, and we didn’t abuse her. We’d never.”

A silence descends between them, thick, wrought with tension and disbelief. And then, like a match struck, the blonde explodes.

“God, you’re so full of shit, you know that, right?!” Kisumi snarls, disgusted. “You might’ve been able to convince the court that it was rough and fun, that whatever damage you left behind was damage she wanted, but I was there for the aftermath. I saw the state you left her in!”

Each word is biting and vitriolic, her voice shaking with barely repressed rage. If she’s hoping for some sign that they’ve struck a chord, wounded him in some way, she’s sorely disappointed. Save for the cold, flat stare he regards her with, the only response Akaashi deigns to give is simply to resume eating, gathering another mouthful of noodles between his chopsticks and slurping them up.

That, it seems, is Kisumi’s breaking point. Shaking her head with a hollow scoff, she shoves her own, largely untouched bowl aside and stands.

“I’m going to find her, and when I do I am going to spend every waking second, every last yen I have making sure that the three of you go down for it.” And with that, she snatches up her purse, yanking it open to dig for her umbrella.

Another mouthful, braised chashu pork and scallions. “You’re more than welcome to try.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

—

Fingers drum restlessly against the leather steering wheel, tapping out an anxious beat.

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ Kuroo had said, clapping him on the back.

The light shines from her bedroom window, the shadow of her figure moving within. Bokuto checks the clock again; 11:27.

He’d been so happy, over the fucking moon to come home. Three weeks away, three and a half hours on the train, he was itching, leg bouncing restlessly as the miles slowly crawled by. And even though all he wanted to do was find Kuroo so they could go home already, he made the effort for the fans that swarmed the second he got off the train.

Took the time to smile and pose for pictures, signed the autographs, laughing and chatting away. He gets it, he does – meeting your idols is pretty fucking awesome, and the last thing he’d ever wanna do would be to ruin that for some poor kid just because he’s in a rush to get home and rip your clothes off.

Still, even at the best of times patience was never his forte, and three weeks might as well have been a lifetime.

Anticipation had him on cloud nine, and nothing – nothing – was gonna bring him down.

At least, that’s what he’d thought.

‘Don’t you have an ounce of shame?’

It’d taken everything he had not to snap there and then. There were kids around, staring up at him with wide, confused eyes – their parents quick to usher them away.

Kuroo’d said she’d be a problem.

Akaashi agreed.

The bedroom light flicks off, and his pulse jumps. Go time.

Adjusting the cap on his head, he flips up the hood of his jacket and exits the car, avoiding the light from the street lamps above to cross the road. Her house is nice enough. Small, with a garden out front spilling with greenery and potted flowers. Her cat, lying on the windowsill between the blinds and the glass, notes his arrival on the doorstep with slow blinking eyes, only to yawn and dismiss him entirely, unbothered.

Faced with a locked door, Bokuto doesn’t bother wasting time or energy trying to pick it. He has no need – two solid, powerful kicks later, the wooden door splinters and cracks, giving way beneath his foot.

Shoving the wreckage of the door aside, Bokuto shoulders his way inside. There’s a sudden yowl – the cat, startled by the noise, launches itself from the window to skitter away to some safe, dark hidey-hole. From somewhere else within he hears a muffled thump, followed by a curse.

Good. He wants her to know he’s coming.

‘You can google it, you know? The rape and the trial, it’s on your wikipedia page – and those kids and their families, they still worship you. That’s your legacy.’

A slow building anger seeps through his veins, blood thrumming in anticipation.

‘Doesn’t it make you sick?’

She’s threatening to take you away. ‘Kaashi said she’s hellbent on it.

Bokuto can shoulder a lot. He dealt with the blow to his image – both during the trial and after it – and when you left last time, disappearing into thin air without so much as a goodbye, it broke something inside of him.

Still, he found a way to get through it. He had to, because he was getting you back.

And the taste of you lingers on his tongue from when it was buried inside of you only hours ago, a honeyed tang he’d swallow down by the mouthful if he could. Back home your hips and ass, the soft sweetness of your thighs, carry mottled imprints of his fingers – that overeager, desperate touch.

Three rounds he’d gone; sinking his cock into your pussy, fucking out all of his frustrations and pent up emotions ‘til he was spent and you were a shaking, shivering, heavenly mess. It was supposed to make things better. Calm him down a little and take the edge off.

It had the opposite effect.

Because he knows now what it’s like to lose a soulmate, he knows just how high the stakes are.

She swung first, Bokuto’s simply returning the favour.

There’s no point masking his footsteps as he stalks through the house, a singular goal in mind. Akaashi made him promise that he wouldn’t take this too far – and he won’t.

He wants to – fuck, he really, really wants to.

But he won’t.

The door to the bedroom’s cracked an inch – it groans in protest when he nudges it wider and crosses the threshold.

The thought of finding her, dragging her kicking and screaming out into the living room was something he’d been looking forward to, but Kisumi – rudely ruining his fun – isn’t hiding.

No, flattened against the wall opposite, shaking like a leaf, she grips her phone like it’s a lifeline. “I-I’ve called the cops. They’re on their way,” she calls out, and he realises that while his eyes have adjusted, hers haven’t. She thinks he’s a burglar, someone she can reason with.

He almost snorts.

Fumbling against the wall, it takes him a second or two to find the light switch and flick it on. Light floods the small bedroom in an instant, and Kisumi flinches, an arm coming up to shield her face from the sudden brightness.

When it falls though, and golden eyes meet her own, Bokuto’s rewarded with a look of shock and recognition, which quickly gives way to something much, much more satisfying.

Fear.

It’s in her eyes, widening horribly, the way her face drains of blood. The audible little hitch in her breathing that sends a delightful tingle down his spine.

And still, she tries to put on a brave face.

“The cops are already on their way,” she repeats, tongue darting out to wet her lips. “Whatever you’re after– just… just go, and I swear I won’t say a word. I’ll keep your name out of it. We– we can pretend this never happened, alright?”

Bokuto grins at that. Shifts his weight as he lowers his centre of gravity.

The funny thing is, the stupid bitch doesn’t know just how right she’s about to be.

—

The beeping of the monitors brings back bad memories.

Truth be told, a lot of what happened that day is a blur. You don’t care to pry too deep, trying to pluck and sort through the trauma of what happened. You remember the hospital, though – gowned up, lying on the scratchy sheets, gripping Kisumi’s hand while you walked the detective through every harrowing minute you’d spent at their hands.

And now the situations are reversed, and it’s your cousin lying broken and damaged in the hospital, and you’re the one sitting at her bedside, keeping watch over her like the guardians of old. Holding her hand while you fight back tears.

The doctors say she’ll wake up soon, but they’ve been saying that for hours now.

All you can do is sit there and pray that she’ll wake up soon.

Pray that she’ll listen, and hear you.

You’re there when the doctors come by to check her vitals, when the food cart rolls by. They don’t stop for her, even if she were awake there wouldn’t be much point, what with her jaw wired shut and all.

Her whole body’s a mess. A broken wrist, broken ribs, her jaw shattered and face a bruised, swollen mess.

It’s a miracle she’s still alive.

Your stomach twists, nausea threatening to heave its way up your throat. No – it’s a miracle that he stopped.

The phone in your pocket vibrates, you ignore it for the third time. No doubt you’ll pay for it later, right now you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Please,” you mumble, squeezing your eyes shut as your vision blurs with unshed tears. “Please.”

But it’s a while yet before she stirs, consciousness slowly pulling her back to you.

It begins with a muffled groan, a whimper when she shifts. Even with all the damage to her face, you can see the signs of distress taking shape – hurt, twisting at her features.

They’ve given her all the drugs they can, and she’s still in pain.

Your heart wrenches. “Sumi? Sumi, can you hear me?” you ask, clutching her hand tightly between both of yours.

She groans again, fighting to get both eyes open. The phone in your pocket buzzes, insistent. It doesn’t stop after one, going off again and again and again, raising your internal panic. But Kisumi’s blinking now, trying desperately to pull the world into focus. Figure out why it hurts to move, why her mouth won’t obey when she tries to talk.

And you see the tears well up in her eyes, the panic and fear, and you swallow down your own emotions because they don’t matter right now.

“Hey, hey it’s okay. I know it hurts, I know you’re scared, but you’re safe now. I promise you, you’re safe.” An echo of the words she’d once spoken to you. Your thumb strokes the back of her uninjured hand. “Don’t try to talk, just… listen to me, I don’t have long.”

Her fingers try to clumsily curl around your own, and she makes another noise – a garbled butchering of your name that breaks off into a frustrated wail – sending a fresh bolt of pain and guilt lancing through your chest. Tears sting in the corner of your eyes, bottom lip quivering.

This is all your fault.

“You can’t talk, your jaw they– they had to wire it shut,” you tell her while she chokes on another sob. You squeeze her hand, “Please, Sumi, I need you to listen to me. Don’t move, just… blink if you understand; once for yes, twice for no.”

A beat passes, and she blinks. Good.

“Do you remember what happened? The man who attacked you?”

… One blink.

You exhale unsteadily, clearing your throat. Kisumi’s eyes are wide as saucers, tracking every move with a laser focus, and your hand is wrapped so tightly around hers that if she wasn’t already drugged to high heaven she’d probably be whimpering. She’s afraid, you realise. Not of the hospital or the damage she’s yet to comprehend the extent of – she’s afraid because she remembers.

She’s afraid because you are.

“Kisumi… you need to stop this. Forget it happened, play dumb for the cops, drop the article and stop interfering. For your own sake as well as mine, I'm begging you. Otherwise… Otherwise–” your voice dies a quiet death as footsteps approach.

There’s no need to turn.

Kisumi’s face tells you everything when it blanches and she begins to tremble like a terrified puppy. Beside her, the heart rate monitor goes haywire, mirroring her pulse as it jumps erratically with the short, sharp gasps she sucks through clenched teeth.

And when a hand falls to your shoulder, both of you flinch.

“Ready to go, babe?”

To Kisumi, you force a tight, watery smile, “Let it go, okay? Promise me.”

You don’t wait for a response, there’s no point. You’ve poked the bear enough by ignoring their calls and texts, there’s no need to push your luck more than you already have.

Letting Kisumi’s hand slip from your grasp, you rise from your seat and turn, nodding. “Yeah.”

Kuroo smirks, coaxing your face up into a short kiss while his fingers entwine with yours, but it’s Bokuto, claiming your other arm, who grumbles like a petulant child, “You were s’posed to be done hours ago.”

“I‘m sorry. We can go home now.”

Neither one of them spare the battered blonde more than a cursory glance on their way out. You, on the other hand, risk a backwards glance in the moments before you’re tugged away.

Kisumi’s sobbing, broken and raw, hunched over as much as her injuries allow. Her bloodshot eyes meet yours, and your heart breaks one last time.

Promise me you’ll stop. They’ll kill you if you don’t.

#yandere haikyuu #yandere kuroo tetsurou x reader #yandere boktuo kotarou x reader #yandere akaashi keiji x reader #yandere kuroo #yandere bokuto #yandere akaashi #tw: noncon

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iwaasfairy · 2 years

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┌─ “ ! „ LOVER, LOVER

tw. noncon, somno, implied size kink, praise, possessiveness, panty stealing, breeding, thoughts of violence, unreliable narrator, yandere esque wordcount. 4.8k

a/n. ♡ commissioned by a follower who i'm so very grateful for ♡ thank you thank you thank you for the commission!!! clingy bokuto is just such a joy, i love him so much and i hope you do tooooo!! i really hope you like where i've taken your idea and that you enjoy reading my love! ♡♡♡ and ty ty ty to rhi and yuli beta-ing!

bokuto koutaro x fem!reader

There’s a little glimmer in Konoha’s eyes— but he’s quick to swallow his laugh. “So you’re telling me there’s no you and Bo?” he confirms, thin brow raising high on his visage to almost comical effect.

“There’s no me and Bo!” you quickly say back, trying not to laugh too when the gray haired man’s pretty eyes flick up to meet you. Bokuto’s talking, his loud voice raising the energy in the room to a peak, and you happily watch how he lights up everything around you. There’s so much happiness in his smile, and the way he carries himself, but it’s unmatched by the way he looks when he’s looking at you.

It’s only when you feel the full force of Bokuto Koutaro that you can truly, deeply appreciate him. And the force of nature he becomes when he’s in his element.

“I love him like a friend! But… I’m happy right now. I don’t want to ruin an amazing friendship for something more.” You admit it all while watching him wave his hands around while talking, brighter than anything else in the room. “He knows! I’ve told him.” As if always sensing your eyes on him, he stares back at you for a second, before his cheeks pull up even more and he scrunches his nose your way. And the ashy blond by your side slowly takes a sip from his drink, until you look back at him.

“Did Bokuto retain that info? Because…” he trails off, and shakes his head. You continue to look at your mutual friend for what feels like a while, as he slurps the coke through his straw with an unneeded amount of noise.

“Thank you so much,” your voice barely travels loud enough for the bartender to smile, watching you carry the plate all the way towards the table. Koutaro had thrown the biggest fuss when you so much as suggested staying home tonight, and- you don’t often have the heart to tell him no. Your best friend is splayed out in dramatic fashion over the tables of your booth by the time you make it back— full ‘woe is me’ as he’s about to break the tables under his weight. Something Akaashi is clearly doing his best to avoid, with the white-knuckled grip on the edge of the furniture as he sends you a desperate glance.

“Bo, you’re going to break it,” you just give them a little shake of your head, but it’s enough to have the silver haired giant perking up and looking over his shoulder for you. It’s a surprise even to you that he even heard you over the noise— less of a surprise when he’s picking the plate out of your hands before you can place it down and shoves the thing in front of Atsumu’s nose, and grabs your arm to pull you into his side.

“There’s my favorite girl! Don’t run off without me, I miss you,” he pouts down your way, and you can’t help but wonder how it’s possible that a muscled, grown man like Bokuto is as childishly needy as he is tall. And he is very tall. Despite it though, you’ve only ever known him to be gentle and kind to everyone and everything, a bundle of sunshine on two very muscular legs, and a massive pushover for- well, you. You met Bokuto when you got paired up with Akaashi on a final project— stressed to hell under last year of high school pressure. Keiji was the hardworking, quiet type; and finding Bokuto attached to your hip afterwards was just kind of par for the course.

It didn’t shock you when the light-haired, boyish extrovert took a liking to you— as the type of guy to see the good in everyone. It does still shock you a little that years later, he’s the one claiming the title of your best friend. Even with all the unbridled chaos he carries with him. The -lock pinkies and tell secrets in the dark- type best friend.

Atsumu takes a quick glance your way before holding out a shot toward you, and grins. “Yer goin’ first, aintcha? How’s about ya try outdoin’ Bokkun or Omi Omi for once. C’mere, I’ll make sure ya don’t have to hang out with that sap all night.” It’s just a joke, you know Atsumu well enough by now to know so, but an arm tightens around your waist.

Koutaro’s leaning into your body but staring down at his years-long teammate with a silence uncharacteristic of the tall spiker. His big eyes narrow the slightest bit as the uncomfortable void grows thick. Atsumu isn't even looking, already prompting others to take their own shots in the short time it took for him to get more than tipsy, with a healthy flush and lidded eyes. But you are looking, and it’s strange enough for you to give him a questioning frown over your shoulder.

“Bo?” He doesn’t say anything. “Earth to Bokuto?” you try again, attempting to laugh it off. There’s a thoughtful sort of glaze over his eyes before he grabs your cheeks in his hand and makes you look up at him.

Bokuto’s always been touchy. It’s a fact you had to get used to extremely quickly, when on only your third time meeting, he’d flung his arms over your shoulders and kissed you, backing you against a wall right in the middle of the very busy halls. It had taken Akaashi a lot of back and forth explaining to fix that one, but you like to think you became better friends despite it all. It was forgiven a long time ago. But the way he holds you now, no enthusiasm boiling over, or as much as a smile, feels off. “Don’t listen to him. Don’t drink like that tonight.” The serious tone in his voice throws you off even more, and you roll your eyes.

“Why not? It’s the weekend- We’re with friends.” Whatever he hears in your voice makes his brows tense more. And it makes you mutter softer, “Neither of us are driving either.”

He licks his lips with a strange sort of disdain. You can’t quite place where you’ve seen this version of Bokuto before, but it makes you feel a bit apprehensive, and you say his name again. This time he nods, and even puts on a smile; though it doesn’t reach past his cheeks. “Why get wasted when we can do that any other time, though? I wanna have a good time with you. And I can’t enjoy myself when I constantly have to search the dance floor for you- or check which freak is hitting on you, or trying to do something— You know you become so defenseless.” His voice gets pouty and exasperated quick, and you know he probably doesn’t get that what he’s saying might be hurtful.

It’s fine. This is Bokuto Koutaro, the guy who spent three whole years using every single free opportunity to impress you with his thoughtfulness, and to get you to admit he really was ‘your favorite person’. Even kittens have their claws, so it’s fine. “I’m not planning on getting wasted— and even if I did, I’m a grown woman.” He opens his mouth to talk more, but you’re quick to cut him off by taking his hand and squeezing his fingers with a softer sigh. “I appreciate your worry, Bo, but I’m allowed to have fun.” You expect that to be the end of it.

Bokuto is good at pushing boundaries, but he’s also softer with you. Always was so willing to listen. So you are more than a little shocked when he doesn’t settle down, getting more up into your face instead by staring down with a scorching fire in his eyes.

“No, you can’t. Not when they’re around,” Koutaro harshly replies, low in volume. You slowly brush his hand away to look back at Atsumu for support. The blond surely didn’t hear what was just said, but you’re not sure you’re comfortable with what it’s implying. If it’s implying anything at all— and you look back at your friend with more confusion. But before you have the chance to ask, Kuroo Tetsuro, mutual high school acquaintance and ever the disrupter of the peace, chimes in with a loud cheer and swoops you up into his arms to slam two whole shots down before you with a grin.

“Chug ‘em, or you have to get up on stage with me.” Bokuto’s face fades from your view with Kuroo’s exuberance, the light in his tone instantly calming your anxiety. You don’t want to fight with your best friend over nothing, your thoughts quickly chant, and Kuroo’s a great way to pick your mood back up. “That strip pole is calling our names.” You snort as he slides the glasses even closer, dragging out the scraping noise, and forget about the weird interaction almost as soon as it came.

You’re just being friendly. Bokuto knows this, knows you’re inherently, deeply wired with the ability to make it seem like the person you’re talking to is the most interesting thing you’ve laid eyes on all day. And sure, it definitely wasn’t the first thing he noticed— that probably would have been the way your eyes glistened like two fire beacons with those long, long lashes aimed at him, and then your fine fucking body; he’s a healthy, young-blooded man after all —but it was definitely a prominent factor. Despite your quiet, reserved nature, he’d been glowing coming off of the first time talking to you, like everything he was saying was just so… interesting.

It’s a stretch to call you naïve, because you’re not. You’re smart, like Akaashi is, and you managed to pull the two of them through the disaster of a final assignment upon just meeting them. But there’s something in your smile, in the way you look at the world through wide, inviting eyes that seems to beg for his attention. It makes him want to squeeze you and never let you go, if he’s being honest. He knows he’s supposed to take it slower, knows that for all your kindness, you’re not one to rush into things.

But he’s been more than patient in his eyes, and because of it, you’re now staring up at Kuroo with those pretty giggles and nods that sure as fuck made him fall head over heels for you. He’s not unreasonable. He cares about you enough to allow his friends to get near. He’s trying, truly! But Kuroo’s arm around your waist is a bit too much, blood boiling as he balls his fists so tight his knuckles turn white. The instinct to land his fist straight into Kuroo’s teeth is pushed down with a deep breath, before he wipes those sweaty palms on his pants and makes his way to you with a plastered-on smile. It falters only a little when you look up as he calls your name, and it makes his stomach tie into tight knots.

You’re so fucking good, so pretty, so— perfect; it’s really no wonder everyone else tries to cut in. If he didn’t always feel like his heart was about to swallow him up, he’d understand. You’re magnetic, a vision of his future. If he loved you any less, he might’ve already beaten Kuroo’s face bloody. He likes the guy a whole bunch, but not enough to give you up. He can only dream that you feel the same.

That you think of him when you fall asleep, when you wake up, when you glide your dainty hand into your panties and rub— “Hey, Bo,” you smile at him, before giving him a poke in the chest. It’s an adorable display of how drunk you’re getting, and he has to fight back the glare he longs to send Kuroo for getting you this far in the first place. What if he wasn’t around, if he was preoccupied and hadn’t been watching you like a hawk all evening? But then you lean in a little grin. “Came to find me?”

Of course he did, his mind chants while taking your hand in his, he’d fucking chain himself to your side if you’d allow it. He doesn’t need to say that for it to be clear to anyone watching, right? You’re teasing. So he just pats your head, and pushes himself between you and Kuroo against the wall. “You ran off without me,” his pout is back, and you give a soft ‘sorry’.

“I was going to give ‘er back, Bo,” Kuroo chants to his side, but he doesn’t waste a second looking over. If he does, he still might plant his fist into his face— and you’d get upset with him. And he’d rather hurt anyone who so much as looks at you and then himself than have you upset with him; he really does love you a whole lot, you know? There’s other ways to get you out of here— and you are so very sweet to him when he plays it off. Something about a taxi and an incoming storm is enough to have you collecting your stuff and waving everyone goodnight, letting Kuroo squeeze you in a hug much too long for his liking.

He must show it on his face, because Akaashi’s dark, questioning eyes meet his; and he takes that as the sign to get out of there. He’s getting antsier by the second. And can’t help but get handsy, wrapping his arm around your waist as soon as Kuroo’s releasing you. He bumps his friend aside and smiles over his shoulder without the slightest bit of regret. “G’night, guys!” You don’t get to say bye, and that’s just fine by him. The way he has to hold you up a little to get into the taxi is too, preferable even.

He’s so glad you’re just a little thing, really. Every part of him shows you up size-wise, and selfishly, it makes him think that he was really made for you. To protect you, hold you close. Shelter you under his body when the first drips become a full on shower. He thanks whatever deity it is that starts the downpour then, because a few raindrops run down your lashes and the tip of your nose when you look up at him getting under the overhang. He’s getting too excited, it rolls in waves off of him until he can barely contain himself. You look like everything he’s ever wanted— fuck, and how you smile at him. His hands are itching to push you up against a wall and kiss you until you’re crying out his name, maybe hike your legs up onto his shoulders.

You don’t seem the exhibitionism type, but then again— he doesn’t think you’d fight him on it. Would you? But he holds it in, and waits for you to get out from under the umbrella created by his arms. “Come on in. It doesn’t seem like a good idea to let you head home like this,” you breathe out with a sniffle, pushing at the door to your apartment. You go find some towels, leaving him in the middle of your house with adrenaline running through his veins. Now, he might not be the brightest, but this is an opening, isn’t it?

Akaashi said something about boundaries, and all he can think is that if you’re letting him into your house without a second thought, something must’ve changed. It must’ve. You might’ve turned him down once that while ago, when he was claiming your mouth in the hall— but that was then, and you both are older now, closer. He can’t help but snoop as you search through some back closet for spare clothing; entering the dark bathroom with a little sigh. Like he expected, your products are neatly displayed in the cabinet, hand towels freshly washed and folded, everything seeming more like a hotel than a house. His eyes land on the basket next to the bathtub, and a hot shiver runs up his spine.

Some lacy, frilly panties are just visible sticking out next to the sweater he met you in this morning— going tingly and burning all over his skin. He already can’t help but imagine you bouncing on his cock and tearing up at the stretch when you pout; knowing that this was underneath it is enough to set him up in flames. He glances over his shoulder, before quickly picking out the panties and bringing them up to his face. It smells of feminine products and laundry soap, but there’s a musk that's unmistakably you, and his cock twitches hard in his pants. You wore these for him, didn’t you? He feels himself chub up more the longer his thoughts wander—longing to just wrap the panties around his fist and fuck into them.

But your steps are returning, so he pockets the lingerie with quick hands and puts on his best smile. You peek your head into the door after knocking, cheeks a little shiny and warm as you hand him a towel and some fresh clothing. Big… clothing— that most definitely isn’t yours. It’s fine though, he bites through the sting in his soul, you can’t know how much he adores you, and loves you, and needs you all to himself. He hasn’t exactly made it clear, and you’re also unaware of just how fucking attractive you are, right? “It doesn’t look like it’ll clear up any time soon.” Your smile is gentle when you nod. “So you can stay over if you want to. I don’t mind!”

God, he could kiss you stupid.

His hands are restless by the time the lights are all off, tossing and turning every second longer he has to remain on the extra mattress. Don’t you have any idea of how crazy you’ve made him now walking around in your short, loose fitting pajamas? It’s a domestic dream, and you’re front, center and back in every single thought. As he lays in the silence, there’s the soft sound of your chest rising and falling, of breaths softly slipping out of you— and for the nth time this night Bokuto has to admit to himself that he’s so in love with you it’s making him feel a bit sick.

You didn’t exactly make things easy on him. He still remembers calling up Akaashi every night for weeks after you rejected his advances, when you were struggling to meet his eyes after. And sure, he’d been a bit too enthusiastic. He knows that now, knows he scared you away; you’re shy, he understands. But this time is different. This time he’ll do it right. He sits up on the bed, can see how you’re slumped into the pillow. He could eat you up with how fucking cute you are. But he’s still careful as he calls your name, twice, before slowly getting onto the bed. You barely move, letting out just the faintest breath.

And Bokuto can’t help himself, he’s already leaning in to brush his thumb over your pouty lips. It’s not bad to look. He’s allowed to look. He does that all day already, studies your face like you’re his own personal universe. You would too, if you saw what he sees. Of course, it is a little different, because his cock is straining against the confines of his boxers every second longer he’s touching your soft skin, close enough to place a kiss on the tip of your nose. You breathe out, and he can almost convince himself it’s a moan. It’s enough to have him gripping himself through his shorts and biting his lip, hard. “God, f-fuck, baby.”

He nudges your head a little closer to him, and before he knows it, he's kissing you. There’s so much he wants to tell you— spill all of his love onto you without stopping, but he figures there will be time for that later. He holds himself over you into the kiss, chest heaving and foot tapping nervously up and down. His tongue swipes over yours, claiming you once again, and moaning into it when a little puff of air dusts over his skin. Could you be any cuter, any hotter? Even asleep you’re making him so hard it hurts, one hand moving down to squeeze his balls. It’s embarrassing, isn’t it, and he chuckles into your mouth when you move under him a little. “Sorry, I’ve just wanted you for so long,” he admits, pulls back and lines your neck with kisses too.

All the while your lids stay shut, and he’s careful to untie the front of your pajamas with the softest motions he can manage. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby, I swear. Give you everything.” As he trails his fingers down your body, you wiggle aside a bit, but not enough to escape his now greedy fingers. His cock bops between his thighs when he lands between your legs, and ever so patiently pulls the shorts down the softness of your thighs, swallowing through the tightness in his throat. “Oh, shit—fuck.” You’re perfect, and a shiver goes down his spine at the idea he might be a tight fit.

He can’t help it, he’s already dipping to kiss down your pussy, rubbing you up and down with first one finger, then two. You definitely moan though when he lays a lick on your covered clit and sucks it from the hood, his hips rutting against the bed with a low, rumbling whine. Precum is making his boxers stick to the head of his cock, but he’s much too preoccupied lapping up your folds and making them all messy and wet with his enthusiasm. He’s basically shaking, but how can he not be? He’s been picturing this for fucking years. Through every date, every hookup he’s had— you’d laugh if you knew.

He sucks harder, and slides his long fingers inside you to stretch the clenching, soft walls of your pussy apart; and fucks slowly into the soft of the pillows until that turns too excruchiating to continue. So instead he shoves his boxers out the way and takes the time to fully peel your panties off your legs, then places them apart. His cock is rock hard, flushed and throbbing an angry shade of red at having to wait, before he wraps his hand around himself and allows a few lazy pumps. Just enough for a clear drop of pre to bead at the tip before he’s lifting up your one thigh over his and lining up.

Your pussy is so hot, wet by his doing, and your face scrunched up just the slightest bit. It’s agony, really, baby. His thoughts are barely a strung together mess as the head of his cock slides between your bottom lips, neck and back tight from the adrenaline. This is what you do to him. Every night. He’s gonna cum if he keeps going— and he can’t, he can’t do that to you, not when he’s been dreaming of having you for so fucking long. But leaning down to kiss you doesn’t help, and you let out the prettiest whine when he starts pushing into you.

His breathing speeds up, sweat collecting on his brow. “Oh, baby. Baby, I— fuck, I wanna go slow,” he moans back against your mouth, tasting your tongue, grabbing your tits with one hand. Everything’s fuzzy. But once the head pops in, it’s like a whole other world. You’re so fucking hot, pussy so soft and sucking him in like he belongs there— any thought of taking his time is gone. It’s impossible, his hips start pushing and pushing until he’s bottoming out and your slick, gushing pushy squelches when he pulls back. You’re godly. He clamps a hand down over your neck to keep you from bouncing too much as he pushes back in and drives himself as deep as he can go.

And back out, and then you’re making more noise. “Hmm-ugh?” Your face scrunches up hard when he fucks back into you, driving you open so deep he can feel where he’s hitting in your tummy, and moan long and high. “Ah—agh, Kou? Boku- to, wh—” you struggle to regain your consciousness when he pushes your knees back to your chest and uses his body to fuck even deeper, deeper— clenching around him so tight it’s making him lightheaded.

“I know, baby, I know. S’gonna feel good, I swear,” he’s clenching his teeth together so hard it hurts watching his fat cock push into your tight, little cunt again and again and again, watching slick gush out around his length. He can tell by your strained expression that whatever is going on in your brain is outnumbered by the way he’s pawing at your tits, or bumping his pelvis against that puffy nub.

And you do manage a stuttered, “Bokuto, s-stop,” but it’s hardly anything to be concerned about when you squeal and tear up at the circles he rubs into your clit. “What’re y’ doin, Bo?” Your tears bead so prettily at your lash line. Your body shudders under his when he raises a leg and uses it to fuck into you faster, driving the air out of you with each wet ‘pap’ of skin meeting skin. His balls hit your ass each time he bottoms out, and make his cock feel like it’s going to explode, but he couldn’t stop if he tried. With your brows screwed together and your face all hot and cheeks glossy, it’s hard to think of anything other than fucking you full of his cum.

Of bouncing you on his cock until you’re crying out for him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I love you so much, ‘m almost there.” He wants to give you everything— fucks deep and hard like maybe that’ll convey his thoughts better. He’s just not that good with words, you see, he’s tried and failed that so many times. But this, rutting into you like your pussy is his personal heaven; and that’s what it is— it leaves you breathless and reaching to dig your nails into his shoulder. He moans and grunts, whispering your name, fucking into your warm clutch until his balls pull tight and his thighs start aching. “Gonna cum, angel. Gonna fuck y’full- you like that, right? You want it?”

He’s rambling out without any collected thoughts, just focussed on watching as you suddenly pull tight like a bow and unravel before him, trying and failing to push his hand from between your legs. “Ohh-fuck— ugh-fuckk~” You cum with an adorable, little whine that makes it impossible for him to hold it any longer. He slumps over you as cum spurts into you, emptying his balls in your tight, little pussy until every last drop is inside. When he pulls back, his hot, white cum runs out like you’ve been entirely fucked full of him— and it makes his tongue drop out to lean in and kiss your cunny until he dies between your legs.

He could go happy, you know? But as he tries to hike your thighs over his shoulders, you must finally regain some of your situational awareness, because you’re placing a foot to his shoulder and pushing him away from you with wide eyes and tears running down your cheeks. “What are you doing, Bokuto? Wh- I- why would you—”

“Shh, shh, shh,” he’s instantly cooing, grabbing your ankles and keeping you in place despite your struggling. It’s so cute, but you don’t have to be scared of him. He adores you, baby— wouldn’t hurt you for anything. Everyone else, but never you. “I’ve got you, don’t freak out.” He allows himself to snuggle up to your body, pulling you in nice and close despite the way you’re glaring through your tears. It’s the stress talking, of course, but you’ll be fine. He’ll make sure of it. “You want to come again?”

“No,” you instantly snap, and though you’re pushing at his chest, it’s so easy to keep you nice and warm pinned between his strong arms and chest. You huff a little, and look between his face and your bodies, before breathing out sharply. “Bokuto, please, I—”

“Stop wiggling, baby,” his voice comes out a little too low and sharp for his liking. “Just lay here with me for a bit. And then in a second, I’ll help you clean up, and make you something warm to drink. The whole nine yards, I promise.” He’s smiling, so fucking wide it’s making his cheeks ache. But he can’t help it, you see? You’re such a dream. “I’m so happy, baby. So, so happy, you have no idea.”

As he squeezes a little more, kinda, sorta forcing your face to rest against his collarbones; you finally stop pushing back against him, and let out a soft whimper of his name. “You’re my favorite person in the world, y’know that? I know I say it a lot, but— I really do mean it.”

#bokuto x reader #haikyuu x reader #bokuto koutaro #bokuto smut #haikyuu smut #hq smut #hq x reader #tw.noncon #tw.yandere #tw.somno #tw.dark content #🍯honey.pot #💫ch.bokuto

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millenialfanfictionaddiction · 1 year

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Being Bokuto’s Pregnant Partner:

Going Into Labor

Timeskip! MSBY Kotaro Bokuto x GN! pregnant Reader

Warnings: Pregnancy, swearing

***everyone’s pregnancy experience is different. This is a combination of my experience as well as personal friends accounts

WC: ~2k

AN: not sure why I wrote this but it just kinda came to me 😅 also I know the picture isn’t timeskip Bokuto but also, tell me this ISNT timeskip Bokuto 🤔

Honestly, this is probably the worst case scenario. You’d prepared yourself for everything leading up to this point, the bags were packed and ready, the car seat was installed, you’re postpartum popsicle pads were marinating in the freezer. You had been ready for this baby to come, but what you were ready for was your water to break an hour before an MSBY Black Jackals game.

Your husband, Kotaro Bokuto, was the Jackals winged spiker and you knew exactly how much he loved the game of volleyball. In fact, you probably knew this more than most. At your wedding, Kotaro insisted that you include “volleyball” wherever you could in your vows. So while most people said “in sickness and health”, you said “in sickness and health, through volleyball season”. Not that any of that bothered you, Kotaro loved his sport and you had grown to love it too. You loved going to games, cheering your man on and even traveling with the team occasionally. So when you and Bokuto planned to start a family, you tried to plan accordingly and out of volleyball season. However, things don’t always go as planned, which is why you were knee deep in play off season with a 38 week belly the size of an entire volleyball team.

“Shit!” You cursed as you went to your bedroom to change pants and try to form a plan of attack. Your doctor had told you that if your water had broken that you needed to try to get to the hospital within a few hours. So far, you hadn’t had any contractions but you knew that your situation could change at any moment. While you were pondering your next move, your phone rang. Picking it up, you slide your finger across the screen and answered.

“Hey Yn, I just wanted to let you know what seats I’m in so you don’t have to wander around,”Keiji Akaashi, Bokuto’s best friend said.

“Umm slight change of plans Keiji, my waters just broke,” you respond, teeth gritted.

A short pause followed by a sigh broke through the receiver as Akaashi spoke, “did you tell him yet? Have you called the hospital?” You could tell he was walking, hearing voices and his breathing increase as he made his way out of the stadium.

“I just changed my pants when you called. I was about to call the hospital. I’m not having contractions right now so I think we are good,” you repeat as Akaashi gives you a hum of confirmation.

“And you’ve called Bokuto?” He repeated as you grew silent, you lack of a response all Akaashi need for confirmation.

“YN?”

You had been thinking about how to approach the subject of your water breaking with your dear husband. While of course you knew Bokuto would want to be there, you also knew he’d be upset if he missed his game, especially since you weren’t in active labor.

“I know I need to tell him Keiji but he doesn’t need to come to the hospital right now. He could still play in the game and if things change, I’m sure Meian would let him leave. There’s plenty of subs that can take his place,” you say, finishing up the last minute tasks before you find a way to head to the hospital.

Silence filled the call as Akaashi thought through your plan. He knew Bokuto as well, if not better than you did and he knew your plan was thought out.

“Ok Yn, how about you call him and I’ll come take you to the hospital and stay with you until he gets there?”

You sighed in relief as you sat down on the chair in your kitchen and nodded to yourself, “Thanks Keiji! Text me when you get here and I’ll meet you downstairs ok?” You bid Akaashi farewell as you pulled up your husbands contact and hit call.

It rang twice before the cherry voice of your hyped up hubby filled the air.

“Hey hey hey baby! Did you need help finding Akaashi?” He cheered, the background noise of the locker room filling the call.

“Hey love, umm so please don’t panic,” you say through gritted teeth as the receiver goes silent, “my waters broke at home. But- BUT I’m not in labor and I’m feeling fine! Akaashi is coming to get me and take me to the hospital.”

Silence continued to fill the phone as you pulled your phone away from your ear to check that the call was still connected. You had never heard Kotaro so quiet in all your life, not even during his worst emo mode.

“Kotaro? Are you still there?”

Suddenly a panic “WHAT?” sounded in your ear as you pulled the phone away. You shouldn’t have been surprised as you heard Kotaro shouting and his teammates gather around him.

“Bokuto what the hell man chill out!” You heard Inunaki shout into the phone. You could hear the incoherent ramblings of your husband in the background as his teammates tried to calm him down.

“Put the phone on speaker!” Someone shouted as suddenly several male voices boomed.

“Hello? YN, what’s wrong? You good? Bokuto is pulling his stuff from his locker and we don’t know what’s going on,” Meian asked as you sighed deeply and palmed your face. You knew this would happen, which was why you thought carefully about even telling Kotaro in the first place. Sure you wanted him there by your side but you also knew your labor might be long and that your husband wasn’t exactly know for his patience.

“Hey Shugo, first off, I’m fine but my waters did break. I’m not having contractions and Akaashi just texted me saying he’s here. He’s taking me to the hospital,” you repeat as you grab your big and keys.

“Well shit, umm ok what do you need from us? The game starts in 45 minutes,” he questions as you head to the elevator, feeling more water leak from between your legs. Thankfully you have put a pad on when you changed your pants.

“Ok first off, don’t panic. If Kotaro wants to play in the game he can. I’ll probably be at the hospital for a while before anything happens so we have a lot of time,” you say as Meian silently listens, “I don’t think it will do any good to have a hyper Kotaro just standing around while the hospital is getting things going.”

“Makes sense Yn, ok I’ll talk to him and see what he wants to do. I’ll have coach keep his phone on the bench, if you need anything, call him ok?” Meian repeats as you nod, heading into Akaashi’s car.

“Thanks Shugo, I appreciate it!”

“No problem Yn! Good luck!” He says before hanging up the phone as Akashi begins to drive off the hospital.

Meanwhile, your husband is freaking out, and ready to run to the hospital if he has too. He wants to be there, wants to support you in anyway he can.

“Bokuto, YN’s fine. Akaashi is taking YN to the hospital as we speak. It’s going to take a while so, if you want, you can play in the game and then leave for the hospital,” Meian suggests as Bokuto’s head shots up to meet his eyes.

“I CANT JUST LET YN ALONE!” He screeches as Sakusa rolls his eyes, stepping forward to sit next to him.

“Bokuto Yn is fine. Trust me, just because their waters broke doesn’t mean the baby is coming right now. My partner and I were in the hospital for 2 days before our kid was born,” he said trying to calm his feral teammate down.

“But what if YN has the baby and I’m not there?” Bokuto sobs, big golden eyes glazing with tears.

“Dude that’s not going to happen ok? Akaashi has Yn and he’s going to call if anything happens. If it does, you can leave right away. It’s literally 10 minutes to the hospital from here,” Atsumu says, trying to reassure his spiker, “plus if we win this game fast, then you can get to the hospital sooner.”

Bokuto perked up, his eyes drying instantly as he stood quickly, “well come on then! We’ve got a game to win!”

It had been 2 hours since you’d arrived at the hospital. The doctors and nurses had been fussing over you so much that you hadn’t even had time to turn on the Tv to watch your husbands game. Akaashi had left quickly to grab something to eat while you were getting set up.

“Can you turn the TV on please? My husband is playing in a game and I’d like to watch if possible,” you asked the nurse as she politely nodded and grabbed the remote, handing it to you.

You listened to the drum of your babies heartbeat as you quietly relaxed into the bed, the nurse starting the pitocin to help further along your progress. You flipped through channels, unable to find the game as you silently pouted. The nurse looked down at you as you continued to search.

“What does your husband play?” She asked.

“Professional volleyball. He’s a spiker for the MSBY Black Jackals,” you happily hummed as you continued to search for the game.

“Oh I knew I recognized your surname! Your husband is Kotaro Bokuto right? Sorry to tell you this sweetheart but that game ended 30 minutes ago,” she responded as you looked at her with confusion. As you went to speak, the door of your hospital room burst open as Kotaro stood in his MSBY gear. Your eyes widened at your husbands state as he raced to your side, grabbing your hand and squeezing.

“Kotaro? What the hell?” You shouted, shocked at your husbands state as Akaashi silently came into the hospital room.

“Hey hey hey baby! How are you doing? Are you ok? How’s the baby?” Kotaro shouted, ignoring your questions as you looked from him to Akaashi. Akaashi had sat down, shaking his head back and forth.

“I’m fine Ko, but umm back to my question,” you chimed.

“Oh the game? Yeah we won in straight sets,” Kotaro cheered as he pulled the chair close to you.

“Kotaro you won three sets straight in an hour and a half? Is that even possible?” You questioned as Akaashi nodded.

“Bokuto was unstoppable YN. First two sets finished in under an hour.”

“The last one took longer because the other team was stubborn but I blasted through with liners and cross shots. Plus Hinata and Sakusa were on point too!” Bokuto smiled, “I would have been here even faster if I wouldn’t have been stopped by the reporters. I told them you were in labor and that I had to go!”

“And you didn’t think to maybe shower or change before you came?” You noted as your husband looked down at himself, seemingly not noticing his disheveled and sweaty appearance.

“Oh I totally forgot about that!” He grinned as you rolled your eyes and Akaashi palmed his face.

“We’ll go and shower in the bathroom ok? I’m not having you hold our baby when you are gross and sweaty!”

“But YN- what if something happens while I’m showering?” He pouts as you grab his hand and squeeze.

“Ko, I promise nothing will happen, now go before I need you,” you prompted as your husband jumped up and ran to the bathroom, grabbing his bag on the way. The door shuts and those shower sounds as you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“We’re you nervous he wouldn’t get here YN?” Akaashi asked as you shook your head.

“Not really, I was more nervous I’d get a call from Meian saying that he went full emo mode during the first set and that did turn on the TV to see my husband sulking on the bench,” you laughed as Akaashi chuckled.

“I don’t think anything but winning that game and getting to you crossed his mind YN,” Akaashi responded and smiled, happy your husband was finally with you.

“Nah YN, I really don’t think anything could bring that guy down right now. He’s on cloud 9.”

“You’re right Keiji,” you sighed as you waited for your energetic husband to flock to your side.

528 notes · View notes

saigethearies · 7 months

Text

saige’s terrortober presents…

break

a heartbreaking betrayal leads you to seek comfort from the very person that plunged you into this nightmare.

serial killer!keiji akaashi x fem!reader

contents/warnings: murder and extremely dubious consent, reader goes through a trauma and starts making questionable decisions, angst, oral (m!receiving), pussyjob, unprotected vaginal sex, slight bondage, praise, reader’s ankle gets a lil hurt but she’s okay, blood, slight yandere(?)

wc: 2.9k

18+ MINORS DNI

it was supposed to be the best weekend of the year.

you, your boyfriend, and all of your shared friends had been planning this getaway since last year. everyone ensured to get the time off, saved up to get the nicer rental, even splurged on a pontoon boat to be able to piddle around on the water. this lake trip was supposed to be one for the books.

you supposed it still technically would be.

you just didn’t think it would be something straight out of a horror novel.

slowly, you made your way through the hall, grateful for the homeowner’s decision to carpet the upstairs so that your footsteps could be muffled- even though much of said carpet was now stained red. you kept your eyes trained straight ahead, refusing to look into the bathroom on the left even though you could still see the limp body of one of your friends in your peripheral.

you had to save all your tears for later. if you broke down too soon, there’s a big chance you wouldn’t be getting back up. he’d make sure of that.

the wine cellar is how he must have snuck in. your group had read about in the list of amenities, but no one bothered to notice that it had a door that led outside. it was the only entrance to the house that wouldn’t have been locked. one small act of negligence and now your vacation home had been turned into a hunting ground.

you weren't sure how many of your friends were still alive. out of your original group of eight, you’d passed three bodies so far. it was out of pure luck that you managed to escape his onslaught of the second floor. you hid the second you heard your friend’s bloodcurdling scream after she’d left to go shower. dashing into one of the vacant bedrooms and yanking the window open, you’d perched yourself on the roof outside while listening to his heavy footsteps explore the room. you’d never felt so terrified in your entire life. the term ‘frozen in fear’ didn’t do it justice. it felt as if liquid nitrogen was circulating through your veins.

as soon as the coast felt clear, you quietly slid through the window and padded into the hall, bringing you to your current whereabouts.

a pained yell pierced the stillness that had blanketed the house, sounding off from somewhere near the kitchen downstairs. you paused near the top of the stairs, huddling up against the wall to stay out of view in case he happened to pass by. you couldn’t help but wonder which of your friends was the one getting butchered this time, morbid curiosity bringing a cloudiness to your frantic eyes.

you squeezed them shut. crying comes later, remember?

you couldn’t hear the shouting from below anymore, and you took a deep breath to gather your wits. you needed to find your boyfriend. you cared deeply for everyone here, but the love of your life needed to come first. this is the man you were discussing spending forever with, starting a family with, growing old together with.

even if you did make it out alive, you wouldn’t truly survive unless he did too.

there was only one clear escape route. he had already slashed everyone’s tires, so the cars weren’t an option. however, the pontoon boat was out of view, hidden within the boathouse out back. there’s a possibility he didn’t know it was there, meaning that a water getaway was your best chance at the moment.

which also meant that to get to the backyard, you needed to go downstairs. where the killer was.

every muscle in your body was trying to lock up, refusing to carry your legs down into imminent danger. your brain knew better, however. you needed to move.

wobbly legs took you down the first few steps, stopping for a second to try and tame the shakes wracking you. it was during that pause that you saw movement in one of the living room windows that gave you a view into the backyard.

it was your boyfriend.

he was creeping through the patio with his roommate, one of them monitoring the inside of the house while the other kept his eyes on the boathouse. they must share the idea that you have about an escape. you couldn’t help the smile that came onto your face. your lover was always on the same page as you. even when facing disaster, you proved you were perfect for each other.

you were prompted to move forward again now that you saw fellow survivors, this time moving swiftly. not seeing him in the surrounding area at the bottom of the staircase, you dashed to the backdoor, opening it as fast as you could without making too much noise.

“babe!” you called softly, stepping onto the patio.

your boyfriend turned to look at you, an expression in your eyes that you couldn’t quite grasp. he frantically beckoned you forward, his roommate having an impatient look on his face. you didn’t take it personally. everyone was petrified right now.

you ran towards them, joining them in the middle of the yard. the boathouse was just down the gentle slope of the yard. you could easily reach it in under a minute, especially with how fast everyone seemed to be moving. safety wasn’t too far away.

that glimmer of hope crashed along with the bloodied body that was sent careening into your group. the three of you scattered, your eyes tearing up at the wounded, torn version of your former classmate laying crumpled on the ground before you.

another thump sounded off to the right of you, and you turned to see him now standing directly behind your boyfriend. he had jumped down from the second-story balcony, when he’d gotten there, you had no clue. what you did have a clue about was that your lover was in serious trouble, because your attacker was raising his ax.

“oh, fuck!” your boyfriend’s roommate screamed. “behind you!”

he turned around just in time to see his assailant swinging his ax down, blade aimed straight for your boyfriend’s neck.

your brain hadn’t even registered your movements, deep ingrained need to protect your loved one leading you to grip one of the folding lawn chairs in your hand. you ran towards him, not even caring for the fact he could overpower you easily, and flung the chair against him with all of your might. you watched his steely blue eyes widen in surprise, clearly not used to having someone fight back, his balance breaking as he stumbling backwards, ax now lodging into the ground near your boyfriend’s feet.

a victorious grin broke out on your face. you did it! you saved your man!

the three of you took off towards the boathouse, wind whipping your hair as you ran faster than you ever had in your life. your group had a headstart of a few seconds, the killer having to unstick his ax from the grass. he was able to gain on you shortly after, though, and you figured this man had to have some sort of athletic background. no average man could pull off the feats you’d seen him do with ease.

you could see the pontoon boat, the two men a few steps ahead of you already within reach of it.

almost th-

crack!

your foot must’ve landed on a dry-rotted piece of wood, a panel of the boathouse dock breaking and sending your foot below the floor, stuck.

hearing the sound of something breaking, your boyfriend turned to see your predicament. you saw him pause, turning towards you slightly.

“help me!” you cried, eyes locked on his.

he began to take a step towards you, about to come rescue you like you had him not too long ago, until his roommate’s voice yelled out to him.

“dude, we have to fucking go now! there’s no time, leave her.”

when the words reached you, your heart dropped.

and then, when you saw the guilt come onto your boyfriend’s face as he turned and clambered onto the boat with his friend, your heart broke.

the sound of an engine whirring sent your ears ringing, watching the two of them speed away from the hell they’d willingly left you in.

your chest tightened, breathing becoming jagged as the reality of your situation tightened around you like a python squeezing its prey to death.

he left you.

the man you were supposed to marry, to have children with, to sit on front porch rocking chairs with years from now, left you to get picked off so that he could escape. after you’d risked your own life to rush at a murderer to save his.

the burning started at the corners of your eyes, spreading through your lashline before it became so unbearable that you shut your eyes, face scrunching as the drops began their descent down your cheeks.

you saw so much death, so much bloodshed, yet held it all in for the sake of being reunited with your love amidst the chaos.

for the first time that dreadful night, you allowed yourself to cry.

the sobs that wracked your body left your whole frame weak, body slumping towards the dock as you fell onto your knees, not even bothering with your foot still trapped under the wood. it wouldn’t make a difference, anyway. your biggest motivation to survive just cut you deeper than he ever could. there was no fight left in you.

god, you just hoped he’d make it quick. yet, after you threw a fucking chair at him earlier, you figured that wouldn’t be the case. damn, why did the events have to unfold like this?

you wondered what you did to deserve this?

apparently, someone else seemed to be having a similar thought.

“what a selfish bastard,” the voice, cold and cutting said from behind you. if you weren’t so numb, you probably would have flinched when you felt his hand come onto the top of your head. “you poor thing, you didn’t deserve that.”

his tone took on a sort of sympathetic note, confusion forming in your jumbled mind. was he trying to mock you? add insult to injury before he hacks into you over and over again?

the feeling of this thumb gently stroking the top of your forehead brought you to, blinking your tears away as he kneeled down beside you. his other hand then dropped his ax, fingers coming to grip your chin so gently that you almost were sent into denial that these were the same appendages shredding your friends earlier.

you hated how the word “beautiful” came to mind when you saw his stormy eyes, blood streaked all over an admittedly handsome face. the softness that had come across his features had you even more puzzled. he was trying to mock you, right?

“you’re such a sweet thing,” he said, crimson coated hands continuing to delicately hold your head, as if he knew you were fragile right now. you could feel the warm stickiness from his fingers getting onto your face.

“not many people have the courage to face me,” he said with a small chuckle as if he was taking a quick stroll down memory lane, reminiscing on all the people he’d hunted before. “but you did, because you were trying to help someone. i’ve seen so many people show their true colors while facing death, and none of them have been as good-natured as yours. you should be proud of yourself.”

your stomach started to sink.

his rambling sounded genuine. he wasn’t mocking you, he actually felt bad for you. the fucking murderer felt sorry for you, that’s how screwed over you just got.

and worst of all, his words were actually comforting you.

his palms moved to cup your tear-stained cheeks, you leaning one of them into his touch absentmindedly. so warm.

“he-” you hiccupped on another sob. “he left me. for dead.”

a frown came onto his face as he began to shush your cries, thumbs wiping your tears away, painting your cheeks scarlet. “not for dead, sweetheart. you’re good. i don’t kill good girls.”

you blinked, swallowing slowly as you replayed his words over and over again. “you…you don’t?”

“mhm,” he hummed. “like i said, true colors, angel. a lot of the people i’ve taken out were just as shitty as me. i just can’t be bothered to hide it anymore.”

maybe it was the care he was treating you with, or the nice words, or the fact that he was honestly gorgeous, but whatever it was made his words start to make sense in your scattered mind.

his attention turned to your stuck foot, moving to lift it out from under the wood. he examined your ankle closely. “it might be sprained, but i don’t think it’s broken. try not to put any pressure on it, yeah?”

he scooped you up with ease, holding you in his arms as if you were something precious to him. the two of you looked at the purple and pink hues of the sunset, spotting the departed pontoon boat that was now a mere speck on the horizon of the water.

“some people are so cruel,” he said with distaste, as if the onslaught he’d unleashed upon your friends earlier had been anything other than cruel itself. you should have made a note of the irony, but instead you leaned your head against his chest.

you found yourself gently laid down on one of the deck chairs near the boathouse, the man remaining standing as he came to your side, your face level with his waist.

“you were so good earlier,” he said, tipping your head back with his fingers to look up at him. “be good for me one more time and i’ll reward you, yeah?”

he began to undo his belt, and you should have screamed. cried. felt disgusted at his implications. but instead, you nodded your head, staring up at him like he had designed the constellations himself. he had been so kind to you, so comforting, during your lowest point. how could you deny him?

he took the leather belt he just removed and wrapped it around your wrists, keeping them tied in front of you. he chuckled. “just a precaution, sweetheart. you did hit me with a chair earlier.”

you watched on in awe as he pushed his pants and briefs down enough to free his cock, which was as pretty as the rest of him with a flushed pink tip.

“open up, sweetheart.”

you did as you were told, accepting his hard length into your mouth and sucking. he kept a grip on your chin, moving your head up and down his dick the way he wanted. you kept running your tongue along the underside as you were bobbed, drinking in the pleased sighs you heard above you.

“so good,” he breathed out. “so good, such a good girl.”

he started to move you faster, cock slipping in and out of your mouth rapidly as his high neared. he suddenly stilled, removing himself from between your lips.

“did great, sweetheart,” the praise sent tingles down your spine. “but i only like to cum in a pussy, so it’s time for your reward.”

removing his pants the rest of the way, he pulled your own little shorts off.

“sir-”

“keiji,” he corrected. “you can call me keiji.”

“o-okay,” you said. “keiji, are you gonna…you know…”

“what is it, sweetheart? don’t be shy, you can ask.”

“are you gonna prep me?”

he gave you a small smile. “of course i can get your pussy a little wet first, angel.”

he peeled your panties off, bringing his hard cock between your folds and starting to rub between them. the sensation was new to you, little moans leaving your lips. he held your hips in place, bloody fingerprints marring your skin as he continued to slide between your labia.

his cockhead started to hit your clit, increasing the volume of your sounds as the pleasure started to build in your gut.

feeling all the slick gathering on his dick, akaashi figured you were ready for him. ceasing his movements, he positioned himself at your entrance. “alright, pretty girl. deep breath.”

he felt so good filling you up, giving your walls a delectable stretch as he bottomed out in your soaked cunt. you watched him take a deep breath.

“never felt a pussy this good. you truly are special, aren’t you?”

he set a pace that was deep and steady, cradling your head against his chest as he speared you repeatedly. pants and mewls left you, his cock feeling so amazing, the nirvava it provided being the perfect distraction from your heartbreak. the calm after the horrific storm you experienced earlier, brain too weary to care that the very person providing the satisfaction was the hailstorm himself.

it didn’t matter.

nothing you thought you knew mattered anymore.

all that mattered was how good keiji made you feel, a particularly hard thrust leaving you shaking and cumming around him.

you didn’t even realize you were crying until he was cooing at you, rubbing his hand against your back almost lovingly. you weren’t sure if it was your tears or your orgasm that pushed him over his own edge.

“you’ll be okay, sweetheart. i’ll make sure of it.”

_____

saige’s terrortober masterlist

#saige’s terrortober #akaashi x reader #akaashi keiji x reader #keiji akaashi x reader #akaashi smut #akaashi keiji smut #akaashi x you #akaashi keiji x you #akaashi keiji #keiji akaashi #hq x you #hq x reader #hq smut

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heartsoji · 1 year

Text

MISINTERPRET

akaashi keiji x reader

summary: akaashi is kind. he's kind to you, but he's also kind to everyone. you need to make sure you don't misinterpret his kindness.

a/n: akaashi getting a quad bc he's abt to hang out with bokuto is so funny to me

you'd always considered yourself an observant person.

you were good at watching people. you picked up on their habits, tendencies, movement style, and hidden traits. you picked up on how they responded to certain comments and the best way to be friends with them. you were on the quieter side, but you were well respected for being eternally considerate and kind.

also due to this nature, you were a very good judge of character. you found that the kindest and most interesting people were typically either very loud or very quiet, occasionally coming in the middle, though that wasn't often.

for example, take bokuto koutaro, the star pin on the team you co-managed. he was one of the loudest, bubbliest, people you had ever met, and also one of the kindest. he had a way of lighting up the room, and the way he cared for everyone you met was always heartwarming to see.

on the other hand, take someone like akaashi keiji, the setter on the same team. he was much like you. quiet, observant, yet one of the kindest, most tender-hearted people you'd ever met. he was a true gentlemen and was always considerate of other people's feelings and their boundaries. he was also in a few of your classes, and he was always so kind and warm. if you were being honest, you'd developed a small crush on him due to that.

you and akaashi were friends. being similar in nature, you two were quite compatible and got along well. you'd often study in the library together, and you took that as a chance to sneak glances at his stupidly handsome face every so often. however, his face wasn't the only part of him you loved. (though it was certainly an added bonus) there was something about him, aside from his kindness and good nature, that made you feel warm. welcomed. seen. you hadn't ever felt that way about anyone before, and you just knew that he was special.

"hey, l/n-san, uh, so for this part, do you think that the main idea of the passage is- l/n-san? l/n-san? are you alright? l/n-san?"

you felt a gentle hand on your shoulder bringing you out of your trance.

"sorry. yes?"

"ah, i was just asking a question about this part."

"oh, i see. so, in my opinion, i think that.."

as you talked, it might've been your imagination, but you felt like he was gazing at you. however, if you glanced away to see if he was, you'd lose your train of thought, so you continued on, your cheeks becoming slightly rosy as you did so.

after you two finished studying, he cleared his throat.

"uhm, l/n-san, would you like to stop by the cafe on the way to the train station with me?"

your eyes widened before a happy smile spread across your face.

"i'd love to!"

you walked with him to the cafe, making lovely conversation along the way. akaashi was kind, patient, and a good listener, too. talking with him was like riding a bike for the first time in a while. you're a bit nervous before you start, but once you do, its easy, relaxing, and fun.

"the leaves are beginning to turn orange." you commented.

"indeed. it's quite beautiful." he replied, a gentle smile on his handsome features.

"right? it's so pretty! it's a shame they'll fall soon." you said, an excited look on your face present before slightly saddening at the thought of bare trees.

he chuckled. "is fall your favorite season?" he asked.

"hmm.. maybe! i like how pretty the leaves are, but i'm not fond of how chilly it can get." you replied. "it's actually pretty cold right now. i probably should've worn a thicker coat or a scarf."

"oh, are you cold?" he asked before quickly removing his scarf. "here, take my scarf."

you felt your cheeks warming up. "no, no, akaashi-san, keep it! i'm really fine." you protested. he really was kind. he immediately tried to offer what was keeping him comfortable to you in order to ensure your own comfort. that selfless nature of his might be one of the sweetest parts of him - the ability to love and care for others, even when at the expense of himself.

"please, l/n-san, i insist. it wouldn't be good if you caught a cold. i'd be worried." your eyes widened slightly. he'd be worried? however, almost immediately after saying that, he gave a small cough. "i mean, the team and i, of course."

of course. he was just being kind. your feelings for him were beginning to make you misinterpret his simple kindness.

you accepted the scarf. "thank you, akaashi-san. i really appreciate it."

he let out a sigh of relief as he handed you the scarf. "of course. also.. you, uhm, don't need to be so formal with me." he started slowly. "i'd... be much.. uh, happier, if you just called me akaashi. we're on the same team, after all. you're the only one who still uses an honorific with my name."

you smiled. "of course, akaashi. that goes for you, too. just l/n is fine."

he returned your smile. "got it. thank you, l/n."

your heart skipped a beat when his voice spoke just your name. akaashi was making you fall harder for him by the minute, but you felt a bit sad knowing that your chances of being with him or him at least slightly reciprocating your feelings were slim to none. after all, akaashi was an extraordinarily skilled athlete whose personality, height, and overall good looks attracted many girls, even ones from different schools. akaashi's a very kind person. don't misinterpret it.

when you arrived at the cafe, akaashi had you order first. you ordered your usual basic latte, but he ordered a quad, something you'd never tried before.

when your drinks came, you noticed that his had a nicer aroma than you were expecting. he noticed you staring at him as he took his first sip and commented on it. "is something the matter?"

"no, no. i was just wondering what four whole shots of espresso could possibly taste like. i've never heard of anyone with that drink order before. and also, why four shots?! isn't that like, a ton of caffeine? you're not gonna be able to sleep tonight!"

he chuckled. "i need the energy. i promised bokuto-san i would set him some balls today, since it's a friday, and i have a feeling that we'll be going for a while. as for the taste, i quite like it, though it's definitely an acquired taste. bokuto-san tried it once, and he spat it at the wall." he said, chuckling at the memory. "i really enjoy the bitterness of the espresso. i think that out of the five flavors, i think that bitterness very well may be the most underrated one. well, it's in my top two, anyways. additionally, espresso contains immune-boosting antioxidants and-" he then stopped himself short, seeming a bit embarrassed all of a sudden. "ah.. i'm sorry for rambling. uh.. would you like a sip?" he offered.

you smiled. "yes, please! i think it sounds very interesting."

you took the cup from his outstretched hand and took a careful sip. you then began trying to register the flavor. however, while you were doing so, although your face remained stoic, you were internally freaking out. you just shared an indirect kiss with your crush, and he had offered it to you without a second thought. you just shared an indirect kiss with the akaashi keiji. you just shared an indirect kiss with him, and you were trying your best not to start smiling and blushing at it.

stop. don't misinterpret it. don't misinterpret his charity, his kindness. you had asked what his drink tasted like and he was explaining it to you before doing the kind thing to do, offer you a taste. he probably wasn't aware of the fact that you two shared an indirect kiss anyway, and it was only you who was thinking about it-

you stopped that thought at the sight of akaashi. at the sight of akaashi clearly trying to avoid staring at the mouth hole of his cup, but failing miserably, a rosy blush dusting his cheeks, and his lips slightly upturned. at the sight of akaashi keiji, nervously trying to ask what you thought of it, clearly still flustered, and still staring at the mouth hole of his cup.

suddenly feeling a bit confident from his reaction, you licked your lips while holding eye contact. "it was good." you said. "it tasted a little like you, too."

you watched as his cheeks turned from rosy to red, averting his eyes nervously while stealing glances at the cup where you two shared your indirect kiss.

huh. you thought to yourself. maybe, just maybe, you weren't misinterpreting, after all.

#akaashi x reader #akaashi haikyuu #akaashi fluff #akaashi keiji #akaashi keiji x reader #akaashi imagine #akaashi drabble #akaashi keiji fluff #hq akaashi

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shojoisms · 1 year

Text

Growing pains.

akaashi keiji x fem!reader

Everyone always talks about the beauty of growing old, but no one ever talks about the anxiety that comes with it.

a/n: I got one final attempt left in me.

content+warnings: mentions of anxiety, some angst, vaginal penetration, birthday sex, cunnilingus.

Keiji never cared much for birthdays, serving no purpose but reminding him that he was getting older.

He might've even forgotten if it weren't for the happy birthday texts he received from the old Fukurodani squad and the gift Tenma left on his desk.

There's a bitter taste on his tongue when he reminds himself how half of them are either married or engaged, some even expecting children — it leaves Akaashi with a tinge of melancholy.

He's exhausted— eyes burning with the consequences of his desperation to meet a deadline that forced him awake nearly all night and left heavy bags beneath them that showed even more apparent the next day. His hair was disheveled, dark locks tousled messily against his head — and even his glasses had difficulty staying on his face and lay crooked across his skin.

As if his day couldn't be even more inconvenienced, the patter of rain pelts down to the ground. It's not a light shower but a heavy onslaught of thick raindrops, and Akaashi regrets not bringing his umbrella with him the more the water soaks him and drips from his hair like a tiny faucet.

Another day, he mumbles as he forces his legs to move up the stairs toward his home, his clothes dripping water with each step.

He fumbles with the pocket of his jeans; there's a rattling noise until he fishes out what he needs; his keys, shoving them into the lock of his door without haste.

"Happy birthday!"

Akaashi drops his bags, pupils dilating in surprise before they shrink to their original size. He wasn't expecting you here, at least not at this time. Akaashi faintly recalls the text message you had sent earlier — stating that you'd have to stay late at work due to a coworker's mishap.

"You're home," Akaashi's voice is soft, barely more audible than a whisper.

Home.

Akaashi doesn't dwell on the slip of his tongue, and it's not like you lived with him, although the thought is pleasant — he'd take note to entertain it later.

You look at Akaashi, your eyes softening in concern. Then, placing down the cake, you set it on the counter before making your way toward your lover. "Oh my goodness, you're soaked. Keiji, you look awful."

You help remove the soaking garments from him, throwing them into the laundry basket to be dealt with later when you leave. Akaashi's skin is ice cold against your own, causing you to fuss even more as you worry about his health and the potential hypothermia he may get.

You sigh. Sometimes you feel more like a mother than a girlfriend.

"Keiji, go shower before you get sick," There's no point in arguing; your tone leaves no room for rebuttal as you shoo him away. Your boyfriend merely nods, taking off his shoes and socks before heading to the bathroom.

As soon as you're sure he's out of earshot, you make your way back to the kitchen to get it as clean as possible before you cook a hearty meal.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue with a tsk as your eyes wander to his trash, the bin filled to the top with junk food — ranging from ramen packets, soda cans, chips, and even sweets.

Keiji, you're hopeless.

You hum, tying the trash bag at the top and putting the waste to the side. You'll take it out later. You grab another bag to replace it.

Now let's see, what's in the fridge, you murmur to yourself.

"Ah, nothing,"

You open the fridge in disappointment, eyes traveling to the half-eaten tub of yogurt, some Tupperware of food that you had prepared for him days ago, the few bottles of water, and finally, the one lone head of broccoli.

Jesus, Keiji, you live like a single man. You laugh. It's funny, you think, and it almost makes you wonder how he's managed to survive by himself for the majority of his adulthood.

You're thankful you stopped by the supermarket before heading here. Your woman's intuition kicked in earlier — something in the back of your head telling you that you wouldn't find much in his fridge.

You're surprised that even Akaashi has proper cooking utensils, but they only look like they haven't been touched in ages, the pots and pans having little to no signs of use.

You dice the vegetables carefully, cutting them into small cubes before dropping them into the hot, bubbling broth on the stove burner.

Curry, you've long decided. Something simple, something easy to clean up.

Although your boyfriend doesn't have nearly the same amount of seasoning as you, he barely has the basics, so you do what you can. At least he has an instant rice cooker.

You take a step back, the various smells of spices and vegetables wafting in the air quite pleasantly carried throughout the room by the stove fan. You suppose you have time to kill before the food is finished cooking.

You roam around Akaashi's home until you end up in his room. You can hear the shower still running through the wall. You take the time to go through his wardrobe, picking out the blue pair of pajamas you bought him last Christmas. There are signs of wear along the hems, the stitching coming undone in various places.

There's a warm feeling in your chest, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

I'll sew them up next time.

You place the clothing in your arms and peek your head into the bathroom. There's steam everywhere, and you can see the faint silhouette of Akaashi's body through the glass door. Without a word, you place the pajamas onto the edge of the sink before sneaking out.

Turning the knob, Akaashi hangs the shower head back in its holder. The last of the water hits the marble surface of the flooring.

He grabs a towel off the rack, wrapping it around his waist as he steps out.

He notices the pajamas set out for him and figures it's your doing. A small smile tugged at his lips, the tiny gesture making his heart flutter as he looked into the mirror.

And as fast it came, it's gone in the exact fleeting second. Staring into the mirror fills Akaashi with a sense of dread.

"I'm getting old, aren't I?" He says, placing his hand against his face while he traces the outlines of his newly formed wrinkles; a result formed from the process of aging or perhaps his lack of sleep.

There's a pounding in his chest, like a dull ache, and for a reason, he feels uneasy — his anxiety gnawing at his heart.

Deep breaths, deep breaths, Akaashi reminds himself that you're still here and waiting for him downstairs.

He pushes his feelings down, trying to repress them as much as possible before he faces you again.

"Keiiiiji! The food is ready!"

"It smells good,"

"Come, I've made you a plate," You gesture to the awkward giant, pointing at the place on the table you had set just for him. "Eat,"

He does as he's told, scooping the curry on his spoon before taking a bite. He hums, and you watch in amusement how his cool eyes light up as he takes another bite.

The texture and the fragrance pleasantly overwhelmed his taste buds.

The flavor has an indescribable taste, and he's not quite sure how to word it. Then, finally, he pinpoints it. It's love, he can taste the amount of love you had put into the dish, and that's when it hits him — your cooking tastes like home.

Akaashi's not quite sure why his cheeks felt wet, and he doesn't remember when he started crying or why, for that matter.

"Was my cooking so bad that it moved you to tears?" You tease, trying to lighten the mood. No matter how lame your jokes were, they still did enough to steal a smile from your lover. But this time was different. As soon as you realize the seriousness of the situation, the smile on your face instantly drops as you watch more tears stream down Akaashi's face.

"Keiji," Taking his face between your palms, you stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. "Keiji, what's wrong,"

"It's been a long day," The crack in his voice doesn't go unnoticed, the pain in his tone tugging at your heartstrings. You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Keiji, you've been overworking yourself again, haven't you,"

Akaashi's always been a hard worker; even in high school, he'd stay up for hours on end to study for exams; neglecting his well-being and focusing more on his studies than his happiness.

You've chalked it down to the fact that he's over-exerting himself, but in reality, you could've never guessed that he felt like his life was incomplete.

You being the only thing that's ever been consistent, Akaashi feels helpless — like everyone's moving forward, and he's stuck frozen in time.

Even he fears the day you realize he's not what you want, moving on in your life and leaving him behind to wither in the dust.

Akaashi doesn't say anything as he wipes his tears, placing down his silverware. "Ah, I'm sorry. I guess I'm just tired."

"Are you sure, Keiji, you know you can talk to me about anything,"

"I need to rest. I'm sorry,"

There's a pregnant pause before you hum, and you suppose it's better not to pry — your boyfriend will open up when he's ready.

"It's alright. We can cut the cake tomorrow."

You take both plates, scraping the remaining food off them and into the trash before putting everything away, when you're finished, you take Akaashi's hand and lead him to his room.

Akaashi rests his head against your lap while you run your nimble fingers through his hair. He hums, feeling the tips of your digits soothingly massage his scalp with enough gentleness that has him relaxing underneath your touch.

You look up at the window, by now the skies are beginning to darken, the clouds engulfing even the stars — staring at the clock, you're surprised by the time.

"Keiji, it's getting late. I think it's time for me to be heading home,"

But before you can get up, you're stopped.

"Stay,"

Akaashi reaches for your wrist, holding onto it like a vice before he pulls you into his embrace. "Please," There's a hint of desperation in his voice as he wraps his arm around you, forcing you flush against him as he buries his face into your neck.

"Fine, I'll stay for as long as you need me," you say, Akaashi's grip on your wrist loosens enough for you to free yourself. Taking this opportunity, you wrap your arms around him — tracing circles into his trapezius.

He hums in contentment, “looks like you'll be staying forever."

"Keiji—" You giggle, your boyfriend digging his face into the crook of your neck as he peppers you in an onslaught of kisses — making sure to leave no inch uncovered. "It's getting late. You should get some rest. We don't have to do this tonight,"

"But I want to," His voice is muffled against your skin, and he shifts his body so that he's pressing against you. The heavy weight of his body forces you into the mattress causing the bed to creak from the combined heaviness.

"Besides, I think it's my turn to take care of you,"

That's all Akaashi said before he pulled away, the bed shifted even more as he sat on his knees. Large hands grab your waist, forcing your body closer to his — he lifts you up.

Half your body rests on the mattress, while the other is in the air. Your dress was bunching up around your waist as Akaashi brought your covered cunt to his lips, your legs flailing on either side of his shoulders.

"Keiji," you whimper, feeling his lips press against your cunt. He parts his mouth around your mound. His tongue runs across your panties, and he can taste your slick through the thin material.

He has a firm grasp on your hips, keeping you in places as he moves your underwear to the side with his nose — this time, he traces your folds with his tongue, collecting all you slick on his appendage before delving inside your hole.

Akaashi had always been skilled with his tongue. So it wasn't long before he had you seeing stars — your thighs quiver around him, and desperately you grip at the covers, bunching them up underneath your fingers.

Your mouth parts open as you moan, your orgasm racking through your body.

Your jaw goes slack, your eyes firmly closed as you bask in your post-orgasmic bliss. You don't even register when your butt falls gently against the bed, nor the prodding sensation against your thigh until Keiji places a hand upon your cheek — forcing you to look at him.

"Keiji," You breathe.

He gently kisses your lips, "Relax for me, love."

You nod, your brain still hazy from your first orgasm. You can hear your lover fumble with his clothes as he pulls down his pants, taking his boxers with them.

As soon as he frees his cock, he places his hands on your hips, tracing the thin band of your underwear before dipping his fingers inside and pulling them down until they're hanging off your ankle.

You cringe, feeling Akaashi's fat cock rub against your folds before he pushes the mushroom tip inside with little to no resistance. You whimper, feeling his girth split your walls in two.

As soon as Akaashi bottoms out, he waits for you to adjust before giving a shallow thrust.

"Are you ready,"

"Y—yeah," you weakly respond.

Akaashi's thrusts are slow but deep, his cock reaching further inside you with each rut of his hips.

Akaashi's a passionate lover, making sure you feel all of him — not that you're complaining, either. He was well endowed, and his sheer girth dragging along your walls filled you with such an immeasurable sense of fullness that not even your toys made you feel.

It felt like you were made for him, the way your hole greedily swallowed more and more of his cock — holding it snuggly within your warm walls.

Akaashi groans, a soft fuck escaping him as you involuntarily clench around him, "you feel so good," he praises.

Your moans increase in volume as the tip of his cock grazes over that particular spot almost teasingly. You desperately grind your hips against his in hopes of him hitting them.

And it's like Akaashi can read your mind. He shifts his hips just enough to pound against that spot, the tip of his cock hitting the sponginess with exact precision.

You're close, Akaashi can tell — he snakes a hand between your legs, allowing his thumb to rest against your clit. The poor neglected bundle of nerves resting between your puffy folds, swollen.

He rubs circles into your clit, eliciting more noises from you — the sensation only adding to your pleasure.

There's a coil in your tummy that only grows tighter and tighter with each thrust from Akaashi — it's almost unbearable.

"'S close," you slur, your head lolling back and forth.

Cute, akaashi thinks, there’s a glimmer of adoration in those gun metal eyes of his as he watches your face contort in pleasure — the pleasure that he’s giving you.

All it takes is a few more thrusts until the coil finally releases, specks of white clouding your vision as Akaashi drags another orgasm from you.

His ruts become sloppier, and you can feel his cock throb and pulsate inside you before a foreign warmth spills along your walls, painting them white.

Akaashi hips begin to slow down, but he's still slamming into you, determined to let you milk him for every last drop before he pulls out.

Akaashi rolls off of you, laying on your side. There's a curtain of silence that covers you both, although it's not uncomfortable.

Akaashi's the first one to break it, "I was serious when I said I want you here forever,"

It's not until you fall asleep and he can hear the faint sounds of you snoring that he realizes what he's been yearning for.

And in the morning, he's decided — he'll muster up the courage to finally present you with the box he had bought ages ago that he's been saving for just the occasion.

#hq drabbles #haikyuu x y/n #haikyuu smut #hq smut #haikyuu imagines #akaashi x female reader #akaashi x reader #akaashi smut #keiji smut #akaashi keiji smut

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tiza0925 · 9 months

Text

just one more | bkak 18+

Warnings/Tags: Alternate Universe, FTM Akaashi, Trans Akaashi, Explicit Sexual Content, SMUT, CONSENSUAL Somnophilia, Oral Sex, Multiple Orgasms, ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS ARE AGED-UP AND OVER THE AGE OF 18

Pairing: Bokuto Koutarou x Akaashi Keiji (BokuAka)

Or: a fic where Akaashi wakes up to his boyfriend eating him out

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Bokuto is a weak man when it comes to Akaashi Keiji.

He won’t ever try to deny it—in fact, Bokuto will gladly admit that to any and everyone he knows.

Akaashi Keiji can easily make Bokuto drop to his knees with just a simple look. Word.

Even just by breathing.

Akaashi is just too perfect that Bokuto finds himself constantly wondering how the hell he even ended up with Akaashi when the man could have quite literally anyone. How Bokuto got so damn lucky that Akaashi still chose to be with him.

He’ll never know—despite how many times Akaashi reassures him with words of affirmation—

It’s just too good to be true sometimes.

It might come off as pathetic and Bokuto genuinely does not care.

He will worship his boyfriend whenever he gets the chance to.

…Just like how he is right now as he kisses the skin right under Akaashi’s jaw, hearing his boyfriend let out a small, dreamy sigh as he sleeps.

It’s not something they do often.

But Bokuto has been needier than usual lately—even though they went through two rounds of sex last night that had Akaashi knocking out right after their shower—

Bokuto still wanted more. It’s like he couldn’t get enough of Akaashi—even devouring him whole would probably still leave Bokuto hungry for more.

Blame it on the intense games Bokuto has had these past few weeks. And it’s not Bokuto’s fault that his boyfriend is someone that deserves to be appreciated whenever given the chance, okay?

So, Akaashi made a suggestion. One he very rarely brings up.

But every time he does—

It’s like telling Bokuto it’s Christmas morning or that he’s the ‘best volleyball player’ in the world.

Because not only does it give Bokuto the freedom to do whatever he likes to Akaashi—

But it also shows the immense trust Akaashi has in Bokuto.

That in the past, Akaashi would never consider letting Bokuto touch him while he was asleep. Not when Akaashi has been dealing with his issues regarding his body and everything that comes with it.

But Akaashi trusts Bokuto more than anything, now.

Enough to know Bokuto will never do anything to hurt Akaashi, not in a way Akaashi doesn’t like, that Bokuto knows what’s okay and what isn’t when it comes to sex for Akaashi.

Or that Bokuto won’t ever take things too far when Akaashi is at his most vulnerable: when he’s sleeping.

So, here he is, running his tongue along Akaashi’s neck, savouring the sweet taste of Akaashi’s skin all while Bokuto can feel his boyfriend sleep soundly underneath him.

There’s a thrill in knowing just how much your boyfriend trusts you to let something like this happen.

That Akaashi is willing to put his entire body in Bokuto’s control without any hesitation.

And maybe that’s why Bokuto already feels himself growing half-hard as he nips and sucks on Akaashi’s neck, careful not to add another small purple mark to the already existing ones that Akaashi has from earlier.

Or it could be because Akaashi smells so good, his skin feels soft under Bokuto’s lips and hands, and he still manages to look so damn handsome—even when he’s dead asleep.

He makes his way down, and Bokuto slides one hand underneath the bottom hem of Akaashi’s shirt—which is really Bokuto’s that Akaashi has claimed as his own from here on out—and Bokuto splays his fingers out as he slides them up smooth skin that’s wrung tight with muscles, feeling every breath Akaashi makes under the rough palm of his hand.

It’s no secret that Akaashi is physically smaller than Bokuto.

It’s evident whenever they’re near each other—Bokuto is broader, thick with muscles, and just a tad bit taller.

But that doesn’t mean Akaashi doesn’t have anything behind the clothes he wears.

The muscles are there whenever he flexes and moves—especially whenever he wears a fitted shirt or pants that hug his body in this delicious way that Bokuto always finds himself salivating at.

Akaashi has been going to the gym more frequently with Bokuto—and Bokuto can easily see the way it pays off when he rolls up Akaashi’s shirt to reveal his stomach and chest, planes of muscles lining Akaashi’s body in all the perfect places that Bokuto wants to run his tongue over.

Bokuto swipes a delicate thumb over one of Akaashi’s nipples, and Bokuto’s eyes flit over to watch Akaashi’s expression—humming to himself with contentment when all he sees is a slight twitch of Akaashi’s lashes against his cheekbones.

Akaashi’s nipple is pert and hard when Bokuto wraps his lips around one to suck on, and he tries to keep his own moans to a minimum as he flicks the very tip of his tongue over the nipple, his thumb coming down to gently brush over the scars that sit right below Akaashi’s chest.

It took a long time for Akaashi to feel comfortable with Bokuto touching him here.

It was more of a personal thing than worrying about what Bokuto would think—because the man made it abundantly clear that he did not care what Akaashi did to his body as long as Akaashi was happy. And that was enough for Bokuto.

But words can only go so far, and Akaashi needed more time to just…adjust. Feel comfortable with his new body and the sensations that come with it.

And Bokuto was more than willing to wait—take it at Akaashi’s pace.

It wasn’t a walk in a park—Bokuto will admit that much—but it was worth it.

Especially now, when Akaashi is a lot more confident in how he looks, and would respond so eagerly whenever Bokuto touches him—

Bokuto is so damn glad he waited.

It just sucks—only a little—that Bokuto won’t be able to hear or see Akaashi’s reactions this time as he plays with Akaashi’s nipple with his tongue while using one of his hands to roll the other nipple between his fingers.

Truthfully, Bokuto can go at this for a while.

He likes the feel of Akaashi’s chest—lean but still taut with muscles—under the palm of his hands. He revels in feeling the heat tingle under his lips as he drags his mouth from one nipple to the other, coupled with the occasional hitch in Akaashi’s breathing while he sleeps.

But he’ll have to save that for another time.

Bokuto doesn’t want to wake Akaashi up just yet—and he will if he lets himself get carried away with what he’s doing.

If Akaashi is going to wake up now, Bokuto wants it to at least be worth it.

Lips travel down Akaashi’s stomach, and Bokuto can’t help but let a small smile lift his mouth at the faint trail of hair that’s now leading down and disappears under the waistband of Akaashi’s boxers.

Bokuto doesn’t know why he finds that little bit so attractive on Akaashi, but it’s something that has heat stirring in his gut as he goes to graze his teeth over Akaashi’s hipbone before his face finds itself right where Bokuto likes it best—right between Akaashi’s thighs.

And Bokuto is ever more grateful that his boyfriend decided to not put back on his pants before bed—it just means one less layer between Bokuto and what he wants, and he sighs happily as he runs his hands over Akaashi’s legs, up his thighs, and he presses his fingers into the flesh to feel the muscles underneath.

“So warm,” Bokuto mutters to himself as he nestles his face right against Akaashi’s groin, the fabric of Akaashi’s boxers doing little to hide the outline of him and what lies under.

He mouths at Akaashi’s clothed cunt, and if Bokuto’s pride was intact whenever he was with Akaashi—he might have felt an ounce of shame at how fast his mouth begins to water at the faintest contact of his face against Akaashi’s cunt.

But all he can think about is getting to taste Akaashi. All he feels is how light and dizzy his head is at the feel of Akaashi against his mouth as he licks and kisses Akaashi’s cunt through the boxers—getting the underwear damp in the process.

And so far, the only thing Bokuto hears in return is the occasional sighs, so low and quiet, that leave Akaashi’s lips, and when he looks up before he’s tugging down Akaashi’s boxers—

He notes the knitted eyebrows wearing Akaashi’s face, and how his lips—always so nice and full—are slightly parted to let every breath in and out.

It tugs at Bokuto’s heart a little—how effortlessly good Akaashi looks—and he tucks his lower lips under his top teeth as he slips two fingers under the waistband of Akaashi’s underwear, and pulls it down as much as possible to expose Akaashi’s slit—

“Shit,” The curse slips out under Bokuto’s breath before he can even think about stopping it, and he lets out a quiet groan when he sees how wet Akaashi already is, his folds glistening in the dim lighting that spills into their room from the sun just barely rising outside.

Bokuto moves in, feeling warm thighs caress the sides of his face, and he turns his head to rest his lips on one of Akaashi’s inner thighs as a sharp exhale leaves his nose when he thumbs the outer lips of Akaashi’s pussy.

And for a moment, Bokuto lets his hands stay there—as if he’s trying to indulge in the warmth of the skin surrounding Akaashi’s cunt—all while Bokuto leaves small kisses along his boyfriend’s thigh, the need to bite and suck on every square inch of skin on Akaashi consumes Bokuto until his mind goes a little hazy.

Then—

Bokuto slides his fore and middle finger up Akaashi’s inner lips, coating his fingers with Akaashi’s arousal until the very tips of his fingers bump against the underside of the clit, and then he spreads his fingers apart—exposing all of Akaashi for Bokuto to admire.

It has Bokuto’s dick twitching in his sweatpants, and he wets his lips as he delicately wraps his lips around Akaashi’s clit to give it a soft kiss—then he runs the very tip of his tongue down Akaashi’s slit as he gradually opens his mouth until he reaches Akaashi’s entrance, then running the flat of the tongue back up and through his folds until it flicks at the clit.

This time, Bokuto can hear the break in Akaashi’s levelled breathing with a small hitch, and Bokuto finds himself grinning—all lazy and amused—as he teases the outer lips of Akaashi’s pussy with his tongue, then he nips at the curve of skin where his cunt and inner thigh meets all while Bokuto presses the pad of his thumb against the clit that’s slowly becoming more swollen the more he gives it attention.

Heat.

That’s the first thing that Akaashi registers when he’s pulled out of a dream he’s already starting to forget.

He’s not fully awake yet—sleep is still pulling at his edges, making everything fuzzy and thick. He keeps fading in and out of it, his mind hazy and his surroundings unknown.

But he’s a little more aware now to know that he feels hot.

In his face. Chest. Stomach. Especially his legs—

He feels the heat under his skin, buzzing and intense, and Akaashi’s face screws with confusion because he doesn’t remember it being so hot in their room at night.

Which leads to the next sensation that Akaashi notices—he’s wet between his thighs, and Akaashi grimaces because what the hell, is it that hot that he’s been sweating in his sleep?

There’s a small grunt that comes from the back of Akaashi’s throat, and he opens his legs a little more in hopes to cool himself off.

But then he hears another noise—a mumble or a groan from somewhere, his ears barely picking up on words that sound like “good” and “boy”. He must be dreaming still, right?

Akaashi lets out a heavy exhale—the wetness is still there, though—but he’s still too tired to make himself fully wake up yet.

The bed feels too comfy, and warm, and he barely sees any light streaming through his eyelids so he knows it’s either the middle of the night or too early in the morning.

He just wants to sleep a little more, he doesn’t want to get up.

Plus—

The warmth and wetness between his legs aren’t so bad the more insistent it becomes.

Something that he can deal with as he lets sleep drag him back under and he turns his face to the side to partially cover it with a pillow.

It has pleasant heat spreading in his stomach, and he lets out a breathy sigh—feeling all pliant and soft and—

And then there’s cool air brushing against him, and Akaashi immediately frowns when he feels it right between his inner thighs where—

Oh.

He’s not wearing his boxers, Akaashi realizes with a steady increase in his heart rate, as he takes in the realization that his most intimate part is exposed for anyone to see if they walked in right now.

A spot where he suddenly feels pressure pushing against it—something heavy and warm and wet sliding through him—and something firm, in what feels like fingers, pressing into the skin over his hips to keep him in place.

A groan slips out of Akaashi, and he blearily moves his head—his eyes slowly cracking open—as bolts of electricity wreck through him as sleepiness fades away and he becomes more awake.

He becomes more aware that there’s a body between his legs. That it’s not sweat but saliva tricking down his thighs and getting smeared all over.

That it’s Bokuto being the reason Akaashi feels so hot, that there’s a throbbing ache in his lower stomach, and that the buzzing heat under his skin is gradually growing heavier and needier.

Akaashi’s head still feels like it’s stuffed with a foggy haze, his body feels so droopy, but he still manages to blindly reach with one hand down his body until he feels loose, soft strands of Bokuto’s hair, and the only word he lets out is simple and laced with a moan. “‘Ko.”

It’s all starting to come back to Akaashi the more worked up he gets, and the pressure that he’s now realizing is a tongue becomes demanding against his soaked cunt.

He remembers what he told Bokuto last night. What he said Bokuto can do to him.

Akaashi remembers how anxious but also really excited at the idea of Bokuto using him even as he slept.

He doesn’t know why—maybe it’s because of the idea of Bokuto being so insatiable that he would fuck Akaashi even in his sleep—that does things to Akaashi. Like Bokuto can’t seem to get enough and always wants more of whatever Akaashi will give.

The only thing is that Akaashi just assumed Bokuto would fuck him—fill Akaashi with his cock until he had his fill, but—

Akaashi relaxes into a shuddering breath, his fingers scratching Bokuto’s scalp as the man’s hair caresses Akaashi’s thighs and his tongue eagerly laps at his clit.

—This is also good. Really fucking good.

“Morning, Keiji,” Akaashi hears a muffled voice, still rough from sleep, and Akaashi keens at the vibrations against his cunt as Bokuto continues to lick him with that insanely determined tongue of his.

The only reply Akaashi manages to give at the moment is a louder groan as he tugs on Bokuto’s hair, jerking into Bokuto’s touch and mouth as the pleasure overwhelms him so quickly with how Akaashi was merely thrown into it with no warning—a harsh wave of liquid heat waking him up and snapping all of his senses to focus on the orgasm that’s about to burst.

“Fuck,” Akaashi sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, and he doesn’t mean to but—

His thighs squeeze together when Bokuto gives his sensitive clit quick, kitten licks—seemingly intent on getting Akaashi to crash so soon—and it has his thighs nearly suffocating Bokuto with how tight he’s clenching around the man’s head.

But if Bokuto’s answering groan and increasing fever in the way he eats Akaashi out is anything to go by—

Bokuto doesn’t seem to mind at all.

Because he doesn’t.

He loves feeling Akaashi’s thighs—so nice and smooth but also firm with muscles—around him, blocking out all of his senses and the only thing he knows is Akaashi and how he feels and tastes.

Bokuto revels in how Akaashi is growing more needy as he wakes up, and rocks his hips as he tries to fuck himself back in Bokuto’s mouth.

It makes Bokuto’s head spins and spurs him on as he uses both thumbs to spread Akaashi’s cunt wide and flick his tongue over that engorged clit—fast and hard as if he’s so damn thirsty he might die if he stops.

“God—Ko, shit—” The orgasm comes way too fast for Akaashi to prepare for it. To savour it.

It spears through him and has his spine snapping as his whole body catches fire, and pulsing waves of pleasure trickle through him.

Akaashi can’t speak, his mouth hanging open with a drawn-out moan, and he barely hears how Bokuto is groaning as well—his lips sucking on Akaashi’s clit until it starts to burn and Akaashi starts to shake at the overloading sensation of the push and pull between pleasure and pain.

And when Akaashi is left panting, beads of sweat dampening his curls, and his fingers grow lax in Bokuto’s hair—

Bokuto lets go of Akaashi’s oversensitive clit with a gentle pull, and he licks his lips as golden eyes flicker up to watch Akaashi.

How his chest billows as he tries to catch his breath, and Bokuto watches the line of Akaashi’s throat bob with a thick swallow.

“…” Bokuto presses a smile into one of Akaashi’s inner thighs, his teeth delicately grazing the skin, and his thumb moves to prod at Akaashi’s hole—and Bokuto lets out a low breath through his nose at how wet Akaashi is.

And Akaashi shivers at the small push of the tip of Bokuto’s thumb into him.

It’s not unwelcome, but it’s still so soon with how sensitive Akaashi feels down there.

His body feels like a puddle, and Akaashi is ready to go back to sleep after that pleasant—yet sudden—orgasm he just had.

He should at least say something, though. And he prepares to do just that as Akaashi swallows—noting how dry his mouth feels—and wets his slightly chapped lips.

But—

“Fuck—” Akaashi gasps instead, and his fingers instantly grip onto Bokuto’s strands—his words cut off in his throat—when he feels the same slick tongue replace the thumb that was playing with his hole, and he squeezes his legs to close reflexively. “Ko, wait—”

It’s not that he doesn’t want Bokuto to go again—hell, Akaashi loves the oversensitivity and Bokuto knows it.

But he feels bad being the only one getting an orgasm right now. He wants to please Bokuto now that he’s fully awake and aroused.

And yet—

“One more.”

“I—” Akaashi gulps, seemingly unable to take a damn breath, and a shiver wracks through him, heat exploding at his nerve endings when Bokuto circles Akaashi’s wet entrance with his tongue.

“Just one more,” It almost sounds like a plea with how throaty and velvet-heavy Bokuto’s voice sounds—breathless like he’s drunk off just eating Akaashi out—and Akaashi thinks he’s just too weak to deny Bokuto anything when he asks so nicely as he runs his thumb up and down Akaashi’s folds. “Please, Keiji…just one more.”

God—how do you even say ‘no’ when Bokuto is practically begging to have his mouth on Akaashi like that?

Especially when Akaashi moves up to lean on his elbows, and tips his chin down to already find hooded honey eyes staring back at him—they’re so murky with desire and plea—with tousled hair that has Akaashi’s heart leaping in his throat.

Sometimes, Akaashi wonders how the hell he got so lucky to have Bokuto all to himself.

“…” Akaashi huffs out a breath, a little amused and a little exasperated, and goes to lay his head back into the pillow, throwing one arm across his eyes as he closes them, and his other hand loosens in Bokuto’s hair, appreciating how only he gets to see Bokuto without the insane amount of gel covering his signature hairstyle. “You’re unbelievable.”

He says that, and yet Bokuto watches how Akaashi’s thighs fall open to give Bokuto more room to work with—acting as some silent permission for Bokuto to do as he pleases.

And Bokuto grins, triumphant, as he moves to hook his hands under Akaashi’s thighs. His voice is sweet and thick like it’s been dipped in dark chocolate. “And you still love me.”

Even if Akaashi has something to say to that, his mouth already forming a smile as they open—

He doesn’t get the chance to because Bokuto is quick on lifting Akaashi’s legs over his broad shoulders to rest on, and Bokuto is eagerly pushing forward to have his mouth back where he needs them.

Slick excitement spirals up Akaashi’s spine when he feels Bokuto’s warm lips on him, causing Akaashi’s eyes to wrench open with a faint gasp.

This time, when Bokuto puts his mouth back on Akaashi’s cunt—he’s slow at first.

Languid licks of his tongue run from the bottom to the top of Akaashi’s slit, feeling and treasuring how Akaashi pulses against him as Bokuto gradually builds the arousal that’s beginning to simmer in Akaashi’s stomach again.

Bokuto takes his time with it.

Low groans and huffs of breath leave Bokuto as he traces different patterns through Akaashi’s folds, his hands making a firm presence as it runs up Akaashi’s legs and hips, and Bokuto’s tongue is more worshipful with the way he licks Akaashi’s cunt and occasionally dipping into Akaashi’s hole.

Akaashi will never understand it but—

Bokuto makes it seem like he’s doing this for himself just as much as it is for Akaashi—like he enjoys eating Akaashi out as much as Akaashi likes having Bokuto’s mouth on him.

Of course, Akaashi isn’t complaining as Boktuo closes his lips to pull his clit into his mouth—his tongue giving firm strokes over and over until the tension inside Akaashi spreads so thin and hot that he swears it’s about to snap.

It’s just…it honestly feels surreal to Akaashi because what man begs to go down on their partner?

Apparently, Bokuto does.

And that feeling alone is intoxicating.

Time seems to blur the longer Bokuto works at Akaashi’s cunt, his strokes growing faster and hungrier with a bit more pressure, his attention focusing more on the clit to add sparks of heat slicking up Akaashi’s spine.

Then Bokuto slides his mouth down, and the hand above Akaashi’s face quickly moves to grip the sheets when he feels Bokuto’s tongue push inside him—fucking him with a newfound intensity that has Akaashi nearly crushing Bokuto’s head with his thighs.

It’s not the same whenever Bokuto fingers him or has his dick inside Akaashi—it doesn’t give that same satisfying feeling of being full.

But Bokuto’s tongue is hot and so wet and flexible—

And Bokuto is an insatiable lover that will try to get his tongue as deep as it can go—the very tip of it just barely grazing over Akaashi’s sweet spot, causing Akaashi to let out a wet moan and jerk his hips into Bokuto’s face.

Bokuto doesn’t even care that he has saliva running down his chin with some of Akaashi’s arousal coating him.

Not when Akaashi is gripping onto his hair and fucking himself on Bokuto’s tongue—blindly chasing that second orgasm and letting out unashamed moans to colour the air around them—and Bokuto swears he can feel his cock leaking just by that alone.

And the thing about Bokuto is that the way he is and acts in his everyday life translates well into how he is in bed.

He’s passionate and messy when he eats Akaashi out—putting his all into it, loud as ever with the groans he lets out against Akaashi’s cunt, and he’s not one for being delicate.

He gets saliva and Akaashi’s fluids everywhere, sloppy and uncaring how messy it may get as he curls his tongue inside Akaashi’s hole, licking his way through drenched folds until his tongue is undulating against Akaashi’s swollen clit—

He just wants more. He wants Akaashi to feel good.

And Akaashi thinks he might drown from the intensity of it all as his muscles grow tight, and he inhales short, deep breaths that are tinged with a groan.

A litany of curses falls from Akaashi’s lips when Bokuto decides to slip his middle finger in—not too far, but enough to tease Akaashi and massage that spongey spot inside him.

“Oh god—” Akaashi clenches around Bokuto’s finger, his hips bucking up in response.

And Boktuo grunts—one hand coming down to hold Akaashi’s hips to keep him pinned in place, while his other hand is busy fucking Akaashi all while his thumb is strumming his cunt.

And it shouldn’t be so hot that Bokuto can keep Akaashi down with just one hand like that—

But at the moment—it has Akaashi growing so heated in his cheeks and his pussy pulses at the fact that Bokuto can casually show off his strength like that with barely any effort.

It’s also what has Akaashi finally cumming for the second time.

“Fuck—Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, Koutarou—”

Heat burns in Akaashi’s chest, his cheeks tingle, his sense of hearing is gone, and he thinks he might actually stop breathing as his orgasm throbs through him—consuming him as white-hot pleasure spreads and his back arches as much as it can as he moans with Boktuo’s name on his tongue.

And Bokuto watches with half-lidded eyes as Akaashi throws his head back, his chest rising and falling so rapidly as he cums on Boktuo’s fingers and tongue, all while Boktuo works him through it—his finger never stopping while he flicks his tongue over Akaashi’s clit with fast strokes until he can feel the strain in his mouth.

Bokuto doesn’t stop until he feels Akaashi’s body violently twitching, and he hears Akaashi’s moan bleeding into broken gasps and sobs as the pleasure turns into pain and overstimulation.

But even then—

He doesn’t let up without giving Akaashi’s—now dripping—cunt one, wide lick with his tongue. As if Bokuto wants to cherish everything and how Akaashi tastes.

Like the man can’t bear the thought of parting from it before he reluctantly leans back with a heavy breath, and wipes his mouth with his thumb, panting as he recovers from basically suffocating himself between Akaashi’s legs.

Everything feels slow and out of place as Akaashi gradually comes back to himself.

It feels like forever when everything isn’t so hot and blurry, and Akaashi can breathe again as he inhales a long, heavy breath.

It’s not an easy task for Akaashi to lift his legs off Bokuto’s shoulders to let them fall on the bed—he feels so limp and worn out and he didn’t even do anything.

Huffing out a breath, Akaashi grimaces a little at all the wetness on his body starting to cool from the air—but his face quickly smooths into a peaceful cadence when he feels Bokuto’s hands come back to cover his body, fingers working on Akaashi’s thighs with a gentle massage.

And, eventually, Bokuto breaks the comfortable silence with a soft voice. “You okay?”

Such a simple question, and it never fails to do things to Akaashi’s heart whenever Bokuto always asks.

Akaashi hums, stretching his legs, and finally look down—

Only for his face to light up with surprise at how utterly debauched Bokuto looks.

His chin is shiny with either saliva or Akaashi’s fluids—or perhaps both, he can’t tell—and Bokuto’s hair is a mess, locks falling everywhere that makes Akaashi’s heart do little flips in his chest.

It’s a sight that Akaashi can barely stifle a small snort from, trying to hide his fond smile behind the back of his palm as he nods with a hum. “I feel great, just tired.”

Bokuto figures given the sleepy eyes Akaashi is looking at him with.

A seemingly proud grin forms on Bokuto’s face, and he gives Akaashi’s thighs a light squeeze before he moves off the bed. “Good, we still have some time for sleep before we need to get ready.”

Akaashi frowns, too lazy to turn his head up to look at the digital clock on their nightstand. “What time is it?”

Bokuto’s answering wince in his eyes is nothing short of sheepish. “Too early.”

And that’s all he gives Akaashi before he turns to leave for the restroom to wash his face, all while Akaashi allows his body sink into the mattress—feeling pleasantly content and soft—as he waits for Bokuto to come back to sleep with him.

Even if the bed is a little damp and Akaashi feels sticky from Bokuto’s ministrations—

He doesn’t care when he has Bokuto pulling him against a hard chest—so warm and secure—and he’s giving Akaashi a slow and sweet kiss on the lips before they slip back to sleep for a few more hours.

They can wait until later on to shower and clean up.

For now—Akaashi is too relaxed and comfortable to even fathom the idea of getting out of bed and leaving Bokuto’s side.

…And maybe later on, Bokuto is the one waking up this time to a short and sudden orgasm when he feels a hot mouth wrapped around him, sucking him off until Bokuto is writhing underneath Akaashi and groaning as he pulls on curly dark hair.

Both of them making more of a mess on their bed which they undoubtedly need to clean after all of this.

But that’s a story for another day.

End.

Thank you for reading 💙

You can check out my other fics here: Masterpost

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